The Lost Dogs Part 2

They bark because it is morning and the light once again streams through the gla.s.s. The place is new and strange. They paw at the chain link, chew on it. What will happen now? Who will come? When will they be fed again? All the newness and uncertainty makes them anxious, so they bark.

The brown dog shares those feelings and she barks some, too. She waits for what will come next. She sniffs at the ground beneath her, which is hard and cold and smells of a million things-paint and soap and people. She has to relieve herself but has no idea where to do it. She has never done it anywhere but on the soft ground, where she can sniff for an appropriate spot and then cover it up with dirt.

Back in the clearing, chained to the axle, she had a few places she usually used. They were as far away from the house as she could get. But there are no spots like that here. Instincts honed over thousands of years and woven into her genetic fabric impel her not to do it inside this s.p.a.ce, where she eats and sleeps. So she works her way up and down the enclosure, sniffing and probing. She looks toward the windows, the daylight streaming through, smells the hint of outside air that comes through the vents, and whines a bit. She waits. She hopes there will be a chance to get outside.

Many of the other dogs have already gone, peeing to mark the s.p.a.ce, to begin putting their scent down and claiming ownership of their spot. The results of their efforts sit puddled on the floor. Whatever else they have produced sits on the floor, too, and they bark about that as well, about having to sit with and walk around in their own p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t.

But there are no options and the brown dog can wait no more. She finds a spot in the corner, near the back of her area, and empties herself. Then she goes to the opposite corner, circles once, and lies down. She stares out the window and lets the sound of the barking wash over her.

Tires crunch on the gravel outside. The brown dog springs to her feet. All the dogs do. They bark at the sound and at the silence that follows it. Then comes the jangle of keys in the outer door. There are footsteps in the offices outside the main room, but still no one comes through the door. Other doors out in the hall open and close. The dogs bark and pace. Some of them jump up on their hind legs, pressing their front paws against the chain link.

At last the door swings open. A man comes in and the dogs bark and wag and shake their bodies with excitement. The man leaves again but reappears a moment later dragging a hose. He squeezes the nozzle and begins to spray water across the room. He moves down the line, hosing the bottom of each cage, letting the water sweep everything on the floor back into the drain and out of the building. Some dogs bite at the water as it flies past, some cower away from the stream, some sit utterly bemused and uncertain what to do. All of them bark.

Their cages are once again clean, but they are wet from the spray. The floor is wet and their little beds are wet too, so most of the dogs stand to stay out of the water. The man then goes around and puts fresh water in all of the bowls and gives each dog food. The brown dog eats. All the dogs eat and for a few minutes at least it is silent but for the chewing and the lapping.

By the time they are done, the man is gone and the door is once again closed. The meal seems to settle the dogs a little and some of them now sit or lie down in their s.p.a.ce. Others pace. It is nice to be free of the heavy chain, but there are no birds or b.u.t.terflies to chase here. There are no weeds to eat or rocks to chew. There is no circle in the dirt to trace over and over.

The brown dog-Suss.e.x 2602-sits, her floppy ear asking questions of the world. The man had come and brought food, but would he be back, and when? And what would happen next? Would this room be their final stop? The anxiety and uncertainty wells up again and mingles with the boredom. The brown dog begins to bark. They all bark.

8.

ON FRIDAY APRIL 27, 2007, two days after the raid at 1915 Moonlight Road, Michael Vick appeared at an event connected to the NFL Draft, which would take place the next day. It was his first public appearance since the news broke, and he was asked for an explanation. "I'm never at the house," Vick said. "I left the house with my family members and my cousin. They just haven't been doing the right thing. It's unfortunate I have to take the heat. If I'm not there, I don't know what's going on. It's a call for me to really tighten down on who I'm trying to take care of. When it all boils down, people will try to take advantage of you and leave you out to dry. Lesson learned for me." two days after the raid at 1915 Moonlight Road, Michael Vick appeared at an event connected to the NFL Draft, which would take place the next day. It was his first public appearance since the news broke, and he was asked for an explanation. "I'm never at the house," Vick said. "I left the house with my family members and my cousin. They just haven't been doing the right thing. It's unfortunate I have to take the heat. If I'm not there, I don't know what's going on. It's a call for me to really tighten down on who I'm trying to take care of. When it all boils down, people will try to take advantage of you and leave you out to dry. Lesson learned for me."

Jim Knorr didn't catch the performance. He was working a c.o.c.kfighting investigation in Page County, in northern Virginia. But he received a message on his office phone that day. It was from Bill Brinkman: "Call me about Vick."

On Monday morning the two spoke on the phone and made plans to meet at Brinkman's house a week later. When Knorr arrived in Surry County, Brinkman drove him by the Vick place, recounting the initial raid and what was found. Afterward the two went for dinner at Anna's, an Italian restaurant in Smithfield, and Brinkman laid out the situation.

The initial raid had netted a fair amount of d.a.m.ning evidence but the case wasn't a lock. First and foremost, they had the dogs. After that they had the training equipment, medical supplies, and all the rest. They had taken swabs of what they believed were bloodstains on the floor and walls of the large shed, but Brinkman wasn't sure where to send the samples for confirmation. They had also received a call from a federal inmate claiming that before he was locked up he'd arranged and partic.i.p.ated in dogfights with Bad Newz Kennels and Vick. A follow-up interview would be necessary.

Most important, he had Brownie. Brinkman sensed that the old guy knew even more than he had told so far, but he was a tough nut. He had no known address and spent his nights moving from one crash pad to another or dropping in on friends and relatives, and he made money doing odd jobs around town. Sometimes sullen and moody and sometimes ebullient, he would spoon out information in dribs and drabs, claiming to know nothing more one minute and then spilling a new load of information a while later.

Despite the lapses, Brinkman remained certain of Brownie's willingness to testify. The guy had no fear of retribution. Still, Brinkman worried that he would either wander off or someone would convince him to change his mind about recounting what he had seen and heard at 1915 Moonlight Road. Brinkman felt that Brownie had to be put in a safe place for a while, preferably one outside of Surry County.

It was a big, complicated case, and Brinkman feared that Surry County didn't have the resources or the expertise to pull off the investigation. He frequently worked alone or partnered with state police because he did not trust everyone around him. Over the years he'd even developed the habit of keeping the evidence he gathered during investigations locked up in his desk or car for fear of what would become of it if he turned it over.

Already he'd gotten the sense that not everyone in Surry County was on board with going after Michael Vick. The opportunity to search Vick's house had come up quickly and unexpectedly, so the warrant had been filed and the raid scheduled without a lot of discussion among the local law enforcement hierarchy. When Brinkman first called in from the Vick house to request backup for the widening investigation, the officer who answered the call said, "You've got a lot of people around here p.i.s.sed off." Later that day, as Brinkman and others stood back and watched the dogs being led off the property, he had said out loud, "This case will probably lead to me getting fired."

It didn't take long to figure out the source of the discontent. Brinkman later told the Virginian Pilot Virginian Pilot that within a few days of the raid, his boss, Sheriff Harold Brown, told him that commonwealth attorney Gerald Poindexter, who represented the state of Virginia in Surry County, was unhappy with him. Soon thereafter, Brinkman was called into a meeting with Poindexter, who once represented Michael Boddie in a DWI case. Brinkman and Poindexter had clashed before. "Every time you met with him, it was a very unsettling, uncomfortable, degrading conversation," Brinkman said to the that within a few days of the raid, his boss, Sheriff Harold Brown, told him that commonwealth attorney Gerald Poindexter, who represented the state of Virginia in Surry County, was unhappy with him. Soon thereafter, Brinkman was called into a meeting with Poindexter, who once represented Michael Boddie in a DWI case. Brinkman and Poindexter had clashed before. "Every time you met with him, it was a very unsettling, uncomfortable, degrading conversation," Brinkman said to the Virginian Pilot Virginian Pilot. "Everything's wrapped around race."

Afterward, Brinkman claimed that Poindexter, who is black, made it clear that he didn't like the idea of a young African American who had escaped from an underprivileged background and become something of an icon being dragged down, and he certainly didn't want to be a part of it. (Brown and Poindexter later denied that any such conversations took place.) When Poindexter subsequently reminded reporters that all the evidence was circ.u.mstantial and that even if dogfighting had taken place, it didn't mean Vick was responsible, Brinkman took those statements as efforts to sway public opinion away from the idea that all roads led to Vick.

If the state truly wasn't on board, it could be a significant problem. Virginia considered dogfighting and animal cruelty felonies, which made it an ideal venue to try the case. That was part of the reason Brinkman had reached out to Jim Knorr. He knew that if he could get the feds involved he could get around Poindexter. (A new federal law that would make dogfighting a felony was on the verge of being signed by President George W. Bush, but it would arrive too late for this case.) Brinkman and Knorr hoped there would be some other federal law that applied. They didn't know all the answers, but they knew how to find out. There, in the dim light of a strip-mall Italian joint in rural Virginia, the two men planned their investigation.

The next day, Brinkman and Knorr found themselves outside 600 E. Main Street in Richmond, Virginia, a twenty-three-story office building highlighted by tan concrete, rows of black windows, and an architectural style that featured intersecting planes. It housed, among other things, the office of Chuck Rosenberg, the U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia. Brinkman and Knorr were scheduled to meet with a.s.sistant U.S. attorneys Brian Whisler and Mike Gill.

Brinkman had worked some with the feds before, but Knorr was intimate with the machinations of the national government, and this knowledge made him uneasy. After their last get-together Knorr had taken charge of Brownie, putting him up at a low-rent hotel in Virginia Beach. Knorr used some of his own cash to accomplish this, but when he went to his boss for funding, he was told that the agency didn't want to spend money on "that two-bit dog case."

After some arm twisting, Knorr got a small budget, but he wasn't surprised that it was a struggle. As much as he loved working for the USDA and found the street agents as diligent and hardworking as anyone, the agency's management could get bogged down in small-time thinking and bureaucratic politics. More than once he'd heard a certain deflating phrase uttered around the office: "No cases, no problems; big cases, big problems." Agents sometimes joked that the department's emblem should feature an ostrich with its head in the sand instead of an eagle. Such apathy was a sort of disease that infected government work, and it was never clear who had it until that person's cooperation was required to get something done.

Had it spread to the attorneys for the Eastern District of Virginia? There was at least some chance that they would listen to the facts of Brinkman and Knorr's case and decide that there wasn't enough evidence to make it work or that they had bigger problems than some football player and his dogs.

In a nondescript conference room Brinkman and Knorr laid out what they had. Besides the evidence seized, they'd also been tipped that there were dog carca.s.ses buried on the property, and they'd begun seeking a facility that could perform necropsies on the bodies, should they be able to find any.

The a.s.sistant attorneys listened attentively, and Mike Gill took the lead role as the conversation unfolded. Brinkman and Knorr were impressed by Gill. A lot of prosecutors talk down to law officers or only want surefire cases, making so many demands that they render it all but impossible for the investigation to succeed. But there was none of that with Gill. He was young, but he exuded confidence and experience. He knew what was needed and how to get it.

Best of all he was a regular guy. A Texan with an open face, black hair, and full curving eyebrows, he was the kind of guy who wore cowboy boots with a suit and guzzled Diet c.o.kes. Behind the desk in his office a Texas Christian University banner hung on the wall and pictures of his dogs-Toby, a German shepherd, and a beagle named Ginger-sat on one of the shelves. As Knorr said to Brinkman afterward, "He was the kind of guy you'd be happy to end up sitting next to on a plane."

The way Gill saw it, there was evidence that the Bad Newz crew had crossed state lines to buy dogs, partic.i.p.ate in dogfights and gamble illegally, all offenses that fell within the bounds of federal law. The case, in his view, was pretty strong, although some pieces were missing. The bigger problem, though, was that the federal government had no cause to become involved.

Whatever Brinkman's past dealings with the local officials might have led him to believe about their intentions or abilities, Gill had no reason to think they wouldn't advance and succeed with the case at the state level. And the state charges were serious, carrying penalties of up to five years in prison and a $2,500 fine. But that didn't mean Gill was walking away completely. At the end of the meeting he summarized the situation: "We have to give them a chance to do their job," he said. "And if they don't, then we will."

Surry County is a quiet place. In the county seat, Surry, there's one light, and even that one is a blinker. There are short stretches of houses lined up next to one another, but it's far more common to drive on Surry's curving roads without another car in sight, widespread farms moving past like islands seen through a porthole. There are only seven thousand people in the entire county and everyone knows everyone, or at least seems to. There hasn't been a felony murder case in forty years, and commonwealth attorney is a part-time position.

Gerald Poindexter, one of only two practicing attorneys in Surry, became county attorney in 1972, while his wife, Gammiel, was elected the commonwealth attorney, the person charged with prosecuting cases in the area on behalf of the state. But in 1995, Gammiel was appointed the general district court judge for the Sixth Judicial Circuit in Hopewell. Poindexter rushed into the void left by his wife, winning election as commonwealth attorney, and holding both positions for a number of years before giving up the county job.

When he entered the small conference room in the Surry County munic.i.p.al building at 10:00 A.M. on May 21, he was wearing a light-colored suit and tie. His wiry gray and black hair was brushed back from a wide, freckled face dominated by a bushy mustache. According to Knorr's memo recounting the meeting, Pointdexter opened with a question: "Does anyone have evidence that Michael Vick is involved in dogfighting?" he asked in a smooth baritone. a.s.sembled before him to review the investigation were the county administrator, Tyrone Franklin; three representatives of the Virginia State Police; Sheriff Brown; animal control officer Jamie Smith; Brinkman and Knorr; and Poindexter's a.s.sistant, Robin Ely.

Brinkman spoke first, reviewing the details of what they had so far. In addition to the evidence seized, they had Brownie and at least two people in federal prison that could place Vick at dogfights on the property. Poindexter listened but responded by changing the subject. He may not have been in the best of moods, as the day before an animal control officer from another town had called him out in the media for not bringing charges yet. He made it clear he was unhappy about what had been printed and said it angered him when people suggested he would never charge Vick.

And yet, in the next breath, he contended that all the evidence they'd a.s.sembled so far was obtained illegally. He didn't think it was legal to have dogs sniff cars in a public place, thus invalidating the Boddie arrest that led to the search at 1915 Moonlight Road, and he didn't think it was legal to have the animal control officer along on a drug search, so Officer Smith's testimony, which led to the warrant to search for dogfighting evidence, was invalid.

The Virginia State Police officers in the room offered that dog sniffing in public places had been challenged and ruled legal and others present testified that having an animal control officer along on a drug bust was standard procedure. Still, Poindexter said he would submit both warrants to the Virginia Attorney General's office for review.

When Knorr finally got a chance to speak, he quickly established his ident.i.ty and explained that he would be able to a.s.sist Brinkman with the witness interviews and have the blood a.n.a.lyzed, although he'd been told that any such a.n.a.lysis would be better if the lab could have a piece of the actual stained wood instead of only the swabs.

He went on to explain that according to Brownie, two days before the initial raid, Vick, Peace, Phillips, and Oscar Allen, another member of the crew, had been testing dogs in the big shed. When they were done they identified about eight or nine dogs that did not pa.s.s muster. The Bad Newz crew killed the dogs. Afterward, Vick paid Brownie $100 to dig two holes and bury the dogs. Brownie dug the holes but he refused to do the burials. Phillips and Peace did it instead.

They literally knew where the bodies were buried, Knorr argued. Through Brownie they also had very specific details about how the dogs were killed. If they could obtain another search warrant, then go back and find the carca.s.ses, it would provide them with more evidence against Vick's operation and establish Brownie as a credible witness, especially if the dogs showed injuries that matched the ways in which he said they were killed.

Based on all of this, Knorr proposed a second search of the property. Combined with the physical evidence they'd already collected-the paperwork, treadmills, food, supplements, bloodstained carpets, and the dogs themselves-it could be enough to seal the case. Dogfighting convictions had been won in Virginia recently with far less backup. Just not in Surry County, where the biggest dogfighting case they'd ever brought-the Benny b.u.t.ts case-ended in disaster because of an illegal search.

Poindexter considered the information, and there was general consensus that a second search should proceed, but the conversation moved on without a firm decision. Poindexter wondered aloud if a press release should be issued following the meeting, and one was drafted so that everyone could approve it. It had been two hours since the meeting started, and everyone began to gather their belongings and prepare to leave. Knorr wasn't satisfied.

"Excuse me," he said, "does everyone agree we should go forward with the second search?" Brinkman said yes. The Virginia State Police said yes. Everyone looked to Poindexter.

"What do you think, Sheriff?" Poindexter responded.

"I agree with the others," Brown said.

"Okay," said Poindexter, "you're the investigators."

9.

JIM KNORR STOOD NEAR a boat launch at the Hog Island Wildlife Management Area. He strapped on his bulletproof vest and checked his weapon. It was a Wednesday afternoon, two days after the meeting in which he had convinced Poindexter that a second search was needed to dig up the bodies of the recently killed dogs. a boat launch at the Hog Island Wildlife Management Area. He strapped on his bulletproof vest and checked his weapon. It was a Wednesday afternoon, two days after the meeting in which he had convinced Poindexter that a second search was needed to dig up the bodies of the recently killed dogs.

Straight out Route 650 on the James River, this state park was the local police's favorite staging area, and it was where Brinkman had a.s.sembled before the initial raid. The appeal of this spot was its seclusion, and as Knorr stood there he could see only blacktop, reeds, and water. That, and twenty or thirty other law enforcement officials gathered to prep for the second raid on 1915 Moonlight Road. The group included Bill Brinkman and Virginia State Police officers, including a SWAT team and a forensics team. The plan was the same as last time: SWAT would go in first to secure the property, then everyone else would move in to finish the business at hand.

Among the vehicles and equipment gathered were shovels, nose plugs, and body bags. The VSP forensics unit would do most of the heavy lifting on the exhumations, but what they would do once they unearthed the dogs remained an open question. Ideally the bodies would go into some sort of cold storage to preserve them as evidence, but Knorr had called around to a few such places and none were thrilled by the idea of stockpiling dead dogs for an indeterminate amount of time.

Normally, Knorr wouldn't have forged on with such an important question unanswered, but he was particularly eager to get back on the property and dig. Sometime between May 7 and May 18 the house had been broken into and burglarized. On the one hand this seemed neither outrageous nor alarming. The house was now both notorious and unoccupied, so there was a chance criminals and souvenir seekers had come to clean out whatever they could find. The missing items included three plasma TVs-sixty-two, forty-two, and thirty-two inches-two floor buffers, a vacuum, a leather sofa, and an upright washer and dryer, all valued at a total of $17,550.

On the other hand, Knorr knew there was a possibility the Bad Newz crew had taken the stuff themselves to keep it from being confiscated and had reported it stolen to cover their tracks. Even more frightening, Knorr wondered if they were removing evidence from the house, and using burglary claims to give them an out in case investigators noticed anything missing.

He suspected the worst, which was all the more reason why he was happy Brinkman had secured a warrant, a team had been a.s.sembled, and they were less than an hour away from executing the search. As the group huddled for one last run-through of the plan, Brinkman's phone rang. He walked off as he spoke, then closed the phone and turned around.

"We're done," he said. "We're shut down."

"What?" Knorr said.

"That was Brown. He and Poindexter said we can't go forward with the warrant, said there was something wrong with it. Also said Vick has sold the house."

Knorr exhaled through tight lips. "Is that normal?"

"In ten years," Brinkman said, "he hasn't questioned one of my warrants."

Knorr pulled out his own phone. "Mike Gill, please," he said, then waited in silence. "Mike," he said at last, "it's Jim Knorr. We have a situation."

The next night Knorr was driving to Baltimore's Camden Yards. The Orioles were hosting the Toronto Blue Jays and Knorr was going to the game with his son and his son's friend. Knorr's phone rang. It was Mike Gill, and he wanted to talk about obtaining a federal warrant in the next few days to go after the missing evidence.

Knorr was on board. After the search was canceled, Brinkman a.s.sumed Poindexter would make his objections known. Once those were addressed, Brinkman would be able to obtain a new warrant and move forward. That sounded good on paper, but Knorr was too amped up and p.i.s.sed off to sit around and wait, so he drove to Virginia Beach to see Brownie. For all of the time he and Brinkman had spent talking to Brownie, neither had ever put anything down on paper. Knorr spent the day typing out Brownie's entire story and grilling him for specific details about where the dogs were buried. If Mike Gill wanted to get a federal warrant and go after the dead dogs, Knorr was more ready than ever.

His only concerns were organizational. He needed to a.s.semble a new team that would include USDA agents, Virginia State Police, and SWAT. He wasn't certain of everyone's availability and how fast he could pull everything together. Not only that, but two more federal inmates had come forward to offer potential evidence against Vick, and he and Brinkman were scheduled to interview those men the following week.

By the time the call was over, Gill had decided they should wait a week. The jailhouse interviews, if they proved productive, would only bolster the warrant request, and it would give Knorr time to muster the troops. When Knorr finally hung up, his car was approaching Camden Yards. He looked at his son and the friend, who had listened to only half of the wide-ranging discussion about the behind-the-scenes maneuvering of a confidential case. They stared back, awaiting explanation. "You didn't hear a thing," Knorr said. "Got it?"

On Tuesday, May 29, Jim Knorr was preparing for his meeting with the first of the three prisoners that was to take place the next day, when another storm hit the news. The Surry County Sheriff's office issued a press release. It read: A Search warrant issued on May 23, 2007 for 1915 Moonlight Road has not been executed at this time at the request of the Surry County Sheriff's Office and the Commonwealth's Attorney.The investigation continues.

The text of the message gave no reason why the search had been halted and Sheriff Brown remained silent, but Poindexter later told reporters that he and Brown "didn't like the wording."

Although he had said at the outset that he wasn't going to try the case in the media, the commonwealth attorney had been frequently quoted in the press and the acc.u.mulated impact of his statements was confounding.

"Much of the confusion over the Vick case and many of the questions center on Poindexter's comments about the evidence he has found in the month since the raid on Vick's property," George Dohrmann wrote on SI.com. "At various times, Poindexter has said there is no evidence Vick was involved, that he saw clear evidence of dogfighting, that there were no witnesses to dogfighting on the property, that there were witnesses who claimed Vick fought dogs. And then, on Thursday, when a reporter from WAVY-TV in Virginia asked if Poindexter had evidence that put Vick at dogfights, Poindexter replied: 'Yes. We have informants. We have people who are volunteering to make those allegations.' "

Part of the problem seems to have been a simple lack of clarity. At times the prosecutor appeared to be saying what he believed based on what he'd seen and been told. At other moments he apparently addressed what he could prove based on the evidence he had in hand. At one point he told the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution, "I don't to date have one investigative report. I have nothing on my desk. But I'm in touch with people who a.s.sure me they can provide me the stuff." In other words, what he knew and what he could use in court were two different things.

Taken individually and carefully pa.r.s.ed in this way, most of Poindexter's statements did make sense within a particular frame of reference, but in their totality, they appeared conflicting to some. As the investigation moved into its second month without any charges filed and no sign that any would be coming soon, reporters, animal rights groups, and even some other people in law enforcement were beginning to question Poindexter.

"He [Poindexter] was at the home and saw the equipment that we seized," Kathy Strouse, an animal control officer who had been on-site for the initial search told Yahoo! on May 15. "When we were there, he said he had enough right there to issue an indictment. He didn't say who he would indict, but he said he had enough. Now, with what he has said, it makes you think, 'What in the world is going on in Surry County?' This certainly doesn't make me feel warm and fuzzy about the Surry County attorney."

Mark k.u.mpf, a former animal control officer in Norfolk and Newport News who had moved on to become a dogfighting specialist, told The Virginian-Pilot, The Virginian-Pilot, "There is more evidence [in the Vick case] than has been used to convict several other people in Virginia." "There is more evidence [in the Vick case] than has been used to convict several other people in Virginia."

"The overwhelming majority of dogfighting cases are based on circ.u.mstantial evidence. Most often, they could probably get a conviction off much less than [Poindexter's] already got," Ethan Eddy, an attorney at the Humane Society told the New York Daily News Daily News. "It is fair to say that this process has taken longer than usual." Poindexter did nothing to ease the anxiety when he peppered his interviews with statements like "If people on that property committed a crime, and I believe they did, it will be a crime tomorrow, it will be a crime in six months, it was a crime yesterday," and "I have several cases with greater priority."

In defending his reasons for not executing the warrant, Poindexter said he'd been told there was already a wealth of forensic evidence, so he felt no reason to rush back for more. He also contended that if there was something wrong with the new warrant-if the wording wasn't right as he had said-that there could have been something wrong with the previous ones as well. This seemed especially odd to Knorr since as far as he was concerned those questions had been raised and answered during the May 21 meeting.

Throughout it all, Poindexter invoked the failed Benny b.u.t.ts prosecution as a reason for his caution. He didn't want to rush into something that would jeopardize the case down the road and consistently pointed out that the goal was success, not speed. "We would like to bring the strongest case possible, rather than react to knee-jerk pressures," he told USA Today USA Today. And "You've got to nail things down before you accuse people of felonies."

Behind the scenes, Knorr bristled. Personally, he found Poindexter profane and vulgar, often punctuating his speech with curses. None of that bothered him much-he'd dealt with tougher characters. But he was troubled by all the talk because he felt public statements hurt investigations: Comments about who was or was not a suspect, what sort of evidence had been collected or was sought, and in which direction the investigation was moving, gave suspects an advantage.

Now, the media had gotten its hands on the unexecuted warrant and the investigation was dealing with a new reality: The entire world was suddenly aware that one of the objects of a proposed search at 1915 Moonlight Road was to exhume as many as thirty dog carca.s.ses. Like Knorr, Mike Gill worried that the suspects would use this latest intelligence to go back and remove evidence. Digging up the dogs and burning down the sheds were serious measures, but they were easy to execute, especially since Brownie had said the graves were fairly shallow. Even more, the main suspect had plenty of motivation-there were literally hundreds of millions of dollars in earnings at stake.

The U.S. attorney's office of the Eastern District of Virginia may well have been motivated by current events, too. The Duke lacrosse scandal was rattling to a close in the headlines and taking a little of the honor and integrity of government prosecutors with it. That case exploded into the national consciousness in March 2006, when a dancer hired to perform at a party hosted by the Duke team later claimed that she was raped by three of the team members. The Durham, North Carolina, district attorney, Michael Nifong, bungled the case by violating numerous procedural rules, presuming the guilt of the accused by saying in public that Durham would not become known for "a bunch of lacrosse players from Duke raping a black girl," and calling the team "a bunch of hooligans." Just over a year later, in April 2007, the North Carolina attorney general dismissed all the charges, and Nifong was disbarred for "dishonesty, fraud, deceit and misrepresentation" and convicted on contempt of court charges.

The case was a black eye for government lawyers, and Durham was only 166 miles from Surry County. The lawyers of the Eastern District of Virginia surely didn't want to see history repeat itself. They wanted to prove that the job could be done right-fairly, quickly, efficiently and without a media circus trailing behind.

Poindexter may very well have filed charges the following week and successfully prosecuted the Bad Newz crew, but those possibilities would forever remain unexplored because when the information about the search for the dead dogs. .h.i.t the news, Mike Gill made a decision. The U.S. attorney's office of the Eastern District of Virginia was officially taking on the case.

This good news came at a price for Brinkman, Knorr, and Gill. The failure or success of the operation would now fall squarely on them. They were aware of the outcry and how closely the case was being watched by both the public at large and the animal rescue community. The pressure was real and the longer the case went without any visible progress, the more it grew. They needed these jailhouse interviews to go well, and they needed to get back on that property. Soon.

10.

THE SURRY COUNTY ANIMAL SHELTER sits just outside the center of town at the end of a gravel access road that leads to something of a vehicle depot-a lot filled with old semi containers, a car trailer painted in camouflage, and a stable of garbage trucks. The back of the lot is taken up by an appliance dump, stacked with old stoves, leaking refrigerators, rusted-out water heaters, and broken-down washers and dryers. Off to the side lies a low, drab building-the shelter. sits just outside the center of town at the end of a gravel access road that leads to something of a vehicle depot-a lot filled with old semi containers, a car trailer painted in camouflage, and a stable of garbage trucks. The back of the lot is taken up by an appliance dump, stacked with old stoves, leaking refrigerators, rusted-out water heaters, and broken-down washers and dryers. Off to the side lies a low, drab building-the shelter.

Inside, there are fourteen four-foot-by-six-foot chain-link pens broken into two rows of seven, and at the end of April 2007 all but one of those pens were occupied by dogs from 1915 Moonlight Road. Within a few days of arriving the dogs felt as if they knew every inch of the place-the dull beige walls, the ceiling with its exposed beams, and the fans turning slowly. Eight small windows spread around the room let the daylight in, reminding them of where they were not.

They weren't made for this. Over centuries their bodies and minds and dispositions had been honed for activity, and their muscles longed for something to do. They had energy and power. They wanted to run and play. They needed things to occupy their minds. Things to chase, to watch, to chew on and figure out.

Some paced to work off their energy, back and forth or round and round in little circles until they became dizzy and unsure of themselves. Some jumped, over and over, straight up in the air, delighting in the thrust it took to lift their bodies clear off the ground and in the momentary sensation of floating above the earth. They barked, too: at the other dogs, at the spinning fans above them, at nothing.

Life in the clearing was bad, but this was bad too. A different bad. Their days now crept along with a dreary sameness. Long hours spent waiting for something, for a few moments of activity that never led to anything. Those came when the man arrived, an event that occurred twice a day and was announced by the sound of tires on gravel.

When he came in he fed and watered the dogs. When they were done eating he'd go down the row and clean the cages one by one. To do this he'd open the gate, clip a leash to the dog's collar, then lead it to the far wall and tie it to a hook while he hosed out the cage. For some dogs this seemed to be a painful experience, and they would cower in the back of their pen so that the man had to coax them out and then half drag them across the room. As they waited on the leash, these dogs slumped over with their heads facing the wall or they lay flat on the ground.

For others it was an exciting and happy opportunity. They barked and paced and jumped up on the gate as they awaited their turn. When they were finally let out they bounded up on the man, jumped in the air, tried to run, so that the man had to pull and settle them.

A few of the dogs simply stood tall at the gate when their turn came, head up, tail wagging. The moments tethered to the wall were a high point for them-a full belly, the thrill of interaction, a different view of the room, and most of all the sensation of s.p.a.ce around them. It wasn't much s.p.a.ce, but it was an expanse, compared to the cramped confines of the pen. The feeling carried them even after they were led back to the pen and the gate was latched closed. Sometimes it even lasted for more than a few minutes.