“I’m going to write that article,” Nahum said on his way to the door.
“Not so fast,” Avraham stopped him.” We must first notify the police of the facts you’ve uncovered, to give them a fair chance to begin investigating Nimrod.”
Nahum had no choice but to accept his editor’s decision.
The police summoned Nimrod for questioning and the interrogation lasted ten hours. His Interrogators were surprised by his unhesitating admission that the deceased had testified against him in court. It was not even necessary to produce the protocols. He also admitted, with a loud yawn of boredom, that the testimony of the deceased had cost him two hundred thousand shekels, but he insisted that he had no connection with Eviatar’s death. Yes, a journalist by the name of Nahum had come to where he lived and had talked to him for a few minutes outside his apartment. No, he had not hidden the matter of Eviatar and the trial from the said journalist named Nahum. On further thought, he remembered with certainty that this journalist had never asked him any questions about the late Eviatar. Yes, he was prepared to swear to it. No, he had no idea how the journalist had come to that conclusion. Yes, the late Eviatar was obliged to tell the truth in court; it was every citizen’s duty, not so?
The police decided to close the file. They had no proof against Nimrod, whose contention sounded reasonable.
Nahum wrote the first article under the heading: “I Could Have Saved Eviatar From Death Had I Listened To Him.”
It was a personal story. Touching. A week later, Nahum’s second article appeared in which he gave his version against Nimrod’s. The article concluded with the question: “Who should be believed, Nimrod or me?”
The third article was ‘most irresponsible’ in the words of Yitzhak, the paper’s crime reporter. The heading was: “Why Don’t They Charge Him?”
The relentless media pressure brought results. Nimrod was summoned for questioning for the second time. Nahum was also called to give evidence and underwent a long interrogation. A senior police officer declared that heart failure was not the only possible cause of Eviatar’s death. This time the police decided to detain Nimrod and he was arrested on a charge of premeditated murder. Nimrod’s lawyer asserted that the police had no proof of anything to connect his client to Eviatar’s death.
“I’ll have a lot to say to the press after this trial,” Nimrod said repeatedly in the course of the proceedings.
In delivering their verdict, the judges remarked that despite the exposure of the many lies in the testimony of the accused during the trial, they were forced to find Nimrod Gefen not guilty on grounds of insufficient proof.
◊ ◊ ◊
Morning, in front of the Tel Aviv District Court on Weizmann Street, is not the quietest of times. Solemn-faced people arrive early, crowding and pushing at the entrance, hindering those on their way out. To the left of the main door, a group of people was gathering to form a widening circle around Nimrod and Nahum, who stood facing one another. The journalists surrounding them assertively demanded more information. Comments. Answers. Strong, quick and plenty, as far as possible. Nimrod was the one who gave them large helpings of what they were after. He circled around Nahum. At times he whispered. At times he laughed. At time he gave the answers without letting Nahum answer. There were moments when he burst into roars of laughter that were barely silenced by the sound of the uninterrupted stream of traffic. By their expressions and the microphones extended towards Nimrod, the reporters showed which side they were on without having to say a word.
Meanwhile, Nimrod’s lawyer joined the circle. Although he had advised his client to leave without saying anything, he came to stand next to him, rubbing his hands in enjoyment of Nimrod’s remarks. The latter waited patiently for the questions he secretly hoped would be asked and looked forward to seeing his answers in print.
“Look what he’s done to me, this journalist.” Nimrod pointed at Nahum again and again as he continued to pace around him.
“Because of him I sat in jail for ages, because of him I had to change all my plans; who’s going to compensate me for all this, tell me?”
A reporter standing next to Nimrod pushed his mike close to Nahum’s mouth and said, “Do you have any idea how to answer such questions?”
Nahum seemed to rouse himself from a dream and, lifting his head, scanned the circle of people who were hungrily watching his every move. He suddenly became alert. Different. Sure of himself. Speaking firmly, he said, “Yes, I have a very clear idea of the way to answer such questions. And how I have!”
Then he turned to face Nimrod, “Correct,” he said, “because of me you sat in jail. But you didn’t sit long enough. If you’d sat longer, maybe you’d have broken under interrogation and told the truth!”
Whispers, murmured phrases and the sound of shuffling feet arose from the direction of the journalists.
Nimrod silenced them with a shout. “Did you hear what I heard? Now you understand who I’m dealing with? Do you see what it’s all about?”
Not giving anyone the chance to respond to his words, Nimrod turned to Nahum and said, “How dare you, after all you’ve done to me, how dare you speak to me like that? You’ll pay dearly for it. You’ll see!”
He stole a glance at the journalists and at Nahum. He had the impression that the act had done its work. The cameras were being focused more and more on him. The shutters snapped as they captured his handsome face, to his special satisfaction and pleasure. An unexpected movement coming from the direction of Nahum caught his eye. He saw Nahum agitatedly fumbling in the recesses of his pants pocket from which he finally pulled out a much-folded envelope. Nimrod’s heart missed a beat.
Nahum waved the sealed envelope in front of the gathering, before addressing Nimrod, “Do you know what I have here in this envelope?”
Nimrod did not answer. The purple hue that always lurked under the skin of his face quickly drained away.
Nahum continued, “I have in this envelope incisive proof that you and only you are responsible for Eviatar’s death. Prior to his death, the deceased concealed a letter detailing the whole range of threats and harassment to which he was subjected before he was murdered. It’s all written down, here in this letter.”
An icy sweat covered Nimrod’s pale skin. At time he recalled how Eviatar had threatened to conceal a letter detailing Nimrod’s intimidation, but he never believed he would actually do so. He remembered the nights during his arrest and interrogation, how he would wake up in his cell, covered in the same cold sweat after a nightmare in which Eviater’s letter was found by the police. Now the nightmare was invading his real life. He tried to say something that would sound like a logical reply to the satanic journalist standing in front of him, but the words stuck in his throat. Help came from an unexpected quarter.
His lawyer, addressing Nahum in an offensive tone of voice, was saying, “We haven`t the slightest idea what you`re talking about, but in any case that letter`s worth nothing today .In case you`ve forgotten, the trial`s over.” Nimrod heaved a sigh of relief.
The lawyer adjusted his black tie, sending photogenic smiles in the direction of the television cameras. “It’s like this,” he said to the army of journalists, “According to criminal law, this nuisance of a journalist had to present all the evidence he possessed, through his lawyer. Now that my client had been found not guilty, no further evidence is allowed. It is unjust to expose the accused to evidence that could have been presented in court. Where has he been all this time? He’s missed the train now that the trial’s over.”
The journalists listened attentively to Nimrod’s lawyer who flashed a mocking smile at Nahum and continued his lecture with an air of superiority. “Even if, indeed, the letter was discovered after the trial ended, you could have lodged an appeal and used this new evidence. However , that is not the case. Eviatar’s letter, which you claim to have in your possession, was known to the prosecuti
on at the time of the trial. Since it was not presented, it cannot be used as factual evidence discovered after the trial. The letter has yellowed with time while you were keeping it in your pocket. I would again like to remind anyone who has forgotten - my client has been found innocent and that’s that.”
The color was returning to Nimrod’s face. He dragged his angry gaze away from the hated journalist’s face. It looked as if the man who had changed the course of his life over the past year could not trouble him further. Some of the journalists were drifting away. They realized that the story had run its course.
Some never even heard Nahum when he said, “Everything you’ve said is true and sound. Indeed, I want to inform you that I received this letter only now, after the trial. The widow of the deceased found it this morning, hidden in their apartment. She immediately phoned the Today offices and they sent it to me by messenger. These are new facts emerging after the end of the trial, and I wish to remind you that the period for lodging an appeal has not ended. This letter will place your client behind bars for the rest of his life.”
Nimrod lost no time. He suddenly cut through the ring of people, broke into a wild run and disappeared from view with lightening speed. He did not wait to see the fallen look on his lawyer’s face, nor the raised eyebrows of the shocked journalists, nor Nahum’s lips stretched in a joyful smile.
The driver of the old Subaru taxi cab stomped on the brakes when a man panting heavily darted in front of the car. Before the driver knew what was happening, Nimrod jumped into the back seat and ordered him to step on the gas.
A pleasant fatigue overtook Nimrod as he sat in the moving car, soothed by the sound of the engine. He curled up and thought and thought, praying that nobody would disturb him in these moments. He wanted to be alone. Alone with himself. Without having to make forced speeches, without sending unwilling smiles, without having to behave according to the wishes of others. He wished he could travel on and on. His thoughts raced. Before he had a chance to unload the accumulated stress of the past year, even before he had touched freedom, even before he could indulge in the joy of his legal victory, everything had collapsed - all because of that stupid Eviatar who had left a superfluous letter before he died. Why had he not thought of the possibility that Eviatar, that absolute coward and idiot, would carry out his threat? Only a short while ago he had won a new ticket to freedom. Only a short while ago he had rubbed his whole body with the clear waters of bartered liberty. Indeed, only a short while ago he had been master of his own deeds without ties or limits.
On second thought, he, Nimrod, was still as free as a bird, still safe. At this early stage nobody could stop him. Nobody would rob him of his precious freedom. He would do everything to prevent it.
The driver’s voice cut through his musings, “Answer me, already. Where to?”
“To the nearest travel agency,” he heard himself answer and, without being asked, he added, “I’m getting out of this country as soon as possible.”
5.
Nahum came to work at seven in the morning. Nobody was there yet, apart from Theresa, the old cleaning woman. He made coffee for the two of them every morning in spite of Theresa’s protests. Actually, nothing pleased her more than to have a cup of coffee in the presence of - and made by - her boss, the senior journalist.
As a result of Nimrod’s trial, Nahum’s reputation had soared sky-high. For the staff of the paper, the trial symbolized the immense potential power of the Seventh Estate and its ability to use this power in the context of values. There was no doubt about it, without the intervention of the media nobody would have heard of Nimrod Gefen and certainly not of Eviatar Birnbaum .If not for the media pressure created by the newspaper via Nahum’s investigative articles, Nimrod would never have been brought to trial. Ricky, the senior secretary, declared pompously that there were four authorities in the modern western world, not three: the legislative, executive, legal and journalistic authorities.
Theresa used to arrive wrapped in anxiety that Nahum might neglect their customary shared coffee in the morning. However, Nahum continued to honor the custom. Theresa regularly baked slices of baklava and forced Nahum to have a bite of it with his hot coffee. She thought that his protests and explanations that he was not allowed to eat cake because of his cholesterol and diabetes were lies. In the end, he sipped his coffee, took a bit or two of cake to put an end to Theresa’s insistence.
The vast media coverage of the trial was of no interest to Nahum. At the time, what interested him above all was to put Nimrod Gefen behind bars. Not for personal reasons, but to implement the standards that were instilled in him as a child - that punishment follows sin and all the more so with regard to crime.
Interest in the case waned in the month following the verdict. Nahum was no longer the center of attention. The only ones who were not aware of this were Theresa and Nahum himself. He – because the personal aspect did not interest him – and she – because Nahum was always her dearest and most important person.
The office started filling with people from eight in the morning. With a mischievous smile, Ricky approached his desk and pointed an imaginary revolver at him.
“Ta-ta-ta! I’m shooting,” she said.
Nahum responded with a repetition of her gesture and words, after which they both burst out laughing. Ricky played this game whenever they met in the office. It was her way of saluting Nahum’s talent and reputation for exposing corruption.
“The boss wants to see you,” she said after the ritual.
Avraham was talking on the phone when Nahum entered. He waved him to a chair as he replaced the receiver and asked, “What are you working on at the moment?”
“I’m busy on an article about the Middle East’s economy after the Gulf War.”
“Sounds interesting,” Avraham said, although he did not sound particularly interested in Nahum’s answer. He looked vaguely around the room.
“I hear you pulled an unethical trick on him,” he said. The transition was sharp.
“What are you talking about?” Nahum asked.
“The letter. Was there a letter at all?”
The question surprised Nahum. A month had passed since Nimrod’s trial. The subject had dropped out of the headlines; nobody in the office referred to it anymore and now, all of a sudden, he was being questioned about it.
He hesitated before answering. Then he said, “No. There was no letter.”
The editor-in-chief softened. He liked Nahum’s honesty. He seldom had reason to be angry with this journalist. Sounding somewhat forced, he said, “Had you produced this tale about a letter written by the deceased before he died, without the whole media hearing about it, fine. But to drop a bomb like that right out in the open? The media are full of it. The paper’s authenticity is likely to suffer.”
Avraham was not asking, he was stating facts. Nahum wondered why he found it necessary to ask about the letter a month after the event; but Avraham did not appear to be listening. Nahum understood that the conversation was over and quickly left the room.
Avraham called after him, “He swallowed the bait.”
Nahum called him on the inside line from his desk. “What are you talking about, Avraham?”
“Nimrod Gefen has emigrated to Canada. He took the midnight plane. He’s shut up shop.”
Nahum wanted to inundate the editor with the haphazard questions on the tip of his tongue. How? What? When? Where did you hear about it and what have you got to say about it?
As if Avraham could read Nahum’s turbulent thoughts, he addressed them one by one. “Nimrod settled all his affairs. He sold his apartment in Ra’anana for a song. He shut every-thing down in two weeks. Don’t ask me how I know all this. I have my sources.”
He paused for a long time. Nahum couldn’t be sure if his boss was still on the line until he heard him say, “You know, you succeeded where the court failed. In fact, you
sentenced him to exile for the rest of his days.”
Avraham expected to hear shouts of joy. Nahum’s response was a little late in coming. “That punishment won’t bring poor Eviatar back to life.”
Avraham was not listening. “By the way, where did you get the idea of the letter from?” he asked, hastening to add, “Don’t bother to answer! One guess: Edna.” Then he hung up.
Now that Nahum knew about Nimrod’s departure, he realized that, indeed, as far as he was concerned, the affair had run its course. A sense of sweet serenity filled him as he typed a description of the complex economic problems of the Middle East after the Gulf War.
His fingers danced on the keys, his attention focused on the computer screen. He did not hear a sound, not the ring of the telephone nor the voices of his colleagues. Nahum concentrated on the thoughts flowing swiftly, maybe too swiftly for his age, through his fingers onto the keyboard.
At about six in the evening he shut down the computer, took his jacket from the hanger and left the office.
6.
Michael was sitting on a stool by his bedroom window, looking down at the street. His face was round and pale from lack of sun. His stomach was also round, bloated with inactivity. His eyes were dull and half-hidden behind his lowered eyelids - after all, he spent much of his time looking down. He spent hours in his room, looking out, and knew all the regulars passing under his window, as well as the exact opening and closing time of the shops within his view.
The street he lived on was quiet, too quiet, in his opinion. He often thought about his parents’ unsuccessful choice in renting this apartment for him. Nothing interesting ever happened. Everything repeated itself. The same two rows of cars parked close to the sidewalk in front of the building. The same poodle walking ahead of its owner, Mr. Reuveni, turning its head every few paces to make sure he was still there. The same Madam Vera, who never removed her brightly-colored housecoat, carrying her baby on her shoulder and dragging three, four or five-year-old Udi by the hand and his irritating voice.
Until Sweet Death Arrives Page 3