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ME at the diner for breakfast to go over our strategy.
    He also brings me up to date on his conversation with Warren Shaheen, the alleged owner and victim of the vicious Yogi. Shaheen told Kevin that he has been asked to be at court today by the animal control people, but Kevin doubts he’ll show. Mr. Shaheen is apparently not enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, and was clearly frightened when Kevin told him that when I latch on to his leg in court, it’s going to hurt a lot more than when Yogi did it. Faced with that prospect, he was more than happy to go along with whatever Kevin said was necessary to make it end.
    We head for the courthouse early, and it’s lucky we do, because the media crush adds ten minutes to the time it takes to get inside. We still get to our seats at the defense table fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the hearing. My testicle-preservation instinct is not about to let me show up late in Hatchet’s court. I plan to make sure that my client remains the only neutered member of the defense team.
    A young city attorney named Roger Wagner puts his briefcase on the prosecution table and comes over to shake my hand. He smiles. “Any chance we can make a deal?”
    “What do you have in mind?” I ask.
    “We keep Yogi and we trade you a German shepherd, a beagle, and a Maltese to be named later.”
    I laugh. “I don’t think so.”
    I sit back down. It’s an unusual feeling not to have my client present at a court proceeding, and I had briefly considered asking that Yogi be allowed to attend. The determining factor in my not doing so was my uncertainty whether Yogi was house-trained, or in this case court-trained. Taking a dump in Hatchet’s court would not be a productive legal maneuver.
    Hatchet starts the proceedings by laying out the ground rules. The city will get to call witnesses, which I can then cross-examine. I can follow with my own witnesses, should I so choose, and then we will adjourn. There will be no opening or closing arguments.
    “And there will be no theatrics,” he says, staring directly at me.
    Wagner calls Stephen Billick, the Passaic County director of Animal Control. He starts to ask him about his education, work experience, and general qualifications for the job, but he barely gets two sentences out before Hatchet cuts him off. “That isn’t necessary. Mr. Carpenter will stipulate as to the witness’s experience and expertise. Isn’t that right, Mr. Carpenter?”
    I had no intention of so stipulating, but I have even less intention of arguing with Hatchet. “Your Honor, that’s uncanny. You took the words right out of my mouth.”
    Wagner proceeds with his questioning, which basically elicits from Billick the rationale for the policy of putting down dogs with a history of biting humans. It’s a public safety issue and one that is consistent in localities across the country. It would be irresponsible to send a dog like that back into civilized society, because of the likelihood that he could strike again.
    Hatchet offers me the opportunity for a “brief” cross- examination, and I begin with “Mr. Billick, what happens if a dog bites someone, but the owner does not bring it to a shelter to be put down?”
    “If someone reports being bitten and is treated by a doctor or a hospital emergency room, then the dog is quarantined either at a shelter or a veterinarian’s office for ten days, in order to make sure the dog does not have rabies.”
    “So let’s say I had a dog that bit someone. I could keep the dog at my vet for the ten days?”
    “Yes.”
    “And after the ten days are up?” I ask.
    “Assuming he didn’t have rabies, you could bring him home.”
    “Wouldn’t that put the public at risk of the dog biting again?”
    He nods. “It would. But you would have signed a document accepting future responsibility.”
    “So I as the owner can have the dog back, simply by accepting responsibility for his future actions?”
    “That is