The Masada Complex (37 page)

“I applied for it in the eighties after a couple of years as a permanent resident.”

“Thank you.” The lawyer smiled, but not kindly. Her front teeth, while white and lined-up perfectly, were slightly smudged with red lipstick. She handed papers to the court reporter and to Chadwick. “Copies of the government’s Exhibit Number One.”

The court reporter marked the document, showed it to the judge and handed it to Masada.

“Do you recognize this?”

“My application for citizenship.”

“On page three, the form asked for past residences where you had lived for more than three months. What was your answer?

Masada looked at her old handwriting. “The first was Kibbutz Ben-Yair, where I grew up. The second was the Ramat David Base, where I was stationed as operations specialist during my mandatory service. The third was an apartment I rented near Arizona State University.”

“And the list is inclusive of all residences, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now let’s move to the last question on page five.”

Masada looked at Chadwick, expecting him to object, but he avoided her eyes.

“You answered
No
to whether you’ve been convicted of any crime, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the attestation of truthfulness on the last page is signed by you, correct?”

“Yes.”

The government lawyer followed with another bundle of papers.

“Do you recognize this document?”

“My application for permanent resident status. It’s my handwriting. I signed it. And,” Masada flipped through the pages, “I gave the same answers to the same questions.”

Professor Levy Silver entered the courtroom. He waved at Masada. The government’s lawyer half turned. Her bulging breasts perked up and ebbed with quick breaths. She turned back and handed the court reporter a single page, which made its way to the witness stand.

“Do you recognize this document?”

“Yes.”

“Did you serve the prescribed sentence?”

“Only eight months.”

“In jail?”

“A military camp for women. It had steel doors, barbed wire fences, and guard towers. I was released when the conviction was cancelled.”

“Do you have a copy of the
alleged
cancellation?”

“I didn’t get a copy. It was all top secret military stuff. They released me, some foundation gave me a scholarship to ASU, and I never looked back.”

The lawyer turned to the judge. She tugged down on her tight, black dress. “No further questions for this witness.” She glanced at Masada victoriously and paced back to her table, her short legs perched on high heels that did little to stretch the stocky figure nature had given her. Masada wondered if female envy was the source of her malice.

The judge looked at Chadwick. “Would you like to question the witness?”

He stood up. “We had no opportunity to review documents, so I’ll have to defer until the next hearing.”

“Miss McPherson?”

“In view of the witness’s clear admissions of fraud,” she said, “the government doesn’t feel there is a need for another hearing.”

Rabbi Josh walked down the middle aisle of the synagogue. He paused at the foot of the steps, averting his eyes from the stained wooden dais. For a moment it all came back—Zonshine’s profanities, the exploding gunshot, the screams of panic, the sight of Raul, his chest red, his eyes open, vacant.

The rabbi felt his knees buckle, the world spinning. He grabbed Lefkowitz’s arm to steady himself. They mounted the dais together.

“Will you carry it to Israel?” Lefkowitz’s voice trembled.

“The plane will carry it.” Rabbi Josh picked up the electric saw.

“Is it necessary?”

“The Torah orders that the deceased be buried whole. This is my son’s blood. It shall go with him to his grave.” He wiped the tears that blinded him. “And on the Day of Resurrection, my Raul will rise whole with all the righteous.”

Lefkowitz’s lips parted for a question, but Rabbi Josh turned on the saw. It whined as the steel teeth sunk into the wood. The dais reverberated and sprouted a wake of sawdust.

He proceeded in a circle surrounding the area soaked with Raul’s blood. Turning off the electric saw, he gave it to the florist. The round section popped out and stood on its side, exposing a shallow crawl space beneath the dais. He had already given money to Lefkowitz to arrange for repairing the wood and for replacing the two bloody flags he had removed earlier.

Rabbi Josh kneeled, hugged the wide piece, and rose slowly, pressing it to his chest. He carried it up the aisle. At the door, he turned for a last look at the prayer hall where the boy had spent every Sabbath of his short life. He whispered, “Shalom.”

Outside, he squinted at the bright sun. His back hurt from the load. He slid his right hand a notch lower on the rough edge, and a wood chip pierced his palm. He was grateful for the sharp pain that, for a moment, dulled the terrible ache in his heart.

Professor Silver maintained his composure, but just barely. He heard the courtroom door groan behind him and turned. The blonde TV reporter walked in and sat down beside him. They watched Masada return to her lawyer’s table.

The judge said, “As defense counsel isn’t ready, I’ll put this matter on the calendar for next month.”

“But Your Honor,” McPherson argued, “the evidence is irrefutable. The government hereby makes an impromptu motion under Section 1051 of the
United States Aliens and Nationality Act
to revoke Miss El-Tal’s citizenship and cancel her certificate of naturalization.”

Chadwick stood. “This is highly inappropriate!”

Elizabeth McPherson lifted a book. “Her naturalization was procured by willful misrepresentation and is therefore void.”

“Let me see this!”

She handed him the book and continued unperturbed. “Miss El-Tal admitted that she failed to disclose her conviction for manslaughter and the consequent eight months of jail residency. She verified both immigration applications under oath despite their falsehoods. Clearly, she committed willful fraud.”

“We object!” Chadwick remained standing.

Silver could not see Masada’s face from where he sat, but he could see her hand grasp her lawyer’s arm.

The judge said, “Your basis for objection?”

“My client was told by the Israeli authorities that her conviction was cancelled. It didn’t exist anymore.”

Judge Rashinski turned. “Miss McPherson?”

“My colleague is trying to confuse the issues here. These forms asked clearly:
Have you ever been convicted of any crime?
Whether the sentence was cut short is a matter for comments or explanations at the bottom of each form. She lied. Also, she failed to disclose that she had resided in jail for eight months. Surely no one has the ability to erase that fact from existence.”

The silence in the courtroom lingered.

Masada’s lawyer sifted through papers on the table. “The events we’re talking about here, the jail and before that, the conviction, the trauma, are ancient history. One must recognize the state of mind of my client at that time.”

“The law gives no discretion here. The standard is clear. If the facts show misrepresentation, the court must revoke the citizenship.”

Silver hoped Elizabeth had a plan. What was the point of trying to revoke Masada’s citizenship? He needed her in jail today!

As if reading his mind, Elizabeth turned and looked at him. He wanted to communicate his frustration to her, but the blonde reporter looked up from her notes and saw them looking at each other.

Masada’s lawyer said, “The court must consider that she was a young immigrant, having lost her parents and little brother. She wanted to avoid the pain of recounting the events while filling out the immigration forms.”

“How original,” Elizabeth said, “to argue that your client lied on her immigration applications because it was too painful to tell the truth. I’m surprised she wrote down the true names of her deceased parents. Wasn’t that painful?”

Silver wanted to cheer her eloquence.

“Imagine,” she continued, “if felons may conceal their criminal past if such truthful disclosure would cause them emotional discomfort.”

“I agree,” the judge said. “Mr. Chadwick, your client has sixty days to respond to the government’s petition.”

Silver’s heart sank. This was the end of the road. With Masada free, even if his green card arrived tomorrow, he was as good as dead going to Israel in direct violation of Rajid’s orders. This was the choice he had feared: death or blindness.

“We would agree to an extension,” Elizabeth said. “But considering the high likelihood of success in these proceeding, Miss El-Tal should be held in detention pending the revocation of her citizenship and deportation.”

Masada said loudly, “Deportation?”

“The court should note,” Chadwick argued, “that my client has been a productive, taxpaying U.S. citizen for decades. Her unfortunate error needs to be corrected, that’s all.”

“The law is clear.” Elizabeth had several open books in front of her, pages marked with yellow stickers. “Once fraud is established, the citizenship must be cancelled, and deportation follows automatically without the need to prove again the same facts. For example, in the
Schellong
case the Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit upheld a judgment of deportation, stating:
The facts established in the denaturalization suit sufficiently demonstrate that Schellong willfully misrepresented material facts on both his visa application and his naturalization petition.
Just like Miss El-Tal, Herr Schellong failed to disclose his prior residence in a military penitentiary,” she paused, “in his case, as an SS guard at Dachau.”

“Comparing me to a Nazi murderer?” Masada pounded a fist into her hand. They were standing on the sixth floor of the glass-and-steel federal court building. The judge had declared a ten-minute break, telling Chadwick to make sure his client understood the severity of her situation. Two U.S. marshals stood nearby, watching her.

“McPherson wasn’t comparing you to the Nazi,” Chadwick said. “She was citing a precedent for the legal interpretation of the language of the act. It happened to be a case involving a concentration camp guard who also lied on his applications.”