Lineup

by Liad Shoham

  HE hadn’t been home since. Merav hired a lawyer who made it very clear to him that their marriage was over. She even filed a complaint against him for assault. He was picked up and held for several hours until a temporary restraining order was issued, forbidding him to go anywhere near her for three months.

  He crashed with his brother for a while, but Itai soon informed him that he’d outstayed his welcome. “Nurit doesn’t feel comfortable with you sleeping on our couch,” he said. Ziv got up, packed his few belongings, and left the same day. He rented a shabby apartment in south Tel Aviv and spent his days drinking cheap beer.

  He still hoped that Merav would come to her senses and agree to take him back, that she’d remember how much he loved her and understand he’d only tried to protect her, to prevent her from suffering because of his mistakes. No matter how many times she rejected his plea for forgiveness, he kept on hoping. For months after their divorce was final (he’d agreed to whatever she asked), he was still wearing his wedding ring. He couldn’t bring himself to take it off.

  And then one day he’d gone down to the convenience store to buy another six-pack and run into Noam. Noam had been one of his soldiers in the army. They’d never been close, but Ziv was very happy to see him. Talking to him eased the terrible loneliness of his current life. That night they went out to a pub together and he told him about Edva and Merav, about how he was broke and couldn’t find a job, couldn’t pay child support, couldn’t do anything to help Merav and Gili. And then suddenly, he started sobbing. He never cried, not even at his parents’ funeral. Embarrassed at letting Noam see him break down, see how weak he’d become, he wanted to get out of there fast, but his friend put his hand on his shoulder and said he understood what he was going through. He wanted to help. He even had an idea that might work.

  Two days later he met with Shimon, Noam’s uncle. Shimon told him he sometimes needed a chauffeur, and if Ziv was interested, he’d be happy to let him drive him around from time to time. Ziv recognized Uncle Shimon immediately. He was the infamous Shimon Faro, the man the papers said was the head of a crime syndicate. But he took the job anyway. He owed money, Merav’s lawyer was leaning on him, and there was nothing illegal about chauffeuring someone around. And maybe if Merav saw that he was getting himself together, that he had a steady job and was making the child support payments, she’d forgive him a little.

  But Shimon hardly ever called on him. Now and then he asked him to take him to a family function, and rewarded him very generously each time. But Ziv still had no money to speak of, no real job, and no family.

  A few weeks ago, Meshulam had knocked on Ziv’s door. “I work for Shimon,” he said, adding, “which means you work for me. You get my drift?” Nevo nodded warily. Meshulam ordered him to come with him, Shimon wanted to see him.

  But he didn’t take him to see Shimon. Instead, he took him to an abandoned warehouse in the Petach Tikva industrial zone. Once they were inside, Meshulam said Shimon wanted him to make a car bomb. Ziv balked. “Sorry,” he said guardedly, “that’s not my thing.” Meshulam just laughed. “It isn’t a request,” he said. “You really thought Shimon Faro needed a driver? He wanted you because of what you know about bombs, from the army.”

  Seeing that Nevo was still not convinced, Meshulam pulled out a gun. Ziv realized he didn’t have a choice.

  “Just something that’ll hurt a little, that’ll send a message,” Meshulam said when Ziv asked exactly what Shimon wanted from him.

  But making the bomb wasn’t enough. Once he’d finished putting a charge together from the materials waiting for him in the warehouse, Meshulam told him he’d also have to place the device under the car. On Wednesday night he took him to north Tel Aviv for a trial run. “We’ll be watching you,” he said, handing him a baseball cap, “just to be sure nothing goes wrong.”

  Ziv panicked when he saw the car. He didn’t want to know anything about the target. He figured he was in the middle of a gang war—they kill one of yours, and then you kill one of theirs. But when he saw the bathing suit on the backseat, he realized the target was a woman. Stunned, he returned to the pickup point and tried to persuade Meshulam to find someone else for the job. He told him he wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing, that his hands would shake, that he was too scared. Meshulam looked at him with contempt. “Cut the bullshit,” he said, “and just make very sure your hands don’t shake. You better not fuck this up.”

  And so, on Thursday night, Meshulam drove him back to north Tel Aviv. And this time he brought the bomb along.

  “Good luck,” Meshulam said chillingly before he let him off, handing him the baseball cap again.

  The street was empty. He spotted the little red car, walked over to it slowly, and ducked down. With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket for the small charge constructed from two military hand grenades. Why was he doing this? What if he’d made the bomb too big and it killed her? He was no murderer.

  But he didn’t want them to kill him either. Meshulam’s gun had made it very clear that he didn’t have a lot of options. He held the bomb to the exhaust pipe, just below the gas tank.

  All of a sudden he heard a door click shut behind him. Someone had gotten out of a car not far away. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He’d made sure there was no one around! How had he missed him? He knew he had to hurry; he had no time to waste. He worked like a robot, attaching the charge to the exhaust pipe with duct tape.

  Then he heard footsteps coming toward him. From the sound they made, he could tell it was a man. Quickly, he removed the pin from one grenade and then the other, stuck them in his pocket, and began to wire the detonator to the ignition. It had been years since he’d worked with explosives, but he knew he couldn’t screw up. He moved as rapidly as possible.

  The man was very close. He couldn’t afford to get caught. Meshulam didn’t seem the type who believed in second chances.

  He took a last look at the bomb and realized he’d wrapped it too tightly. He ought to loosen the duct tape. But he didn’t have time. The stranger was almost there.

  He stood up quickly and saw a man in his sixties a few feet away. The man stared at him suspiciously, as if he knew what he was doing there. Ziv started down the street, walking at a fast pace. To his astonishment, he heard the footsteps hurrying after him. He glanced behind him, trying to do it as casually as possible. The man looked straight at him. Was he following him?

  He turned into the first side street and started running. When he got to the end of the block, he stood still and considered going back the way he’d come, but then he caught sight of the older man again. He hadn’t been mistaken—he was definitely following him.

  He made another turn at the corner and began running again. His ears were ringing with the sound of his feet on the pavement and his heavy breathing. He was seized by a fear he’d never known before, not even when Meshulam pulled out the gun. He kept turning his head to look behind him, but there was no one there. The man hadn’t caught up to him.

  At the end of the block he raced into the yard of a building and hid behind the bushes. He crouched down, his whole body tense, waiting to get his breath back, struggling to keep calm. He might still be able to get away. After a while he straightened up and started moving toward the street. He didn’t see anyone. The man must’ve given up, he said to himself, hoping desperately it was true.

  He considered going back to the car and finishing the job but decided against it. The man might be waiting for him. Besides, there was a good chance the bomb would go off anyway. And if it didn’t, it might be a sign that he shouldn’t have put it there in the first place, that the owner of the car deserved to go on with her life, uninjured.

  Ziv walked rapidly toward the bus stop on Pinkas Street, following Meshulam’s instructions. He looked in all directions, but there was no one in sight. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he’d just panicked and imagined it all.
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  “ARE you listening to me?” his lawyer repeated. “I’m telling you I’ve got a hunch the ADA wants to meet with me because they’re having trouble making the charges stick. We’re back in the game.”

  He’d known from the start that he couldn’t say a word about what he was really doing that night. Not only had he committed a crime no less serious than rape, but Shimon Faro and his little army of soldiers would never let him get away with it. He knew he was paying a heavy price for his silence, and would continue to do so. The main reason he was Nachum’s prime suspect was because he didn’t provide any explanation for his presence on the girl’s street that night.

  He’d thought that would be enough for Shimon, but it turned out it wasn’t. They wanted more. Not just his silence, but his confession as well. That’s what happens when you sell your soul to the devil.

  He looked up at Rosen without a word. The last time they’d met, when he told him he didn’t do it, he could tell the lawyer didn’t believe him. All it took was one phone call from the prosecutor, one request for a meeting whose purpose was still unknown, and the attorney thought they were “back in the game,” that everything was fine and he had good reason to smile.

  “Now it becomes a mind game,” Rosen said, “like poker. The longer we play, the sooner they’ll fold. You just continue to keep your mouth shut. Don’t open up to anyone. I’ll handle the negotiations, and naturally, I’ll keep you informed of what’s going on.”

  Meir had made himself very clear. He’d even specified the price he’d have to pay if he didn’t cooperate. And those guys had plenty of ways to exact that price.

  “Tell them I confess,” he said to Rosen, his voice breaking.

  “What’d you say?” The smile vanished from the lawyer’s face.

  “I want you to go to the meeting and tell the ADA that I raped Adi Regev,” Ziv repeated, struggling to keep his voice steady.

  “Why? Why on earth do you want me to do that?”

  “Because I raped her, because everything she said is the truth,” he answered heavily, “because that’s what I want, because I told you last time, you’re my lawyer and you have to say what I tell you to say, and that’s what I’m telling you to say.”

  Rosen drummed his fingers on the table in obvious irritation.

  “I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand where this crap is coming from. Last time you sat right there and told me you didn’t do it, that you want me to fight the charges. And now I bring you good news, maybe even the best news, and you want to confess? Can you explain it to me? What’s going on?”

  Ziv didn’t answer. What could he say? Gili’s face floated up before his eyes, a ball of sweetness. “He’s a carbon copy of his father,” people always said. He loved him so much. Gili was the most precious thing in the world to him. He’d give his life for him. He couldn’t expose him to any risk, no matter how high the price. He’d already hurt him enough.

  Rosen leaned toward him. “Did someone threaten you?” he whispered, fixing him with his eyes.

  Ziv stared back at him. Something had changed in the lawyer’s voice, in the expression on his face. For the first time he felt he was seeing him as a human being, not just a case number or a pawn in a legal game.

  “Like I told you last time, anything you tell me is covered by lawyer-client confidentiality. If someone is threatening you, there are steps we can take. We can go to the police, we can tell them . . .”

  Ziv shook his head.

  “Please don’t be an idiot. Think about what you’re doing. Let’s wait awhile. They’ll issue an indictment in a few days and then we can see what they’ve got. But I’m telling you from experience, if they want to meet with me now, their case is falling apart. Just hold on a few more days, that’s all. Trust me,” Rosen pleaded.

  The breakfast Ziv had eaten that morning rose in his throat, threatening to gush out of him. He didn’t want to be there anymore; he had to get out of the room. His fate was sealed and there was nothing he could do about it. The price was too high.

  He got up, walked to the door, and banged on it loudly. Silently, Rosen followed him with his eyes.

  The guard opened the door. “Is there a problem here?” he asked.

  Ziv shook his head. “No problem,” he heard Rosen say behind him.

  He turned to look back at him. “Just do what I said and do it right away. When you meet with the ADA, you tell her. No horse trading, no tricks. Everything they’re saying is true. It was me. I raped her.”

  Chapter 20

  WHEN Assaf Rosen walked into Galit Lavie’s office, he suddenly remembered the erotic dream he’d had about her after they’d faced off in court a few months ago. She’d been a tough adversary that day. In fact, she was known to attack all her cases with flinty determination. But in his dream, their lovemaking was extraordinarily gentle and tender.

  The memory disconcerted him. She smiled graciously as he came in. He lowered his eyes, unable to get the picture of her naked body out of his head. She’d prosecuted a number of his cases, and he’d always found himself attracted to her. He wondered how she’d react if he asked her out.

  They chatted for a few minutes, gossiping about mutual acquaintances in their professional world. Each of them was well aware that this was merely foreplay, a prelude to the negotiations that would determine Nevo’s fate.

  Rosen still had no idea where he was going with the case, what his position would be, and, more to the point, what it should be. Nevo confounded him. He was used to hearing his clients protest their innocence, claim they were being set up, that someone was out to get them. But there was something genuine about Nevo, some poignant quality that resonated with Rosen. Naturally, he kept his feelings to himself. He’d learned long ago that the best way to protect himself was to maintain a certain distance. Whenever he got emotionally involved, he took a loss too much to heart. And if the legal system didn’t let him down, the client did. After the trial was over, it would turn out that his client had been lying to him the whole time or was too much of a sleazebag to have any intention of cleaning up his or her act.

  Nevertheless, when he got the call from Galit he was happy for Nevo. He even gave himself a pat on the back for still having sharp enough senses to pick out the one innocent man among all his clients. He hoped this might be the type of case he’d dreamed of, the reason he’d become a defense attorney in the first place: against all odds, he’d procure the release of an innocent man. But then he’d met with Nevo again and everything changed. Now Nevo was saying he’d committed the rape and he wanted to plead guilty.

  Who was he supposed to believe, the first Nevo or the second? It doesn’t make a bit of difference, he chided himself. His job was to serve as Nevo’s mouthpiece. If he wanted to fight the charges, he’d fight them, if he wanted to confess, he’d inform the prosecution. He had to follow the client’s wishes. Since when did the truth matter? What role did it really play in his profession? Like every other defense attorney he knew, he never asked clients if they were guilty or not. He was used to pleading cases, arguing passionately and fighting like a tiger, without ever knowing the truth.

  But this one was gnawing at him. Something had obviously happened between his two meetings with Nevo, something that had nothing to do with whether Nevo raped Adi Regev or not. He groused regularly about the high conviction rate in the country, complaining that the cards were stacked against the defense, and now that he had a client who was probably innocent, he didn’t know what to do. What was wrong with him? A few years ago he would’ve gotten his teeth into a case like this and never let go until he’d figured out what was going on. He would even have fought the request to extend Nevo’s remand. He was still young, only thirty-three, but apparently he was already burned out. His job was wearing him down. He couldn’t believe he’d become his father so soon.

  “HOW does your client want to proceed with the case?”
Galit asked, putting a serious expression on her face to indicate it was time to get down to business.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you called this meeting, not me,” Rosen answered, returning the ball to her court. She might not be willing to admit it, but he was pretty sure the prosecution was in hot water with this case. Why else would Galit ask to see him? If they weren’t in trouble, they’d file an indictment and go straight to court, certainly with someone like Galit in charge.

  The ADA merely smiled.

  “So what’s going on, Galit. Is there a problem with the evidence? Did the victim change her story? Did some unexpected DNA results come back from the lab?” Rosen decided not to beat around the bush.

  “We’re offering two years,” she said, evading the question.

  Rosen was confused. Such a light sentence for a rape charge? And he noticed she didn’t answer his question. With any other case, he’d get up and walk out. It was worth the risk. If that was their opening bid, he could expect better offers down the line. As soon as they filed the indictment, they’d have to show him what they had and all their secrets would be out in the open. He’d find out everything they were trying to hide from him. But his client had given him specific instructions. He wanted to confess, and he’d ordered Rosen to tell that to the ADA without any delay.

  Galit was watching him intently. With every second he continued to hesitate, her expression grew more incredulous. What did she know? What was missing in order for her to make the case? When he was just starting out, he’d believed that as an officer of the court, the prosecution was a straight shooter, that all that mattered was the truth, not conviction rates. He wasn’t so naive anymore. By now he knew that prosecutors sometimes played dirty, just like defense attorneys. An ADA’s conviction rate mattered very much. No one liked to lose, no one liked to go back to the office and report to their colleagues, and their boss, that they’d been outplayed.