Devil on the Line by Andrew Vachss: Dog Stories

Devil on the Line
by Andrew Vachss

The outside of Flood’s studio was deserted, no action in the
halls. I rang for the freight elevator and went to the stairs when I heard
it start to move. Checked the elevator entrance, nobody around. The Plymouth
was sitting untouched where I’d left it. I didn’t expect anything
else—any fool who tried to take off the tires would have to be wearing
razor-proof gloves, for openers.

I got back to the office just as the sun was breaking over the Hudson. A
few solitary men were standing on the piers with fishing tackle, setting up
for the day. The fish in the Hudson aren’t much to look at, never grow
too big or have bright colors. But the guys who fish down there tell me they
put up a hell of a fight. I figured that any fish who could survive the
Hudson River would have to be tough, like a dog raised in the pound. Or a
kid raised by the State.

I put the car away, making a mental note to do some cosmetic surgery on
it before this case with Flood made it too visible. Went upstairs,
deactivated everything, and let myself in. Pansy gave me a halfhearted growl
just to let me know she was on the job, then charged over, wagging her stump
of a tail. Even without the security systems I knew there hadn’t been
any visitors. Pansy was cut from the same cloth as my old Doberman, Devil,
and nobody would get in here without war breaking loose.

That had happened once, and it gave Blumberg his big chance to act like a
real lawyer. I was hiding a certain gentleman in my old apartment. He told
me people were looking for him, but said nothing about those people wearing
blue coats and badges instead of business suits. Anyway, while I was out
trying to square some other beef, the cops arrived and decided to serve a
Smith and Wesson warrant on my premises. They smashed in the door, and Devil
met them head on. My client had more than enough time to leave by the back
window, and Devil nailed two of the cops before they got smart and retreated
until the ASPCA arrived. Those clowns blasted my dog with a load of
tranquilizers and carted her off to the pound. By the time I found out what
went down, she was already behind bars waiting for adoption or execution,
whichever came first. Just like a lot of kids in orphanages.

The ASPCA wouldn’t return her to me at first, saying the Major Case
Squad wanted her held for evidence. The jerks—I knew she’d never
talk. Anyway, by the time I proved the Doberman was really my dog, they told
me she was being held for adoption. I figured they might have been sincere
about that, since she was too fine an animal to just stuff into the gas
chamber, but I wasn’t ready to give her up that easily. So I went to
see Blumberg.

Fortunately, it was already late afternoon by then and night court would
soon be in session. I explained the matter to Blumberg and he opened with
his usual sensitive probing, “Burke, you got the money, kid?”

“How much, Blumberg?”

“Well, this is a major case, my boy. I know of no legal precedent
which covers the issue. We’ll have to make law, take this all
the way to the appellate courts, maybe even to the southern district. You
and your fine dog have constitutional rights, and there are no rights
without remedies. And, as you know, remedies are not cheap.”

“Blumberg, I’ve got a flat yard, period. Not a nickel more. And
I want a guarantee I get my dog back.”

“Are you crazy? No guarantees—that’s a rule of the
profession. Why, I could be disbarred for even mentioning such a
thing.”

“You mean you’re not?”

“That’s not funny, Burke. That matter was dismissed. All the
baseless allegations of misconduct on my part have been expunged from the
record.”

“What about the allegations that weren’t baseless?”

“Burke, if you’re going to have a negative attitude about this,
we simply cannot do business.”

“Sam, come on, I’m serious. I know you’re the best in the
business when you want to be. This isn’t some skell who’s going to
Riker’s island for a year. My dog didn’t do anything—and those bastards at the ASPCA are liable to gas her if I don’t get her out.”

“Oh, a death penalty case, is it? Well, normally I charge seven and
a half for capital cases, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll take the
case for the five hundred you offered. You got it on you?”

“Sam, I said a yard, not five. I’ll make it a
deuce—that’s the best I can do. Half in front, half when it’s
over.”

“Are you completely insane, my boy? Be reasonable. Where would I be
if I allowed my clients to withhold half of the fee until they were
satisfied?”

“You’d be working on fifty per cent of your usual
gross.”

“I’m going to ignore that comment in view of the fact that you
are obviously grief-stricken over the potential loss of your beloved pet.
And, my boy, it just so happens you’re in luck. Justice Seymour is
sitting in criminal court tonight because of the crowded calendar. Since
he’s a judge of the supreme court, we won’t have to wait until
morning to bring on your Application for Relief.”

And it went just like Blumberg said. He was too slick to try and put the
case on the calendar since night court is only for arraignments, so he
waited until he was in front of the judge on a shoplifting case. Before the
poor defendant even knew who his lawyer was, Blumberg, the D.A., and the
judge had swiftly converted the case to Disorderly Conduct. The defendant
was hit with a $50 fine and a conditional discharge and was led over
to the clerk’s bench while still trying to thank Blumberg for saving
him from the ten years in prison the fat man had assured him was a distinct
possibility. Then Blumberg pulled his vest down over a bulging stomach,
cleared his throat with such authority that the entire court quieted down,
and addressed the judge in a resonant baritone:

“Your Honor, at this time, I have an extraordinary application to
make on behalf of my client, who is, at this very moment, incarcerated and
awaiting execution.”

The judge looked staggered. His cronies over at the supreme court had
told him anything could happen at night arraignments, but nothing he had
heard prepared him for this. He looked up sharply at Blumberg, and in a
voice designed to display a mixture of pure contempt laced with
intimidation, said, “Counselor, surely you realize that this court is
not the appropriate forum to bring such a matter.”

Blumberg was not deterred. “Your Honor, if the court please.
Your Honor is a supreme court justice and, might I add, a most eminent legal
scholar. Indeed, I know from personal knowledge that Your Honor’s
landmark legal opinions have been required reading for students of the law
for many years. As a sitting supreme court justice, Your Honor has
jurisdiction over properly presented extraordinary writs, and Your Honor
should be aware that this matter is one of the most dire urgency,
threatening, as it surely does, the very life of my client.”

The judge attempted to intercede, saying, “Counselor, if you
please,” but he might as well have been trying to keep a hungry rat
away from cheese. Blumberg brushed aside the judge’s feeble attempts to
halt the lava-flow of his rhetoric, simultaneously firing his
masterstroke.

“Your Honor, if the court please. A life is a sacred thing—it
is not to be trampled upon or trifled with. The public’s faith in the
criminal justice system must be ever vigilantly protected, and who is better
cast in the role of protector than a justice of our supreme court? Your
Honor, my client faces death—a vicious and ignominious
death at the hands of agents of the State. My client has done no wrong, and
yet my client may die this very night if Your Honor does not hear my plea.
The members of the press”— here Blumberg indicated by a sweep of
his hand the single Daily News stringer as if the poor kid were an
entire gallery of eager scribes—”questioned me about this matter
before I entered this august courtroom, and even such hardened men as they
wondered how such a thing as summary execution without trial could actually
take place in these United States. Your Honor, this is America, not
Iran!” At this, the ragged collection of lames, losers, and lumpen
proletariat began to stir, their mumbled snarling energizing Blumberg like a
blood transfusion. “Even the lowliest cur is entitled to due
process—even the poorest among us is entitled to his day in court. If
Your Honor will only permit me to expound upon the facts in this case, I am
certain Your Honor will see fit—”

“Counselor. Counselor, please. I have yet to understand what
you are talking about and, as you well know, our docket is quite crowded
this evening. But in the interests of justice, and upon your representation
that you will be brief, I will hear your application.”

Blumberg ran his hand through what was left of his mangy hair, took a
deep breath, paused to be certain every eye and ear was focused on him, and
then shot ahead. “Your Honor, last night the premises in which my
client was working were invaded by armed police officers. These officers
were not armed with warrants; they were not armed with
probable cause; they were not armed with justification for their
acts. But they were armed with deadly weapons, Your Honor. The door
was kicked in—my client was forcibly and physically attacked—and
when he valiantly sought to resist an illegal arrest, the police called in
additional agents and brutally shot my client with a so-called tranquilizer
gun, rendering him insensible and unable to resist. My client was then
dragged down the stairs and into a cage, and is now being held against his
will. I am told that my client will be summarily executed, perhaps even this
very night, unless this court intervenes to prevent a tragedy.”

“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 than 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 court officers’ ever-present sneers were
replaced with looks of compassion for a young life threatened with
extinction.

The judge tried once more, knowing he was doomed to failure.
“Counselor, can you cite one single legal precedent in support of your
arguments?”

“Your Honor,” Blumberg rang out, “every dog must have his
day!” And he got perhaps the first standing ovation ever given in New
York City night court.

The judge called me up to the bench, satisfied himself that I was the
dog’s owner, and took us all back into chambers. He made a quick call
to the ASPCA, informing a thoroughly cowed attendant of the potential
liability they were facing if they killed my dog. Just to make sure, I typed
a release order on engraved stationery from the secretary’s desk while
the judge was being congratulated by Blumberg on his judicial wisdom. I
picked up my dog and took him to the Mole at the junkyard, where he could
join the pack. Nobody knows the name on the Mole’s birth certificate,
but he lives under the ground and he’s reliable as death. I heard later
that Blumberg picked up half a dozen cases from the gallery while I was
gone. Most guys don’t even have the guts to reach back into themselves
when they have to, but Blumberg actually had something there when he
did.

While the Doberman’s successor prowled her rooftop, I set about
making preparations for the coming hunt.

Excerpted from the novel Flood by Andrew Vachss.