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It wasn't the first time the pit had been found in Jiang's yard, and this time, Animal Control was able to have the dog declared dangerous and put down.
By the time little Danny Chu was mauled, the residents around 46th and Judah had reached the boiling point. Orph's killing had already galvanized the community against the Pho-Sixers. McGaffey and two of her neighbors were pissed. They formed a neighborhood organization. They called it Orph.
They called the cops. They called Animal Care and Control. They whipped up some righteous local anger and formed a neighborhood watch.
They put up fliers screaming "Murderers in Our Neighborhood."
An 11 o'clock news segment was aired. A thug threw a bomb on McGaffey's porch, spraying her house with shrapnel and destroying a heavy wood planter. One of the Pho-Sixers' crackhead customers called and left a threatening message on her machine.
But McGaffey held firm.
Police Sgt. Ted Bell was assigned to crack down on the punks at 46th and Judah. The District Attorney's Office latched onto Ibrahim and wouldn't let go, prosecuting him on felony charges stemming from the 1995 dogfights. He's set for trial later this year.
And in April, police arrested Ibrahim for possession of crack with intent to sell.
McGaffey and her neighbors are showing up to all the court hearings. "We want to let the judge know and let Emerald's attorney know that we are watching," she says.
The other day Ibrahim's lawyer walked over and, McGaffey says, tried to explain that Ibrahim isn't such a bad guy. "You're a nice guy and I respect your role here, but you are absolutely wrong," McGaffey replied.
Now, two pit bulls owned by Amro Mohammed Ibrahim, aka Michael Mohammed, aka Emerald, are on death row at Animal Control, banging against their cages, rounding out their time on the planet by helping other pits through their temperament tests.
Once Emerald is tried and sentenced, the dogs -- Ice and Ralph -- will go under the needle. Some people think that would be an appropriate sentence for Amro "Emerald" Mohammed Ibrahim.
Scott Malvestiti certainly thinks dogfighters need a trip on the gurney. "It would be just as easy to stick that needle in their arm," he says.
Malvestiti adopted Sergio, a half pit, half hound, in February and now is something of a poster child for the SPCA's pit bull adoption program. An SPCA official describes the dog Malvestiti took home as shy, but, in reality, Sergio is a leaky bag of nerves, a real mess of a dog, the product of some unknown but obviously serious abuse. Which, of course, explains Malvestiti's whole death-to-the-dog-abusers position.
"We have to do orientation," Malvestiti tells a visitor.
Sergio is barking and growling. The dog eyes the newcomer warily. The hair on his back stands on end.
"He's not good with men," Malvestiti says.
The visitor is asked to sit on the floor, where he will appear less threatening to the dog. Over the next 10 to 15 minutes, dog biscuits and patience slowly draw Sergio out.
At first the pit-hound tries to hide behind the coffee table. Malvestiti moves the table to eliminate that haven.
Sergio paces, emitting little scared barks. He won't even look at the visitor, preferring to inexplicably stare out the sliding glass doors at the back yard, one front paw up, dangling and shaking in the air.
Malvestiti is pure patience. Slowly, employing a stern but quiet voice, he gets Sergio calmed down. The visitor finally convinces Sergio to eat out of his hand by holding out the biscuits and looking away from the dog.
Calming Sergio completely isn't in the cards. The dog is so damaged, real calm probably won't happen for years.
Malvestiti met Sergio back in January, when he went down to the SPCA to adopt a dog. Back then, pit bulls were the furthest thing from his mind.
Sergio was out in the lobby and some other guy was trying to feed him, but there was no connection.
Malvestiti sat down. Sergio sat down too. The pitiful pit bull pressed right into Malvestiti, the way dogs do when sleeping with pack members.
Then Sergio did an amazing thing: The pit-hound SPCA staffers thought would never connect with any human being stood up, circled around a couple of times, walked back over to Malvestiti, and curled up once again.
An elated buzz coursed through the SPCA staff. He approached you. He approached you, they said.
A huge wall had come down.
Malvestiti went to visit again a few days later. He still wasn't sure he wanted to adopt such a troubled dog. High maintenance doesn't even begin to describe Sergio.
Malvestiti walked into the doggie day-care room; Sergio growled at him and wouldn't come near. "I was crushed," Malvestiti says.
But when the SPCA dog trainer sat down next to Malvestiti, Sergio came over and plopped his head in his future owner's lap.
Week after week, Malvestiti went back to the SPCA and played with Sergio. They bonded. Before adopting the pit-hound in February, Malvestiti took training classes. He is utterly dedicated to a goal: giving Sergio a decent life.
One of the first images that greets a potential owner arriving at the SPCA is a set of drawings of pit bulls, posted at the adoption counter. The drawings, advertisements for the adoption program, make the dogs look more like Labradors than pits. To be sure, none looks anything like Brownie of the huge head and terrifying, steel-trap jaw. One of the drawings shows a pit bull dressed up as St. Francis of Assisi, bird perched on hand, monk robe and all.
SPCA promotional materials explain the divine comparison: "Since the name pit-bull turns everyone off, we'll give them a name change. From now on, they'll be known as St. Francis Terriers. It's a nice name, and a lot closer to what these dogs are really like. Somehow, we think St. Francis would approve."
