“You don’t believe in repentance? In the Baal Tshuvah?”
Rabbi Small shook his head. “He’s too much like the born-again Christian. Baal Tshuvah, Master of Repentance. It’s like a degree or a title, like the Moslem Haji. If someone has led a sinful life and wishes to repent, he should go to those whom he has injured and make it up to them and beg their forgiveness. That’s our way, rather than an ostentatious display of his religiosity. There is a certain rationale for the born-again Christian. After all, his religion calls for him to try to become as one with his God, but we have no such justification.”
Rabbi Karpis sighed and then smiled. “I’m sure you realize, Rabbi Small, that I have heard these arguments before. I won’t try to refute them now, but sometime, perhaps in a social evening, after a game or two of chess I might discuss it with you. Right now, what do you want of me?”
“I want to see Ish-Tov. I want to speak to him.”
“What has that to do with me? How can I help you?”
“The Shin Bet man whom I mentioned earlier tells me that it is more or less out of his hands and is a police matter now. There is probably no question of State security. It has to do with something that happened back in Barnard’s Crossing. It seems that the two services, the police and the Shin Bet, are very touchy about their prerogatives. According to him, the police would not take kindly to a request from him to let me see their prisoner.”
“So?”
“The attorney for your organization, I understand, is looking into this matter. Only the prisoner’s attorney is permitted to see him. I am sure that if you asked him, he would consent to letting me join him as an associate—to take notes, perhaps—when he goes to see him.”
“Ah, I see. I think I can manage that. Shiah Greenberg is not only our attorney but also a friend of mine. He, too, is a chess player. If you will give me your telephone number, I’ll have him call you.”
“Is he a member of your organization? Does he think as you do?”
“Shiah? Shiah is a pagan, an agnostic. Now, there is an apikoros.
“And yet you retain him?”
Rabbis Karpis smiled broadly. “We fight fire with fire, Rabbi.”
32
Between them they spoke english, Rabbi Small and Shiah Greenberg, the attorney, dropping into Hebrew momentarily only when it offered le mot juste. Greenberg, forty-five, short, balding, and fattish, had left the States fifteen years before, but not long enough to have softened his Brooklyn accent. And he still retained his street-smart cynicism. As they made their way to the police station where Ish-Tov was being held, he said, “What you’ve got to understand, Rabbi, is that punks are punks whether in New York or Jerusalem, Arab or Jewish. And it doesn’t make any difference how pious they are. When I was with Legal Aid in New York years ago, many a time I found myself defending a Hasidic punk—theft, armed robbery, once even murder. They wore the black hat and the dark clothes and had the tsitsis showing. I remember once I was seeing my client in the jail, and he asks me which way is east so he can face that way and daven shachris while I wait. And he was guilty of armed robbery, guilty as hell. Maybe he thought seeing him daven I’d be more apt to think he was innocent. Or maybe it was just a habit with him that he couldn’t break or he’d feel like he forgot something all day.
“And they lie. They all he. It used to bother me, but then I decided, what the hell, maybe he’s just trying to convince himself. And what difference did it make, anyway? I wasn’t going to put him on the stand. Take this kid Ish-Tov. There’s a tsatske! He tells me not only he didn’t do it, but he never even knew the guy was in Jerusalem and never even saw him. And his fingerprints are on the shovel the guy was buried with, clear as day. That’s where our client had some real bad luck.”
“Bad luck?”
“Yeah. See, when the police told me about the prints, I figured they were planning to pull a fast one, that they’d get a fingerprint expert to testify that some smudge had so many points of identification with his prints that he was sure it was his. See, these shovels, the Arabs who had dug the trench originally, their prints were on them. And then the Department of Antiquities people who dug up the corpse, they had used those same shovels. So there had to be prints on prints. But our guy was just plain unlucky. It seems that the Arabs were wearing these cotton work gloves, so they didn’t leave any prints. And then the Antiquities guys, there were two of them, but only one did the digging, and he used the other shovel. Now, that was bad luck. You know, when you pick up a shovelful of dirt, you hold the handle with one hand—no prints there because it’s rough wood—but with the other hand, you grasp the metal shank of the shovel. And because the Arabs wore gloves, that shank was nice and shiny. And our client left a perfect set of prints on it.”
“I see.”
“So there’s no chance of befuddling a fingerprint expert. But with the autopsy report, we get a little break. Death was the result of an aneurysm that had ruptured, an aneurysm of the abdominal aorta.” He ran a finger up his belly. “That’s the main artery that runs down from the heart and bifurcates down both legs. According to his doctor, his aneurysm was just under five centimeters in diameter. Do you know how much five centimeters is?” He tucked his briefcase under his arm and held up both hands with the forefingers extended. “That much. About two inches. And normal is about three quarters of an inch. So I talked to a doctor friend of mine, an internist. And he tells me that five centimeters is usually the cutoff point. Less than that, they watch it. But at five centimeters or more, they operate. The results are about ninety-five percent good. They just cut it out—that section, I mean—and replace it with a Dacron pipe. Marvelous what they can do nowadays.
“But if the thing ruptures, or springs a leak, then unless he can get to a surgeon right away, and one who knows what’s wrong, then he’s a goner. And even if he does, the chances of saving him drop to about fifty percent. So I imagine he was seeing his doctor every three months or so and having it measured with an ultrasound picture. He probably saw him just before he left the States—”
“But could he travel? Wasn’t he in pain?”
“No symptoms, none at all—until it ruptures or leaks. Then you get a terrible bellyache or backache. That’s when you’ve got to get to a surgeon. Now, what could trigger that rupture? Would a blow to the belly do it? According to the doctor, it was not likely. See, it’s back near the spine. More likely it would come from a sudden increase in blood pressure. And that gave me my case.”
“How do you mean?”
“See, this Ish-Tov had been a student at the university where Grenish was a member of the faculty. And he had a fight with him. Grenish was on the Scholarship Committee, maybe head of it. Ish-Tov lost his scholarship and attributed it to Grenish. He had to leave school as a result.”
The rabbi nodded.
“You knew about that?”
“I heard something of it,” the rabbi admitted. “But how do you—did Ish-Tov tell you?”
“No, the Shin Bet got it, by way of Mossad, I suppose. They work closely with the CIA, who would be willing to do them the favor of checking with the local police.”
“I suppose that’s why my friend Adoumi got out of the case,” said the rabbi. “He decided it was the result of a personal quarrel.”
“Oh, that’s right, you know Adoumi. I suppose he was originally involved because the man was missing from his hotel. Anyway, I had my case.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious. Grenish comes to Jerusalem and spends his time wandering around the Old City. We know that because he didn’t have dinner at the hotel Friday night, nor all day Saturday, except for breakfast. He had to eat, didn’t he? And on the Sabbath it could only be at an Arab place, which means East Jerusalem or the Old City. But he’s had a couple of days of it. It’s natural. The Old City is colorful. It’s where tourists go. So for a change Sunday he goes around the new part. Ish-Tov sees him, recognizes him, and there’s a quarrel. Maybe there
was some pushing and shoving. Maybe a blow was struck. Or maybe Grenish just gets terribly worked up. And that does it. His aneurysm ruptures, and he keels over. And then it’s my guess that Ish-Tov panicked. The man was dead and he would be held responsible. So he hides the body in a most convenient trench and fills it in.”
“But you say that Ish-Tov claims he never saw the man.”
“Oh, sure. That’s practically the norm. Defendants never admit guilt. Why should they? What will it get them? You try to explain that if you knew exactly what happened, you could plan a better defense. They don’t believe you. Or they can’t see how it would work. Or they think what you really want is an excuse if you lose. Or they are not so much interested in the trial and what the judge will think, but in what their friends, family, associates, in this case the yeshiva will think. See, if they deny it all, then all these might think even though they were found guilty, it might not be true, that they were framed, or that their lawyer was inept. Get it?” He halted in his stride momentarily. “Hey, maybe he’ll tell you. I’ll see if I can’t arrange for you to be alone with him for a little while.”
“Oh, you’re here, too,” said Ish-Tov as he entered the room where the rabbi and Greenberg awaited him. He slouched in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles stretched out in front of him as he answered Greenberg in monosyllables.
Then Greenberg asked, “Now, look here, you quarreled with him, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t even see him. I didn’t know he was in town.’
“I mean back in the States.”
“Oh. Well, I went to see him at his house.”
“To get him to change his mind on your scholarship.”
“Yeah.”
“Loss of the scholarship meant you had to leave school. Right?”
“That’s right. I couldn’t ask my folks for the tuition money.”
“And you threatened him.”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say I threatened him. But that was years ago.”
“Threatened to kill him?”
“No, just to get even.”
“So when you saw him in Jerusalem—”
“I never laid eyes on him.”
Greenberg glanced significantly at the rabbi and then rose and went to the door. “I’ve got to talk to the captain for a minute.”
It occurred to the rabbi that again and again, Greenberg had led the young man to the point, and each time he had shied away from admitting that he had ever seen Grenish in Jerusalem. And yet he knew that his fingerprints had been found on the shovel that had interred him. So when they were alone together, instead of asking about Grenish, he asked, “Why did you fill in the trench?”
Whether it was the way the rabbi framed the question, or the urgency in his voice, the young man’s attitude changed. He even smiled. “Because it was there.”
The rabbi also smiled. “Do you go around filling in potholes in the streets?”
“All right. My friend Yitzchak and I were on the roof and saw the trench from there. We were up there because—well, never mind. The point is, we saw it. And Yitzchak had overheard Kahn—he’s the secretary—talking to Rabbi Karpis about how it might be an archaeological find, and they were worried that it might extend to the yeshiva grounds. And that it might even be an ancient cemetery. Well, I don’t have to tell you what that would mean. But Yitzchak is a Kohane, and he takes it seriously—I mean about a Kohane being in the presence of a corpse. He’s fanatic about every little regulation. He even gave away all his clothes that didn’t say one hundred percent cotton or one hundred percent wool for fear he might be transgressing the law of mixing fibers, you know, shatnes. That was before I came here, but he told me about it. And he’s very proud that he’s a Kohane, so he was pretty worried.
“Well, we saw Skinner and the Arab guy take off in the car, and from what we’d seen before, we knew they’d be gone all day. And the old lady, she’s never there on Sunday. So we snuck over there to take a look. There was nothing there. It was just a hole in the ground, maybe four feet deep. We didn’t see anything that looked like an artifact, or maybe we didn’t know what to look for.”
“Did you get down into the trench?”
“No, we just looked at it a little. So I said to Yitzchak, ‘How about we fill it in?’ See, the shovels were there. Well, he was worried and wanted to get out of there. After the trouble they had a few months back, and after Karpis took over, we were told not to trespass. So I said we could do it after maariv when it was dark, but he was afraid there might be some bones still there.
“So after maariv, I went out there myself. And then a little later he joined me. I guess he realized I was doing it more for him, because I’m not what you might call meticulous about observing every little rule and regulation. And we finished in about half an hour.”
“Weren’t you concerned that the trench must have been dug for some purpose and that Mr. Skinner might have to dig it up again?”
“Nah. The hell with him.”
“And the Department of Antiquities, did you know that they were involved?”
A shrug. “A bunch of ghouls. We don’t care too much about them.” He eyed the rabbi speculatively. “You planning to tell my folks about this?”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to. I think they ought to know, though.”
“No. If they hear about it, one or both might feel they’ve got to come over. And they’d want to hire a lawyer instead of this joker the yeshiva gave me. And they can’t afford it.”
At which moment Greenberg walked in with the guard, and with a tilt of the head to the rabbi, said, “We’ve got to be going now.
“Well?” he demanded when they were outside. “Did you get anything out of him?”
The rabbi reported his conversation with Ish-Tov.
“It’s not bad,” said Greenberg. “Absolutely useless for our purposes, of course, but not a bad effort. You see, what they do is weave a story that covers the evidence against them, work it out in their minds, embellish it until they almost get to believe it. In that way the guy clears his conscience, see?”
“So how will you proceed?”
“Since Ish-Tov refuses to play ball, I’ll keep him off the stand. I think on cross-examination I can get the medical expert to admit that death could have been accidental. And then I’ll argue that Ish-Tov simply panicked. The judge might see it as illegal burial and failure to report a death. With luck, maybe a fine, which our organization would pay.”
“You think it will work? You think the judge will go along?”
“Of course, in this business you can never tell, but I think there’s a good chance.”
“But look here, why couldn’t you present it to the prosecutor? Maybe he would agree to drop the case.”
The other smiled. “A lawyer always tries to keep a little something back, Rabbi. And what might work if I spring it in court might not work if I tried it on the prosecution in his office over a cup of coffee.”
33
On Wednesday, Al Bergson called from tel Aviv. “This is your president speaking,” he announced.
“Al? Al Bergson? Where are you?”
“In Tel Aviv, at the Sheraton. We’ll be here through tomorrow, and come up to Jerusalem Friday morning.”
“How many of you are there?”
“There are twenty-six of us. I had thirty lined up originally, but the Moscovitz family—Ed, Emily, and the two boys—dropped out at the last minute. We’ll be staying at the King David. Present plans call for going to the service at the big synagogue, but some said they preferred going to the Conservative synagogue on Agron. In any case, we’ll have our Sabbath meal at the hotel. Could you and Miriam make it? As our guests, of course.”
“I’m afraid we can’t. We’re expecting company here.”
“And Barney’s Bar Mitzvah at the Wall the next morning?”
“I don’t think so,” said the rabbi. “It’s a pretty longish walk to the Wall from where we live.”
“Then I hardly think it would be proper for me to go to the party.”
“But you’ve got to meet the group sometime, David. I mean, here are a couple of dozen members of your congregation, some of them on the Board of Directors, and their rabbi is right here in the city—”
“How about Saturday night? I could come to the hotel in the evening,” suggested the rabbi.
“I’m afraid that won’t do. They’ll all be scattered. They all have relatives or friends. Look, plan on Sunday morning. I’ve arranged for a guided walking tour of the Old City, the Jewish Quarter, the Cardo, the Wall. It’s probably old stuff to you, but it will give you a chance to meet the gang.”
“Sunday morning is fine. I think Miriam has something scheduled, but I can make it. How about you? Do you have relatives to go to Saturday night? If not, how about coming to us?”
“You’re a hard man to help, David,” said Bergson as they sat in the salon of Gittel’s apartment. Gittel and Miriam had gone off to a movie, and the two men were alone.
The rabbi smiled faintly. “You’ve been trying to help me, have you?”
“Uh-huh. The Levinsons got back from Israel and reported that the Goodman boy had been arrested for murder and that you fingered him to the police and that you almost got them involved as well.”
“I merely gave the authorities Goodman’s name, and the Levinson’s, as being from Barnard’s Crossing. It was a matter of identifying—”
“I know, I know. But the Levinsons don’t like you, so in the telling, there was a suggestion that there may have been something more to it than that. And by the time it had been repeated and made the rounds, there was a general conviction that you were acting as an agent of the police. And some pointed out that here, too, you were awfully friendly with Chief Lanigan with the implication that you were somehow connected with the police.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I—”
“Of course it is, and it would be obvious to anyone if you were generally liked. But you’re not, you know. So anything that can be thought to discredit you is seized on and accepted without further question. And now you’ve alienated Barney Berkowitz, and that means his friends. He could understand—not easily, to be sure—why you might give up a free trip to Israel in order to get here earlier and have more time to spend here, but not to come to his Bar Mitzvah when you were already here, and a couple of dozen of your congregants were along as well—”
One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross Page 17
