Play Dead (2 page)

I
HAVE COME
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 sex because… I assume 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
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 competitive 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 associate, Kevin Randall, on his cell phone.

His “Hello” 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 piss 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?”

“Assault,” I say.

“Where is he now?”

“On death row.”

“Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”

“You got that right.”

“W
HAT ARE YOU
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 assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant 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 Picassos 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 polishing off today’s
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.

“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 space.

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 cocktail party.”

Kevin is not getting it. “If the male dog was the guy’s wife?”

“Don’t focus on the sex part,” I say. “We’ve got a classic 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 hell 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.

Kevin heads down to the courthouse to file for injunctive relief on Yogi’s behalf, which essentially amounts to a request for a stay of execution. The court does not have to see merit in our position to grant it; it need only recognize that not granting it would result in Yogi’s death, which would in effect be ruling against our overall case before we’ve had a chance to present it. Pleading self-defense on behalf of a dead client is not a terribly productive use of anyone’s time.

After his stop at the courthouse, Kevin is going to attempt to interview Warren Shaheen, the man with Yogi’s teeth marks in his legs. Kevin will get his side of the story and try to persuade him to see the merit of our position. Shaheen may well not want to get taken through the torture I’ve got planned for him, and Kevin is going to suggest some alternatives that we’ve come up with.

The first hurdle we’ll have to overcome is to get a judge to consider our request tomorrow, the scheduled last day of Yogi’s life. I head home to think about that problem in the way that my mind functions most clearly. I take my own golden retriever, Tara, for a walk in Eastside Park.

Tara’s official name has changed a few times over the years. Right now it is Tara, the Greatest Creature on This or Any Other Planet and if You Can’t See That You’re an Idiot, Carpenter. It’s a little long, but apt.

I rescued Tara more than eight years ago from the same shelter that currently houses Yogi. Just looking at her now, enjoying the sights and smells as we walk through the park, easily reaffirms my commitment that I will never let another golden die in a shelter, not if it takes every dollar I have. Fortunately, it doesn’t.

Tara and I pass a number of our “dog friends” as we walk. These are the same people, walking their dogs, that we meet almost every time we’re in the park. I don’t know any of the people’s names, and we merely exchange pleasantries and minor canine chitchat, yet we have a common bond through our love of our dogs.

Each one of these people would be horrified to know of Yogi’s plight, and I don’t share it with them. At least not now. But I do come to the realization that my only hope lies in sharing it with all of them.

Yogi is about to become famous.

I call my friend Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper and the most disagreeable human being I have ever met. As a terrific journalist, he will take a heartwarming story and run with it, despite not having the slightest idea why it is heartwarming.

Vince’s long-suffering assistant, Linda, answers the phone. “Hey, Linda, it’s Andy. What kind of mood is he in?”

“Same as always,” she says.

“Sorry to hear that,” I say, and she tells him I’m on the phone.

“Yeah?” Vince says when he picks up. “Hello” and “good-bye” are not part of his verbal repertoire.

“I’ve got a big story for you,” I say.

“Hold on while I try to come to terms with my excitement,” is his deadpan answer.

I tell him to get a photographer and meet me at the animal shelter. He doesn’t want to, but he trusts me a little from past stories, so he considers it. I close the deal by promising to buy the burgers and beer the next time we go to Charlie’s, our favorite sports bar.

I drop Tara off at home and then go down to the shelter. Vince hasn’t arrived yet, so I use the time to bring Fred up to date on the situation. I think he likes what he’s hearing, because every few sentences he claps his hands and smacks me on the back.

When I’m finished, he says, “You think you can pull this off?”

I nod. “I’m most worried about the timing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got to get the judge to move much more quickly than judges like to move. I don’t want anything to happen to Yogi in the meantime.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Fred says. “I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to be able to find my syringes.”

He’s telling me that he won’t put Yogi down on schedule, at least not until he’s heard from me. He’s taking a risk, particularly since this will be a well-publicized case, and I appreciate it. As will Yogi when he hears about it.

Vince and his photographer arrive, and I explain the situation to them. When I’m finished, I take them back to the quarantine area. “This is him?” Vince asks. “This is the big story?”

“It’s a human interest story, Vince. Which means that if you were an actual human, you’d have an interest in it.”

Fortunately, Vince’s photographer is a dog lover, and he eagerly gets to work. I make sure that all the pictures are taken through the bars of the cage; I want Yogi’s miserable situation to be completely clear in each photograph.

When he’s finished, he shows Vince the picture he thinks is best, and we both agree. It captures Yogi perfectly and dramatizes the injustice of his plight.

Tomorrow that picture will be everywhere, because Yogi is about to become America’s dog.