Flood

“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 cha

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 co

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 the need for computer toys and telephones, he probably won’t last.

I sell a lot of identification, mostly to clowns who want the option to disappear but never will. The stuff looks pretty good-all you need are some genuine state blanks, like for drivers’ licenses, and the right typewriter. IBM makes a special typing element-one of those things that looks like a studded golf ball-designed for computer reading. They call it an OCR element and you can’t buy it over the counter but this is something less than a significant deterrent to people who steal for a living. I have a complete set in the office. A white dropcloth, a Polaroid 180 with black-and-white film, some state blanks, and I can put you in the driver’s seat in about half an hour. I also sell discharge papers from the army, draft cards (although there isn’t much business in them anymore), social security cards, marriage licenses, and a variety of firearms permits.

But none of that crap is really any good. The proper way (and the way I fixed up my computer-junkie friend) is simply to find someone who died soon after birth with an age and race similar to the person you want to fix up. Then you apply for a duplicate birth certificate in that person’s name, which becomes your name when it’s issued. This perfectly legitimate piece of paper opens the door to all the rest-driver’s license, social security card, you name it. And that paper is perfectly good. To get a passport, for example, all they want is a birth certificate, which you can get certified at the Health Department for a couple of bucks, and a driver’s license or something similar.

The finishing touch is to hire some local lawyer and tell him you want to change your name for professional reasons, like you want to be an actor or something equally useful. Then you put an ad in the paper a