Flood

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 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 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.

11

THE FIRST ISSUE was identification. If Wilson was really a Vietnam vet, he must be wise to the grab-bag of goodies Uncle Sam makes available. If he was scoring from the VA on a regular basis, for instance, he had to be using his righteous name. And that name would have to be connected to an address somewhere in the government computers. I knew a guy who specialized in that racket for a long time-a computer wizard who just liked to play with keyboards and telephones. He was the same guy who gave the Mouse the idea for his big social security scam (which, from my recent mail, was obviously still working). Unfortunately, finding that guy would be tougher than finding Wilson. He’d done me a lot of favors over the years, so when he came to me for help in disappearing, I showed him how to work the game and he vanished. He should have been satisfied making regular little scores, but he talked too much. One of the mob guys overheard him bragging in a singles bar about how he could get access to any government computer and approached him to get inside the Witness Protection Program. The mob guy wanted to find out the new identities of some of the informants who had been relocated by the government. It worked to perfection, but when people started turning up dead all over the place (especially in California-for some reason, most of the gangsters who opt for relocation have to try the Holy Coast), my friend decided to exit the stage. The mob made so much noise looking for him that they tipped off the feds-or maybe, in a touch of perfect irony, one of the mob guys leaning on my friend for information was a rat himself. Who knows?

Since the guy was a friend, I didn’t send him down the Rhodesian pipeline, but recommended Ireland instead. They’ve got no extradition treaty with the U.S., and he should be all right if he keeps his head down. Israel is another good choice, especially since my friend had such marketable skills, but those people are too serious and I don’t think they would have tolerated his nonsense. The guy had bad personal habits and no real sense of surviving by himself. Between the need to talk to the wrong people, which means any people, and