“And that frees you to disparage Israel,” Carole interrupted. “After all, Jews and Palestinians are mirror images of each other, just like Hana and me. Isn’t that what you believe, David? The same tragedies, the same loss, the same blindness.”
“Sabra and Shatila weren’t Auschwitz,” David snapped. “Just as the tragedies of Jews and Palestinians aren’t remotely similar. For my purposes, they don’t have to be. If six million Palestinians had died, rather than Jews, that wouldn’t make watching the rape of his sister and the murder of his family more damaging to Saeb Khalid. Or Hana more deserving of a lawyer.”
“Then what is it, David. That Hana was your lover?”
“Yes,” David answered simply. “I loved her once. Years later, I loved you. But I couldn’t trade her life for your approval. All of our lives have someone’s fingerprints on them. Having loved her didn’t mean I couldn’t love you, and defending her doesn’t make me a self-hating Jew.” David’s voice became harsher. “What I would have hated myself for was treating Hana like her life meant nothing to me. And what I would have hated
you
for was needing me to.”
Carole slowly shook her head. “Some fingerprints are indelible,” she answered. “What I needed was for you not to love her now. Perhaps, in that way, I wish you were a little more unknowable.” She paused, as though reluctant to say more. “If you find out that she lied to you, David, what will you do then?”
David had no answer. Leaving, Carole touched him lightly on the arm, a last reflex. Only then did David see the silver house key on his coffee table.
They were dining at Bacar, a converted warehouse south of Market Street with high ceilings, brick walls, and an extensive wine list, a chic variant on the more formal dining favored by an older crowd. “How so?” David asked.
“Israel is a wonderful country,” Martel answered. “But it’s riven by factions and contradictions—religious versus secular, dove versus hawk, the pragmatists who supported Ben-Aron versus the prophets who despised him—all of whom, understandably enough, view politics as a matter of life and death. What you suggested last night on Larry King—that Ben-Aron’s murder might in some way be an inside job—would, if true, be turned against whichever faction Israel’s various antagonists might find to blame.” Martel put down his wineglass. “One night on CNN won’t change the government’s mind. But you may find that you have some provisional allies, as opposed to friends, once you visit Israel.”
“For example?”
“Journalists, supporters of Ben-Aron, opponents of his successor, perhaps those who hope to gain political and electoral advantage by tying his murder to the ultraright.” Martel paused to eye the menu. “But you’ll find those waters murky and quite difficult to navigate—Israel is not a place that lends itself to easy understanding. For that, you’ll need a guide.”
David sipped Martel’s selection. “I was hoping you’d have a candidate or two.”
“One, especially. Zev Ernheit—a historian and archaeologist by training, and a former intelligence officer by profession, now working for himself. There’s no nook or cranny of Israeli society where Zev doesn’t know someone, and he hears the echoes of the past back to King David and beyond.
“Israel, after all, sits on ancient land, and historic memory is encoded in the DNA of Jews and Arabs alike. Only if you grasp the grievances and divisions of each society can you fully understand the defense you’re weaving for Ms. Arif.”
“What about the government?” David asked. “Can your man help me there?”
“The
government
will help you, to a point. Not by giving you what you ask, but by providing tidbits here and there, an aura of accessibility, if for no other reason than to keep track of what you’re doing. For which one can hardly blame them, given the embers you propose to poke a stick in.” Pausing, Martel glanced about, taking in the affluent young professionals with a look that suggested how negligible he found them. “To live in Israel requires an alertness most Americans never learn. If an Israeli takes you to a restaurant like this, he’s likely chosen it not for the wine list but for a security system that makes it a tad less likely you’ll be blown up before dessert.” Martel touched a napkin to his lips. “As to those things the government does
not
want you to know—yes, my friend Zev can help.”
“That will be much appreciated,” David said. “And what about the West Bank?”
“A different place. And your reasons for going, of course, are different.”
David nodded. “I need to explore Saeb’s and Hana’s lives—their associates, their secrets, whatever our own intelligence people are looking for. The same thing for the suicide bombers, Hassan and Jefar.”
“You need context,” Martel observed. “Where these men came from, what drove them, who knew how to use them, and on whose behalf. And where all
that
fits into the byzantine relations among the contending forces—Hamas; Fatah, the party of Faras; and Al Aqsa, the militant arm of Fatah. Understanding the crosscurrents of Palestinian politics is the only way to find out who may have planned the assassination, and why.”
David found this catalog even more disheartening than the tasks he faced in Israel. “Anything else?” he asked dryly.
“Yes. To have any hope of succeeding, you’ll need to penetrate Al Aqsa itself, which has been driven further underground by the Israelis. And, finally, you’ll need a line into Hamas.”
David shook his head. “Do you know any way of doing that?”
Martel smiled. “Of course. And I also know the people who can help you. That’s why you’re paying for dinner.”
David did not know what Hana had said to her husband. But while Saeb’s affectless demeanor did not conceal his resentment, he allowed Munira to leave with David, his authority preserved by his insistence on the time of her return and, as usual, by the black cloth that shrouded her head and body.
Saeb and Munira had moved to a furnished apartment in Pacific Heights, a cement Bauhaus structure of nine stories that served as refuge for the dislocated—the newly separated or businesspeople on temporary assignment. David knew the building; he had helped a friend whose marriage had broken up move his clothes and books, and he had found the sterile environment, with its motel furniture and department store art, utterly depressing. Now, as he drove Munira to the prison that held her mother, it seemed that much more dismal.
The girl huddled in the passenger seat, curled slightly forward, her posture suggesting the attitude of prayer. He tried to imagine her sense of aloneness and disorientation.
“How are you, Munira?” he asked.
She gave him a sideways glance—shy, or perhaps cautious. At length, she said, “My father watched you on TV the other night.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
“He thought I was asleep. So I turned down the volume, and watched you in my bedroom.”
David was struck by this image—a father and daughter, separate from each other, watching television in two darkened rooms. “You were good,” Munira told him. “I think you’re a good lawyer.”
David could not help but smile. “Thank you, Munira. That’s why your parents hired me.”
The girl looked at him askance. “My mother chose you,” she said.
This was part of her personality, David thought—like her mother, Munira often stated as fact that which she only suspected. He turned the car onto Gough Street, heading toward the entrance ramp of the bridge.
“The Zionists,” Munira ventured. “You challenged them, even though you’re Jewish.”
“Yes.” David paused, wondering how much to say. “You think of Jews as Zionists, and Israel as your enemy. Perhaps, in your experience, that seems so. But Jews have suffered a lot of terrible things, and they worry about
people who seem to be
their
enemies. I don’t want that to hurt your mother.”
The girl’s forehead knit in a reflective frown of skepticism. At length she said pensively, “
I
made a mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“I was mean to her, and now I’m being punished.” Munira frowned again, as though confused by her own choice of words. “I can’t be with her,” she amplified, “to be kind the way I should have.”
“Hana knows how you feel,” David answered. “She once was your age, and a daughter who I’m sure was less than perfect. But if you worry about these things, maybe this is the day to tell her.”
Munira clasped her hands together. “I don’t know. Sometimes she confuses me.”
David smiled. “Me, too,” he answered, and then wondered if the mild joke revealed more than it should. “What’s not confusing,” he added, “is how much your mother loves you.”
Eyes downcast, Munira considered this. “I think I’m why she fights with my father so much.”
Her candor surprised David. Then it struck him, more forcefully than before, that Munira had no one to confide in but Saeb, nor even a cell phone to call friends. “I don’t know why they fight,” David responded. “Or what it might involve. But I know your mother believes in you, and in what you can accomplish in the world.”
Munira considered this solemnly. For the remainder of the drive, she and David shared little else, save for what might have been a companionable silence. But at the detention center, as David watched their meeting through a sheet of glass, Munira touched her forehead to her mother’s, resting it there as Hana’s eyes shut tight.
Intently, he drafted, scratched out, and then rephrased answers to the questions Judge Taylor might ask, honing each response until it was as succinct as he could make it. In one sense, this thoroughness was an antidote to the worry inherent in any hearing where the stakes were high; on a deeper level, it reflected the consuming tensions of a case where each step might determine whether Hana lived or died. But David’s dogged absorption in the lawyer’s task served still another purpose: it kept at bay the tangled emotions that otherwise might overwhelm him.
To be in Hana’s presence was exhausting, a constant struggle to suppress sympathy, suspicion, resentment, and the fear of manipulation caused by her ambiguous behavior. She was alternately cool, compassionate, angry, and frightened; at times, she hinted at a feeling for him that might be real or contrived. Even his images of Hana were a kaleidoscope of contradictions: the chilly remoteness with which she had passed the polygraph; her elliptical references to their past as lovers; her palpable hurt at his distrust. He even wondered about the moment when, her forehead touching Munira’s, Hana’s eyes had closed, so evocative of a mother’s love and longing. Was this scene intended for him?
And his own motives for defending her remained elusive—he still could not separate principle from pride, remembered passion from the fear of living a life of comfort paid for, in the end, with Hana’s death. Whatever the truth, that life was now beyond retrieval, and he had no picture of another life on the far side of this case. Only one thing seemed clear to him: how he would feel about that life would likely rest on what he discovered
on the way. Who Hana had become, and whether she was innocent of murder, would matter enormously.
David stared at the kitchen window, a square of darkness, and saw nothing but his tired image gazing back at him. In five hours he must perform as a lawyer, displaying the presence and command that, as much as reason, sometimes tipped the balance. Lawyers have no room for the seeping dread of early morning.
Turning from the window, David honed another phrase.
Sitting at the judge’s conference table next to Marnie Sharpe, David felt the hyperalertness that came from too much coffee and too little sleep. Taylor began by addressing Sharpe. “You have a complaint, I gather, regarding Mr. Wolfe’s appearance on
Larry King
.”
“Yes,” Sharpe answered. “Specifically, about Mr. Wolfe’s intimation that Israel is concealing information about the death of Amos Ben-Aron. That insinuation was based on highly confidential information the government provided Mr. Wolfe, pursuant to this court’s order that he not use such information without its prior permission.” Pausing, Sharpe seemed to search Taylor’s expression for cues. “Further, Mr. Wolfe’s assertions threaten to taint the jury pool with conspiracy theories that are—at best—speculative. For both reasons, we ask this court to bar him from public comment on the case or the various theories through which he may defend it.”
Her face inscrutable, Judge Taylor inclined her head toward David. With an air of bemusement, David spread his hands. “We’ve had a two-month avalanche of publicity unfavorable to Ms. Arif—magazine covers, newspaper headlines, round-the-clock cable news reports, statements by world leaders—millions of words and thousands of hours, all of which blur the distinction between indictment and conviction. But now, in a single hour on CNN, I’ve tainted a process that, Ms. Sharpe suggests, was
not
previously tainted by her refusal to give Ms. Arif the same polygraph test she gave to the sole witness against her. The problem, Ms. Sharpe asks you to conclude, is
not
the unfairness of her own conduct, but my unfairness in bringing it up.
“There’s enough prejudice against my client without muzzling her lawyer to make the prosecution look better than it deserves.” David slid a stapled document across the table. “As for my supposed violation of this court’s order, we’ve prepared a transcript of my interview. It’s notable for the absence of any reference to confidential documents, as opposed to a truth that makes Ms. Sharpe uncomfortable—that Israel is refusing to provide information potentially vital to defense.”
“This ‘truth’ is based on what? Divination?” The judge’s expression became as flinty as her tone. “I don’t need to read this—I took the time to watch you. The message was clear enough: you have a reason to believe that one or more members of Ben-Aron’s security detail may be implicated in his death. And that reason could only be the information Ms. Sharpe provided you pursuant to my order.”