Asylum City (4 page)

All that changed a year ago. That's when he got moved to the State Attorney's Office and was assigned to handle the petitions filed by illegal aliens against deportation orders. Meanwhile, Michal had found time among all her rape victims and battered women and the rest of the wretched of the world to volunteer at some aid organization. She began to treat him like the enemy. He figured she still resented him for dumping her.

Every time they ran into each other in the street, she took the opportunity to lecture him in raised tones. It pissed him off the way she berated him. And he was sure she was sleeping with that African of hers, Hagos. The thought disgusted him. There was no line the girl wouldn't cross when it came to sex. He could testify to that himself.

“MR.
Ninio?” The judge's shrill voice interrupted his musings. He'd appeared before her dozens of times and didn't have a very high opinion of her. Today he actually hated her. Her voice was drilling a hole in his head.

He rose and threw her an irritated look for intruding on his thoughts. Before leaving the house, he'd used Inbar's makeup to try to hide the bruises under his eyes. He hadn't done a very good job. Inbar's complexion was paler than his, and he didn't know what to do with all the creams, tubes, powders, and the rest of her junk. When he went by the office to get the file, Eran in the next room asked him what happened to him. “I fell off my bike,” he said shortly, disappearing into his office. At the start of this morning's proceedings, the judge asked him the same question and he gave her the same answer. It was none of their business.

“How does the State stand in respect to the petition?” she asked with obvious impatience. He realized his mind had been wandering again and he was standing there looking like an idiot with makeup on his face. There was nothing he hated more than being caught off guard.

“The State objects,” he answered firmly, although he had no idea what they were talking about. Objecting was a conditioned reflex for lawyers. “If you don't have anything to say—object,” he remembered being told by his mentor when he was an intern.

“Would our learned friend like to share with us the grounds for the objection?” She wasn't going to let up.

“My colleague's petition is irrelevant. It is nothing but an attempt to divert the proceedings from their true purpose, which is to determine whether the State's determination that the petitioner is not from Eritrea but from Ethiopia is unreasonable,” he reeled off, sitting down demonstratively. Why did she have to badger him?

The judge gazed at him for a moment and then reiterated his objection for the record.

He didn't even have to glance at the file to phrase the objection. He'd argued against enough of Lankry's petitions. The man filed them by the armful, and the wording was always sloppy. Illegal aliens had enough problems, they didn't need another one in the form of a hack who demanded huge fees to file a worthless petition. Lankry specialized in them. He promised his clients they had nothing to worry about, collected his fee in advance, and then wrote a petition virtually identical to the ones he'd filed in the past for other illegals, and which had previously been denied by the court. When the judge rendered the decision, his client was being held pending deportation and couldn't do anything about it. Of course, he'd already taken his money.

AS
the hearing continued, Yariv allowed his mind to wander again. He was incensed by the complaint Michal had filed against him. She claimed he knowingly presented the court with false information and was guilty of deception, fraud, and falsification. Because of Assistant State Attorney Yariv Ninio, and he alone, her African boyfriend had been murdered.

He didn't give a damn what she claimed. What bothered him was that the complaint revealed the existence of the report prepared by what Ehud Regev called “the bleeding hearts in the Foreign Ministry,” which stated that aliens deported to Ethiopia faced a concrete threat to life. Michal argued that concealing the document was tantamount to holding a gun to the deportee's head. She demanded his disbarment on the grounds of conduct unbecoming a member of the bar. The complaint made his blood boil, especially when he read her repeated reference to him as an “unenlightened racist” and a “serial killer in legal disguise.”

LAST
night he'd caught sight of Michal from the bar on Ibn Gvirol Street where he was having a drink with Kobi. She was right across the street. From that moment on, he hadn't been able to think of anything else. He knew he'd have to justify himself, defend himself against her allegations, maybe even reveal their history, and it drove him around the bend. He was sure there were plenty of well-meaning souls who'd use the complaint as an excuse to deny him permanent status in the State Attorney's Office as he'd been promised. He had some friends in high places, but those people had enemies, too, and he was an easier target.

“YOU'RE
up, Mr. Ninio,” the judge prodded.

The minute he started talking, she'd attack him. She'd say she was uncomfortable with the State's position and threaten to grant the petition. He'd have to submit to her tirade and take her abuse. Out of the corner of his eye he would see Lankry's client smiling, convinced the judge was on her side, that she was going to win. But the judge and Lankry knew as well as he did that it was just for show. It was always the same in the end. She'd rule in favor of the State and sanction the woman's deportation.

Over ninety-five percent of the petitions filed on behalf of illegal aliens were denied. Yariv himself had a near-perfect record. Like everyone else in the office, he wanted to advance and land high-profile cases. And who gets them? The prosecutors with the most wins to their credit.

Ehud Regev had promised him he had his back. Now Yariv had to pressure him to make good on that promise. He was sick and tired of this garbage, of all the migrants and their lawyers. That wasn't why he'd decided to become a prosecutor. What kind of private practice could he start later on with a specialty in illegal alien cases? He had to move on, and the sooner the better.

THE
judge glanced at her watch.

“I suggest we adjourn for thirty minutes. We'll reconvene at twelve o'clock,” she declared, rising.

Grudgingly, Yariv packed up his things. What a waste of time, and just when my head is about to explode, he muttered to himself.

“If I were you, I'd give up now. You're going to lose,” Lankry said, speaking in English for the benefit of his client.

“Yeah, right, like always. You're so used to beating me,” Yariv answered derisively.

“You look like you've already taken a beating this morning. What happened? You rub somebody the wrong way?”

Unable to hold back, Yariv stuck his face in Lankry's and grabbed him by the lapel. “Don't mess with me, Lankry. It's not a good idea,” he said menacingly before letting go. The other lawyer took off without responding.

Yariv exhaled. This really wasn't his day. He tossed two more aspirin in his mouth, found a quiet corner, and pulled out his cell phone. It was the last thing he felt like doing, but he knew he had no choice. He needed to apologize to Michal, even if he couldn't remember what he was apologizing for. If he could persuade her he'd done it because he was still in love with her, because he was jealous or something, she might cut him some slack, maybe even withdraw her complaint. He couldn't afford to let her ruin his career over something stupid. She wasn't worth it.

It had been a long time, but he still had her number in his phone. He tapped his foot nervously while he waited for her to pick up. The fact that he couldn't remember what happened last night was doing his head in.

WHEN
Itai turned his cell phone back on at the bus stop, he suddenly remembered Michal. He'd been screening her calls all weekend, planning to get back to her on the way to Jerusalem this morning. But he got home so late from his date with Ayelet last night that he fell asleep on the bus.

His spirits were high. The meeting at the hotel with the potential donor from Florida had gone well. No promises were made and no check was handed over, but he was optimistic. Itai wasn't a novice at this. The meeting had lasted an hour and a half, not the typical ten minutes. And unlike most people, Abe hadn't sat there sighing, “How awful.” To Itai's mind, there was nothing more sanctimonious and predictable than that “how awful.” He knew by now that “how awful” people didn't really want to know. They didn't want the details. They didn't care, and he wouldn't get any support from them. They just said what was expected of them and moved on. Abe was different. He didn't cluck his tongue and he didn't cite his family history and his “moral duty to help refugees.” He asked about the specifics of their work and the costs involved.

Itai still had a good taste in his mouth from his date, too. He'd followed Ronny's advice not to be Itai Fisher and just go with the flow. Surprisingly, it worked. It turned out he was capable of going a whole evening without Supreme Court petitions and human rights violations. Ayelet laughed at his stories about Ronny (that was his friend's idea, to make sure he didn't talk about his work), he laughed at her stories (and she had lots of them), and they kissed at the door to her building. Determined to take “not being Itai Fisher” as far as it would go, he asked if she'd like him to come upstairs with her for a coffee. He had to confess he felt relieved when she said, “Maybe next time.” There were still limits to how much change he could tolerate in a single evening. He decided to walk home. His head was completely clear of concerns about candidates for deportation, unpaid wages, and temporary visas, and he reveled in the moratorium he'd imposed on himself.

So he was just now listening to his messages. “Itai, it's me again.” He heard Michal's voice. “Why haven't you gotten back to me? I've been trying to reach you for two days. I don't get it. Why are you ignoring me? Is this some kind of game? I'm always there for you when you need something from me.”

Her schoolmarm tone was irritating.

“I'm not just nagging you for no good reason. I need to talk to you. It's urgent,” the message went on, eliciting a sigh from Itai. Everything was always urgent with Michal. Her world was black-and-white. Asylum seekers were saintly martyrs, the government (particularly the Immigration Police) was evil incarnate, Regev was the Devil, and Ninio was his apostle. You were either good or bad, and you had to choose. It was a childish attitude, he thought. Reality was more complicated. A life of poverty and hardship didn't automatically produce good people. And like it or not, Israel couldn't, and shouldn't, be the solution to Africa's problems. So even though he knew it didn't fit the public image of liberals like him, he believed firmly in the need for a border fence. That was another bone of contention between Michal and him.

“I wanted to tell you in person, but since you're not talking to me, I'll have to do it this way. It might interest you to know that I was assaulted last night on my way home. Two men. They roughed me up. . . .”

Itai stood frozen in place as the bus pulled up and the doors opened.

“I'm all right, more or less. Mostly, the idiots just wanted to scare me. But they don't know who they're dealing with,” she said with a trace of bravado in her voice.

Shaken, he sat down on the bench at the bus stop. He hadn't been expecting this. Michal assaulted? By whom? The bus went on its way, leaving him there.

“That's not the only reason I'm calling. I found out something today and I'm in shock.” He could hear Michal's breathing quicken. “We've been blind the whole time. I have to talk to you. Please, please, call me back. I don't care what time it is. It's extremely urgent.”

GABRIEL
was sweating despite the cold. He was running as fast as he could, fleeing Michal's apartment before her neighbor could catch him and call the police.

He crossed one unfamiliar street after another until he didn't know where he was. He was gasping for breath and his body was cramping. The injera he'd eaten before leaving for work rose in his throat. When he couldn't go any farther, he stopped at a corner where there was no one around. Panting and frightened, he retched violently.

HE
didn't plan on going into her apartment. Not even when he knocked on the door and saw it slide open slightly. He just stood where he was and called out to her. When he got no answer, he started to turn around and leave. He'd see her in a couple of hours at the OMA office, he consoled himself. Besides, he thought, he'd been in such a rush to find her and tell her about Liddie that he hadn't given himself time to think about what to say. Then he heard her neighbor coming up the stairs and a dog barking. He didn't want any trouble. Michal had told him about her crazy neighbor who yelled at her all the time and hated Africans. Gabriel was a little scared of the dog, too. It barked at him whenever he came here. That was the only reason he went inside.

WITH
halting steps, he made his way back to the main street. His shirt was stained with vomit. His eyes burned. The city had become a threatening place again, like when he first arrived in Tel Aviv. He'd never seen so many people before, so many cars and buses. He came from a small village in Eritrea near Keren where everybody knew everybody and everybody knew him. He was put off by the unpleasant smells coming from the stores around the old bus station, bewildered by all the strange food inside. People walked too fast, talked too fast, and it made him dizzy. And he felt anxious all the time because he didn't know the rules in this new place, didn't know what to say, what he was allowed to say.

People were staring at him as he continued unsteadily down the street. He felt like shouting, screaming, letting out the pain filling every inch of his body. But he didn't utter a sound. His brain told him there were certain things he must not do. If he wanted to survive, he had to remain faceless, invisible.