"From what I've observed of Moe outside and in the courtroom," the judge said, "he doesn't have the traits of a wild animal and is, in fact, better behaved than some people." Prosecutors dropped the case, and Judge Jack Alex's assessment of the chimp, delivered to a packed courtroom, echoed in newspapers all the way to Texas. Journalists fawned over Moe in person and in print, and the outcome was never in doubt. "He wouldn't hurt anyone, and so far as we're concerned, he's a member of the family." James and LaDonna both made impassioned pleas to the court. He kissed the court reporter and jangled the keys of the bailiff. Inside, he shook hands and waved to his supporters. James's hand, Moe, decked out in a checkered shirt, white trousers, and shoes, entered the courthouse to cheers. His young wife, LaDonna, was a sun-kissed blond with wholesome good looks. James was a tall, handsome mechanic and race-car driver. Dozens of spectators lined up outside the Citrus municipal courthouse to catch a glimpse of the Davises and their monkey. The chimp, named Moe, rode to the courthouse shotgun in St. James and LaDonna Davis were in court, found in violation of a city ordinance against harboring a wild animal - a young chimpanzee they'd kept in their home nearly from birth. To begin to understand, you have to go back to early 1971, when West Covina's "monkey trial" captivated this small California city about twenty miles east of Los Angeles. LaDonna prefers not to talk to outsiders about their life because, she says, they are so often misunderstood. James and LaDonna were reluctant to speak about all that's happened to them. He's crying because of news he and LaDonna recently received about what really can only be called their boy. James's crying has nothing to do with his physical condition. His index and middle fingers are gone his ring finger and pinkie are immobile.īut St. He has a misshapen hunk of flesh for a thumb, which appears as if it were lumped onto his wrist with clay. On his left hand, his index, middle, and ring fingers are stumps. His mouth, which has been completely reconstructed, is stuck in a frown.
CHIMPANZEE VS HUMAN FIGHT SKIN
The skin on his face droops like candle wax because so many bones around his cheeks and eyes were broken.
His right eye is gone, replaced with glass. At the top are three tiny magnets designed to hold in place a crude silicone prosthesis, which is constantly falling off. He has no nose, only a red, raw, exposed septum, surrounded by narrow openings. There's a two-inch hole in the heel of his swollen left foot, and he is confined to a wheelchair. James, sixty-six, a former high school football star and onetime Nascar driver, is severely disabled and disfigured. She grabs the beige bucket hat hanging around his neck and eases it onto his head. He doesn't have to - LaDonna knows what he wants now that the sun is beating down on him. James keeps his head still as she tends to him.
With her left, she carefully dabs at his mouth. On the brink of tears herself, LaDonna grabs a cloth and gently cradles his cheek with her right hand. Standing next to him is his wife of nearly forty years, LaDonna. He's sitting in the driveway of his childhood home, a sprawling, L-shaped ranch house in West Covina, California, on a sun-drenched day last September. Originally published in the April 2009 issue of Esquire
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