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.
