Asylum City (16 page)

THE
door opened and Yaron poked his head in. “He's all yours, Nachmias,” he said. Anat got the distinct impression that it was an effort for him to refrain from adding, “Don't screw up.”

“Is the interpreter here?”

“Yes. Joshua wasn't available, but we got lucky. Arami was nearby.”

“Excellent,” Anat said with a broad smile.

She stood up and adjusted her blouse. She'd decided to wear her uniform for effect. She took a deep breath. It was time to go get a confession.

THE
door opened, startling Gabriel out of his chair. A short skinny policewoman came in, followed by the tall bearded officer who'd run toward him in the park pointing his gun at him. Gabriel had fainted from fright. The policeman threw water on him and slapped his face until he came to.

With his hands and feet cuffed, they led him into a small room that contained nothing but a table and four plastic chairs. Gabriel checked the walls for bloodstains but didn't see any. He felt a little better. A policeman gave him a glass of tea with a lot of sugar and gestured for him to drink it down. When he didn't move fast enough, the policeman shouted at him in Hebrew he didn't understand.

The policewoman smiled at him and said, “Shalom.” He didn't respond. Some of the women soldiers in Eritrea were more sadistic than the men.

Gabriel stifled a sigh of relief when the door opened again and Arami walked into the room. He was so glad to see him, it was hard to keep from jumping up and throwing his arms around him. Arami had warned him that the police wouldn't let him stay if they suspected they knew each other. He said they should both be very careful, but even so, Arami gave him a tiny smile. The small gesture encouraged Gabriel and made him feel that he wasn't alone. Arami sat down beside him and patted his knee below the table where the policemen couldn't see.

Speaking in English, the policewoman asked his name, Arami translated the question, and Gabriel replied. Then she asked him where he came from, where his family was, how he got to Israel, where he worked, where he lived. She wrote all the answers down on a pad in front of her.

The questions stopped abruptly and the detective started talking about the rights granted by Israeli law to a person in his situation. Gabriel didn't understand everything she said, but he didn't really care. Even the policewoman didn't seem to care if he understood or not. She was obviously reciting pat phrases. Arami took the opportunity to tell him not to worry, he would look out for his interests. The Israeli was going to give him the money tomorrow.

The policewoman asked if he wanted an attorney. Gabriel shook his head. Alarmed, he realized he'd answered before Arami translated the question, but the detective didn't seem to notice the slip.

Arami said he thought he was very brave and he hoped his sons would grow up to be as loyal to his family as he was. Gabriel's eyes filled with tears.

Then the policewoman stopped talking and her face became very severe.

“Itai Fisher said you told him you're responsible for Michal Poleg's death,” she said after a long pause.

Arami translated.

Gabriel sat in silence. His heart was pounding.

She asked if that was right, and Arami translated again.

Gabriel took a deep breath. It was the moment of truth. Itai said that once he confessed there was no turning back. He wouldn't be able to retract what he said. Gabriel thought about Liddie and the money he needed. He was doing this for her. He had to be strong.

Arami nodded encouragingly. He was doing the right thing. He didn't have any choice.

Gabriel nodded and lowered his eyes.

“You have to say it,” the policewoman instructed.

Raising his eyes, Gabriel stated quietly, “Michal died because of me.”

Arami translated.

The policewoman didn't move a muscle. She continued to stare at him with a grave expression on her face. The tall policeman smiled and then quickly tried to hide it.

“You killed her?”

Arami translated and Gabriel nodded.

“Say it out loud,” the policeman ordered.

Gabriel waited for Arami to translate and then said in a trembling voice, “I killed Michal.”

The two officers sat opposite him in silence. The policeman no longer tried to disguise his pleasure. Grinning, he stretched and placed his hands on his head. But the policewoman continued to pin him with her eyes. “Why?” she suddenly fired at him.

That was the question Gabriel was afraid of. He kept silent and only bowed his head again, hoping she would let it go, that she would move on. But she didn't. She repeated the question and Arami translated.

Did Itai tell them he didn't do it? Did he know he only said he did it because he needed the money?

“Help me, Arami. Tell me what to say,” he begged.

“WHAT
are you two talking about?” Anat snapped.

The exchange between Arami and Gabriel was making her uneasy. She didn't like having to go through an interpreter to question her suspect. She wanted to control the interrogation, but that clearly wasn't the case here. Her question had been simple and direct. It shouldn't take so long to translate.

“He asked me to repeat the question,” Arami answered.

“So do it,” Yaron barked impatiently.

Arami lowered his eyes submissively and said a few words. The suspect replied.

“It was an accident,” Arami said softly.

“What does he mean ‘accident'?” Anat asked, trying to catch Gabriel's eye. Something was gnawing at her. If she didn't know better, she might think he understood everything she was saying.

Arami translated the question and Gabriel replied. She waited for the interpreter to translate the answer, but he went on talking with the suspect.

Anat struggled to understand what they were talking about from their expressions and gestures, but it was a futile effort. She tried counting the words to see if the length of the translation was similar to the length of her question, but it was hard for her to tell where one word ended and another began in their guttural language.

She was losing control of the situation and she couldn't afford to let that happen, particularly not at this crucial stage in the interrogation.

“Stop that!” Yaron yelled, slamming his hand down on the table.

His raised voice and the resounding bang brought an abrupt end to the exchange between the two men. They both looked at him apprehensively.

“Please translate precisely what he said,” Anat instructed gently. She had no other choice. She needed Arami. If she could keep things calm, she had a better chance of regaining control. From the corner of her eye she saw the angry expression on Yaron's face.

GABRIEL
remained silent.

“What does he mean ‘accident'?” the policewoman repeated, looking straight at him. He could tell from her tone that she didn't believe him. Itai didn't believe him, either. Itai wanted him to say that he wasn't responsible for what happened to Michal, that it wasn't true, that Gabriel was still the same person he had taken under his wing, the same person he believed in, not some murdering monster. The policewoman wanted him to say that it wasn't an accident, that he did it on purpose.

“Tell them you had an argument and you didn't mean to do it. She gave you money and she wanted you to pay her back but you didn't have it,” Arami coached him.

Gabriel nodded.

“What are you saying?” the policewoman interrupted again.

“I explained the question to him,” Arami said innocently.

“Then please tell him to answer it.”

Gabriel was about to repeat what Arami told him to say, but the policewoman didn't give him a chance.

“You had an intimate relationship with Michal, didn't you?” she said, her eyes boring into him. “She wouldn't have sex with you anymore. That's why you killed her?”

“No. Never!” he burst out, not thinking.

She set a trap for him and he fell right into it.

The policewoman said something to the policeman in Hebrew. She looked furious. The tall policeman leapt out of his chair, grabbed Arami, and pulled him up.

“Be strong, Gabriel,” Arami said. “I'll help you, I swear! I'll get Liddie out. Don't let them break you. They're no better than us, and we're stronger than they are. Don't forget that.”

“Let me know as soon as Liddie is free,” Gabriel begged before the policeman threw Arami out of the room.

“Don't worry, Gabriel, everything will be all right!”

The door closed behind Arami. Gabriel was all alone now.

WHEN
it was made clear to Itai that he would not be allowed in the interrogation room, he realized there was no point in his sticking around. He considered acting as Gabriel's lawyer but dismissed the idea immediately. He might have a law degree, but he'd never practiced criminal law. It would be reckless and irresponsible on his part to represent him. Instead, he'd make sure the public defender's office appointed an attorney for him as quickly as possible. Still, he was feeling very guilty as he stepped out into the street, as if he was abandoning Gabriel.

There was a lot of work waiting for him at OMA, but he didn't feel like going back to the office. He had to do something constructive, not just sit behind a desk. It was already dark out. He'd spent the whole day in the police station. He was cold and hungry. He'd been in such a rush this morning that he'd forgotten his jacket. Itai went into a nearby fast-food place and ordered hummus.

Taking out his cell phone, he stared at one of Michal's photos of the “Banker.” He was standing in front of a restaurant, but it wasn't clear if he'd come out of it or was just passing by. Itai didn't recognize the place. He zoomed in on the picture until he could make out a sign with the name of the street on the corner of the building. Although he couldn't read the name, he could see it was short. There weren't many streets around the old bus station that had restaurants. If Itai had to guess, he'd say it was Fein Street. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up from the table.

It didn't take him long to find the restaurant with the sign on the corner of the building. It was suppertime, and the place was full. There was little chance he'd be able to speak to any of the customers in private.

Yesterday he'd debated whether to ask the asylum seekers in the office if they knew someone called the “Banker” but decided against it. OMA was a place of refuge. The people who came to them needed help, comfort, and a sense of security. He didn't want to make them nervous by asking questions. Michal's murder was traumatic enough. OMA had to remain off-limits.

The busy restaurant lifted his spirits. Aid workers only saw the distress of the asylum seekers. The life they described was a long tale of woe, tragedy after tragedy. Itai was glad to see there were places where they could chill out, enjoy themselves, forget their troubles for a while.

He inhaled the odor of berbere, the reddish-orange spice the Eritreans used in their cooking. The sharp smell issued from all their restaurants, even managing to overpower the pervasive stench of garbage outside.

This establishment was no different from the others in the area: a small, poorly lit space that was formerly a storefront. Black plastic tables and chairs were scattered haphazardly around the room. At the far end was a bar with a cheap string of Christmas lights above it. The walls were adorned with an Eritrean flag and colorful tapestries showing scenes of African village life.

The clientele was exclusively male. The men sat side by side, sometimes two to a chair, touching shoulders and eating with their fingers from a large tin tray in the center of the table. The tray was covered with injera, a spongy flat bread with a mousy gray color and a slightly sour taste, over which was a beef stew called zigni, a dark red chicken stew called dorho, or shiro, an orange vegetarian dish made of chickpea flour cooked with tomatoes and seasoned with onions and garlic.

Itai scanned the restaurant, looking for a free table. The waiter, who was most likely also the owner, pointed to a small table in the corner with a single chair beside it. Itai walked toward it, aware that every eye in the restaurant was on him. Such places are rarely visited by Israelis, but when they do come, they are welcomed graciously.

Itai searched for a familiar face, someone he knew from OMA, but he didn't recognize anyone. When he was seated, the waiter presented him with a menu written only in Tigrinya. “Just tea,” he ordered apologetically in English. He'd tried Eritrean food a few times, but he wasn't fond of the cuisine. While the purple, red, and orange colors were a feast for the eyes, the flavors were either too hot or too bland for his taste. He remembered that Michal had once admitted, reluctantly, that she didn't like it, either. It was unusual for her to make such a confession. She was an all-or-nothing type of person: if she liked something, she gave it her unconditional love. It was the same with the things she hated. It was hard for her to say a bad word about the asylum seekers, whom she insisted on calling “refugees.” He recalled how he couldn't keep from laughing at the sheepish expression on her face when she admitted she didn't like their food. Naturally, she didn't understand what he found so funny.

The men at a nearby table were in the midst of a lively discussion punctuated by laughter. Itai tried to make out what they were talking about, but he couldn't follow the conversation. He knew even fewer words in Tigrinya than Michal. From time to time, someone glanced over at him and he smiled back politely.

When the waiter arrived with his tea, Itai showed him the picture on his phone. “Excuse me, but do you happen to know this man?” he asked. The waiter took the phone, looked at the photograph, and then back at him. “Do you know this man?” Itai repeated. The waiter shook his head and quickly returned the phone. “He lost something and I want to give it back to him,” Itai lied. “Sorry, not know him,” the waiter said, walking away.