The Hand That Feeds You (16 page)

It was cold and clear with the white sky familiar to New Yorkers in winter. I decided to spruce up the apartment and went to Abode on Grand. I browsed the shelves: a bottle opener that was just a nail in a board ($18.99), and the cardboard end tables made to look like tiny stacked cargo crates ($59.99). I passed up the black, geometric hanging light fixture that looked as though it contained a galaxy ($12,500). A black throw pillow had what looked like a swirl of smoke on it ($270), and I knew I’d find nothing I could afford. I stopped by the vintage store Mystery Train, but they had no pillows, just clothes. Two Jakes, on Wythe, carried furniture, mostly, and I found “accent pillows” in a color called chalk. At $39 apiece, they seemed like a bargain, and I bought one. I next walked to Grand Ferry Park—a nod to Olive. I sat down on one of the benches right by the East River and lifted Olive out of the bag. She wanted to sit on the bench next to me. The Manhattan skyline lived up to its reputation. I had never heard a metaphor that made it more than what it was on its own.

I put Olive back in the tote, and we were on to the hardware store, with its five-thousand-square-foot plant section in back. The bonus here was an eighty-five-pound hog named Franklin; he lived in a good-size pen (think studio apartment in Williamsburg) among the thousands of plants for sale. I picked up several small flats of herbs for the kitchen, and a container of lavender to scent the bedroom.

I dropped off the pillow and plants, poured Olive’s kibble, and left by myself. It had been a long time since I’d seen a movie. I took the L to Union Square, where half a dozen theaters are within a few blocks. The multiplexes showed the blockbuster commercial hits, none of which appealed to me. I checked out the Village East, where I found the documentary
Twenty Feet from Stardom
, about black female backup singers. One of the women who affected me most had had no interest in a solo career. She valued the harmony several voices created. Of course I thought of Cilla. She had told me during a recent session that a time had come when she no longer knew how to harmonize. Deeply rattled, she stopped singing. Eventually, she told me, she realized that this inability just meant it was time for her to make a different kind of harmony; she brought harmony to people in trouble and turned their lives around.

“D
on’t say no right away,” I said, “but this volunteer who’s coming to testify today, you might like her.” Steven and I were looking for a parking spot near the courthouse on Schermerhorn Street.

“Morgan.”

“You like the outdoor type.”

“Not after Claire made me train for the marathon with her.”

“That was the deal-breaker? You were never in better shape.”

“Physically.”

Steven was not resilient in this realm, or any realm. I knew he had not yet recovered from Claire’s moving out after two years together. She had wanted him to enter the private sector and make money, and he wanted to continue working for Avaaz.

“What does she look like?”

It never failed to throw me, this question from a man—because it was always the first question. “Up there on the right.” I pointed to a space we could squeeze into. “You’ll see her in the courtroom in a few minutes.”

The room designated for the hearing was spare and worn. The bench we sat on had initials carved into it. The judge took his place behind an equally marred desk.

I nudged Steven. “There she is.” Fixing up my brother was a welcome throwback to normalcy, something I had fallen out of touch with, to say the least.

Billie was already seated next to McKenzie. I had not seen him dressed for a court appearance before. Suited, polished, he looked more than capable—he looked commanding. For her part, Billie had traded her motorcycle boots for sleek calfskin boots. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she wore a simple black blazer over a white shirt, with tight-fitting, black jeans.

Steven whispered one word to me: “Wow.”

After we were sworn in, McKenzie made his opening remarks to the judge. “I would first like to cite Article Seven of the New York Agriculture and Markets Law. ‘A dog shall not be declared dangerous if the court determines the conduct of the dog was justified because the injured, threatened, or killed person was tormenting, abusing, assaulting, or physically threatening the dog or its offspring, or has in the past tormented, abused, assaulted, or physically threatened the dog or its offspring.’ ”

McKenzie reached into his briefcase and took out a thick file. “I’d like to place in evidence Exhibit A, a copy of the Boston police file on the murder of Susan Rorke. The police believe that Ms. Rorke had her skull fractured with a hammer before her body was thrown out a window. James Gordon, aka Bennett Vaux-Trudeau, was the prime suspect. The attack that took his life occurred less than a month after the murder of Susan Rorke. This man has demonstrated a history of violent behavior. Cloud, the Great Pyrenees, has lived with Morgan Prager since eight weeks of age and has no history of aggressive behavior. Ms. Prager adopted George, the pit-bull mix, five months ago, and he has not demonstrated aggression of any kind either.”

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.

•  •  •

I had once read a story with a scene between a man and woman in a long and turbulent relationship; the woman turns to her companion and says, “It could be so easy.” That comment moved me, its resignation and still the simple wish. What is ever easy?

The news from McKenzie later that afternoon was not what I wanted to hear: the judge had rejected the appeal for a stay of execution for George. He would be killed by lethal injection the next day. McKenzie’s voice was strained. He said he was about to file an appeal for Cloud to be allowed to go home, if muzzled and insured as prescribed by law. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

I could not believe there was nothing more to be done.

“Would you like me to go with you to see him at the shelter?” McKenzie asked. “I can meet you there in the morning.”

“That’s nice of you to offer.” I was already planning a visit within the hour. We agreed to meet in the filthy lobby of the shelter at 11:00 a.m.

I phoned Billie and told her I wanted to bring George a good dinner, and could she slip me in to give it to him? She told me she wouldn’t officially be on duty, but that she would show up anyway, and, yes, we’d give him his special dinner.

I went to a market and bought two pounds of rare roast beef. Then I bought a pound of honey-glazed ham. And a bag of wavy Lay’s potato chips. What the hell, old boy.