Asylum City (24 page)

“Yes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I've got his reply right here. He e-mailed back ‘thank you.'”

ANAT
leaned back in her chair. David's flight was getting in this afternoon and he'd be taking over the case. She had worked with him long enough to know he'd put it to bed in a day or two. He'd send it to the prosecution with the firm recommendation that charges be filed against Gabriel for the murder of Michal Poleg.

He'd be wrong. But as things stood at the moment, no one would listen to her. Ever since she stopped the reenactment in the middle, she'd been a pariah around the station. Nobody spoke to her, nobody made eye contact. Before he got on the plane, David sent her a text message: “Don't worry. I've got your back. Keep your head down.”

Again she read Dr. Shemesh's legal opinion and the e-mail she'd received from the Justice Ministry. Michal was shooting in the dark. She filed a complaint with the Bar Association not knowing if there was any evidence to back it up. But Yariv Ninio knew. Despite his adamant denial, he received the document and he concealed it. And he lied to the Bar Association about it. There was no doubt in Anat's mind that he understood its significance and the implications it could have for his career.

This was a major development. But it wasn't enough. She needed more. At least now she knew where to look.

ITAI
stared at the computer impatiently, waiting for the news site to refresh and the items on the screen to change. The journalist had sent a text message half an hour ago notifying him that the story would appear in a few minutes. But he still didn't see it. The sluggishness of the computer was making him even more jittery. He was sick of having to put up with outdated equipment, fed up that nothing worked the way it was supposed to.

He'd debated with himself a long time before calling Amit Giladi. Itai kept as far away from the media as possible. He'd been burned once, and that was enough to last a lifetime. It was back when he was new at OMA. In an effort to get the Ministry of the Interior to cancel the deportation order issued for Sue, a young woman from Thailand who put out a small news sheet for the local community, he spoke to a reporter, hoping to get public opinion on his side. The reporter asked him to describe Sue. Naturally, he painted a glowing picture of her: she was charming, intelligent, attractive. The subhead over the story in the paper the next day hinted snidely at a direct link between his desire to help the woman and his fondness for Thai masseuses. It didn't matter that there was no evidence of such a connection in the article itself, the damage was done. And not just to Sue, who was deported soon afterward. Itai's own reputation was also tarnished, along with the cause he was trying to promote. Not to mention his mother's reaction. As soon as she saw the paper, she purchased cemetery plots for herself and his dad, claiming they wouldn't live long with the shame of it all. He joked that she could make it easier for herself if they moved closer to the cemetery. “You're laughing now, but you'll cry later,” she said, ending the conversation with one of her pet platitudes.

But now he had to take action. A woman he was close to had been murdered, and a fine young man was in jail. He couldn't explain why he was so protective of Gabriel, but the fact was that he felt a special responsibility for him, almost like a father, or at least an older brother. It wasn't merely his gentleness and modesty or the ease of communicating with him thanks to his knowledge of English. It was more than that. Gabriel's artistic talent gave Itai hope that he could make a better life for himself. Itai's job was to help provide asylum seekers with the bare necessities. Beyond that, he had few expectations. He didn't see a future for them in Israel, where they'd never be a real part of society. Virtually all of them would go on living the way they did now. But Gabriel was different. His talent could be his ticket out. Itai yearned for that, not only for Gabriel's sake but for his own sake as well. He badly craved a success story. Maybe that's why Gabriel's arrest affected him so personally.

Itai chose Giladi because he knew from his articles that he'd been present at the reenactment. And when he Googled his name, what he found made him think the reporter wasn't in anyone's pocket and wasn't easily intimidated.

He was sure Giladi would jump on the story. It had everything going for it: a man wrongly accused; a brother sacrificing himself for his sister; a girl abducted, tortured, and raped in Sinai and then brought to Israel as a sex slave; cops turning a blind eye to the truth in their rush to close the case; a gangland killer and extortionist still walking free.

To his surprise, the reporter was skeptical. “The guy confessed, so where's the story?” he asked when Itai called.

Finally, he got Giladi to agree to meet with him. Once they were face-to-face, Itai could see that he was breaking through the reporter's initial lack of enthusiasm. Giladi took copious notes and seemed particularly interested in the account of how Arami had found Liddie in the street, the condition she was in, and the traumatic experiences she had undergone.

“I want to talk to Liddie and Arami,” Giladi said. “The interview with Gabriel will have to wait since he's in custody for the time being.”

Itai explained that it was impossible to speak to the asylum seekers themselves. Arami was too vulnerable, to say nothing of Liddie. Neither of them would ever consent to talk to a reporter. They came from a dictatorship where the first law of survival was to keep a low profile. Even if Itai could convince them that things were different in Israel, they'd be afraid that going public would make them a target of the Immigration Police, who would find a way to make them pay. The fact that asylum seekers were invisible to most Israelis was in the best interest of both sides: Israelis didn't want to know, and asylum seekers didn't want to draw attention to themselves. That was their worst fear.

“At least give me some pictures. I need something,” Giladi insisted.

Itai couldn't agree to that, either. He didn't have any pictures, and even if he did he wouldn't turn them over to the reporter without their consent.

“It's too bad they're migrants,” Giladi said before he left. “If they were Israelis, this would be a real scoop.”

ITAI
checked the time at the bottom of the screen. He'd been waiting forty minutes, but nothing had happened. Annoyed, he pushed his chair back and stood up. He realized he'd moved too fast again. His ribs still hurt. He kept having to remind himself to avoid abrupt movements. He thought of Michal and the way she must have felt after they roughed her up. She called to tell him about it but he was screening her calls. Why did he have to do that? He was haunted by the question “what if.”

He didn't like to make a nuisance of himself, but he had to know. “What's going on?” he texted Giladi. The reply came less than ten seconds later: “Check the site.”

Itai waited anxiously for his ancient computer to refresh. He had to scroll down to find it. The item wasn't given the prominence he'd hoped for, but at least it was there.

The headline was disappointing: “Civil Rights Lawyer Accuses Police of Mishandling Migrant Case.” Itai wasn't naive. He knew the title “civil rights lawyer” was distasteful to most Israelis and cast doubt on his reliability.

It got worse. The item itself was laconic, dry, and very short. People relate to a human-interest story, something they can identify with. This was nothing like that. Michal was described briefly as a “single woman, 32, from Tel Aviv who volunteered at an aid organization.” Itai had spent half an hour explaining to Giladi who Michal was, how devoted she was to her work, how much empathy she had for people in trouble, and how much they loved her for it. And this was all he had to say about her? Single woman, 32?

Itai skipped to the end. According to the police, it said, “there is no basis for the allegations.” The brusque official response made it clear to Itai that the hope he had pinned on the power of the press was unwarranted. The item wouldn't change anything. Giladi had told him as much. The Israeli public was indifferent to the problems Itai encountered on a daily basis.

Despite the relative insignificance of the item, he noticed that it had already drawn quite a few responses. Every one of them, without exception, was negative. They demanded the immediate deportation of all asylum seekers and their friends and relatives, and they didn't spare Itai, either, suggesting a variety of ways he should be put to death as befitting a traitor. Well, at least they'd read the article.

Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Something positive might still come of it. If it went viral, the cops would be forced to look deeper into the story.

Itai scrolled back up to the beginning, intending to read the article more closely. The computer had finally finished downloading the pictures that accompanied the text. His heart stopped. He saw the faces of Gabriel and Arami, with their names in the captions. Their names also appeared in the body of the item. Itai hadn't noticed that the first time around when he was just scanning it quickly.

How could Giladi do that to him? Itai had made it a condition that no names be used, and the reporter had promised. He must have gotten the photos from the cops. The one of Gabriel was obviously a mug shot, and Arami's probably came from his employee file. Itai looked at the faces. They seemed to be looking back at him accusingly.

He closed his eyes. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He should never have spoken to the reporter. Whatever happened next, it wouldn't be good.

AN
old lady emerged from the bushes, startling Anat. She jumped back in alarm. “Can I help you, officer?” the woman asked.

Anat couldn't understand where the woman had come from or how she knew she was a cop. She wasn't in uniform.

Instead of sitting in her office being shunned by her colleagues, she had decided to talk to Dvora and Shmuel Gonen once more. She planned to ask them if any of Michal's visitors were white men, and if they knew their names. Someone besides Yariv Ninio could have had a grudge against her. The interview didn't yield any new information. “The black ones, that's all she had eyes for,” Shmuel said bitterly. His wife nodded in confirmation. They'd never seen anyone answering Ninio's description. Shmuel, who had previously claimed to know everything about everybody, was now making himself out to be clueless. Anat counted at least three times that he declared, “I've told you everything I know. I have nothing to add.” When he left the room to go to the bathroom, Dvora parroted the same statement.

On the way back to the station, Anat had made a short detour. She wanted to check the distance from Michal's apartment to Ninio's.

“Sarah Glazer,” the old lady said, reaching out her hand. “I live on the third floor. Forty years I've lived here. I was feeding the cats in the yard,” she added, gesturing with her head in the direction she'd come from. “Poor little things. Especially in the winter. Nobody cares. What's going to become of them when I'm gone? I don't even want to think about it. I saw the blue light on your car from upstairs before I came down. Are you looking for someone? Is somebody lost? Maybe I can help,” Mrs. Glazer went on. She obviously wasn't going away.

“Inspector Nachmias. We're looking into the theft of bicycles in the neighborhood,” she said quickly before the woman could launch another monologue at her. It was the blue flasher she'd placed on the dashboard to warn off parking inspectors that had given her away. Never mind. The neighborhood gossip can be a valuable tool in an investigation, if you manage to filter out the white noise. Ninio said he fell off his bike on the way to work, but Anat hadn't seen a bicycle in the stairwell of his house, or a bicycle chain, either.

“Well, it's about time, isn't it? Do you know how many bicycles have been stolen around here? And let me tell you, Inspector Nachmias, that's not the only thing you should investigate. You should also do something about the people who leave their bicycles in the hallway. I don't like to gossip, but some people simply have no consideration. Do you know how many times I've asked them to move their bicycles?”

“Can you tell me which of your neighbors have bicycles? Which of them had their bikes stolen?” Anat asked, ignoring the “hallway criminals” for the time being.

“That's a hard question to answer. I have to think. After all, it's been forty years.”

“Just concentrate on the last few weeks,” Anat said, forcing herself not to smile.

“There's the lady on the first floor, Julia Rosenthal. She's had a bike for years. It's so old, even the thieves don't want it. She doesn't even bother to lock it up. Then there's . . . Of course, the lawyer. His bicycle was stolen a few months back.”

“Yariv Ninio?” Anat asked, wanting to be sure.

“That's right. He was very upset about it. He stopped me on the stairs several times and asked me if I saw anything.”

“And did you?” Anat was buying time until she decided what direction to lead her in.

“Why would I? I have my own problems to worry about. At my age, you know, it isn't easy,” Mrs. Glazer answered with feigned innocence.

“Did he buy a new bike?”

Mrs. Glazer shook her head.

“I understand he's getting married soon,” Anat said matter-of-factly, hoping to draw her out on the subject of his relationship with his fiancée. She might get some insight into the kind of person he was.

“Really? I had no idea.” It was very clear from her tone that this wasn't the first Mrs. Glazer had heard of the wedding.

“You didn't get an invitation?” Maybe that would light a fire under her. It usually worked.

“I wasn't expecting an invitation. They don't have to invite me if they don't want to. Of course, it's just common courtesy. You live across the hall from someone, don't you give them an invitation?”