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Justice Denied: Why Animal Cruelty Laws Sometimes Fail

By Julie Janovsky

Animal lovers and advocates are scratching their heads after a Maryland judge ruled in late August that a landlord did not commit a felony crime when he shotgunned to death two cats belonging to one of his tenants. The case was the first to test Maryland's new felony-level animal cruelty statute, and the acquittal has left many wondering why the law didn't live up to its billing.

The Maryland case is not an isolated incident, however. In 37 states and in the District of Columbia, legislators have passed laws to make animal cruelty a felony. And several of these states have already learned what Maryland just discovered: A felony-level cruelty statute does not guarantee a conviction when someone seemingly breaks the law. Poorly written laws, a laissez-faire attitude among prosecutors and district attorneys, or even an uninterested jury can derail an animal abuse conviction.

Take, for example, Maryland's case against Eric Grossnickle, who admittedly entered the home of one of his tenants, removed her two beloved cats, Babe and Angel, and shot them to death with a 12-gauge shotgun. He then threw their bodies into a nearby creek. Apparently he later told April Ritch, the cats' owner, that he still had one more animal to go (referring to April's third feline, Buffy). Grossnickle's rationale for the killings, according to court testimony, was that the cats were destroying his property. He apparently believed death by shotgun was more humane than delivering the cats to an animal shelter.

The state prosecuted Grossnickle on felony animal cruelty charges. But Frederick County Circuit Court Judge Mary Ann Stepler acquitted Grossnickle, saying, "I don't like what he did, but it's not a crime under Maryland law." The judge did convict the landlord on two counts of malicious destruction of property, misdemeanor offenses.

The problem, according to Stepler, is that Maryland's new animal-cruelty law doesn't define the phrase "cruelly kills," which she claimed left her no option but to acquit. These legal nuances meant little to April Ritch. Following the judge's decision, Ritch commented, through tears, "What he did was cruel. There's no other word for it."

The case is clear evidence of the disconnect between public perception of the law and legal definitions. Based on the public outcry, Maryland citizens clearly view Grossnickle's actions as "cruel"—to both the animals and their owners—even if the legal system has a tough time defining the term.

"In order to finally resolve that shooting an animal without justification is cruel, by any reasonable definition of the word, the current law will have to be changed to reflect what seems to be an obvious point to anyone who believes animals should be protected from senseless violence," says Wayne Pacelle, a senior vice president at The HSUS. "Otherwise a dangerous precedent could be set—one that could put even more animals at risk."

The citizens of Maryland are not alone in their frustration with animal cruelty laws. Texas and Alabama, two of the most recent states to increase penalties for animal cruelty, have both experienced public outrage over animal-abuse incidents that have gone unpunished.

In Alabama, two witnesses testified that they saw Will Robinson shoot a Lab-mix puppy twice in August 2000, dump her onto a trash heap, douse her with gasoline, and then burn her alive in front of his sobbing children. In Texas, a group of female golfers watched in horror as two men repeatedly stabbed four feral pigs trapped in an enclosure on a San Antonio golf course. The pigs apparently screamed for 15 minutes until they finally died. The men perpetrating this act laughed throughout the killing.

Neither of these cases was prosecuted under felony animal cruelty statutes. In Alabama, a grand jury refused to indict Robinson despite testimony from several witnesses. Alabama's attorney general proved to be of little help; he said he couldn't resubmit the case without new evidence (which is legally incorrect), and then showed no initiative even after The HSUS offered him new evidence—a witness who had never been previously contacted. Likewise, the Winston County district attorney has shown little resolve, even after Alabama Governor Don Siegelman asked the county DA to review the case and "explore every possible legal means of successful prosecution."

In Texas, the Bexar County District Attorney's Office refused to bring charges, first erroneously claiming that feral pigs were not covered under the law, and then citing a lack of evidence. The HSUS eventually presented the district attorney's office with the names and phone numbers of two witnesses—two of the female golfers who saw the killings—neither of whom the county attorneys apparently contacted. The office also apparently never spoke with the alleged suspects or collected evidence. "This outrageous miscarriage of justice stems from a clear lack of commitment of officials to uphold the law and abide by the desire of the citizens," Pacelle says.

Even in California, where cruelty laws are tougher and prosecutors more sympathetic, a man charged with animal cruelty was allowed to walk away when a jury acquitted him. On Easter Eve 2001, a man spotted an opossum in his backyard. After allegedly calling animal control and receiving no help, he shot the animal three times with a crossbow, left her for the night, and the following morning, tracked her down and beat her to death with a shovel and pipe.

Los Angeles County prosecutors, after much debate, brought the man up on misdemeanor animal cruelty charges, but the jury found him not guilty. Jurors apparently believed the man's actions were not malicious. The case illustrates the point that successful prosecution of animal abusers is contingent on the actions of many players—from the investigators, to the prosecutor, to the judge, and finally, to the members of the jury.

All hope is not lost, however, as is evidenced by a recent case in Missouri. When three men beat and tried to drown a three-week-old calf, the public was outraged. The beating, which took place in front of the calf's distraught mother, broke the calf's spine and injured him so severely that he had to be euthanized. Following this incident, the district attorney received several hundred letters and faxes from citizens around the country, asking him to pursue felony convictions.

As a result, for the first time in Missouri, the state filed felony-level charges against all three assailants for cruelty to a farmed animal. All three pled guilty to one count of felony animal abuse and misdemeanor animal abuse. The misdemeanor charge was perhaps the most significant part of the case, because it was related to the mental anguish inflicted upon the calf's mother, who witnessed the abuse and desperately tried to defend her calf from the attackers. "This is one of the few cases on record where the courts, citizens, and the prosecutor recognized that animal cruelty depends not on the type of animal victimized, but instead on the horrific degree of suffering inflicted," says Pacelle.

In general, animal cruelty cases, no matter how egregious they are, depend heavily on a confluence of people for successful prosecution. The HSUS believes it's time for these people—investigators, prosecutors, legislators, judges, and juries alike—to step up and face their responsibilities. It could mean the difference between life and death, notes Pacelle, not only for animals, but also for people. "There is a need for decisive punishment of animal abusers," he says, "because there is extensive, documented evidence linking animal cruelty with other violent acts, including domestic violence, child abuse, and elder abuse."

The people of Maryland and other states seem to implicitly understand this need for tougher punishment. Now it's time for public officials and prosecutors to acknowledge the same.

Julie Janovsky is a state legislative specialist with The HSUS.

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