Lineup (13 page)

Chapter 22

WHEN
Amit Giladi heard about the plea bargain, he was outraged. It was ludicrous. “Aggravated assault?” Adi Regev had been raped! He used all his contacts to try to get more information, but no one was talking. Not the cops, not the DA, not the defense attorney—no one. He couldn’t get a word out of anyone. This vow of silence only made him more suspicious. In his short career as a reporter, he’d learned that people love to talk, gossip, criticize. But this time there was nothing.

He hadn’t been eager to stay on the rape story. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d become a journalist for. He wanted to be an investigative reporter, but Dori told him to keep leaning on the cops.

Amit was no idiot. He knew very well why Dori wanted him to keep the story alive. It sold papers. It played on the fear of women that it could happen to them. But with all due respect, he wasn’t here to terrify women. That wasn’t his goal in life.

Still, the inexplicable plea bargain changed the picture. He had a feeling something big was behind it, that it was part of some larger conspiracy.

Ever since the call from “Deep Throat,” with his claims of explosive information about police corruption that reached to the highest echelons, all his time had been taken up by drivel. That was the lot of a reporter in charge of the crime and education beats for a local paper. But this might be his big chance. It was because of the rape that he’d missed the call from “Deep Throat.” Maybe the plea bargain would give him the opportunity to make up for it.

He went to ask for Dori’s advice on how to attack the story, but to his surprise, the editor displayed little interest in it. “Who gives a fuck? They make lousy deals all the time. The rape story is dead, at least till the next one,” he said, waving Amit away. He’d given up trying to understand what made Dori tick a long time ago. He’d been a senior editor at a major national paper until he was booted out for some reason no one seemed to know, and ever since he’d been stuck at the local rag. It was rumored he’d had an affair with the wife of the editor in chief, although some people claimed he’d fabricated a story. Bottom line: nobody knew what had really happened.

Screw Dori, he wasn’t going to let it slide. His gut was telling him to keep digging, that the plea bargain was a cover for something that could turn out to be a gold mine for him. The only question was where he would get the information he needed, how he was going to find out why they agreed to this outlandish deal.

And then it came to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? From the beginning, Dori had pushed him to interview Adi Regev. He’d used every trick in the book to get out of it. What journalistic value would it have? She’d been through enough without having him harass her just so a few readers could shed a sympathetic tear and mutter “poor dear.”

He kept coming up with excuses. He was busy with another story: the principal of a prestigious high school who tweaked students’ grades in exchange for donations from their parents; the son of a city counselor who got wasted and was caught naked in the fountain outside his father’s office. Dori had even provided him with a list of questions for Adi: What went through your mind when you saw the rapist? Do you still have nightmares? Tell me about the moment you realized what was happening. The questions only strengthened Amit’s determination not to do the interview.

But the situation had changed. Now there might be real value in talking to Adi. It was no longer just an excuse for a soap opera disguised as news.

HE
tensed when he saw her leaving the building. He’d considered going upstairs, knocking on her door, and introducing himself like a gentleman, but decided it would be best to wait for her to come out. After everything that’d happened to her, there was no chance she’d let a strange man into her apartment. Even when Dori had been urging him to interview her, he’d told him to wait for her outside, take her by surprise.

He chewed on his lips. He wasn’t happy about what he was doing, but he had a good reason. Something bigger than both of them was going on, and it was his job as a reporter to find out what it was.

As he started toward her, he realized he’d never actually seen her in person. The detective, Nachum, had shown him pictures of her injured face for the shock value, but that was it. Now he saw she was definitely worth a second look. She had beautiful eyes, long flowing hair, and a cute butt. Under any other circumstances, he might’ve hit on her. He was twenty-six and single. Every now and then he met a girl on Facebook, and even managed to get some of them into bed, but that was as far as it went. Dori once said that real journalists could never have a serious relationship because they were committed to the truth and relationships were inevitably based on lies. Who knows, maybe he was right.

Adi was walking rapidly. She was about to turn into Pinkas Street, which was busy at this time of day. With so many people around, it would be hard to get anything out of her.

“Excuse me,” he called after her.

She turned to look at him, alarmed. He had to be careful. In her fragile state, she could shatter as easily as a piece of glass.

“Don’t be scared,” he said, trying to calm her fears. But his words had the opposite effect.

“I’m late,” she said, turning around quickly and walking away.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Amit insisted. “I’m a reporter. I just have a few questions . . . ,” he said, running to catch up with her.

Adi didn’t stop. What was it with this girl?

“I don’t know if they told you, but the DA closed a deal with the guy who raped you. He’s getting out. I want to talk to you about it. I don’t think it’s right. I think they’re selling you out.” By now he was jogging alongside her, panting.

They were on Pinkas Street now. Adi kept walking swiftly toward Ibn Gvirol Street, not turning her head even once.

“I’m on your side. I want the bastard to rot in prison. He shouldn’t go free because of a disgraceful plea bargain,” he said, entreating her to listen.

When she reached Ibn Gvirol, she stopped and looked at him for the first time. Amit tried to read her expression. Had he finally gotten through to her? Maybe she hadn’t even known about the plea bargain.

“Leave me alone,” she spat. “Go away!”

He grabbed her arm to keep her from walking off, but she pulled out of his grip and yelled at him. “I told you to leave me alone.”

Her shout startled him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that passersby were watching them.

“Adi, I’m on your side. If it had happened to my sister or my girlfriend, I wouldn’t want . . . ,” he tried again.

She started crying. Some stranger who looked like a local version of Arnold Schwarzenegger clamped a huge hand on Amit’s shoulder.

“Is this creep bothering you?” he asked Adi.

Without speaking, she turned and ran.

“Leave her alone, you hear me?” the stranger said, removing his hand.

Chapter 23

WHEN
Ziv stepped out of the Tel Aviv courthouse, his eyes were blinded by the bright sunlight. The hearing had ended half an hour ago, with Judge Spiegler approving the plea bargain. Rosen had prepared him for the possibility of complications, but everything seemed to go very smoothly. The performance went off without a hitch. The charges against him told a fictitious tale about how he’d assaulted Adi, causing her bodily harm, and he and his attorney confirmed the prosecution’s lie. In the courtroom, the judge asked indifferently, reciting a time-worn formula, if he admitted to the facts in the indictment, if he understood what he was confessing to, if he had anything further to add, and he’d answered, yes, yes, no, just as Rosen had instructed him. The judge barely looked at him. She convicted him of aggravated assault on the basis of his confession and then listened with undisguised boredom as the prosecution and the defense explained in pat phrases why she should accept the plea bargain they’d agreed on. Nodding mechanically the whole time, she concluded the proceedings by signifying her approval.

“That’s it. You’re free to go. Take care of yourself,” Rosen said, shaking his hand hurriedly and turning to talk to the pretty ADA with the long brown hair and green eyes. The whole thing took less than half an hour.

Rosen warned him there might be reporters in the courtroom and cautioned him not to speak with them. “I’ll do all the talking for you,” he assured him. But there was only one reporter from some local paper, a guy whose face he remembered from his initial remand hearing, and both Rosen and the prosecution simply ignored his questions. Aside from him, the press no longer seemed interested in the case. The rape that had once earned banner headlines had been forgotten.

When he’d first walked into court, he’d seen a few people nodding on the long, brown benches. In response to his question, Rosen said he didn’t see the victim among them. He wondered what she thought about it all, why she’d agreed to this circus. Why didn’t she get up and scream that she wouldn’t allow the man who raped her to be convicted of something as absurd as aggravated assault and get off with no more than two years’ probation? He realized he felt sorry for her.

Turning on his cell phone as he left the building, Ziv was disappointed to see that no one had called. No one had come to any of the hearings, and no one was there to pick him up. He missed Gili terribly and was dying to see him. He hadn’t asked Merav to bring him to the detention facility. The place was too frightening and depressing. Naturally, she didn’t offer to bring him either.

He dialed her number. It was busy. What he wanted most in the world right now was to hug Gili close, to kiss him, hold him, and breathe in his smell. He tried again. She didn’t pick up. She must be screening his calls.

He’d just been set free with a much lighter sentence than he’d expected. He should feel happy, but he didn’t. All he felt was utterly alone, and angry—angry at Merav for being unwilling to forgive him for the one mistake he made in their whole marriage, angry at his brother who’d turned his back on him, angry at Shimon Faro and Meshulam for sacrificing him without a second thought, like a pawn in a chess game. If it weren’t for the prosecutor’s sudden change of heart, he’d be rotting in jail for years for a crime he didn’t commit.

He was sick of everyone trampling him underfoot as if he didn’t matter. He had to pull himself out of this slump. What he needed was some grand gesture that would turn his life around. He just didn’t know what it was.

Deep in thought, Ziv didn’t notice he was being followed. As he was about to cross the street, a black car pulled up alongside him. His heart missed a beat when Meir stuck his head out the window. “Get in,” said the man who had almost strangled him in Abu Kabir.

It was only when he was in the car that he saw there was someone in the backseat. Meshulam. He hadn’t seen him since he’d sent him off to plant the bomb. He looked burlier and more intimidating than he remembered.

“I see you got out,” Meshulam said in his gravelly voice.

Ziv didn’t know what to say.

“How come? They stop putting rapists behind bars?”

Now he got it. Faro must think he ratted them out, that he made a deal with the cops, squealed in exchange for a reduced sentence. How else could he have gotten out without doing time?

Ziv realized what an idiot he’d been. He hadn’t even considered what Faro would think. He was thrilled when Rosen told him about the plea bargain, convinced that everything had worked out in the best possible way. They let him go with no more than probation, and he hadn’t said a word. But he hadn’t done the math either.

“I told my lawyer I wanted to confess,” he said, looking at Meshulam in the rearview mirror, “even though you know I didn’t do it. I guess the prosecution couldn’t make the charges stick, so they agreed to . . . I didn’t have anything to do with it . . . My lawyer arranged . . .” He was babbling. He saw the icy look on Meshulam’s face and stopped talking. Meir didn’t utter a word either. The silence was ominous. Don’t let your fear get to you, he ordered himself, remembering his mother’s favorite quote, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

“Nobody knows what I was doing on Louis Marshall Street that night,” he tried again. “Nobody . . . you have nothing to worry about.” His companions remained silent.

He looked out the window at the streets rushing by. “What does Shimon want with me?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer.

Meshulam didn’t reply. Meir only gave him a vacant look.

Suddenly he realized they were driving in the opposite direction from Faro’s office. “Where’re we going?” he asked.

“Enough questions,” Meshulam snapped from the rear of the car.

Ziv broke out in a cold sweat. They didn’t believe him. First they’d interrogate him and then they’d kill him. Maybe they wouldn’t even bother with the interrogation. How could he convince them he hadn’t ratted them out? He didn’t even know himself what had gone on in the meeting between his lawyer and the ADA.

He was too exhausted to undergo another interrogation. And he wasn’t very good at it to begin with. He almost broke when the detective questioned him, and Nachum hadn’t raised a finger to him. These guys wouldn’t be so gentle. They’d beat him mercilessly until he told them what they wanted to hear, and after that there’d be no judge or lawyer to protect him. They’d simply carry out his death sentence.

“Look, see for yourself,” he said, pulling out of his pocket the documents Rosen had given him when he was released. “I confessed to assault. The judge sentenced me to two years’ probation because the prosecution caved . . . I don’t know why . . . I didn’t say anything . . . not even to my lawyer.”

Meshulam glanced at the wrinkled pages Ziv was waving in front of his face and snorted contemptuously.

“Take a look, see what it says,” Ziv urged, trying to shove the pages into Meshulam’s hand. But the big man just turned to look out the window.

If they believed me they’d be friendlier, Ziv thought to himself. But their faces remained expressionless. He realized he should’ve expected it. He could appeal to them, try to persuade them, throw himself on their mercy, but they’d just stare at him with their cold eyes and never believe that a man who confessed to rape got off with no more than probation.

He had to get away. If he stayed in the car, they’d kill him. Even that might not be enough for them. There was a chance they’d carry out Meir’s threat and hurt Gili too. They might want to make an example of him, show other people what happens to anyone who betrays Shimon Faro. He didn’t have any influential friends. It would be easy to make a scapegoat out of him. He had to warn Merav, tell her to grab Gili and run.

The car was stuck in traffic. Nothing was moving. Nevo saw a patrol car in the next lane. If he got out now, they wouldn’t be able to chase him. They were probably taking him to the abandoned warehouse in Petach Tikva. They could interrogate him there, even kill him, without anyone being the wiser. It would be months before someone stumbled on the body. After all, nobody’d be looking for him. Who’d even notice he was missing?

He glanced at the patrol car again. Was it a sign? Was his luck finally turning?

How would he get out? He didn’t have to try the door to know it was locked.

Think, think, he goaded himself.

He started coughing. No reaction. He coughed harder, leaned forward, and rested his head on the dashboard.

“What’s up with you?” Meir finally asked.

“I’m going to be sick,” he said weakly.

“Don’t even think of puking in the car,” Meshulam spat from the rear.

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . . ,” he muttered, trying to sound as if he was going to vomit any second.

“You puke here and I break both your arms and both your legs,” Meir warned.

Ziv didn’t respond, except to continue making gagging noises. He needed a few more seconds. The idea of opening the door had to come from them.

“Unlock the door and let him puke outside,” Meshulam said.

Meir turned his head to see if Meshulam would confirm the order.

“You want him to stink up the car?” Meshulam asked. Ziv emitted another gagging sound to remove any doubts his companions might have.

He heard the click of the locking mechanism.

“Do it outside, moron,” Meshulam barked.

Ziv opened the door. His plan had worked. He was going to get away.

When he was halfway out the door, he turned and said in a clear voice, “I didn’t say anything to anyone. Your secret’s safe with me. Tell that to Shimon.”

The two men stared at him in surprise. There was more he wanted to say, but he knew he didn’t have time. Slamming the door behind him, he started running as fast as he could between the cars stuck in the traffic jam. He had to call Merav and warn her.

After about a hundred yards, he stopped and looked back. Meshulam was standing outside the car, watching him from a distance. As he’d hoped, they weren’t chasing him.

He hopped onto the sidewalk and kept on running, letting himself be swallowed up by the crowd.