Asylum City (31 page)

So what was it? The stupid position paper? Had the cops looked into Michal's complaint and found out that he'd kept it from the court? If that's what it was, he had nothing to worry about. There were plenty of ways he could justify not disclosing Shemesh's legal opinion. Even more to the point, Regev would look out for him. Once he got his claws into Nachmias, she wouldn't even be able to get a job as a crossing guard.

Yariv sat down and leaned back in his chair. He was feeling much better. He wondered if he should ask to consult with a lawyer. That would be the smart thing to do, the golden rule every attorney learned the first day in law school. But why bother? The more he thought about it, the more positive he became that they'd hauled him in to question him about the legal opinion. Demanding to speak to a lawyer would arouse suspicion and make him look guilty. No, it was better to deal with it on his own.

His thoughts were interrupted by Nachmias, who walked in with a tall, bearded cop. The man introduced himself as Detective Yaron Waldman. Yariv had to take care not to look nervous. If they had anything solid to go on, he'd be under arrest. But Nachmias said they came to bring him in for questioning, not to arrest him, and that was significant. It meant they were on a fishing expedition; they didn't have probable cause for an arrest warrant. They must have forgotten he knew a thing or two about the criminal justice system.

“Do you want to consult with a lawyer before we begin?” Nachmias asked, taking the seat directly across from him.

“I
am
a lawyer, baby,” Yariv answered, his voice dripping with contempt, “and the first thing I want to know is why I'm here.”

“So you understand what it means when I tell you that you're being interviewed under caution?”

“I hope
you
understand what it means,” he retorted.

“You lied to me, Mr. Ninio,” Nachmias said, looking him straight in the eye.

“Pardon me, I didn't know we were married. You're holding me because I hurt your feelings?” Yariv looked over at Waldman, wanting to share the joke with the other man in the room, but the cop's face remained expressionless.

“The Justice Ministry sent you Dr. Yigal Shemesh's legal opinion,” Anat went on, leaning closer.

Yariv made no attempt to hide his grin. He was right. They'd hauled him in because of the idiotic legal opinion. If he'd answered the phone, Borochov would have warned him this was about to happen.

“I suggest you wipe the smile off your face,” Waldman barked.

“And I suggest,” Yariv snapped back, “that the two of you say you're sorry and call me a cab. Even if I received the opinion, and I'm not saying I did, so what? If you did your homework, you'd know I was under no obligation to make use of it. There are opposing opinions, too, you know. Just because some bleeding heart who doesn't give a shit about the country decided to write it, it doesn't necessarily mean anything. I used my discretion as an attorney, and I had the necessary authorization.”

“From who?” Nachmias cut in.

“I don't have to answer that, Detective. With all due respect to you and the show you're putting on for my benefit, it's none of your business. We're talking about internal decisions of the State Attorney's Office. That's a few hundred levels above your pay grade.” Yariv's voice was steady.

“The legal opinion could have a dramatic impact on a lot of people. It might prevent their deportation. It might even save their lives. Michal claimed that the man she worked with, Hagos, was deported and subsequently murdered because you concealed it. The opinion would also bring an end to the string of legal victories you're so proud of. So don't tell me it doesn't mean anything,” Nachmias chided.

Yariv was irritated by her self-righteous tone.

“Too bad you're not listening. Or maybe you don't get it. Let me spell it out for you again, in words even you can understand: there are other legal opinions. They say the exact opposite. Is that clear, or do I have to repeat it a third time?” Yariv asked sarcastically, his voice rising.

Nachmias remained silent.

Good! He had her on the ropes.

“Get this into your head,” he went on with renewed confidence. “Hagos was deported because he was from Ethiopia. I'm not the one who said so, the Ministry of the Interior said so. As soon as that determination was made, nothing could stand in the way of his deportation. Nothing! Not me, not the court, and not Michal Poleg, who was probably fucking him. So I suggest you calm down and stop poking your nose in things you don't understand.”

The detectives remained silent, keeping their eyes on Yariv. Everything they say about the cops is right, he thought. They're a bunch of clowns.

“I've had enough of this,” he said, standing up.

“Sit down!” Waldman rose threateningly from his seat.

“We're not done yet, Mr. Ninio. Please sit down,” Nachmias said quietly.

Yariv hesitated for a moment before obeying.

“You've got five minutes,” he said sharply to Nachmias. She nodded.

“When did you last see Michal Poleg?” she asked, scribbling something on the pad in front of her.

Yariv didn't reply. Why were they asking him about Michal?

“You said you hadn't seen her for months,” she prodded.

“I don't know if it was months. We might have run into each other in the street . . . in the supermarket . . . I don't remember,” Yariv muttered. “What difference does it make?”

“You haven't been in her apartment recently?” Nachmias persisted. Her detached tone of voice was making Yariv nervous.

“No, of course not. I told you, we broke up a long time ago. I'm getting married soon. We were together for a while and then we ended it,” he answered irritably.

Nachmias remained silent.

“I presume we're finished here,” Yariv said, clapping his hands together and starting to rise.

“You see, Counselor, that's my problem. You keep lying to me.” Nachmias leaned across the desk, propping her head on her hands.

“What? What are you talking about? I demand an immediate apology!” Yariv said belligerently, despite the agitation this new line of questioning had sparked.

“Do you want to rethink your answer and tell me when you were last in Michal's apartment?”

“I already told you . . .” Yariv's confidence was slipping away.

“What did you tell me?” Nachmias asked, maintaining her exasperating calm.

“It was months ago. . . . Why are you asking me these questions?” Yariv felt his heart sink.

“We found your fingerprints,” Nachmias said matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair.

“What?”

“You're lying to me, Mr. Ninio. You were in Michal's apartment the night she was murdered.” Nachmias leaned forward again.

“I didn't . . . what are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?” Yariv wiped his forehead. He hadn't noticed how hot the room was.

“So how do you explain the fact that your fingerprints were there?” the detective said sharply, raising her voice for the first time.

Yariv didn't answer. What was going on here? How did they identify his fingerprints? Kobi assured him that any prints he might have left in the room would never lead back to him. Since he'd never been arrested, his prints weren't on file. That's why he felt confident claiming he hadn't been there in months. What went wrong? How did they find out? Did he leave something behind in the apartment? Did something fall out of his pocket?

“So you found my prints, so what?” he said, making an effort to sound as unconcerned as he had a few minutes ago. “They're probably still there from when we were going out. Didn't that occur to you?”

“Wrong answer, Mr. Ninio,” Waldman jeered. “No way they're that old. Our lab says they're recent, very recent.”

Yariv was speechless.

“Yariv Ninio, you're under arrest for the murder of Michal Poleg,” Nachmias declared.

“What? You can't do that . . . I didn't . . . Have you gone completely insane? Why are you doing this?”

“You lying bastard, you killed her!” Waldman yelled. “What did you think, that we wouldn't find out? That we're idiots. That we'd let you get away with it because you're an ASA?”

Suddenly it all made sense. He'd been a fool. Instead of keeping his conversation with Borochov to himself, he'd gone and told Kobi. They'd been watching him. When he didn't answer the phone, they got mad and sold him out. That's how the cops knew. Borochov wouldn't have called the cops himself. He must have gotten someone else to do the dirty work for him.

“Tell me, Ninio, how did you kill her?” Nachmias asked.

He'd handled the whole thing wrong. Now he was done for. They knew everything. Maybe even things he didn't know himself.

ANAT
watched in silence as Ninio broke down in tears. She signaled for Yaron to get him some water. She needed him to get a grip on himself and describe how he murdered Michal Poleg.

“I didn't kill Michal,” Ninio said, raising his eyes to her the moment the door closed behind Yaron.

She examined him closely. She was disappointed that he was sticking to his story, but then she hadn't expected him to break so soon.

“The fingerprints? It's a setup. Someone's out to get me. They must have planted my prints in her apartment.” Anat could hear the desperation in his voice.

She remained silent. She couldn't count the number of times a suspect claimed he'd been framed. Once she got him in the interrogation room, Ninio was no different from anyone else. This was just one of the stages they all went through before they confessed.

“I was set up. There are people out there who don't like what I do, self-loathing Israelis who see me as the enemy,” Ninio went on, trying to make eye contact with her.

“You've got to believe me. I'm telling you the truth.”

“It's a shame you're going down this road, Ninio, a real shame.”

“When you showed up at my door, I thought you were there to protect me.” He was breathing heavily. “I thought he sent someone to kill me. I told you . . .”

“Who?”

“Borochov. Shuki Borochov.” Yariv's voice was trembling.

“Borochov? What's he to you?” Anat asked, puzzled. She was finding it hard to maintain her poker face. She knew the name Shuki Borochov very well. And she knew Ninio would have to be a fool to accuse him of framing him for murder. Is he stupid or is he telling the truth, a little voice in her head demanded.

Anat listened to Ninio's story without interrupting. He told her how Borochov had paid a visit to his office and hinted that they knew things about Michal's murder and if he didn't cooperate and do what they wanted, they'd retaliate by framing him for the crime.

“What things did they know about the murder?” Anat asked when he stopped talking.

Ninio shrugged.

“Maybe they know the truth, that you killed her? People like Borochov don't make idle threats.”

“I didn't kill her,” Ninio insisted. “I told you, it's a setup.”

“You weren't in her apartment the night of the murder?”

Ninio shook his head.

“You've got to protect me. The mob wants to get its hooks into someone in the State Attorney's Office. They're trying to manipulate the legal system. You and I are on the same side here. What happened to me could happen to you, too.”

Anat looked straight at the camera concealed in the wall of the interrogation room and offered a little smile of thanks to David. It was his idea to proceed one step at a time, not to hit Ninio with all the evidence at once. The blood on Michal's door was an uncommon type, and it was the same as his: A-. They'd gotten that information from his army file yesterday, and it was only then that the State Attorney had given his okay for the arrest warrant. “I almost believe you, Ninio,” she said, knowing that she was about to take a wrecking ball to the house of cards he'd constructed.

“I'm telling you the truth. You've got to believe me,” he stammered.

She'd misjudged the ASA. He was shrewder than she thought. As soon as she got his confession, she'd question him about Borochov. She had to admit this little diversion was a cleverly crafted strategy.

“Believe that your prints were planted at the scene?” she asked with undisguised skepticism.

Ninio nodded.

“You see, that's where I've got a problem. It just doesn't make sense.” Anat kept her voice calm, accenting each word.

“Why not? It's the simplest thing in the world. . . . You see it on television all the time. . . . You don't have to be a genius. . . .”

“Because it wasn't just your prints we found. We also found your blood at the scene,” Anat cut in. “Can you explain that to me, Mr. Ninio, how your blood made its way to Michal's apartment? Did Borochov plant that there, too?”

YARIV
stared at Nachmias in despair. It had completely slipped his mind. He'd been focusing on the fingerprints and completely forgotten about the bruises he had when he got home that night. It's not surprising his blood was found at Michal's apartment. He'd dug his own grave, ratted out Borochov for no good reason.

He gulped down the water the cop had brought him. The two detectives gazed at him icily. He'd been too cocky. He shouldn't have underestimated them.

It was time to demand to speak to a lawyer. Meanwhile, he was just making things worse for himself. But if he stopped the interview and then told them later what really happened, they'd never believe him. They'd assume he was just parroting what his lawyer told him to say, that it was just another fairy tale.

He had to gain their trust. No more games. He needed to tell them everything he knew, or at least everything he thought he knew.