Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur

“There’s not a soul who doesn’t know that.”
    â€œAnd then there’s Bezalel,” said Erez, continuing, “who lands two hours from now with the prime minister. There’s an unscheduled meeting about the new round of talks with the Palestinians, and then this evening a specially convened assembly of the Labor Party—”
    â€œOh, give me a break,” said Niva mockingly as she reconnected the phone cord to the hotline.
    â€œYou’ll be surprised to hear this,” Hefetz said, “but there is still such a thing as the Labor Party.” To Erez he added, “Am I right? Isn’t there still a Labor Party? Yes there is, there is still a Labor Party. You people want to bury the Labor Party? What is this? Is the Labor Party your mother, that you can bury her? No, it is not your mother. You haven’t even mentioned a word about Golda in your lineup. It’s the anniversary of her death, and yesterday I said that I want photos from the ceremony. If there aren’t any photos, then at least I want her mentioned.”
    â€œAnd what’s this item about Bassiouny?” Zadik queried them. “All that’s written here is ‘The Egyptian Ambassador and the Scandal.’ Have we got anything new? Or do we have to wait another hour or two for Bezalel to come back from Washington with the prime minister?”
    â€œListen,” Niva called out, waving the telephone receiver, “we haven’t got the studio in Tel Aviv. You hear me?” She looked to Hefetz, who nodded. “So what are we gonna do?” From experience she knew not to expect an answer, and she followed Hefetz’s gaze as it shifted cautiously from David Shalit to the far corner of the room, near the water dispenser, where Natasha was sitting. “You wanted to interview Amir Peretz live from Tel Aviv about the strike,” Niva reminded them. When no one responded, she waved the room away in a gesture of desperation and caught sight of her fingernails, now painted neon green. After years of ignoring her fingernails she had decided to paint them—bright green, no less! What can you make of human beings, Zadik said to himself with a start; that bright green is out of place after what happened last night. Niva raised her foot, which was ensconced in a thick wool sock, from the heavy wooden clog she was wearing and brought it to rest on the chair next to her.
    â€œListen up a minute,” David Shalit said as he reached into his black turtleneck to scratch an insect bite protruding from his skinny neck. “About Bassiouny, I heard an item about him on the radio, and they mentioned the name of the doctor that woman took to court, but not her name. She’s allowed to sue for a million shekels and drag everyone through the mud—Bassiouny and that doctor who examined her—but then only she gets to come out smelling like a rose? I say let’s not release the name of the doctor.”
    â€œWhy? What for? What’s it to you?” Hefetz asked. “What do you care about the doctor? Do you care about that doctor? He ever do anything for you? You ever get anything from him? You never got anything from him. You don’t owe him a thing.”
    â€œWhat’s it to me? What do you mean, ‘What’s it to me’? What’s going on here?” David Shalit asked, enraged. “Here’s this woman who claims she’s in distress—a victim, she says—and drags everybody through the mud, and only she comes out clean? Let’s either violate the gag order on revealing her identity or drop the doctor’s name. Otherwise, all the men get screwed.”
    â€œWait a minute, wait a minute, I want to get something straight here,” Zadik said, bending forward and looking straight at David Shalit, who had thrust his fingers into his reddish curls, pulling them down over his forehead. The young reporter tugged at his turtleneck again,