Chapter Five #2
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 regarding The 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’s Office.
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.”
“So pleased that they decided to let you go…” Yiftach muttered to himself.
“What?” Evyatar asked.
“No, nothing,” Yiftach said dismissively. “If I may,” he continued, briskly changing the subject of their conversation, “I will ask you several questions, and we’ll see how we progress from there.”
Evyatar became very anxious and found it hard to speak. “Yes, of course…” he replied after a moment, trying to sound assertive and self-assured.
“Let’s assume the following: Michal is driving her car carelessly and hits Yogev, ever so slightly, who is standing on the sidewalk.
Apparently, Yogev—who was extremely frightened—has a heart condition, a fact Michal has no prior knowledge of, as she isn’t acquainted with him, nor are there any external signs that reflect his illness.
Now, let us assume that as a result of the fright and excitement that overwhelmed Yogev, he suffers a heart attack and dies instantly.
I wish to emphasize that any direct injuries that Yogev sustained as a result of the accident are very slight.
In your opinion, can Michal be accused of causing death by negligence, according to Section 304 of the Penal Code? ”
Yiftach knew that such cases are nicknamed ‘thin skull,’ and are characterized by the fact that the victim of the crime suffers from a special sensitivity that is not outwardly visible.
He hoped that Evyatar would give a correct answer and say that according to Israeli law, Michal apparently will be forced to accept criminal responsibility for causing death by negligence.
For though heart disease is considered a pre-existing condition that is not outwardly visible and constitutes a ‘thin skull,’ according to past cases the offender is responsible for the harm he or she has caused.
Different answers kept running through Evyatar’s mind, circling like crazy bats in a dark cave.
Finally, he replied laconically: “I think that a conviction for the offense for causing death by negligence would be excessive in this case. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to convict her of the offense of severe injury under Section 336 of the Penal Code.”
Yiftach’s eyes narrowed with concern. “The offense of severe injury is set in Section 333 of the Penal Code,” he corrected him, “but I pointed out to you that the injuries sustained by Yogev were very slight... in any event, I believe that it is enough for now. After all the candidates are interviewed for this position, we will send our responses. Thank you for your time.”
They both stood up and shook hands. “How long do you think it will take?” Evyatar asked.
“You will have the answer by the end of the week.” Weissman’s instructions still echoed in his head.
The two following candidates also did not meet expectations.
One was totally lacking in self-confidence, whereas the other was manifestly overconfident.
The cases that Weissman had given to Yiftach were complicated and difficult and, in order to effectively help him with them, he needed a lawyer who was knowledgeable and talented.
Yiftach looked at his watch and stared at the second hand turning.
Weissman entered the room. “So, how is it going?” he inquired.
“Not great,” Yiftach looked directly at him, “these guys are young, Rafi. They still don’t have a handle on the material, and I don’t blame them.
The issues we are dealing with are complex and the lawyers I’m interviewing have only now completed the bar exam.
They don’t have the knowledge, experience and expertise required for handling materials of this nature. ”
“Well, there’s no other option,” Weissman replied, “our budget doesn’t allow us to hire a lawyer with seniority at this stage.
That’s why you’re here. Besides, remember, experience is something acquired and, as you said, the candidates are still young and are at the start of their professional careers.
So don’t look for knowledge, but rather a thirst for knowledge; don’t look for success in court, but a hunger for winning; don’t seek out excellence, but rather the ability to excel.
A candidate that has those traits will become an excellent lawyer after several months under your guidance.
I’m certain of it. Don’t forget, time grants us knowledge that can’t be found in textbooks.
” Weissman ended his speech with a wink, as he rushed out: “Okay, I’m on my way to the Supreme Court, we’ll talk this evening. ”
After Weissman left the room, Yiftach buzzed Julie.
“You can send in the next candidate, the last for today.” He glanced at all the binders stuffed with the material for the upcoming meeting and stared at the piles of paper that he hadn’t yet been able to go through.
When would he learn all this? Will he find the person who is capable of fighting alongside him and helping him?
“Good afternoon…” a hesitant voice was heard from the doorway.
He raised his eyes towards the source of the voice. His heart skipped a beat and a wave of excitement ran through his body. She had straight blonde hair, a bright, gleaming round face, large, sparkling blue-green eyes, a sculptured nose and full lips that smiled at him with genuine shyness.
“Good afternoon,” he replied. “Please, have a seat,” he indicated with his hand.
She entered the office, sat down on one of the visitors’ chairs and removed her handbag from her shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he asked, searching for her CV under the pile of papers.
“Melody, Melody Geva,” she said.