The Hit

by Michal Hartstein

  "I didn’t know that."

  "Well, then, now you know. Since your Hebrew came back so fast, I’ll let you in on something else. If we find slugs at a crime scene, we can find out quite easily if the bullets were shot from a particular gun. It’s just like leaving fingerprints. Amazing, isn’t it!"

  He resumed looking at me motionlessly. I assumed he understood very well what I was saying. I decided to change tack.

  "Allow me to compliment you on your excellent Hebrew."

  "Thank you."

  "How many years have you been in this country, to acquire such good Hebrew?"

  "About six years."

  "That is…" I said and studied his documents, "… you arrived in Israel when you were seventeen."

  "Correct."

  "That explains your good Hebrew. Young people absorb a language far better than adults."

  He shrugged. I tried to break the ice from a different direction.

  "You know, my grandfather immigrated to Israel at the age of forty-two. He never absorbed the language completely. After all, he’d been in the Nazi concentration camps and had experienced a difficult trauma."

  "I know about the Holocaust."

  "Very good. Did you learn about it in Eritrea?"

  "No, I heard about it here because of Holocaust Memorial Day."

  "They don’t teach about World War II in the schools in Eritrea?"

  "I didn’t go to school that much."

  "Because of the war?"

  He nodded.

  "I went over your documents and saw that you have a temporary resident status. It’s a status which very few Eritreans receive. I assume you have an exceptional story indeed. Perhaps you want to tell it to me?"

  He was silent.

  "Perhaps it will help me understand why we found so many self-defense weapons in your apartment." I tried to entice him to open up to me. "Do you still feel threatened because of your past?"

  "I don’t feel like talking about my past," he grumbled. "I already sat down with enough psychologists who’ve tried to understand me."

  "I’m not a psychologist."

  "But you’re also trying to understand me, aren’t you?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Let’s just say that, by the age of ten, I’d been through more than other people go through their entire life."

  "I’ve no doubt."

  "I saw my father, mother and brothers die when I was eight," he said, and took a deep breath.

  "Not something an eight-year-old boy should see," I agreed.

  "No." He shook his head and rubbed his right eye. Was the tough criminal beginning to soften up?

  "I’m genuinely sorry for you. I understand you arrived in Israel with your uncle?"

  "Yes, my mother’s brother. My mother was ten years older than him and raised him like her own son. So when she was murdered and I had nowhere to go, he adopted me."

  "Very nice."

  "He and my aunt are good people. They came here because of me."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Because of the long war with Ethiopia, they kept on drafting men, women and even children, even after the war was over. My uncle had been drafted and discharged already, but he didn’t want me to be drafted as well."

  "How old were you?"

  "Less than fifteen."

  "Wow!"

  "I was told to transfer to study in SAWA."

  "What’s that?"

  "It’s a military camp. My uncle wouldn’t hear of it because he didn’t want me to be a soldier and also because our neighbor’s daughter had been kidnapped by soldiers from there. They demanded ransom money for her."

  "And did they manage to get her back?"

  "No. Her parents tried to get the money, but didn't succeed."

  "And what happened to her?"

  "After an entire village had raped her, she was sold to some Bedouin and since then, nobody knows what happened to her."

  "Sad."

  "Yes," he said and took another deep breath.

  "So you escaped from Eritrea to Israel?"

  "We went to Egypt first, but it was hard over there. There was no work and we weren’t treated well because we were Christians. So my uncle paid a Bedouin who helped us cross the Sinai to get to Israel."

  "And how did you receive the temporary resident status?"

  "A matter of luck. I think it was because we were among the first to come. Besides, because my parents and brothers had been murdered during the war, I was recognized as a refugee."

  Nagusto’s frozen gaze had melted completely. I kept silent, letting him commune with his memories. It was the first time I had interrogated someone from Eritrea. I had seen quite a few Eritreans in the detention cells, but I’d never had the opportunity to speak with any of them. They were usually involved in misdemeanors and petty crime.

  Nagusto’s hard testimony opened a window for me onto the difficulties encountered by those who live in the margins of Israeli society. Nevertheless, the difficulties could not absolve Nagusto of his violent actions. He murdered Koby and destroyed an innocent young woman along the way. My late grandfather had been a Holocaust survivor, like his younger brother. They had gone through hell no less than Nagusto, but they chose to rebuild their lives honestly rather than take the route of crime.

  "Nagusto," I said gently, "it really pains me to hear what you went through, and I’m glad that you and your uncles found refuge in Israel. You seem like a smart guy who certainly knows that not knowing the law does not exempt you from punishment. Some of the weapons we found in your apartment don’t require a permit, but guns are a different story altogether. Apart from the felony of keeping guns without a permit, let me tell you that the gun we found in your apartment, the one you admitted you had for self-defense, is the gun used by the shooter in the murder at Zelda Café two weeks ago."

  He looked surprised. I had to admit that his acting skills were not too bad. "I’ve no idea what you’re talking about."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "You didn’t hear about the murder at Zelda Café on Monday two weeks ago? Two civilians were murdered. A motorcyclist shot them."

  "Could be I saw something on television."

  I bent down toward the evidence box, pulled out the hidden gun, put it on the desk and pushed it toward Nagusto.

  "Does this gun look familiar?"

  He bent forward toward the gun.

  "No!" he said resolutely and stood up. "I’ve no idea where this gun is from. I know the Israel Police. You planted this gun in my apartment. And if it was not you, then somebody else had it planted in my apartment."

  "Well, really," I sighed, "you’re not serious. Sit down. Your fingerprints are on the gun."

  I lied. The gun was clean.

  His resolute look changed, and he sat down. I saw some concern in his eyes. "It can’t be," he said, and for the first time I heard his pronounced accent.

  "What do you mean, it can't be?" I hoped to trap him.

  "I don’t know. Perhaps you made a mistake in your examination," he said with confidence.

  "Regretfully for you, we don’t make such mistakes. I imagine you speak with such confidence because you took care to wipe the gun, and as we know, you had gloves on during the shooting. But maybe you weren’t thorough enough. Maybe you touched it when you were cleaning it, maybe when you were hiding it inside the false box– I don’t know. You made a mistake, Nagusto. And now you can’t say it’s not your gun."

  "Suppose the gun’s mine - it doesn’t mean I fired it."

  "Theoretically, you’re right, of course. You were smart and took care not to remove your helmet during the shooting. I won’t lie to you. We don’t have an eye witness who can identify you in a lineup."

  Nagusto smiled a wide smile, which exposed two rows of shiny teeth. I allowed him to enjoy the feeling of accomplishment for a moment until I went on the offensive again. "But I have quite a few witnesses who’ll confirm that whoever shot Koby Ozri and Shirley Nav
on was riding a motorcycle identical to the one you ride. Adding the fact that, of all the places in the world, the gun used in the shooting was found in your apartment, I think - how can I put it - that it will be very hard for you to convince me and the courts that you had no connection to the murder."

  "It’s circumstantial," he answered. I smiled inwardly. The suspect had already managed to meet with a lawyer and had been coached well. "Somebody’s trying to incriminate me."

  "You don't say," I said in apparent contempt. "I’ll be glad to hear who, in your opinion, is trying to incriminate you. Please direct me to the real shooter."

  "I’ve no idea," he said, folding his arms and leaning back.

  "I’ll tell you why you don't know. You don't know who’s incriminating you because nobody is incriminating you. I’ll tell you something else, young man. Your lawyer explained to you very nicely what circumstantial evidence is, but he’s not familiar with all the evidence we have. I’ll let you in on a secret: we have a witness who ties you directly to the crime scene."

  Nagusto straightened up immediately.

  "And I’ll tell you something else that may convince you to stop playing games. I checked with the Ministry of the Interior, and your visitor visa is temporary. Indeed, it's renewed automatically every three years, but I can have it annulled in a minute, in one phone call. The fact that you're a suspect in a criminal case and my warm recommendation are sufficient for your visa to be annulled. I don't even need an indictment for Immigration to buy you a one-way airline ticket to Asmara. Believe me, it's really the last thing I want to do, but the State of Israel can’t allow you to continue living here, not when you're under such severe suspicion."

  The gloves were completely removed. Nagusto would cooperate with me. I was almost certain of that.

  "Let's say I know something about that shooting you're talking about… why is it worth my while to talk to you about it at all? If you charge me with murder, you'll throw me in jail or out of the country either way."

  He was right. I was also right in my tactic.

  "Well, as I said before, you're a smart guy. So even though we started off on the wrong foot, I’m willing to forget it and make a deal with you. Do you want to hear it?"

  He sighed. I interpreted it as agreement and continued. "There are three things I’m certain about: one - you killed Koby Ozri and Shirley Navon; two - someone sent you to murder them; three - you’d rather molder in an Israeli jail for twenty years than return to Eritrea. That's why I’ve an offer for you that you’ll find difficult to refuse." He was silent. I continued in a much softer tone. "Between us, I’m a lot more interested to know who sent you. If you tell me who sent you to murder Koby Ozri, you’ll do a lot less time than you otherwise will."

  "And then you'll deport me?"

  "I can’t know what’ll happen after you're released from jail. But if you behave well in jail and earn good reports, we won’t recommend deporting you."

  "Which means I’ll have to go to jail and, in the end, you may still deport me back to Eritrea?"

  "Think about the alternative."

  "Which is?"

  "You'll spend a lot of time and money on lawyers. There’ll be a lengthy trial that will undoubtedly end with your conviction. There’s sufficient evidence tying you to the incident, and there’s testimony against you. Without my support, the verdict will be, at best, a life sentence in Israel followed by deportation to Eritrea, and, in the worst case, a life sentence in Eritrea."

  He looked at me, shocked, trying to process the information.

  "You don't have to answer me now," I told him. "I’ll contact Public Defense and ask them to send you a lawyer to explain the deal and all its implications."

  "Let it be," he said in a feeble voice.

  "Do you want someone specific?"

  "Yes. The guy I saw yesterday was nice. His name was Shuky. I don't remember his last name."

  "Attorney Shuky Ben-Haim?"

  "Right," he smiled with relief, "that’s his name."

  It was not because Shuky Ben-Haim was such a renowned lawyer that Nagusto smiled. He was one of the few Public Defense lawyers willing to be called in on weekends. This was why I remembered his name.

  Monday, June 27, 2011

  The plea bargain with Nagusto was signed at noon. It was one of the fastest plea bargains ever signed by the District Attorney's office. I had to admit to myself that Nagusto did not receive the best deal he could have gotten, but it did not bother me particularly. The previous evening, after the interrogation, I started digging on the internet and read scores of testimonies by refugees from Africa, mainly from Sudan and Eritrea. The stories were horrible and reminded me of the stories I had heard from my grandfather about Nazi concentration camps. I read about other people who had arrived in the country under the guise of refugees in order to get higher standards of living than they had in Africa. Those who could not get a visitor visa roamed the slums of South Tel-Aviv aimlessly, terrorizing the residents. I thought about what Nagusto had told me and wondered if his difficult story had indeed occurred, or if he had fabricated the whole thing in order to be granted a visa. My gut feeling told me that, though he was a tough criminal, he had been telling the truth. Nevertheless, that nagging doubt made it easier for me when I had to interrogate him again, knowing that he had signed a bad deal. Besides, he had murdered Koby. Let him pay.

  Nagusto entered the interrogation room. I followed him in, sat down slowly and smiled at him amiably.

  "Then we’re past the stage where you don't know whose gun it is and how it’s connected to the murder at Zelda’s," I said pleasantly.

  "Right."

  "So, tell me, please, in your own words, what exactly you were doing on Monday, June 13, 2011 at 12:30 p.m."

  He spoke dryly. "I arrived on my motorcycle in Lincoln Street in Tel-Aviv. I stopped in front of Zelda Café. I got off the motorcycle and walked toward the restaurant. When I identified my targets, I shot at them and eliminated them with the gun you found in my apartment."

  "You mean target," I corrected him.

  "What?" he looked at me, confused.

  "The fact that there were ultimately two victims does not mean that there was more than one target. You were sent to eliminate the criminal, Koby Ozri, right?"

  "No," he shook his head. "I had two targets: the guy and the girl. Between the two of them, it was more important that I eliminate the girl."

  CHAPTER 15

  I stormed out of the interrogation room and ran to Alon’s office. The looks on Alon’s and Shachar’s faces said it all. Something odd was happening in this case. The innocent bystander was not as innocent as we had thought. Nagusto’s testimony corresponded to Yoav Gottlieb’s puzzling testimony; the hit had been aimed at Shirley. What secrets did young Shirley Navon have?

  "Do you have anything to say before I continue with him?" I asked Alon.

  "Levinger, remember this date."

  "Why?"

  "Because this is the day I was struck speechless…"

  I smiled and returned to the interrogation room.

  "So the girl - that is, Shirley Navon - was your main target, and Koby Ozri was your secondary target?"

  "Yes."

  "What exactly you were asked to do?"

  "Eliminate the girl and injure Koby. That’s why I had to shoot her right away, to make sure she didn’t have time to hide."

  "Did you know Koby or Shirley before arriving at the scene?"

  "No."

  "Then how did you identify them?"

  "I saw pictures of them. And before leaving to go there, I got a call that confirmed they would be there. The caller described to me exactly where they would be."

  "And you’re sure you didn’t make a mistake?"

  "Hundred percent. I got the money."

  "From whom?"

  "No idea. I was told to go to a certain location. The money was waiting for me there in a black washbag.

  "Where?"

  "The Summit
Garden in Jaffa."

  "Fine. Let’s go back a little. Tell me about the first time you were contacted about this job."

  "About two weeks earlier. I’d already done a small job for this person. He contacted me and asked to meet."

  "Who?"

  "I don’t know him. He said his name was Lior."

  "Lior what?"

  "I’m not even sure his name was Lior, so I certainly don’t know his last name. It was all very secretive. He didn’t even give me his phone number."

  "Then how did you speak?"

  "He was the one who made contact, and always from an unlisted number. We set up a meeting, and he told me he needed Shirley eliminated and Koby injured. He gave me the gun and showed me their pictures and asked me to remember what they looked like. He wanted the operation carried out within a few days, and that he’d take care that both of them would be in the same place at the same time."

  "Do you have any idea how he took care of that?"

  "I didn’t ask unnecessary questions."

  "How much did he pay you?"

  "Two thousand shekels right there, and another ten thousand after the hit, but since I took out Koby as well, I only got seven thousand."

  The foreign workers had brought down the list price for human life. I knew from previous interrogations that the list price for a hit had once been at least three times as much.

  "How did you know where to go, and when?"

  "Lior called me the day before and gave me the exact details."

  It was probably the phone call that Itzik Levayev had heard.

  I brought all the station's picture albums to the room and asked Nagusto to identify Lior. Nagusto leafed through the hundreds of pictures, for hours. It must be said, the guy cooperated fully. However, he did not find a picture of his operator. I released him back to Abu Kabir and started to work my brain.

  It was clear now that Shirley had been the main target, not Koby. However, whoever ordered the hit had known Koby as well. Furthermore, Nagusto had already conducted a "small job" for him, and he had taken care to contact him confidentially. All the signs indicated that the client was associated with organized crime. What could possibly connect Shirley Navon, a bright student and a good worker, to organized crime? Was her family connected to organized crime? I recalled Moshe Navon’s rage about his perception of police incompetence. Was it a charade? It was time for a new line of interrogation.