“What?” she didn’t understand.
“You begin to work here tomorrow morning. Be here at 8:00 a.m. sharp.”
Yiftach returned home at 11:15 p.m. Chava was at the sink peeling a red apple for his father who was sitting in the living room, covered with a light cotton blanket with tattered edges. The TV was on; he was watching another prize-winning game show on the Italian channel.
When Max finished his military service he moved to Milano to study architecture. His father, Yiftach’s grandfather, had owned a small shoe store in Tel Aviv on Ibn Gvirol Street but, over time, its revenue consistently decreased until it stopped altogether, unable to compete against the city’s new department stores and modern malls that were being built. He had no choice but to take a job at a potato processing factory on the city’s outskirts and Max’s mother found work at a small factory. Whatever remained of their meager earnings they sent to their son Max in Milano, which barely covered his tuition fees and living expenses. Five years abroad in the boot-shaped land led Max to fall completely and totally in love with everything Italian. Even after he returned home, he religiously drank a short, strong espresso every morning, he drove a shiny black Lancia, and wore the finest Italian-made shirts. He closely followed the games of the Squadra Azzurra, and each time Italy’s national football team lost, his spirits fell. Once every two weeks he would meet with a circle of friends from their student days in Milano and they would share stories and experiences, in Italian of course.
“Hi, Yiftach, would you like something to eat, dear?” Chava asked.
“No, thanks. I ate at the office.” He sat down next to his father. “Hey, Dad, how was your day?” he asked, stroking his shoulder.
“Oh!” he complained. “She’s a murderer! She’s like a disease!” he lowered his voice as if revealing a dark secret. “Today she tried to force some pills down my throat. Next time I’ll teach her a lesson!”
“Dad, she is the third caretaker that we’ve brought here in the past two months. If you scare Chava away as well, we will have a very serious problem on our hands. Please, I don’t have time for this endless chase after caretakers.” Yiftach seemed totally exhausted. “Be good to her, okay? Take your pills, just like Chava says,” he added quickly, in a tone with a hint of accusation to it.
“You don’t have time for your own father… and it’s all because of the State Attorney’s Office… what do you need that shit for?!”
At that very moment, all Yiftach wanted was to be alone. Only when I’m in bed, in total darkness, he thought to himself, will I be free to carry out one complete thought from beginning to end. “Okay, we’re not going to have that same discussion again. Good night, Dad.” Chava brought Max a plate with an apple carefully peeled and cut into thin slices. Yiftach went to his room and sat on his bed. His head hit the pillow and he stared at the white ceiling. The light bulb kept appearing and disappearing. The room turned blurry and he felt dizzy as he kept contemplating over and over again the same fundamental idea that was constantly nagging at him. It wasn’t at all new to him, nor was he concerned that he may have already gone mad. His greatest fear of all now was that perhaps his thoughts were going in the wrong direction.
Maybe it is possible, after all. Actually, why not? he asked himself. Although, if Weissman won’t like the idea or thinks I’ve lost my mind, I’ll become a laughing stock. He kept turning the idea over in his mind. But if it succeeds… oh my God… if it succeeds… I’ll become the most famous attorney in the world.Everyone will worship me. My story will be taught in all the law schools everywhere on earth. Yiftach’s contemplations soothed him and he fell asleep.
His sleep was disturbed by strange dreams. At first he dreamt that he was confined in a straitjacket and no one could hear his pleas for help. Then he dreamt that he came to the office and his colleagues lifted him up high, celebrating his brilliant idea. When he awoke, Yiftach was still under the spell of his last dream. The clock showed nearly 6:00 a.m. He decided it was too soon to share his idea with his colleagues. After he got up, washed and dressed, he drove to work to complete preparations for the upcoming hearing.
Chapter Seven
“We took sweet counsel together, in the house
of God we walked with the throng.”
Book of Psalms, 55:15
It was 9:30 a.m. The courtroom at the District Court of Jerusalem was not as full as one would expect. There were a few drowsy crime reporters and just a handful of curious bystanders. The session of Criminal Case No. 4453678/08,The State of Israel vs. Raviv, was about to begin. Melody sat next to Yiftach and read through the indictment once again. For the umpteenth time, Yiftach went over the arguments he would present to the court. The defendant in this case was police officer Ronen Raviv who, allegedly, was caught one wintry night in January by three mercenaries belonging to the worst of Israel’s underworld gangs. As they held a gun to his head, threatening to kill him, he led them to the safe house where a key witness was hiding. This witness’s testimony could have incriminated five of Israel’s top industrialists for serious violations of the antitrust laws. The three mercenaries assassinated the key witness with Uzi guns, then disappeared into thin air, never to be found.
Yiftach jotted down some notes for himself along the margins of his papers, trying to think of all the possible answers in response to the legal arguments that would be raised by the defense. Attorney Elbaz, typically late, entered the courtroom with a string of lawyers following behind, carrying files and binders. Elbaz, in his fifties, was bald, fat, short and dark-skinned. His disproportionately big head and his greenish complexion gave him the appearance of a frog plottingsomething wicked. He also had a terrible odor. And that devilish, disgusting, repulsive smile of his never left his face. However, he was most renowned for his glass eye—the left one—a memento from one of the battles he had fought in as a young soldier. Scandals of corruption, client fraud, illegal fees and other such delights were linked to his name more than once. Such is usually the case—one who scrupulously upholds the minor laws finds it easy to break the significant ones.
“Attorney Posner! Good to have you home again,” Elbaz called to him, as one who habitually ignores the difference between truth and falsehood. “You look great, Yiftach,” he added with unabashed flattery.
Yiftach stood up from the creaky wooden bench and they shook hands firmly, although they knew each other only in passing. “Good to see you, Arieh. You haven’t changed…” Yiftach indicated Melody with his hand, “I’d like to introduce you to Attorney Geva, who joined us this week after completing her internship with Agam-Rozner.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Melody said, standing up. They shook hands as Elbaz’s gaze swept her body, and his one eye twinkled with obvious pleasure.
“Most pleased…” Elbaz replied with his characteristically strange pleasantness while eyeing her in a conspicuously sexist way. Yiftach imagined himself sticking a rusty screwdriver in his face and gouging out his other eye. “And you?” Elbaz went on, “what are you doing?” he snapped at his helpers. “Why are you standing around like that?” he continued to reprimand them, not thinking for a moment to introduce them to his colleagues. “Zucker!” he turned to one attorney, “c’mon, c’mon, take out the files, start arranging them on the table, the judges will enter any minute now. And Moti,” he turned to one of his interns.
“Dudi…” the young intern corrected him in an obedient, subservient tone.
“Dudi, of course, please go over to the cafeteria and get me a small bottle of water… I always have to tell them what to do… they don’t understand anything by themselves,” he explained to Yiftach, and his mindless and condescending words sounded as if he had often uttered them before.
The defendant, police officer Ronen Raviv, entered the courtroom through the prisoners’ entrance, escorted by two policemen. His arrival awakened the reporters from their morning slumber. They jumped up and ran over to him with their questions.
“Excuse me,” Elbaz said to Yiftach and Melody and quickly made his way towards his client. Raviv, who had been briefed earlier by Elbaz, did not say a word to the reporters.
Melody held the indictment in front of her. “They are going to claim compulsion,” she whispered to Yiftach, “you know… the compulsion defense in Section 34-L of the Penal Code that determines that one cannot be responsible for a criminal act that was forced upon him while under imminent threat of death or serious bodily injury to himself or others and, therefore, was compelled to do so. This section is relevant to situations in which one carries out an act that is considered criminal, but does so under duress or coercion that neutralizes the perpetrator’s will and eliminates his ability to choose. Generally, in such cases, the perpetrator cannot be held criminally responsible.”
“I know that, it’s obvious,” Yiftach continued reading a new court decision of the U.S. Supreme Court that addressed a situation similar to that of police officer Raviv.
“Yiftach, seriously,” Melody sounded concerned, “this is a classic case of compulsion defense! What magic trick do you have up your sleeve?”
Three judges entered the courtroom and everyone rose to their feet. The session began and, from the start, Elbaz claimed that the accuser’s arguments should be rejected out of hand sincethe compulsion defense stands in his client’s favor. Yiftach, like a taut spring, burst into his words while holding in his hand three American court decisions in which criminal liability was imposed in similar circumstances. The three judges, and Elbaz himself, looked surprised and exchanged quick glances among them. Indeed, the ruling of the United States Supreme Court is important—it indicates how the world copes with similar legal issues—but why seek answers across the Atlantic Ocean when the answer lies just across the street? The hearing dragged on and spilled over into the time of the hearing to follow.
