Chapter Four #2
“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.
Max shot a brief, angry glance towards Yiftach as he entered. “Young people today have no values whatsoever, not one drop!” he shot out heatedly, pointing with his chin towards the TV screen, “Just look at those girls, no shame!”
Yiftach took off his shoes. “My first day at work went well, thanks for asking, Dad.”
“Why do you need all that shit? The State Attorney General’s Office… what a dump… like New York…” he waved his hands about in large circles, “What was so terrible about staying in the Tel Aviv Attorney General’s Office?”
“New York is a dump?”
“Every place that isn’t your home is a dump.”
“Okay, I’m going to my room. In case I don’t see you again, I wish you both good night.”
“Good night,” Chava replied. His father wrapped himself in silence.
Yiftach entered his room, the room where he had spent most of his childhood and adolescent years.
After deep contemplation, he whispered softly: “Is it at all possible? How come no one ever did it before me? No!” he told himself, “it doesn’t make any sense, and anyway, it isn’t practical.
” He lay on his bed, stared at the cracked ceiling and felt the room spinning around him.
Sporadic childhood memories passed before his eyes like pictures from an old, faded movie film: He sees Toto, the family’s golden retriever that they had to put down after cancer had spread throughout his body; he looks at Amitai; he laughs with his mother.
Three memories, one longing. One family that time had erased.
There was another question that kept bothering him and he started to verbalize it with a weak voice: “If I spent two good years in New York, and not just like anyone, but at the expense of the State Attorney General… if I’ve been recruited to one of the most senior staffs in the State Attorney General’s Office and I am privileged to work with the great Weissman himself…
and now, if I am a promising, young attorney and the best is yet to come…
then why, why do I feel so bad?” He made an effort to consign those thoughts to a deep, isolated hole in his brain.
His eyes slowly shut and he was drawn into a dream, yet another dream in which he and Nicole are together again, busy with final preparations for their wedding.
Now everything became clear to him—his life was like a river that was flowing backward.