Lineup (24 page)
SERGEANT
Ohad Barel was very pleased with himself. At last, all the pieces were falling into place in the investigation he was leading. He’d had to go through what Nachum called “legal shit” to get the warrant, but he finally had what he wanted: a record of the calls Nevo’s ex-wife made from her office on the day he disappeared. A few minutes before leaving work, she’d called the cell phone of a friend by the name of Orit Berger. The call had lasted four minutes and fifteen seconds. Berger lived in the south, but he found out from Border Control that she and her family were currently overseas. There was no doubt in Barel’s mind why Merav had called her.
Now he was on his way south to bring Merav in for questioning. With any luck, he would find Nevo there too.
He drove at high speed, enjoying the fine weather and the company of Shiri, the policewoman on his squad whom he’d brought along for the ride. He’d had his eye on her for a while, and he had the impression it might be mutual. A day that started out so well was bound to end well too.
Just three minutes after he turned onto the southern highway, his cell phone rang. It was Dr. Dan Mizrachi from Ichilov. “Dana Aronov has regained consciousness. You can talk to her,” he said blandly, as if he were speaking about the weather.
“What? When?” he asked excitedly.
“Yesterday,” the doctor answered drily.
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
Dr. Mizrachi apologized. “Sorry. My fault. We’re very busy here. I’d advise you to get here as soon as possible,” he added before hanging up.
What was he supposed to do now? Navon told him to do whatever it took to bring Nevo in, and his gut was telling him Merav knew where to find her ex-husband. On the other hand, Dr. Mizrachi told him to get to the hospital quickly. Aronov’s testimony was critical to the case. He couldn’t risk missing out on it.
“We don’t have any choice. We have to go back to Tel Aviv,” Shiri said, smiling at him. After cursing the doctor one last time, he turned the car around. If everything worked out as he hoped, Aronov would ID Nevo as her attacker, and he’d head south again that night to finish what he’d started.
BAREL
was excited. This was his time to shine. Just as he’d expected, the description Dana Aronov gave matched Adi Regev’s description of her attacker. More to the point, it fit Ziv Nevo to a tee.
Like everyone else, he’d read the bizarre interview Nachum had given to Dori Engel. He didn’t see eye to eye with him one bit. And he couldn’t figure out why Nachum had decided to go to the press with his crazy ideas. Nothing good would come out of it, not for the case, and definitely not for Nachum himself.
He remembered what his former boss had said about a lineup: that it was like baking a cake, you had to follow the recipe. And since this was the first cake he’d ever baked by himself, he’d decided to go by the book and conduct an unimpeachable photo lineup. First he’d gone to the DA and gotten a green light: if they didn’t have Nevo, there was no legal impediment to presenting the victim with a photo array. For the record, he’d left a brief message on the cell phone of Assaf Rosen, Nevo’s attorney, informing him they were planning to conduct another lineup and asking him to contact him. He just didn’t bother to leave a number. So far, Rosen hadn’t called back.
He looked over the pictures numbered one through eight that were pinned to the corkboard. All the faces were similar to Nevo’s. He wondered if he hadn’t gone too far in his determination to follow the recipe impeccably. The faces might resemble each other too closely. But he put that thought aside. In his interview with Aronov, he’d asked her several times to describe her assailant, and each time she’d given him the answers he was looking for. He was convinced she’d do the same at the moment of truth and point to Nevo. He was so positive that he’d even resisted the temptation to “accidentally” leave a picture of Nevo in her room.
The technician taping the proceedings signaled that he was ready. Barel entered the room. He thought he saw tears forming in Dana’s eyes, their clear blue intensified by the bruises and swelling on her face. “Practically a medical miracle,” Dr. Mizrachi called it when he described how she’d woken up from the coma. Now he was standing by her bed in case the experience of identifying her rapist had an adverse effect on his patient’s condition.
Barel stood next to Aronov and explained, for the record, what was going to happen. When he was done, he spun the corkboard faceup, more like a TV entertainer than a police officer, and held it where she could easily see it. He kept his eyes trained on her as she scanned one picture after the other, concentrating so hard that he was actually following her eye movements. Number one, number two. His heart nearly stopped when she quickly passed over number five, Nevo, and went on to the next one.
Finally, she raised her eyes to him. He could see by her expression that she was unable to ID the rapist. His stomach hurt. The last thing he needed was for the lineup to fail to produce a result. Navon was breathing down his neck. If he didn’t bring him Nevo’s head on a platter, he’d take the blame for the screwup. He’d tried too hard, the pictures were too much alike, they’d say.
Aronov continued to look at him in silence. “Take your time. There’s no reason to hurry, no pressure. I know this is hard for you,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice calm.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t recognize any of them.”
Barel’s heart fell. He was beginning to think he was suffering from bad karma, that all the problems he was encountering were punishment for what he’d done to Nachum.
“Take another look,” he coaxed, shifting slightly so that his back was to the camera.
As she brought her eyes back down to the board, he passed his finger inconspicuously over the photos, pausing for a fraction of a second at number five before moving on. She looked up at him and he gazed back at her meaningfully. That’s the one, point to that one, he screamed silently. Please, please, just do it. My career is on the line, his eyes said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning her head aside.
Barel drew in a sharp breath. He could hear Nachum’s voice in his head: never take anything for granted, always have a Plan B in case something goes wrong. He cursed himself for the overconfidence that had bitten him in the ass.
“Please take another look at number five. Is that the man who raped you?” Barel found it hard to keep his voice steady. He knew the risk he was taking. An ID based on a single photo carried much less weight than the result of a photo array, but it was better than nothing. In the present circumstances, he’d grasp at any straw not to leave here empty-handed.
Dana focused on the photo of Nevo.
“I’m sorry. That’s not him,” she said finally.
“How can you be sure?” he said, regretting the question the moment the words were out of his mouth.
“His face was pitted. He had a broader noise, thinner lips.”
RACHEL
Zuriel swallowed the pill without water. The Tel Aviv district attorney had read about the danger of pain pills, especially the Optalgin she took regularly. She’d tried to cut down, but the headache that started after her meeting with Galit Lavie left her no choice.
She’d summoned Lavie to her office to tell her about her meeting with Shuki Borochov and the information he claimed to have about Ziv Nevo. Lavie was in charge of the Nevo case, and even beyond that, Zuriel respected the young ADA’s opinion. She was astonished to learn from her that the second victim had woken up and they’d conducted a photo lineup in the hospital, but she hadn’t fingered Nevo. In fact, when they’d pointed him out to her, she’d said she was certain he wasn’t the man who raped her.
It looked like Eli Nachum was right. Nevo didn’t rape Dana Aronov and there was a good chance he didn’t rape Adi Regev either. They’d been chasing the wrong man, and in their misplaced zeal, they’d gotten him convicted of a felony he didn’t commit.
“Rachel, I’m asking you to include Nevo in the deal with Faro,” Galit said after hearing Borochov’s offer.
“Why would I do that?” she asked in surprise, wondering if she should tell Galit she’d had no intention of taking the deal even when she thought Nevo was guilty. Now that they knew he was innocent, what interest did it serve to bring him in?
“We owe it to him, Rachel,” Lavie went on when she got no reply. “We’ve done him an injustice. And it’s very likely that Faro’s people are more involved than just knowing where he is. They’re probably holding him. There’s no telling what they’ll do if you inform Borochov that we know Nevo’s innocent and the cops have no further interest in him. They might very well decide that killing him is the best way to keep him quiet.”
“I think you’re exaggerating, Galit,” she said, although she knew the ADA could be right. No one knew more about Faro’s organization than Lavie. Just a few months ago she’d gotten a murder conviction against one of his soldiers, Yariv Cohen. They’d leaned on him hard and tried to seduce him with all sorts of perks, but he refused to give up his boss. He got a life sentence. Lavie had received death threats during the trial, but she hadn’t backed down. She was a brave woman.
“We owe it to him, Rachel,” she repeated. “He’s got a little boy. If it weren’t for us and our mistakes, none of this would be happening to him.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Zuriel said sympathetically, looking the young attorney in the eye. “But the chances of something happening to Nevo are very slim. It’s just speculation. What we have to consider . . .”
“No, Rachel. When it comes to people like them, it’s not just speculation. And even if it is, he’s the one who’ll pay the price if I’m right, and he doesn’t deserve that.”
Zuriel closed her eyes. Her head was still throbbing painfully. Beyond her closed door she could hear the noise of the office, people chatting, telephones ringing. She’d promised Galit she’d think about what she said.
She’d never admit it, in fact, the very thought made her cringe in shame, but deep down she hoped Faro’s organization would make the problem called Ziv Nevo go away. Both the police and the prosecution had come under heavy attack in recent years. The public was out for blood. They didn’t understand that the barrage was instigated by criminal elements. Even her best friends believed the DA’s Office fabricated evidence, hounded politicians for no good reason, and in general had too much power and regularly abused it. The Ziv Nevo fiasco would be another blow to their reputation. He’d talk to the press, give in-depth interviews to the media about how he was coerced into confessing to a rape he didn’t commit, how he was incarcerated and tortured, how his life was ruined. And they’d have to hang their heads in shame once again, to come up with some lame excuse, to admit they were wrong, but of course it was all done in good faith.
She dialed Borochov’s number.
“It turns out Nevo didn’t do the rapes,” she said, telling him about the photo lineup arranged for Dana Aronov in order to remove any suspicion he might have that she was trying to outfox him: attempting to get her hands on Nevo without giving Faro anything in return.
Borochov said nothing.
“The offer of seven years still stands,” she said. It was her job to look out for the public interest. Even Lavie would come to see that in time. She was a smart girl.
Borochov continued to remain silent. She didn’t like that. Had there been further developments since he left her office?
“In view of what your client is accused of, I think . . . ,” she began, but he cut her off. “Seven years isn’t something we’d even consider.”
Now it was Zuriel’s turn to be silent. She’d handled countless plea bargains. He’d throw out a number, she’d counter with a higher one, and in the end they’d meet in the middle.
“I spoke with Faro. We’ll take our chances in court,” Borochov announced.
She waited, ready to pounce the moment he gave her an opening to continue their horse trading, but he said nothing.
“So I guess I’ll see you in court,” she said finally. “I have to admit I’m a bit surprised you’re choosing to waste everyone’s time and risk a much harsher sentence, but it’s your decision. Not a very wise one in my opinion, but that’s your prerogative.” She was doing her best to sound confident.
“Don’t waste your breath, Rachel. We’re no longer interested. Go issue an indictment on the basis of what you’ve got. We’ll cope.”
Zuriel chewed on her lip. Up until a few minutes ago, she was sure the only question was how much time Faro would spend behind bars. Now she had nothing. She couldn’t go to court with no more than two words.
“So I assume we’re done here,” Borochov said, and started talking about the upcoming legal convention in Eilat.
She didn’t take in a word of what he said. She was furious with the cops for this stupid arrest that had put her in the hot seat and with herself for giving in to the temptation to play along with it. The whole house of cards had come down around her. They’d have to release Faro, and they’d thrown Nevo to the wolves to boot.
“There’s just one request I’d like to make,” she said, interrupting Borochov’s monologue. “Tell your client to let Nevo go.”
“Oh, about that. I forgot to tell you. It was a matter of mistaken identity, someone who looked like Nevo. My client has no idea where Nevo is.”
Zuriel fell back in her chair. No pill in the world would make her headache go away now.
MESHULAM
was standing on the corner watching the paramedics wheel a stretcher carrying the body of Yossi Golan out of the apartment on Jeremiah Street in Tel Aviv. He still ached all over from the brush with the man in Nevo’s apartment, and his face was swollen, especially his nose. It was probably broken. When he looked at himself in the mirror this morning, his face seemed even more menacing than usual.
He knew Golan well, was actually fond of the bastard. But he wasn’t sorry he was dead. The traitor had dug his own grave. There was only one punishment for loose lips in their organization. Golan knew that. So did Meshulam.
He tried to get the image out of his head, but he couldn’t help seeing the day thirteen years ago when he watched the paramedics wheel his mother’s body out of the house. He was the one who found her. She died of an overdose, just like Golan. He remembered every detail of that day, including the sour smell of death in the apartment. He was only sixteen. Miriam Meshulam hadn’t been much of a mother, but her death still hurt. It meant he was all alone now.
The memory of that awful time engulfed him. He was irritated with himself. The past was the past. He had work to do. And work was all he had left. Without it, who was he?
Shuki Borochov called last night and told him their cop informant had come through at the last minute. It turned out Navon’s squad didn’t have anything solid on Faro. In fact, they didn’t have squat. Golan had let slip a few inconsequential words to his brother-in-law about their drug operation, and the brother-in-law had told his best friend, who just happened to be a cop. How stupid can you get?
The cops and the DA had been keeping their cards very close to their chest, but they were bluffing the whole time. Shuki said that when the DA called, he more or less told her where she could stick it.
The paramedics opened the back of the ambulance and rolled in the stretcher with the body bag. Golan knew the rules. He shouldn’t have talked to his brother-in-law. There was no place in their organization for weaklings, for people who didn’t know how to keep their mouth shut, who showed no respect or loyalty.
The order to take out Golan had come directly from Faro in Abu Kabir. Borochov conveyed the message. “Be discreet,” Meshulam was told, and he understood perfectly: no bullets, no fireworks, do it quietly. As soon as he got the call, he set out from Shufa, leaving Nevo, still licking his wounds, in the hands of George’s crew.
He arranged for Golan to get some crystal meth cut with a little something extra that would do the job. The cops might suspect it was a hit, but they’d never be able to link it back to Faro. The dope had passed through too many hands along the way, and they all had good reason to keep their lips sealed. Nobody would risk going up against Faro because of a loser like Golan.
The ambulance passed him as it sped away. He could see the two paramedics laughing in the front. What did they care? When they came for his mother, they didn’t even try to resuscitate her. She was just a lousy junkie. She didn’t matter.
Meshulam turned and headed to his car. It was cold. He zipped up his jacket. He had to go back and deal with Nevo. Borochov had relayed Faro’s instructions to let the asshole go. The clowns on the force had finally figured out that he didn’t rape anyone.
There was no reason not to cut him loose. It was clear to them now that he’d been telling the truth, that he didn’t squeal. And it’s what Faro wanted. But from Meshulam’s point of view, Nevo knew too much. So far, he’d managed to keep his little side venture on Louis Marshall from Faro, but that could change. Nevo might blab. Maybe not to the cops, but to the boss, or to his buddy Noam. The last thing he needed was for Faro to take pity on Nevo and give him his old job back, and then one day while he was driving him somewhere they’d start talking and it would come out.
He didn’t want to have to live with that fear. The fact that Nevo had kept his mouth shut up to now didn’t guarantee anything. One day you’re strong and the next day you break, and then the shit hits the fan.
Faro wanted him to bring Nevo back from the West Bank, but a lot can happen on the way. Faro might be sorry about it, but he wouldn’t grieve for him. With Nevo out of the way, Meshulam could put the whole thing behind him, there’d be no evidence of the one time he fucked up in all these years. And if there was one thing he’d learned from Golan, it was that you pay for your mistakes. It could just as easily be him in a body bag if Faro found out what he’d done. He didn’t have a choice. He had to look out for himself. He couldn’t rely on anyone else.
