Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [33]
“Mr. Blumberg, this is a shocking accusation you make. I know of no such event. What is your client’s name?”
“My client’s name is . . . uh, my client’s name is Doberman, Your Honor.”
“Doberman, Doberman. What kind of . . . what is your client’s first name, if you please?”
“Well, Your Honor, I am not actually aware of my client’s full name at this time. However, my client’s owner is present in court,” gesturing over to me, “and will provide that information.”
“Your client’s owner? Counselor, if this is your idea of a joke—”
“I assure you it is no joke, Your Honor. Perhaps you have read about this case in the late papers?”
Suddenly, the light dawned. “Counselor, are you by any chance referring to the police attempt to apprehend a fugitive from justice early this evening on the Lower East Side?”
“Exactly and precisely, Your Honor.”
“But the fugitive escaped, I read.”
“Yes, Your Honor, the fugitive escaped—but my client did not. And my client is being held at the ASPCA, through no fault of his own, and will be executed unless he can be returned to his rightful owner.”
“Mr. Blumberg! Are you saying that your client is a dog? You invade my courtroom with a writ of habeus corpus for a dog?”
“Your Honor, with all due respect, I prefer to refer to this extraordinary application as a writ of habeus canine, in view of the unique nature of my client herein.”
“Habeus canine. Counselor, this court does not sit as a monument to an individual attorney’s perverted sense of humor. Do you understand that?”
“Your Honor, with all due respect, I understand it fully. But were I to proceed along the conventional civil channels, I have no doubt but that my client would be deceased before I could even get on the calendar. Your Honor, no matter what we call a court, be it criminal court, supreme court, surrogate’s court, or family court, they are all courts of law and of equity. They are forums through which we the people exercise our right to justice. My client may be a dog—and I can say freely that I have personally represented individuals so characterized by this very court even when they possessed both first and last names—but my client is still a living creature. Is not life itself sacred and holy? Can an attorney asked to protect the life of a beloved pet refuse on the ground that some procedural nicety stands in the way?”
By now, Blumberg was riding the groundswell from the packed courthouse—humans who normally wouldn’t blink at accounts of babies tossed into incinerators were outraged at the tale of animal abuse. In the rare position of representing a popular cause, the fat lawyer pounded ahead. “Your Honor, I say to you at this time, I would rather be a dog in America that a so-called citizen of countries that do not enjoy our freedoms and our liberties. My client herein is not the first client I have represented who does not understand the procedures of this court and he will not be the last. My client did his job. He gave his all for his owner—must he also give his life? My client is young, Your Honor. If he made a mistake, the mistake was an honest one. How was he to know the people battering down his master’s door were lawful agents of the police? Perhaps he thought they were burglars, or armed robbers, or dope-crazed lunatics. Surely there are enough of those people in our fair city. Your Honor, I beg you, spare my client’s life. Let him go forth once more to frolic in the sunshine, to work at his chosen profession, perhaps to sire offspring that will carry on the proud name of Doberman. A life is sacred, Your Honor, and no man should tamper with another’s. That, Your Honor, I respectfully submit, is the work of the Almighty, and His alone. I beg this court, let my client go!”
Blumberg was actually weeping by then, and the watching crowd was clearly on his side—even the