A. Rich - The Hand That Feeds You

McKenzie produced the veterinary records for both dogs, as well as the affidavit from the vet. He also submitted the results of the temperament test for both dogs.

“I would like to call a witness, a volunteer at the shelter where the dogs have been quarantined for the past two months.”

Billie stood and introduced herself to the judge and established the frequency with which she attended the quarantined dogs. I was impressed and pleased with the way she carried herself in this setting, on this occasion. She was confident and succinct, authoritative and convincing. She conveyed a great deal of knowledgeable observation without belaboring anything. I exchanged a look with Steven, who seemed to share my impression of her testimony.

Steven spoke next. He confirmed that neither dog had ever displayed any aggression with him either. “I was with my sister when she adopted Cloud as a puppy.”

“How much time did you spend with the pit-bull mix?” the judge asked.

“I see my sister every couple of weeks and I always enjoyed playing with George. He never played rough.”

The judge asked McKenzie if he had anything else to introduce on behalf of the dogs before adjournment for a decision. McKenzie said that he would like to remind the court that on April 4, 2013, the New York Supreme Court cited the case of Roupp v. Conrad in its Memorandum: “ ‘The condemnation of an individual dog in the context of a dangerous dog proceeding solely by virtue of its breed is without any legal basis.’ ”

• • •

The judge had told McKenzie he would have a decision by three o’clock that afternoon, so Billie suggested we get some lunch at a nearby place she knew. When we got there, I caught Steven’s eye — the building was a Hare Krishna temple. The only nod to Indian architecture was three stucco arches over the standard-issue red brick. Billie led us into the basement, where a cafeteria served vegetarian food from steam tables. I noticed that Steven chose only the potatoes and carrots, two vegetables he could recognize.

I’ve never been good at waiting. I couldn’t keep from asking McKenzie if he thought the judge would rule in our favor. Immediately I apologized for putting him on the spot. Billie had taken the seat next to McKenzie and facing my brother. I had found that a fix-up had a better chance of bypassing awkwardness and pressure if one of the parties did not know it was a fix-up.

Billie offered, “I think the judge might choose this case to send a larger message to the community: zero tolerance for pit bulls.”

“Or maybe,” McKenzie said, “he’ll surprise us. Once he reads the police report.”

Over the sound of chanting coming from speakers in a corner of the dining room, I heard Steven register a guarded optimism. I noticed that even when Steven was speaking, Billie’s eyes were on McKenzie. If I noticed, then Steven had noticed.

I was so anxious about the judge’s decision I had to visualize the most calming thing I could think of in order to remain seated through this lunch. I imagined myself floating on my stomach in the warm Caribbean, my eyes open in shallow water so that I saw the gentle waves in the white sand on the bottom.

When I came out of my reverie and rejoined the conversation, Billie was challenging Steven on a point of law. It occurred to me that she felt herself to be his peer. Steven said simply, “Let’s not precede the outcome with an outcome.”

McKenzie stepped in as a kind of referee, giving the point to Steven. Billie was quick to turn self-deprecating and excused herself for making assumptions about legal matters.

On the way back to court, Billie stepped in beside McKenzie, so I dropped back to walk with my brother, feeling usurped. Steven whispered to me, “That girl is not your friend.”

“She’s been nearly as devoted to my dogs as I have.”

Steven reminded me that her devotion had crossed a line when she scheduled George for a temperament test without consulting me. And I reminded him that Billie’s action, albeit presumptuous, meant that George now had a chance.

As we stepped off the elevator on the courthouse’s fourth floor, McKenzie motioned for me to join him off to the side. “Let’s do this,” he said, and put his hand on the small of my back and guided me into the courtroom.

• • •

I might once have been heading into a courtroom for another reason, and it shamed me to think of it now. After serving Candice and Doug at the coffee shop where I briefly waitressed, I found the strength to go to the police. Rather, Kathy’s insistence on accompanying me gave me the strength. We had only known each other a month by then, but I knew her to be a force for good. I had been unable to report the attack when it might have done some good — after Doug left me at Port Authority with the evidence still inside me. Or that is what I told myself then. I put my need for distance from the horror over any sort of civic responsibility. The thought that I might have been able to prevent their continued predation was not a priority. I needed to protect myself.

By the time Kathy and I went to the police, my actions were more symbolic than justice-seeking. I had no physical proof left, I had entered the apartment voluntarily, I did not even have the address of the apartment, and a month had passed since the attack. A kind officer took my statement, then drove us up and down the blocks near the Navy Yard to see if anything looked familiar. But it had been night when I arrived, and I had been hidden in the van the next morning. I had apologized to the officer for wasting his time, and he had assured me that I had done no such thing. He said I was right to come in and make the report. I knew that if I had made my report in a timely fashion, I might have found myself in a courtroom testifying against that perverted couple, maybe even sending them to jail.

• • •

We were in the front row when the judge entered briskly. He read from the document he held. “Accordingly, pursuant to Agriculture and Markets Law 123 (2) the court is mandated, and under the circumstances and as is necessary for the protection of the public, it is hereby ordered that the Great Pyrenees be remanded to an animal sanctuary that specializes in the handling of dangerous dogs, which would be the best option to keep both the public and the animal from harm.”

McKenzie put his hand on my arm, as though to hold me still while the judge pronounced sentence on George: death by, in the oxymoronic legalese he employed, “humane euthanasia.” He gave George only twenty-four hours to live, then declared the court adjourned.

“It doesn’t end here,” McKenzie whispered to me. “We can appeal.”

“For both of them?”

“We can ask for a stay for George first. I can argue that he go to a sanctuary, too.”

“But the good ones have no space,” Billie said. “They don’t even take names for the waiting lists anymore.”

“Then what’s going to happen to Cloud if there is no room?” I asked.

“We have time to worry about Cloud later. I need to file a stay of execution for George right now,” McKenzie said. “Steven, can you get everyone home, and I’ll call you as soon as I hear something?”

Steven told me that we should know something later that afternoon, and the three of us — Billie leading the way out of court — headed for the subway.

“Pitties can’t catch a break,” Billie said.

“I took George off death row at the shelter and now he is right back where I found him,” I said.

“You gave him love he would not have known,” Steven said.

It was no consolation to hear that, though Steven had meant well. At the subway entrance, Steven headed toward his car to go back to Manhattan, Billie said good-bye to us both without saying where she was headed, and I took the G train to Williamsburg to wait.