Asylum City (8 page)

Thrilled, Boaz thanked his lucky stars and accepted the offer immediately. At first, everything was great. Itzik gave him a lot of work, referred clients to him, and his new business was off to a running start. Before he knew it, he was making ten times his former salary. It took him several months to realize that Itzik was just a front, that he actually worked for Shimon Faro, the notorious syndicate boss. He still cursed himself every day for not pulling out as soon as he learned the truth. His greed had gotten the better of him. He didn't want to give up his fancy office, the nice house in the prestigious suburb of Ramat Hasharon, his new status. And he had another incentive to toe the line as well: Itzik had made it very clear that his financial debts would be the least of his worries if he ever decided to walk away or pull one of the tricks he'd played in his previous job. The syndicate knew all along why he had left the firm.

Instead of washing his hands of Faro's business, he'd gotten in even deeper and been given more and more responsibilities. He didn't have a record, so for all intents and purposes he was squeaky clean. Why not use him?

Faro set up a private banking system for Africans without papers who couldn't use regular banks. In addition to handling the books for the boss's other businesses, Boaz now served as a traveling “teller” for this so-called bank. Once a week, sometimes twice, he had to do the rounds at the old bus station, collecting deposits and doling out cash. His contact was a man Faro called the “General.” It was the worst day of the week for Boaz. He tried not to think about the other things Faro was involved in, and he knew better than to ask. It was obvious to him that he was just a small cog in a much larger machine.

When the government started talking about sending the Africans back where they came from, Boaz felt a glimmer of hope. He drank in MK Regev's impassioned speeches and wished him luck. No clients, no bank, he thought. He and Faro could part company as friends. But it didn't take him long to realize it wasn't going to happen. There would always be a bank because there would always be Africans. And if it wasn't Africans, it would be someone else. Why? Because money made the world go round. All those people left their homes because they needed money, and they found work here because it was good for the economy. Israel needed migrants to wash dishes in its restaurants, to clean the streets, to pick strawberries—all the dirty work no Israeli was willing to do. Developed economies needed slave laborers, and there were plenty on offer in Third World countries. So Boaz was stuck with Faro. There would always be illegal aliens in the country, and as long as there were, there would be a bank like Faro's.

Sagie had fallen asleep on Boaz's shoulder. He gazed at his son dolefully. He was so beautiful, so pure, so innocent.

The woman's face was showing on the screen again. Boaz felt her eyes staring at him accusingly. Did the abrupt end she put to his rounds that day cost her her life? Was that the price she had to pay? Was that the price he would have to pay?

ITAI
stared into the darkness. He'd been lying in bed for the past three hours, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

After finally listening to Michal's message, he tried over and over again to reach her at home, but all he got was a busy signal. As soon as he got back to Tel Aviv, he went straight to her apartment, but by the time he arrived it was too late. The building was surrounded by patrol cars and TV crews. There was no doubt in his mind what had happened or who was responsible.

In spite, or maybe because of, his emotional state, he elbowed his way over to a group of policemen standing at the entrance to the building and demanded to speak with the officer in charge. He waited a long time until a tall bearded cop came over and introduced himself as Yaron. Itai told him everything he knew.

IT
all started with Hagos. Shortly before he was taken away, he let slip something about the “Banker.” It wasn't unusual for asylum seekers to share their troubles, fears, and hardships with the aid workers. Some of those conversations touched on very intimate topics. Still, Itai had learned that certain subjects remained off-limits and it was best not to pry into them. To this day, for example, he had no idea if, where, and with whom the men who came to them for help slept at night. And while the money they didn't have was a popular topic of conversation, they preferred not to talk about the money they did have.

Michal had pressed Hagos for information about his life. He didn't want to say too much, didn't want to make waves, but she didn't let up. She felt it was her duty to put up a fight against Israelis who took advantage of asylum seekers. Knowing she couldn't get at the Bedouins, she declared war on the “Banker.” “It's because of what they did to us in the Holocaust,” she once told Itai with characteristic ardor. “Every country closed its doors to the Jews. Israel was established by refugees. I'll never get how people who grew up in this country can exploit other refugees. Is that so hard to understand?” When Hagos was picked up and subsequently deported, Michal convinced herself that it was because he knew too much and had told her too much about the “Banker.” Itai thought she was being paranoid.

Michal wouldn't let it go. She said OMA had to make the fight against the gangsters a priority. Naturally, he objected. He was as disgusted as she was by what they were doing, but he knew very well that a tiny organization like theirs couldn't go up against the syndicate. Michal's idea was absurd, and it would jeopardize everything they'd built. The battle they had over it was more acrimonious than any of their previous arguments. For the first time since she started working at OMA, he said if she didn't like it, she could leave.

Michal was taken aback by his belligerence. Atypically, she didn't insist on having the last word, just said quietly, “At least think about it.” The next morning she walked into his office and told him she'd decided he was right. She'd report what she knew about the “Banker” to the police and let them handle it.

ITAI
threw off the blanket and got out of bed. He had a headache. Michal had lied to him. Just like she'd gone behind his back and filed the complaint against Yariv Ninio, she'd continued to poke her nose into the “Banker's” affairs. Her message said they hadn't succeeded in scaring her, that they didn't know who they were dealing with. But in the end she was the one who didn't know who she was dealing with. And now he'd never know, either.

Why had he screened her calls? She needed his help and he ignored her. He was tormented by the thought of what might have been if he'd just answered his phone.

He reached out for his cell phone and it made him even more depressed. Gabriel still hadn't called. It was late, but he tried his number again. No answer this time, either. He wanted to be the one to tell him, to comfort him. He'd be there for him. Itai knew how close Gabriel and Michal were. It worried him that he couldn't reach him. Where was he?

KOBI
Etkin looked at Yariv with mixed emotions. His friend was weeping bitterly. In his six years as a lawyer, Kobi had sat opposite hundreds of tearful clients. He usually felt sorry for them. They came to him when they were weak, helpless, and frightened, and he was their only hope.

Kobi had no delusions. He knew very well that some of his clients had committed horrible crimes. He was no different from any other law-abiding citizen. If he saw these people on the news or read about them in the paper, he'd want them to die a painful death. But as an attorney, it was his job to defend them. And it was hard to hate someone whose life was hanging in the balance and they were begging for your help. The defense attorney's schizophrenia, he'd once heard a colleague call it.

He'd known Yariv since law school. Now and again they met for lunch or drinks in the evening. Kobi's office on King Saul Street was just a short walk from the State Attorney's Office.

Yariv's decision to work for the State Attorney for not much more than minimum wage had taken Kobi by surprise. He'd always pictured him in a large law firm where the money was. But Yariv explained that he planned to use the job as a stepping-stone. After a few years in the public sector, he'd have the experience, and, more important, the connections, that would give him a leg up when he went into private practice.

He had to admit that he'd felt a touch of satisfaction when Yariv told him about last night. They'd had dozens of arguments over the years about the role of the defense attorney. Kobi had a hard time putting up with his friend's contempt. “How can you defend such scum?” he said repeatedly. It infuriated him that Yariv, a lawyer himself, pretended not to understand that the day you got rid of defense attorneys was the day you closed the courthouse and turned out the lights. But he forced himself not to gloat. Yariv looked too miserable and lost for him to enjoy this moment of triumph.

If he was already being honest, Kobi also had to admit that he felt a bit uncomfortable about the whole thing. He saw that Yariv was drinking too much last night and he didn't say anything. And he wasn't overly sympathetic when Yariv kept whining about Michal Poleg and the complaint she filed against him. It was an inconvenience, but it wasn't the end of the world. The ethics committee wouldn't sanction him or take away his license. And no one was going to launch an investigation into whether or not he ever saw the Foreign Ministry document. Still, Kobi would probably have given his friend his full attention if it hadn't been for the pretty girl sitting at the next table who kept making eye contact with him. At a certain point, he got up and went over to talk to her. Left alone at the table, Yariv went on drinking. When Kobi sensed that the girl was ready to take things to the next level, he went back and asked Yariv if he was okay getting home on his own. His friend didn't object. That was around two in the morning. Now Kobi was feeling a little guilty. He didn't think it would be a problem; Yariv lived close by. But on the other hand, if he hadn't been so taken by that girl (in the end he didn't even get lucky), Yariv wouldn't be sitting opposite him feeling like his whole life was in shatters.

“I couldn't have killed her,” Yariv said, sniffling and wincing in pain. “Who is she anyway? What is she to me? Nothing, that's what. And anyway, I'm no murderer. I've never been violent. I've never raised a hand to anyone, and certainly not a woman. There's no way I killed her.”

Kobi kept silent. After six years in the profession, he knew that anybody was capable of murder. Everyone had a breaking point. Sometimes it was only a matter of bad timing or bad luck. And whatever Yariv said, Kobi knew he had a temper. He'd seen him blow up and lose control. He also knew that Yariv hadn't stopped ranting against Michal from the moment he caught sight of her outside the bar.

“You believe I can't remember anything, don't you? I swear on my life, Kobi, I don't remember a thing. I know I knocked on her door and she told me to go away, but that's it. After that it's all a blank.”

Kobi nodded. It didn't matter what he believed or didn't believe. As a defense attorney, he represented his client and served as his mouthpiece. This wasn't the first time a client told him he didn't remember what happened. People say that, hoping that if they claim they don't remember, somehow it will all just go away. Others really can't remember. Yariv was plastered, and the beating he'd taken was severe enough to leave him with a broken nose and bruises on his face, so maybe it also gave him a concussion. Given those circumstances, it was quite possible he didn't remember anything.

“I'm going to the police and I want you to come with me,” Yariv said, breaking the silence in the room.

The profession Kobi had chosen was full of contradictions. On the face of it, he should encourage Yariv to go to the cops and give them any information that could further the investigation. But Yariv didn't want his help as a friend; he needed him to act as his lawyer.

“Why?” he asked, clearing his throat.

Yariv gazed at him, puzzled.

“Let's consider what you know,” Kobi said. “The girl is dead, and you don't know if you killed her or not. All you remember is that you knocked on her door, and . . .”

“And that's exactly what I'll say,” Yariv cut in.

“So then they'll start to investigate, and you can't tell where it will lead. They might reach the conclusion that you had nothing to do with the murder. But they might not. There's also a third possibility—they won't know for sure whether you did it or not, but in the absence of any other suspects, they'll decide that the fastest way to put the case to bed is to charge you with homicide. And then they'll convince themselves, and your friends in the State Attorney's Office, that you're guilty.”

Yariv stared at him in shock. Kobi could see how shaken he was by his use of the word “guilty.” If they'd had this conversation a week ago, it would have sounded ludicrous. Now it didn't seem beyond the realm of possibility.

“All I'm saying,” Kobi went on, “is that for the time being, you don't really know anything. Maybe you did it and maybe you didn't. Odds are you had nothing to do with her death. Like you said, you're not the violent type. But if you go to the police, that ‘maybe' could easily become a ‘yes.' Assuming nobody saw you, there's no reason for you to risk sticking your head in a noose at this point. Even if they find your fingerprints or DNA there, they won't know they're yours. You've never been arrested, so you're not in their files. There's no way for them to know who they belong to. In my opinion, going to the cops now would be a mistake.”

Yariv remained silent.

“That is, unless you
are
guilty. In that case, go. Confess and get it off your chest. Tell them what happened and hope for the best. If they find out later that you did it, they won't be willing to reduce the charges to manslaughter.”