He sat down and with dulled eyes looked at the grey-and-white binders piled high throughout the room. For a split second he entertained the idea of burning the lot. His thoughts wandered and he began imagining horses galloping through the room, circling wildly and rising upward. Too much had happened in too short a time after parting from Ricardo and two full years of new experiences and self-fulfillment in the Big Apple; returning to Israel, searching for a new apartment and needing to decide whether to remain in Tel Aviv or move to his former home in Jerusalem; and, above all—unveiling the truth about his fiancée, his soon-to-be wife who had been carrying on a prolonged affair with a woman from her office. Alongside these upheavals, Yiftach had to adjust, and fast, to his new and demanding jobat the State Attorney’s Office, a place that never offers a second chance and doesn’t spare its employees.
“Yiftach!” Attorney Rafael Weissman entered the room. He held a very high position—Deputy for Criminal Affairs for the State Attorney General, Asher Kanne, with whom he was very close and was considered to be heir to his title. Weissman, Yiftach’s new direct boss was a little over fifty, tall and thin. His thick, black hair was combed back and packed down with a thick layer of shiny, sticky gel. His elongated face was angular and sharp, and he had a long nose that blended in with long, slanted eyes that made him resemble a dolphin. At a meeting held three years earlier, Weissman had supported choosing Yiftach as one of the ten scholarship recipients who would be sponsored by the State Attorney’s Office to complete their law degrees in the United States. The objective was that upon completing his studies abroad, Yiftach would transfer from the Tel Aviv District Criminal Attorney’s Office to the ranks of the State Attorney’s Office. As was always the case with Weissman, his intent materialized exactly as planned.
“Attorney Weissman!” Yiftach jumped up from his chair and they shook hands.
“Call me Rafi… please… How are you doing, Yiftach? Welcome to the State Attorney’s Office. Have you completed filling in all the forms regarding your trip?”
“I’m almost finished with the initial process. There are just a few tail ends left, I haven’t gotten a smart card yet, there are a few more forms to complete… I’ll get it all done by tomorrow.”
“Glad to hear that,” Weissman said without sounding glad, “the workload is tremendous and, unfortunately, you won’t be granted any grace period or time to gradually get accustomed to the work here.” Weissman sat down on one of the two visitors’ chairs after having placed a pile of binders on the floor.
“That’s okay,” Yiftach said, “I’m used to working underpressure.” He recalled his work at the Tel Aviv Attorney General’s Office and the dozens of cases that he had handled simultaneously.
“But first, you need to put this room into order.” Weissman looked around with concern at the numerous binders and brown cartons strewn everywhere. “I’ll speak to Ronen, our maintenance guy, today and have him come and install some shelves and cabinets for you.” He stood up and walked over to the large window at the front of the room, putting his hands in his carefully pressed black pants’ pockets. “What a view you have from this office!” With his right hand he stroked his thin, black tie as if it were a furry Himalayan cat, and went on: “You know, Yiftach, a world war broke out over this office, but I insisted that it should be allocated to you.” Yiftach’s new office was spacious; the reddish-brown lacquered wooden desk was expansive and the view of Salah al-Din Street from the window was reflected in all its grandeur and in clear detail. At the entrance to the office, to the right, stood a small, round glass table on which stood a bowl of fresh fruit, with two chairs on either side. It was the kind of office meant for senior attorneys far more experienced than Yiftach, and the fact that he was given this room raised some eyebrows among several veteran attorneys at the office.
“I’ve seen the view and the office and, in fact, the welcome I’ve received is far beyond my expectations. Thank you for everything. I sincerely mean it, Attorney Weissman, I mean… Rafael… Rafi… Thank you.” Deep in his heart, he knew that there was ‘no free lunch,’ certainly not from Weissman, and that now he must learn what is expected of him and justify his position in such an office.
Weissman headed a staff that handled cases of severe criminality, complex issues marked by problematic issues concerning evidence, and precedent-setting cases as well, some of which would surely reach the Supreme Court. Therefore,Weissman routinely stood in close contact with Dr. Asher Kanne, the State Attorney General. Weissman was renowned for his demanding standards—which led more than one attorney to pack his things and leave for the private sector, to join one of the large Tel Aviv firms. Yiftach understood that he was expected to devote himself intensively and totally to his work, staying through the wee hours of the night in return for the typical measly wages given to young lawyers employed in the civil service.
Weissman turned away from the window and their eyes met. He had a light, athletic gait, like that of a sly fox. He paced back and forth along the wall of the office—to help him think, as it were—and while waving his hands dramatically, as if he were in the midst of an aggressive cross-examination, he continued speaking: “Any attempt to get a handle on all the cases that have been assigned to you during your first week here would be over-ambitious and, in any case, would prove impossible. Therefore, to help with a softer landing, I’m asking that during this coming week you focus on only three issues.” Yiftach searched quickly through the piles of binders, files and office equipment that covered his desk like a heavy winter blanket, and finally laid his hands on a yellow legal pad and a blue pen that had hardly any ink. “The first case,” Weissman continued with the tone of an authoritative teacher as Yiftach carefully wrote down every word, “Criminal Case No. 4766764/09,The State of Israel vs. Cohen, is about settling accounts in organized crime. As far as we know, and this is the version we will present in court, a mercenary arrived at the Jaffa apartment of the intended target, who was in the living room at the time, and fired a bullet from his loaded gun, aiming at his head.”
The damn pen hardly worked and, while Yiftach was trying desperately to write down Weissman’s words, the latter kept talking at a fast pace. “But the target of the assassinationmanaged to fall to the floor and, as a result, the bullet hit his daughter, a minor not yet seventeen years old, near her heart and she was killed instantly. The mercenary escaped without completing his mission. You see those four boxes over there?” Weissman pointed to one of the corners of the room. Yiftach nodded his head. “There you’ll find all the investigative material that, at the time, we passed on to the defense attorney. As you know, as soon as an indictment is submitted, the defendant and his attorney are entitled to review the investigative material held by the prosecution. In general, the investigative material relates directly or indirectly to the indictment and pertains to the evidence and narrative of the criminal indictment. Read the material!” Weissman ordered, “and make sure you know it inside out. Come talk to me afterwards. I would like you to appear in court for this case.”
A quiet sigh escaped from Yiftach’s lips, but it didn’t suffice to stop Weissman’s flow of speech, nor the young attorney’s hand from taking notes. Weissman continued dictating in his well-known style—military and precise. “The second case, Criminal Case No. 4453678/08,The State of Israel vs. Raviv, is really a fascinating and exciting case. The key persona in this case is a man nearing sixty who was capable of exposing the existence of a horrendous cartel, perhaps the largest cartel ever in Israel. Just to give you a glimpse, it concerns the meticulous price coordination and geographical distribution of customers among the various competitors.”
“But how is that a case for our office? It’s a matter for the FTC, it falls under their jurisdiction,” Yiftach wondered and continued: “After all, antitrust is a branch of the law that promotes fair competition and the major supervision is carried out by the Federal Trade Commission.”
“Correct, the indictment regarding the cartel was previously handled by the FTC, but the entire issue is stuck now, reallystuck, and I doubt if an indictment will ever be submitted against the companies and the directors involved in it.”
“What’s holding it up?” Yiftach asked, unsure where Weissman’s words were taking him.
“Problems with the evidence. Both the police and the FTC feared for the life of the key figure here, and they transferred him to a kind of witness protection program. However, one wintry night—as we suspect, yes? —three men, whose identity and location are unknown, grabbed a police officer who was closely familiar with that particular program. They held a gun to his head and he led them to the safe house. Four gunshots killed the key witness in this cartel case.”
“And what about the police officer?” Yiftach asked.
“He managed to escape…”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. “Well, until the police catch the three killers, we’re pretty much stuck,” Yiftach concluded, seeking to break the silence.
“The three managed to leave the country, but it doesn’t mean that we’re stuck.”
The look in Weissman’s eyes was as unwavering as that of a gladiator ready to take on a powerful beast. “At this point, the three are not standing trial. We’re talking about something totally different. The person being indicted is the police officer, and the indictment papers have already been submitted.” Again, silence filled the room and Weissman’s words broke through it like a gunshot. “Well, that’s enough for a start. Put this room in order and study the details of these cases. Don’t overlook a single document, don’t skip a single word, not even a single letter. After you’ve familiarized yourself with all the material, let’s talk. The follow-up meetings for both cases are already set for next week.”
“The cases sound interesting and challenging,” Yiftach noted, trying to figure out where to begin, “but don’t they fall under the jurisdiction of the District Attorney’s Office?”
“Due to political considerations of some high-ranking officials, which I won’t elaborate on here,” Rafael answered categorically, “it was decided that we handle these cases, which means that there is no room for mistakes.”
Weissman was about to leave the room. “You mentioned three issues,” Yiftach recalled.
“You’re right. I nearly forgot. Considering the extreme workload awaiting you in the coming weeks, I would like to assign a young lawyer to help you—someone who recently passed the bar exam and isn’t fantasizing about high pay. In that file over there,” he pointed to a binder sitting on the edge of the desk, “you’ll find the CV’s of about thirty candidates who, on the face of it, seem suitable. I’d like you to interview, say, ten of them in the next week or two, select from those who seem most promising and choose the best one.”
Yiftach nodded. “Ok, but what is the third issue?” he asked hesitantly.
“That’s the third issue. Find a good lawyer who will help you through the difficult battles facing us. The enemy isn’t resting either and is already sharpening his swords. Well, that’s all for now, I need to get back to work. I wish you and us great success,” Weissman said and left the room.
At nine-thirty p.m., Yiftach drove to his father’s house in Moshav Udim, an agricultural village. Max Posner liked to brag that Udim was the first Jewish settlement created after the establishment of the State of Israel. Yiftach decided to return to his dependable childhood home until he was able to maneuver his way through the loneliness of Tel Aviv, like so many other bachelors. Amitai, his older and only brother, was killed seven years earlier during an earthquake in Nepal. Death had cruelly snatched him as he was merrily trekking the Nepali countryside; a cascade of rocks had fallen on him and pulled him down. Emma, Yiftach’s mother, a tall woman with long blonde hair,was the silent type and, after her son’s death, the kidney disease she suffered from worsened, and she died one year after having buried her firstborn son. Yiftach was heartbroken that his mother wouldn’t see him married and, worst of all, wouldn’t ever get to know his children. After her death, he kept thinking of questions he wanted to ask her and never did—why was she so silent, why had she loved her husband Max so much, even when he was unbearable, and what was the recipe for the meatballs that Yiftach loved. After her death, eighty-year-old Max remained alone and ill, gaunt yet obstinate, short yet erect. He had thick white hair that was carefully combed back, pale skin and blue eyes. Yiftach didn’t talk much with Max after his mother’s death. He often said that a dialogue with his father was a jumble of shouting, complaints and baseless accusations, and he shared with his friends that because of his father’s impossible character, finding a caretaker for him—who would agree to suffer his yelling, cursing and unfounded accusations (and at times even slaps on the rear end)—was an impossible mission. Indeed, most of the women who came to look after Max never lasted more than a few weeks or, at best, a few months.
When Yiftach entered the house, he found his father sitting in his armchair, sullen and irritable, watching an Italian TV channel with half-naked models dancing around the program’s aging host. Max’s new caretaker, Chava, was sitting on the couch not far from him, busy knitting something that most likely would soon become a scarf, a doily, or some other useless item. She was in her late sixties, her hair was dyed brown, like the color of her eyes, and she had a bulbous nose.
