“Like you…”
She glanced at her faded corduroy bag despondently. “I feel chilly…” she said sadly. She raised her hand, signaling the barman to come over. After ordering a cup of hot tea, she said, “Shall we continue with the story?”
Ro’el picked up the tattered yellow pad and continued reading from where he had left off.
***
People crowded into the small courtroom on the fourth floor of Tel Aviv’s District Court to hear evidence of Case No. 4788764/09,The State of Israel vs. Cohen. Many attorneys were there, along with legal reporters, curious citizens, as well as Attorney Rafael Weissman. He sat in the back, observing Yiftach Posner, the young attorney he had taken under his wing. The defendant, Maor Cohen, was being held in custody until his trial. In this case, it was suspected that Cohen was the mercenary who had come to the Jaffa apartment where the murder had occurred, and it was he who shot two bullets from a short Beretta pistol that mistakenly killed the daughter of the assassinationtarget. Cohen was whispering with his attorney, Yaacov Biton, as he sat on the defendant’s bench, handcuffed to a woman officer and a policeman. The presiding judge appeared to be about fifty years old. His thinning grey hair was combed over to the side in an attempt to conceal his shiny bald head. His wise, brown eyes gazed through the thick lenses of his glasses. He turned to Attorney Biton. “Where is this leading to?” he asked.
“To the fact that my client does not possess the mental component of ‘premeditation’—as is required for a conviction of the offense of premeditated murder—for he had no intention of killing the deceased. Therefore,” the learned attorney continued, “the complainant would be wise to drop charges based on this preposterous allegation, as warranted by Section 93 of the Criminal Procedure Law, and stop wasting our time, and especially the precious time of this court.” He swung his arms out in wide, exaggerated movements.
“Your Honor,” Yiftach stood up quickly.
“Yes, Attorney Posner?” the judge responded in a dull tone.
“If there was any truth to my colleague’s words, we would then ask the court to amend the indictment and change the offense from ‘murder’ to ‘manslaughter,’ but my colleague’s words are totally unfounded.” Biton shot Yiftach a stern look.
“In Amendment No. 39 of the Penal Code,” Yiftach continued confidently, “with which my colleague is certainly well acquainted, Section 2 was added to Clause 20C of the law…” Yiftach searched for the right page in the Book of Statutes, “stating that ‘it makes no difference whether the act was done to another person or to another’s property other than that for which the act was intended.’ With this amended clause, the legislator sought to clarify that when a criminal is mistaken in identifying his victim, the criminal intent passes from the person he intended to harm to the victim whom he actually harmed. In our view, which we will prove before this honorable court withour list of witnesses and the body of evidence we have gathered, the defendant unflinchingly devised a monstrous plan whose objective was to murder the father of the deceased, and the criminal intent essential to this aim undoubtedly consolidated in his mind. His malicious plan miscarried and, instead of harming the person he had targeted, he harmed that person’s daughter and caused her death. In accordance with the above-mentioned Section 20C (2), the necessary criminal intent therefore transfers from the victim whom he intended to harm—the father—to the victim whom he actually harmed—the daughter—and, therefore, the required mental component definitely exists in our case.”
Attorney Posner’s first court appearance, in his new position with the State Attorney’s Office, was a success. He seemed self-assured, trustworthy, articulate, knowledgeable, smart and especially—out to win. Yet, there was something about his eyes—not easily defined—that seemed to be dulled. When the court session ended, Biton came up to Yiftach.
“Can I be blunt with you?” Biton asked.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing till now?” Yiftach replied.
Biton smiled slyly. “Let me be frank with you, my friend. I’ve been authorized to enter into a plea bargain with you.”
“And I’ve been mandated to respond that there will be no plea bargain here. We’re going with this all the way, especially when murderers of children are involved!”
“Yiftach!” Weissman called out to him after most of the crowd in the courtroom had already left.
“Rafi…” Yiftach was taken by surprise, and quickly shook Biton off, “I didn’t see you. Were you here for the entire court session?”
Weissman shook his head from side to side. “I just arrived, I was in court with Judge Resnick and vaguely remembered that you too are in Tel Aviv today. I thought of inviting you to lunch, and we’ll return to the office together. I have my car here.”
“Sounds good to me, certainly better than returning by train and eating leftovers warmed in the microwave…” Yiftach fully understood that Weissman had been in the courtroom from the very start of the session in order to personally observe his new attorney’s litigation skills.
They entered a restaurant close to the Municipal Theatre, not far from the courthouse, and ordered a business lunch. Yiftach told Weissman about his family that had fallen apart, about his beloved older brother and his devoted mother. Weissman listened attentively, not knowing what to do with this personal information the young lawyer exposed him to. He then shared with Yiftach his own story about his mother who had died from cirrhosis of the liver following a failed liver transplant. He felt comfortable sharing with Yiftach that as a child and as a young man, his parents had always determined everything he did. When he was but thirteen months old, his mother decided to toilet-train him. She stopped diapering him completely and, whenever he wet his pants, his mother would give him a slight electric shock on his butt using an old transistor radio in order to get her message across and to force him to follow her strict rules. Her unique method of toilet-training seemed to have succeeded, yet until the age of six he would sometimes wet his bed at night. When he was seven years old, his parents decided he had to learn to play the piano and, when he was eight, he was sent three times a week for private English lessons. Even after completing his army service, with plans to travel to the Far East, his parents made it clear to him that if he expected them to finance his studies, he must abandon any thoughts of traveling and begin his university studies immediately. Thus, at the age of twenty-one, Weissman found himself attending the Faculty of Law at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
There he met Nili, his wife and the mother of his two daughters. His decision to marry her, much to his parents’chagrin, was the first time in his life that he had ever made an independent decision. Taking up residence in Jerusalem, far from his childhood home in Holon, allowed him absolute and intoxicating freedom, the very opposite of the terror regime that was imposed on him till then, and he had no intention of giving it up, no matter what the cost—even if it meant hearing his father say to him every so often that his mother died of sorrow because of his marriage to Nili. Suddenly, the great Weissman took on a human dimension in Yiftach’s eyes, a mortal like all others—married to a woman he loves, daughters whom he embraces, and savoring his favorite foods.
When the two men finished their meal and their conversation, they returned to Jerusalem. Upon entering the office, Julie, the secretary, said to Yiftach: “There are people waiting for you,” pointing in the direction of the black leather sofas in the reception area. Three young lawyers were sitting there, clearly tense. Two were sipping watered-down coffee while the third was browsing through some old, mundane magazines placed on the table.
“I’m starting to interview today,” Yiftach explained to Weissman.
“Good, let’s get it done by the end of the week,” Weissman said as they walked to his office. “A court hearing is scheduled for Thursday regardingThe State of Israel vs. Raviv, and you should devote most of your time to that. Attorney Elbaz is representing the defendant in this case, and he is a shrewd, old fox. I expect a hard battle.” They reached Weissman’s office and stood near the sofa. “And about the interviewees, make sure you emphasize… you know… the heavy workload, long hours, the complexity of the cases and the commitment and investment that is expected of them.” He stood close to Yiftach and, once again, his expression was serious and intimidating. “Only the very best are hired at the State Attorney General’sOffice. And one more thing,” he remembered, “don’t forget to mention that the starting salary isn’t high—if they don’t have high expectations, they won’t be disappointed.”
Yiftach entered his room and invited in the first interviewee. He seemed as fragile as ice and as charismatic as an old shoe. Behind the opaque lenses, he had a puzzled look. He was thin and the vertical stripes of his shirt only emphasized this gaunt frame. His twitching, quivering and nail-biting clearly reflected his inner tension. He resembled a reptilian creature.
Poor thing, Yiftach thought, he doesn’t stand a chance. “Evyatar?” he called his name, glanced at his CV, and the strange, lean man nodded. “Please, tell me something about yourself.”
“Where should I begin?” Evyatar asked.
Bad answer, Yiftach thought to himself. ‘Tell me about yourself’ is a simple request and, when addressed to an interviewee, he is expected to break into a vigorous monologue about his strengths and advantages as compared to his competitors and emphasize those traits that make him the most suitable of all candidates.
“I see you attached to your CV a letter of recommendation from the office where I did my internship. Tsabari-Ish Shalom is an excellent criminal law firm,” Yiftach noted as he read the laconic recommendation.
“Yes,” Evyatar replied, “I think they were very pleased with me.”
