No Noose Is Good Noose by Lawrence B. Fox, Esq.

Humorous books about the private practice of law.

The Crime Dog
My neighbors' kids taught their dog, Phydeaux, to retrieve the morning newspaper from their front porch. It seemed like a good idea, until the obedient canine decided to collect every newspaper within a two block radius. Dogs, in many cases, don't have a clear understanding of property rights.

Hilda Plumwort had been my client for more than 30 years. She was one of those dear old widows who worked hard, never bothered a soul, and kept out of trouble. She walked with a limp and a cane as a result of a hip replacement. The grocery store was just three blocks from her apartment of 25 years, so she never bought a car. She took the bus to church every Sunday.

"Lawyer Larry?" It was Hilda on the phone.

"Hilda? Are you O.K.?"

"Just a little shaken. I was on my way to the grocery store this morning. I needed some prunes to stew, and as I'm walking, this dog comes trotting around the corner, stops, and stares me down."

"Did he attack?" I asked.

"I'd never seen this dog before. So he comes over to me just as bold as you please, and with no warning, grabs my handbag and darts down the alley. My grocery money, my reading glasses, the keys to my apartment - they're all gone. What that mutt did - isn't that against the law?"

"It depends on whether his intentions were criminal. What did the dog look like?"

"I don't know, exactly. Black and white, or was it white and black? Medium build, short fur, I think. He came and went so fast it's hard to tell."

"Did you call the police?"

"Do they arrest dogs?"

I decided to telephone the cops. Sergeant Cranberry Hill took my call. "That's the third complaint this week. Some dog has started doing purse snatches in the ninth ward. He only preys on the elderly, if you can believe that."

"Do you have a description of the thief?"

"There doesn't seem to be a consensus. One victim said it could have been a large white dog or perhaps a medium black one. Another poor dear thought it might be a small dog or a big cat. We're still investigating."

It was brave patrolman Roberto Lieberman who would ultimately bring the canine desperado to justice. He volunteered to dress up as a vulnerable 90-year-old nursing home escapee. He agreed to hobble down the street, dangling a handbag only a few inches above his laced orthopedic shoes. His paisley print dress covered most of his hairy legs as his full-length silver-blue wig gleamed in the afternoon sun. The misapplied rouge on his cheeks accentuated the rhinestone rimmed bifocal glasses hanging from the chain around his neck. He faked a hip replacement limp, while using a walker. An artificial alligator skin purse swung at his side.

A large black and white dog peered from around the corner, staring at its next unsuspecting prey. Lieberman clutched his purse as he inched with an unsteady gait along the sidewalk.

From out of nowhere, the villain emerged, lunged toward Lieberman, and tried to secure the purse in its powerful jaws. But this victim was different. Even though her wig fell to the ground, she wouldn't let go of her belongings. Instantaneously, the back-up patrol cars emerged, and the cops threw a dragnet over the animal, now caught red-pawed in the act of theft.

It didn't take long for the police to locate the dog's residence as the perpetrator wore up-to-date tags around its neck for rabies and distemper. Abby Mellon was arrested in his rented apartment two blocks from the scene. Three incriminating handbags and two purses were found under his bed. Not one of these fruits of crime matched any ensemble hanging in his closet, so Mellon was charged with conspiracy to commit purse snatching.

"Can someone conspire with a dog to commit a crime?" I asked assistant district attorney Purfuda Beedeldorf.

"I'll get back to you on that," she promised.

She was too busy at the moment conducting a line-up at police headquarters. All of the victims had been invited there to pick out the dog that snatched their purses. If they chose Abby Mellon's pooch, his goose was cooked.

The room with the one-way mirror was packed with spectators: cops, the assistant district attorney, the victims, and Mellon's public defender, Cyril Kocsis, Esquire.

I was there to hold Hilda's hand.

"I've never been to a line-up before," she confided.

Beebeldorf turned to the three victims.

"Now ladies, there's nothing to this. The mirror is one-sided. They can't see you from the other room, but you'll be able to see them. Each suspect has a number hanging from his neck. If you would like a specific suspect to speak or move a certain way, just let me know. O.K.?"

"O.K.," Hilda confirmed.

"O.K.," Henrietta Feather agreed as she adjusted her trifocals.

"O.K.," Murtha Grosskey chimed in as she steadied her walker.

"Bring 'em out," Beebeldorf commanded in an assistant district attorney voice drenched with authority.

Five cops led five leashed guilty-looking dogs into the line-up room. Each wore a number around its neck.

Cy Kocsis became visibly agitated. "Wait just a minute!" he interjected. "This line-up is unduly suggestive. The alleged criminal is a large black and white mutt. Four of these dogs are brown.

"I beg your pardon?" Beebeldorf responded.

"You've got a brown Chihuahua, a golden retriever, a chocolate mixed breed, and a miniature poodle in there. It's like lining up a white male suspect with a black, an Hispanic, an Asian, and an American Indian."

"Excuse me," Henrietta Feather piped up. "Could you have Number 2 step forward and bark? I think he growled before he snatched my purse. I might remember his voice."

"Have the Chihuahua step forward and speak," Beebeldorf commanded.

"I just don't know," Hilda whispered in my ear. "They all look so similar."

Three months later, Mellon went to trial. He claimed he didn't own a dog or rent an apartment, and that he had found the purses stuffed in a trash can. The jury deadlocked. Beebeldorf may still be trying to negotiate a plea, if one of the dogs turns state's evidence.