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and a few major victorious cases. Since hard
     work in general, and hard legal work in particular, is not my idea of a good time, I rarely take on new clients.
    “You read about the murder in Edgewater last night?” Pete asks.
    “Was it on the sports page?”
    Vince chimes in with “You’re an asshole.” I can’t decide if he says that because it was on the front page of his newspaper
     and he’s annoyed that I didn’t see it, or because he just thinks I’m an asshole and thought this was a good time to remind
     me. Probably both.
    “I read about it,” I say.
    “The guy they arrested for it is Billy Zimmerman. We graduated from the academy together, and we were even partners for a
     while.”
    “An ex-cop?” I ask, and immediately regret the question.
    “Wow, you figured that out all by yourself?” Pete asks. “Just from what I said about him going to the academy and being my
     partner? You are really sharp.”
    “Get to the favor part,” I say.
    “All in good time. Anyway, Billy was also in the National Guard, and he volunteered to go to Iraq. He was there less than
     a year and got his leg blown off. So he comes back and gets screwed by everybody. Medical care is bad; it was like they were
     doing him a favor by treating him. And all he could do on the force was get a desk job, which is not for Billy. So he told
     them to shove it.”
    “What did he want?”
    “He wanted his old job back, working the streets.”
    “With one leg?”
    “He has a prosthetic; it works fine,” Pete says. “He could outrun you.”
    “So can my grandmother,” Vince says.
    “Both your grandmothers are dead,” I say.
    He nods. “Either one of them could still spot you ten yards in the hundred and wipe the track with you.”
    I’m not going to get anywhere by talking to Vince, so I turn my attention back to Pete. “So he wants me to represent him?”
     I ask, cringing.
    “Maybe. We didn’t talk about it,” Pete says. “But that’s down the road.”
    The answer surprises me. “What’s up the road?”
    “His dog.”
    “He wants me to take his dog?” I ask, my relief probably showing through. Willie and I have already placed hundreds of dogs
     through our foundation, and adding one is no hardship at all.
    “No. He wants you to defend his dog.”
    “From what?”
    “The government.”

“H E’S LIKE A CELEBRITY HERE, A NDY.”
    Fred Brandenberger is talking about Milo, who has been placed in the Passaic County Animal Shelter. Fred is the shelter director,
     a thankless job in a world in which there are far more dogs and cats than available homes.
    I am following through on Pete’s request for me to try to help his friend by helping his friend’s dog. The first step in that
     process is to visit with my new “client,” whom Fred tells me is occupying a special dog run in the back of the shelter.
    “What do you mean by ‘celebrity’?” I ask.
    “Well, for one thing, four cops came with animal control when they brought him in. Then they told me I couldn’t take him out,
     not even for a walk.”
    It hits me that it’s probably the dog I saw under police siege the other night. “Is it a German shepherd?” I ask.
    “How did you know?”
    “I was there when the arrest went down. But you can do whatever you want with him,” I say. “This is your show here.”
    “I don’t think so,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean in a second.”
    Fred brings me into a back room that I’ve never been in before, and which I didn’t realize existed. The room is completely
     empty except for a large dog run against the back wall. In that run is the same German shepherd, pacing in his five-by-eight
     space, as if frustrated and not completely understanding or tolerating the fact that he is a prisoner. When they say that
     someone is acting like a caged animal, this is literally what they’re talking about.
    I’ve got a thing about dogs; I am totally and completely crazy about them. I thumb through
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