If animals could talk. . . .

By JASON NARK

Philadelphia Daily News

If animals could talk, a few cows in Burlington County might ask state legislators to hurry up and outlaw bestiality.

During a bizarre hearing there yesterday, a Superior Court judge dismissed animal-cruelty charges against a Moorestown police officer accused of sticking his penis into the mouths of five calves in rural Southampton in 2006, claiming a grand jury couldn't infer whether the cows had been "tormented" or "puzzled" by the situation or even irritated that they'd been duped out of a meal.

"If the cow had the cognitive ability to form thought and speak, would it say, 'Where's the milk? I'm not getting any milk,' " Judge James J. Morley asked.

Children, Morley said, seemed "comforted" when given pacifiers, but there's no way to know what bovine minds thought of Robert Melia Jr. substituting his member for a cow's teat.

"They [children] enjoy the act of suckling," the judge said. "Cows may be of a different disposition."

Burlington County Assistant County Prosecutor Kevin Morgan was certainly irritated by the ruling, claiming the grand jury didn't see the videos of the alleged incident, including one in which one hungry calf allegedly head-butts Melia in the stomach.

"I think any reasonable juror could infer that a man's penis in the mouth of a calf is torment," Morgan argued. "It's a crime against nature."

Although a bill was introduced in 2005 to ban bestiality, New Jersey still has no explicit ban on the sexual penetration of animals, which is why the Burlington County Prosecutor's Office charged Melia with animal cruelty.

Morley said it was questionable whether Melia's alleged crimes against cows, although "disgusting," fit the definitions in the animal-cruelty statute.

"I'm not saying it's OK," Morley said. "This is a legal question for me. It's not a questions of morals. It's not a question of hygiene. It's not a question of how people should conduct themselves."

Sex with cows is the least of Melia's problems, though.

He and former girlfriend, Heather Lewis, of Pemberton Township, are also accused of sexually assaulting three young girls over a five-year period, sometimes in Melia's Cottage Avenue home in Moorestown, where he was a patrolman, authorities said.

Melia has been suspended from the force, said a spokesman with the Prosecutor's Office.
Melia and Lewis were both arrested in April 2008, shortly after one of the girls told her stepfather of the alleged abuse.

During the course of the investigation, authorities also discovered child pornography on Melia's home computer as well as videos of him with the cows.

Morley also ruled yesterday that the prosecution must turn over copies of images and videos from the computer to the defense, including one video that allegedly shows one of the girls being "subjected to sexual activity."

Lewis, who also appeared in court yesterday, is also accused of sexually assaulting a juvenile male. Morley denied a defense motion to have Lewis's individual sexual assaults separated from Melia's case.

Melia, Lewis and their attorneys declined to comment after the hearing.

Morgan, the prosecutor, said in court that the owner of the cows was "very upset" by the incident. -

Goodbye, Spectrum

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Henry Hill reacts to J-Roll

My dog as art

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Loves him like a Rock

A young boxer finds his hero in distress and helps him to fight his demons
By JASON NARK
Philadelphia Daily News

narkj@phillynews.com 856-779-3231

WHEN BOBBY Toney heard that his childhood hero was living on a dangerous street corner in Camden, he went there to get an autograph and to save the man's life.

Toney, a short, muscled boxer from Audubon, Camden County, who works two jobs cleaning restaurants and detailing cars, had already met former two-time world champion Rocky Lockridge years earlier - in jail - but his devotion had never faded.

"When you're a kid, everyone has a Superman," said Toney, 35, his eyes welling with tears. "I feel like my Superman just went and sat himself down on a big block of kryptonite. He couldn't get off it himself. He just needs some people to lift him up."

When the Daily News went looking for Lockridge last month on his piece of kryptonite at 7th and Chestnut streets in the city's Bergen Square section, he was in the Camden County Jail on outstanding warrants.

But in the few short weeks since, the perennial underdog has been fighting back, thanks to those who were willing to lift him up: Toney; Orlando Pettigrew, a Camden mail carrier who brings him food and clothes; and friends at the Retired Boxing Foundation who are working out plans for a drug-rehabilitation and medical program for Lockridge.

"He's been degraded and embarrassed for more than a decade," said Jacquie Richardson, the foundation's executive director. "I feel that he's ready to rock 'n' roll. If we get him hooked up and he walks away, then he did it and that's on him."



Training his helper


On Thursday, beads of sweat ran down Lockridge's face as the rhythmic sounds of punching combinations, jump ropes and speed bags echoed inside the Camden Boxing Academy, a sweltering garage that serves as a boxing club at the Roberto Clemente Center, in North Camden.

"That's it, Bobby. Stick that jab. Give me 30 hard seconds," Lockridge said, training Toney as he leaned on the walking cane he's used since he had a stroke about three years ago.

Lockridge, 50, is living with Toney in Audubon. He's been attending Faith Tabernacle Church, in Camden, and struggling to get straight so that he can re-establish ties with his family, earn money he hasn't begged for and live on his own. He says that he's been off hard drugs for almost two weeks, and Toney says that he gives him wine coolers to keep the edge off.

"I'm no longer taking a licking, and I'm still ticking," Lockridge said, his speech slightly slurred from the stroke. "I've just got to keep my head looking up [at] the sky. I just want to do what I do best - give back."

Like so many other boxers, Lockridge wasn't equipped for life outside the ring when he retired in 1991. The entourage he partied with and spent money on had split, and the $3 million he says that he earned eventually dried up. Lockridge, who had lived with his family in South Jersey when he was on top of the world, left his wife and kids in Tacoma, Wash., and moved to Camden in 1993.

"I know I got on a plane and came here," he said. "I wish I hadn't."

Lockridge worked briefly, but, eventually, getting money for food and his crack-cocaine and alcohol addictions became a daily routine at 7th & Chestnut, a corner where regulars sip from brown paper bags and hands exchange cash for drugs through car windows. His nights often ended in abandoned homes, jail cells and homeless shelters.

The ragged entourage on his corner called him "the champ." But Lockridge, who finished his career with 44 wins, 36 knockouts and 9 losses, said that many seemed to gloat over his failures.

"There's a lot of down-lookers out there," he said. "A lot of folks like seeing you in the quicksand."

Philadelphia-born prizefighter Ivan Robinson, training a female boxer in the North Camden gym Thursday, said that the sport often chews up its finest and "spits them out on the streets."

"It's hard, man," said Robinson, who lives in Pennsauken, Camden County. "You put yourself on a pedestal and find yourself surrounded by people you don't really know. In the long run, it hurts a lot of people."

Yesterday, Lockridge's son Ricky came up from Maryland to attend church with his dad, a surprise visit for Ricky's 25th birthday. They talked about spending more time together.



When Rocky was on top


It's been more than 25 years since Lockridge's defining moment as an athlete, a first-round knockout of then-undefeated Roger Mayweather in Texas for the World Boxing Association's super-featherweight championship.

Toney said that his father sat him down on their shag carpet in West Deptford, Gloucester County, that night to prove that a little guy, as long as he didn't give up, could always win.

"I've loved boxing ever since that night," said Toney, who recently embarked on his own amateur career.

Lockridge's stunning victory made a lasting impression, but Toney's life has been defined by struggle, too. In the Camden County Jail at age 19 for fighting, Toney said, he saw a familiar face: a short, muscular man shadow-boxing beneath a television.

"He was great," said Toney about that surprise meeting. "He showed me a few fundamentals."

Lockridge's life continued to crumble after their brief meeting in jail, but Toney said that he struggled to turn his life around, losing most of his friends to jail, drugs or death. And Toney lost his daughter Jamica to bacterial meningitis at age 3.

As much as Toney is helping Lockridge, the former champ is filling a painful void inside Toney's big heart, too.

"I had a lot of bad thoughts for a long time," Toney said. "I was alone. I didn't have nobody."

Last winter, when Toney learned that Lockridge was still in Camden, he drove over to 7th & Chestnut with a poster of the former champ from Ring magazine.

But Lockridge, who looked a decade older than 50, needed more than a pat on the back from a young fan.

"I knew right there," Toney said. "I thought, 'If I let this man go and just forget about him, he won't have more than a few years.' He's fought hard for most of his life, and I need him to fight a little harder now. He can beat this."

Staff photographer Sarah Glover contributed to this report.