Agent on a Mission

by Rose Fox

  “Oh, good God!” Ronen spluttered and felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  “What happened?”

  “Look for yourself,” he hissed and smiled at her as she approached him.

  “Hello, Miss Ben-Nun,” he said to Abigail. “Ma’am, are you coming here?”

  “Yes, if this Justice Ayalon’s court.”

  “Where is Advocate Jonathan?” he asked, but she didn’t reply, pleased to have noticed his tension.

  Ronen’s feverish mind began working overtime. He knew that this lawyer was only called in cases where the defense was under pressure and found itself at a dead end. He also knew that the cases she joined ended with the acquittal of the accused. How she managed this, he did not know, but he recognized her abilities and feared them.

  For the next few minutes Ronen double checked the possible vulnerabilities in his case. Thus far, he was confident that the final outcome would be in his favor. He had already begun calculating how many years Irit would get for the premeditated murder of her husband, Don. There were nights when he had lain smiling with satisfaction at the way the case was proceeding and pondered pleasurably how he had got Irit arrested in his stead. It gave him so much power and satisfaction.

  “Ah, Defense Attorney Jonathan is here, too,” Abigail said and took the bundle of documents that was rolled in a transparent bag. They entered the Judge’s office and Abigail whispered something to Jonathan about the results of the lab tests.

  “This deals with the findings on the path to the house and this is the blood type analysis of the sample I scraped off the stairs,” she said.

  “Is it a match for Don’s blood?” Jonathan inquired and was surprised by her response.

  “No, it’s not his blood and it’s a pity I don’t have a piece of the glass that lay beside him.”

  “Why?”

  “It could be Don’s blood or the murderer’s that was smeared on them. I’ve already spoken to the judge and registered an official letter of appointment with the court,” she said and at that moment the voice of the clerk of the court interrupted their conversation.

  “Order in the court!” and Justice Adam Ayalon entered the court and took up his place on the bench.

  Abigail rose.

  “I call the witness for the defense, Advocate Ronen Bar-Chen, to the witness stand for questioning under caution.” And the court orderly announced his name in a loud voice.

  A rustle went through the crowd. The judge hit the block with his gavel and asked for silence in the court, but the people assembled in the court could not calm down. The prosecutor got up from the bench, wearing his black robe on his shoulders.

  The court was now completely silent. The prosecutor, who was still standing, gasped scornfully and asked in a patronizing tone,

  “Is the attorney calling the prosecutor to the witness stand?” He grinned, no one spoke and he looked at Abigail.

  “Are you calling me?” He sounded amused. “Aren’t you a little confused, Ma’am? I’m not a witness, I am Advocate Ronen Bar-Chen and I would like to remind you that I am the prosecutor in this case.”

  He scanned the people assembled in the courtroom with a proud glance and turned to the judge, his voice now accompanied by anger.

  “When did Advocate Ben-Nun joins this case? Why wasn’t I informed of it?” He paused momentarily and then added affably, “apparently Advocate Ben-Nun is not familiar with the sides in our trial.”

  “It’s correct.” He heard the judge, speaking slowly, but clearly. “Advocate Ben-Nun did, indeed, call your name, Sir, and you are requested to take your place on the witness stand.”

  “But I’m not a witness, I’m the prosecutor.” Then, he relented and decided to adopt his usual tactic, one he had used many times.

  “This advocate is trying to blur the facts in this case. She is mistaken and is misleading the court. I feel obliged to warn the honorable court, lest it cooperate in this transparently obvious ruse.”

  His voice steadied and did not betray his agitation at this unexpected development.

  Judge Ayalon did not look at him when he responded.

  “The court is in possession of a document that confirms the addition of Advocate Ben-Nun to the defense team on the Avrahami trial.”

  The judge appeared to be expecting the prosecutor’s reaction. Clearly, it was not an everyday occurrence that the defense attorney points to the prosecutor in a trial and subjects him to interrogation under warning, and who is likely to become the defendant in the same trial.

  The judge put on his glasses, glanced at the papers and began reading the remarks he had prepared in advance.

  “On the basis of new facts which the court has received and in accordance with the discretion vested in me, I have decided not to reveal these new details to you, Sir, the prosecutor. It was also my decision not to bring the addition of Advocate Ben-Nun to the defense team of this case to your knowledge.”

  When Ronen got on the witness stand he felt as though he was dying. He placed his hand on the Bible and quietly recited the words he had heard so many times from witnesses he had interrogated. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God.”

  He almost wept when he answered the questions asked, especially when he was warned that his testimony could be used in evidence against him.

  “What is your connection to the deceased Don Avrahami?”

  “I was his good friend.”

  “How were you familiar with every detail of his home?”

  “I know the house well, I visited there many times and I knew how the house looked and where every piece of furniture belonged.”

  Abigail went to the defense table and picked up some papers. She placed one before the witness and asked him to identify it.

  Ronen examined it and, without looking up, responded.

  “Yes, I recognize it; it’s a page from my bank statement.”

  She removed the paper and replaced it with another document. She spoke clearly and softly as she looked into Ronen’s eyes. The black prosecutor’s gown still graced his shoulders, which added a very strange tone to the unique situation.

  “Sir, before you is a page of the bank statement of the deceased, Don. On this page, you will find a transfer from your account to the account of the deceased, Don Avrahami. The sum in each statement is one hundred and seventy five thousand shekels.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ronen saw how the judge leaned forward over the bench as he followed the proceedings with great interest. Advocate Ben-Nun spoke to him again.

  “I suppose you know about this transfer. Tell the court what it was for.”

  “I don’t deny that I transferred that amount to him. Nevertheless, I would advise the learned advocate that it doesn’t prove anything. The transfer of money is no proof of anything like…”

  She interrupted him and turned to the judge.

  “I move that Your Honor instruct the witness with regard to his new legal status. He cannot add his learned opinion to the matters he is being questioned about.” She paused.

  “Sir, at this time you are a witness and not the prosecutor in this trial. Your status has changed permanently. Therefore, I instruct you to answer and refer only to matters you are questioned on and not express your opinions,” the judge said.

  The judge was short with him, but a vestige of respect still remained in his manner towards the witness. Ronen lowered his gaze to the page.

  “I’ve been wondering and haven’t figured out the nature of this transfer,” and she asked, “Was it a loan, an investment, or maybe a gift?”

  “Sure, it was a gift. He also had no intention of returning it.”

  “Of course not. People don’t usually return gifts. Was this generous present recorded or noted anywhere?”

  “I didn’t keep a record of it because it was a verbal agreement between us.”

  “I understand,” she said and added, “Because we’re talking ab
out quite a considerable amount. By the way, what was the occasion for the gift?”

  “Nothing in particular, it has been just between friends. We were on very good terms. I would visit their home freely, and I even knew their neighbors.”

  “Really? Who, for example?”

  “Well, let’s see. In the house next door, on the right, lives an older woman with a beautiful daughter. I even knew their big dog with the red coat. They called him ‘Negev’.

  “Hmm, very nice.”

  “And the house on the left, the woman’s name was Adelah and the father; I don’t recall his name, worked as a painter and drove an old truck. They have children of varying ages.”

  “Did you know their son, Zohar?”

  “No, I don’t remember. Zohar? Who’s Zohar?”

  “Then, perhaps, I can remind you. When you arrived there very early on the morning of the incident on Sunday, he was riding his bicycle, greeted you and called out ‘A’halan’, Hello. Do you remember?”

  Without waiting for him to answer, Abigail went straight to her desk, rummaged around in the transparent envelope and pulled out a page. She submitted it to the judge and only after that, read it in her soft voice.

  “I saw him that morning. He got out of his black car. He was tall and I recognized him. When he saw me, he offered me a white candy, but I didn’t take it. I just said ‘A’halan’ and rode away. I saw him going into Don’s house.”

  “He’s just a kid, a little kid. Interesting, who told him to say that?” Ronen said, still in control of his voice. Abigail returned to her table again and returned, carrying a bag, and said.

  “I submit the following exhibits in evidence to the court. They were found on the path leading to the entrance of the deceased’s home, a white candy and a pen. I also have the lab results on these findings.”

  She placed another document before the honorable witness and spoke to him.

  “Please read the report of the lab results.”

  While the witness read what was written, she placed the bag with the candy and the light-colored pen, resembling a cigarette, on the judge’s table, listening to Ronen from there.

  “On the cellophane wrapper of the peppermint flavored candy, prints were found that match the fingerprints of Mr. Ronen Bar-Chen.”

  Ronen stopped reading and looked up at Abigail. She nodded and signaled him to continue reading, which he did, in a somewhat altered voice.

  “The white pen, resembling a cigarette, bore fingerprints belonging to the Mr. Ronen Bar-Chen.”

  Ronen’s hands were sweating and his forehead shone with perspiration.

  “That’s right.” he said with a flash of his former courage that had almost deserted him.

  “So what? It wasn’t the first time I visited that house, and it still doesn‘t prove anything. Those things could have fallen out of my pockets on other days I was there.”

  “Carry on reading.” Abigail suggested, without heeding his remark.

  “The blood on the knife was genetically identifiable with Mr. Ronen Bar-Chen’s blood.” Here he stopped reading and suddenly burst out in anger:

  “What blood and on what knife are they referring to? I never got hurt in that house and I was never involved with any knife!”

  Until this moment, he had managed to control himself and not react angrily.

  “Carry on, if you please,” she said and one could almost hear the compassion in her voice. He swallowed loudly and continued.

  “A genetic match was shown between blood found on two five mm shards of glass and the blood of…” he looked up and the advocate continued in her soft voice:

  “It seems you were injured by shards of the glass vase that hit Don.”

  She turned to the Judge and the tone of her voice was decisive and conclusive. “We have a very valuable gift and a visit at dawn to a woman whose husband, Don, is just leaving his home to lead a group on a pre-arranged organized tour.”

  Ronen was silent. He looked blindly at the page in front of him when the Advocate turned to him, almost whispering:

  “You know, it looks and sounds just like the movies.”

  She raised her hands as if reading from a teleprompter in a dramatic voice.

  “A lawyer kills someone and then incriminates another witness for the murder he committed.”

  She stared at the witness and asked, “Shall we screen this movie, which, in fact, stars you as the producer, the director and the leading actor?”

  Ronen cried out, “What, do you have it on film? Oh, I should have known! So, he came back to turn on the cameras! That dirty dog! I knew him; he never trusted anyone. I should have known! I should have known!”

  “Known what? Would you prefer to tell us or shall we…”

  “There’s nothing to tell. If you have it on film, you’ll be able to see that what happened was simply an accident. It wasn’t planned.”

  He lowered his voice and speaking to the advocate, who stood beside him, confided, “You know I was actually fond of him. Believe me! He just slipped on the step beside me.”

  He stepped down from the witness stand and pushed the advocate to show her how it had happened.

  Advocate Bar-Chen wasn’t listening anymore when the Judge banged his gavel on the block and said:

  “It is the decision of this court that Irit, accused of the murder of her husband, Don, be released from custody forthwith and that Advocate Ronen Bar-Chen be placed under arrest and detained until a date is fixed for his remand.”

  The people gathered in the courtroom cheered and the judge looked at the young lawyer, who had returned to her place.

  She closed the transparent envelope and turned to the judge. His gaze expressed the esteem he held her in and his admiration. Anyone with a sharp eye could have sensed the desire this smart and beautiful woman aroused in him.

  * * *

  Abigail’s life was flourishing. She had a great deal of work and her successes were gaining her renown throughout the country’s courts. Today, she was travelling south, to the tents of the Ka’abiah tribe, the home of her family.

  She arrived towards evening as the sheep were being herded into the wood-fenced enclosures and her brothers, the shepherds, went into the men’s tent, to rest and eat.

  Abigail entered the black tent, her mother’s tent. Here, in the quiet of the desert, she could cool her thoughts and her soul. A breeze entered the tent and fluttered the pages of the newspaper that lay at her feet on the mat. The headline caught her eye:

  TAXI DRIVER, JACKI TAUB, FOUND SHOT AT THE WHEEL OF HIS CAB

  She picked up the newspaper and read the subheading.

  HE WILL NEVER HEAR THE WORD ‘DADDY’ FROM HIS INFANT DAUGHTER, BORN THIS WEEK.

  Two pictures appeared under the headline: one picture of the cab, its door wide open. The driver leaned forward in his seat, his hand hanging out of the car and his head on the steering wheel. Beside it was a picture of a day-old infant girl, her face contorted with crying.

  The article reported that a youth had been apprehended and was being held on suspicion of the cab-driver’s murder.

  The ruling judge had allowed the young man’s identity to be revealed. He was an attractive youngster named Gil Ayalon, and he was a twenty-year old soldier. The article noted that he was the son of a respected family with no criminal record. What made the story spicier was that the murdered cab-driver’s daughter, Julia, believed the soldier had been falsely accused.

  She had refused to answer the judge’s questions and burst out crying bitterly in court. His trial had been set for Sunday after the Shavuot holiday but, the judge, Justice Adam Ayalon, had recused himself from conducting this highly publicized trial because the murder suspect, a close member of his family, was his brother's son. Abigail thought that the youth did, indeed, come from a fine family and her curiosity was aroused. The following day she set about finding out further details about the nephew of the judge, whom she held in high esteem.

  So far Gil kept hi
s silence even when he was given the right to defend himself and explain how his carton binder came to be on the seat beside the driver in the cab.

  Justice Ayalon’s alternate, Anton Stolov, was aware of the family connection, treated him in a fatherly manner and tried, in vain, to persuade him to provide an explanation. Gil made do with shaking his head in denial when asked if he had killed the driver.

  “You’re not disputing the fact that you travelled in the cab, are you?” asked the prosecuting attorney.

  In fact, there was not even a hint of a question in his voice and he was simply stating a fact. As proof, he presented a photograph of the carton binder, marked “Gil Ayalon” in black that had been left on the passenger seat beside the dead driver. The prosecutor bombarded the defendant with questions, making no effort to get answers and also not giving him time to answer. This way he got the facts on record and created the atmosphere he wanted.

  “How did you get the gun?”

  “Where is the weapon now, where did you hide it?”

  The blinking of the defendant’s eyes showed that he heard the questions, but preferred not to answer.

  “You’re a soldier, right? And your rifle, where was it?”

  Not only did the questions remain unanswered, but they also were not met with any objections from the defense counsel.

  At the end of the session, Stolov, the judge, called Gil and asked him to approach the bench. He leaned towards him, talked to him in whispers and then asked the guards to remove his handcuffs and the chains on his legs.

  That was the moment Gil had been waiting for.

  When he turned to face the people in the courtroom, Julia, the murdered cab driver’s daughter yelled loud enough for everyone in the room to hear:

  “Gil, Gil, this way! This way!”

  Gil Ayalon disappeared in the commotion and the guards looked for him as they shoved people around to push their way between them. Someone yelled at the police to surround the dispersing crowd.