Play Dead Part 1

Play Dead.

by David Rosenfelt.

"ANDY, YOU'RE NOT YOU'RE NOT going to believe this." going to believe this."

This is the type of sentence that, when said in a vacuum, doesn't reveal much. Whatever it is that I am not going to believe might be very positive or very negative, and there would be no way to know until I see it.

Unfortunately, this particular sentence is not said in a vacuum; it's said in the Pa.s.saic County Animal Shelter. Which means that "positive" is no longer one of the possibilities.

The person speaking the words is Fred Brandenberger, whose job as shelter manager is an impossibly difficult one. There are far more dogs that come through his doors than potential adopters, and he therefore must helplessly supervise the euthanasia of those that are not taken. I know it drives Fred crazy; he's been in the job for two years, and my guess is he's not going to last much longer.

It bothers me to come here, and I rarely do. I leave this job to my former legal client, Willie Miller, who is my partner in the Tara Foundation, a dog rescue operation. We rescue a lot of dogs, over a thousand a year, but there are many more worthy ones that we simply do not have room for. I hate making the life-or-death decisions on which ones we will take, and Willie has been shouldering that responsibility.

Unfortunately, Willie and his wife, Sondra, are in Atlantic City for a few days, and we've got some openings for new dogs, so here I am. I've been dreading it, and based on what Fred has just said to me, I fear that dread has been warranted.

Fred leads me back to the quarantine room, which houses dogs who are sick or are unavailable to be adopted for other reasons. The other reason is usually that the dog has bitten someone; in that case they are held for ten days to make sure they don't have rabies, and then put down. "Put down" is shelter talk for "killed."

Fred points to a cage in the back of the quarantine room, and I walk toward it, cringing as I do. What is there turns out to be far worse than expected; it's one of the most beautiful golden retrievers I've ever seen.

Golden retrievers do not belong in cages. Ever. No exceptions. The dog I'm looking at is maybe seven years old, with more dignity in his eyes than I could acc.u.mulate in seven hundred years. Those eyes are saying, "I don't belong in here," and truer eye words were never spoken.

I can feel myself getting angry at this obvious injustice. "What the h.e.l.l is this about?" I ask as Fred walks over.

"He bit his owner. Eleven st.i.tches," Fred says. "Not that I blame him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, the owner is an a.s.shole. And for another, he might not even be the owner."

"Tell me everything you know," I say.

It turns out that Fred doesn't know that much. A man named Warren Shaheen, who had just come home from the hospital, called him to a house in Hawthorne. He said he had been bitten by his dog, Yogi, for no reason whatsoever. He wanted the dog taken to the shelter and put down.

As Fred and Yogi were leaving the house, a young boy who claimed to live next door approached. He said that Warren was always kicking the dog, and he was sure that the dog bit him in retaliation. Further, he claimed that Warren had found the dog wandering on the street less than three weeks ago and apparently made no effort to find the real owner.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

Fred shrugged. "You know the drill. After ten days, we put him down. We're not allowed to adopt him out."

I ask Fred if he'll open the cage and let me take the dog out. He knows he shouldn't, but does so anyway.

I take Yogi into a small room where potential adopters go to get to know the dogs they might take. I sit in the chair, and Yogi comes over to me. He has cut marks on his face, clearly visible in this light. They look old, perhaps remnants from some long-ago abuse. It's likely that Yogi has not had the best life.

He puts his paw up on my knee, a signal from goldens that they want their chest scratched. I do so, and then he rests his head on my thigh as I pet it.

Fred comes over to the room, looks in and sees me petting Yogi in this position. "Pretty amazing, huh?"

"Fred, I'm aware of the regulations, but there's something you should know."

"What's that?"

"Nothing bad is going to happen to this dog."

I HAVE COME HAVE COME to the conclusion that the entire "work ethic" concept is a scam. to the conclusion that the entire "work ethic" concept is a scam.

Hardworking people are to be admired, we're told, though no one mentions that the very act of working is contrary to the natural order of things. It falls to me, Andy Carpenter, philosopher extraordinaire, to set the record straight.

I believe that humans have an "enjoyment drive," which supersedes all others. Everything we do is in the pursuit of that enjoyment. We eat because it's more enjoyable to be full than hungry; we sleep because it's more enjoyable to be rested than tired; we have s.e.x because... I a.s.sume you get the picture.

We work simply to make money, because money makes our lives more enjoyable in many ways. If you take money out of the equation, the work system falls apart. Without the desire for cash, who is going to say, "I think I'll spend ten hours a day for my entire life selling plumbing supplies"? Or waiting tables? Or repairing vacuum cleaners?

There are people, I will concede, who would pursue certain occupations independent of money. For example, artists, politicians, or perhaps entertainers might do what they do for the creative satisfaction or the power or the acclaim. But that's only because they enjoy enjoy creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim. creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim.

Which brings me to me. I am work-ethically challenged. Simply put, I'm a lawyer who has never been terribly fond of lawyering. Since I inherited twenty-two million dollars a few years ago, money has ceased to be a driving force, which means I don't exactly have a busy work life.

There are exceptions to my aversion to plying my craft, which fit neatly under my drive for enjoyment. I've handled a number of major, challenging cases in the past few years, most of which became big media events. The key for me is to treat them as sport, as a challenge to be relished, and that's what I did.

But those cases were as important to me personally as they were professionally, which elevated the stakes and made them that much more enjoyable and exciting. They ignited my compet.i.tive fire. If I were representing some stranger in a divorce or suing an insurance company over an auto accident, I'd rather stay home.

Right now I can feel my juices starting to flow as I head for the office. On the way there I call my a.s.sociate, Kevin Randall, on his cell phone.

His "h.e.l.lo" is spoken in a hushed whisper.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"I'm at my urologist," he says.

Kevin is the biggest hypochondriac in the Western Hemisphere, and five out of every ten times I might call him he's at the doctor. "You have your own urologist?" I ask. "That's pretty impressive."

Kevin knows I am unable to resist making fun of his devotion to his perceived illnesses, but he is equally unable to resist talking about them. "You don't? Who do you see for urology issues?"

"I have no tolerance for urology issues," I say. "I p.i.s.s on urology issues."

He doesn't like the way this conversation is going, which makes him sane. "Why are you calling me, Andy?"

"To ask if you could meet me in the office. When you're finished at the urologist."

"Why?" he asks. Since we haven't taken on a case in a few months, it's a reasonable question to pose.

"We've got client issues," I say.

"We have a client?" He's not successfully masking his incredulity.

"Yes."

"Who is it?"

"His name is Yogi," I say.

"Yogi? Is that a first name or a last name?" Kevin knows nothing about sports, so he is apparently not familiar with Yogi Berra. However, I would have thought he'd know Yogi Bear.

"Actually, it's his only name, and probably not his real one at that. Listen, Kevin, I'm pretty sure he can't pay our fee. Are you okay with that?"

"Of course." I gave Kevin half of a huge commission we made on a case a while back, so money is not a major issue for him, either. Additionally, he owns the Law-dromat, a thriving establishment at which he dispenses free legal advice to customers who bring in their clothes to be washed and dried. "What is he accused of?"

"a.s.sault," I say.

"Where is he now?"

"On death row."

"Andy, I sense there's something unusual about this case."

"You got that right."

"WHAT ARE YOU doing here?" doing here?"

This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my "administrative a.s.sistant." In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative a.s.sistant she can do nothing with considerably more dignity.

Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover DaVincis or Pica.s.sos at flea markets or in somebody's garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.

She is polis.h.i.+ng off today's New York Times New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven't been here in at least a week. puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven't been here in at least a week.

"We've got a client," I say.

"How did that happen?"

Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. "I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he gets here."

I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey. If I ever blow my money, it's not going to be on office s.p.a.ce.

I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there's a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.

I'm fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon as they sit down, I start in.

"Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He's scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow."

"Why?" Kevin asks.

"He's alleged to have bitten his owner."

Kevin shakes his head. "No, I mean why is he our client?"

I shrug. "Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?"

"Nothing," Kevin says.

"Then you take the computer and I'll take the books."

"Do I have to do anything?" Edna asks, openly cringing at the prospect.

I nod. "You might want to get some biscuits. We'll need them when we meet with our client."

Edna goes out, and I explain the details of Yogi's situation to Kevin. We then spend the next hour and a half researching the law. Kevin is far better at this than I am, and my hope is that he'll come up with something.

He doesn't. "Yogi's got big problems," he says.

He explains that the animal control system's regulations prohibit them from letting anyone adopt a dog who has bitten someone. It is considered a matter of public safety, not reviewable under any statute. Under certain conditions the owner can take the dog back, but Yogi's owner doesn't want him. Nor would we want Yogi to go back to someone who was kicking him.

"Andy," Kevin says, "are we sure the dog isn't really dangerous?"

I nod. "I'm sure. I looked into his eyes."

"You always told me you never make eye contact," he says.

"I was talking about with people."

"Oh. Then, are we sure the dog actually bit the guy?"

I nod again. "Apparently so. The neighbor said the guy was kicking him, so..."

Kevin notices my pause. "So...?" he prompts.

"So... it was self-defense." I'm starting to get excited by what is forming in my mind. "Yogi was a victim of domestic violence."

"Andy, come on..."

There's no stopping me now. "Come on, the dog was being abused. He couldn't call 911, so he defended himself. If he was the guy's wife, NOW would be throwing him a c.o.c.ktail party."

Kevin is not getting it. "If the male dog was the guy's wife?"

"Don't focus on the s.e.x part," I say. "We've got a cla.s.sic abuse-excuse defense here." I'm referring to the traditional defense used by abused wives who finally and justifiably turn violently against their husbands.

Kevin thinks about it for a moment, then can't hold back a grin. "It could be fun."

"The h.e.l.l with fun," I say. "We're going to win."

Now with a strategy to work with, we spend another couple of hours plotting how to execute it. This defense, when the client is a dog, is obviously not something the justice system or the legislature has contemplated, so there is little for us to sink our teeth into. We're heading into uncharted territory with few bullets in our legal guns.