Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur Page A

scratching at the itchy spot and making it bulge even larger. He leaned back in his chair as Zadik said, “What exactly are we talking about here?”
    â€œShe’s suing them both, Bassiouny and the doctor,” David Shalit said, banging the table. “Both of them! There’s no gag order on their names, she’s free to ruin them. But as for her, not a spot of dirt on her! Imagine tomorrow some chick popping up and claiming that I…that you…”
    â€œFirst of all, it was the judge who gave the order. Are you responsible for that? No, you are not responsible. Did you give the order? No, you did not give the order. The judge did,” Hefetz said, stealing a glance at Natasha.
    â€œSo, he gave the order!” David Shalit was shouting now, his face redder than ever. “For once let’s just blow it off. I’m sick of all these girls who fuck like rabbits and shout, ‘Rape, rape!’ These days any chick can say she was raped and ruin some guy’s life even though she was the one who—”
    â€œThere’s nothing we can do about it,” Zadik said, cutting him off. “When the story was first broadcast, Bassiouny’s name and the doctor’s were revealed. As I’ve already mentioned, we’re Israel’s official television station, we’re the last ones who can violate—”
    â€œRight, but the court says there’s no factual basis for the case, so now she claims they’ve slandered her and she’s taken them to court—”
    Tzippi, one of the assistant producers, opened the door from the reporters’ room next door to ask which translator was due in. “The Turkish defense minister still needs to be translated,” she informed them.
    David Shalit stood up and moved to a chair against the wall, next to the junior secretary who was taking the minutes. “Stay right here, we’re not finished yet,” Hefetz ordered. He wiped his large face with his hand. “It’s so damn hot in here. Will someone turn the heating down?”
    â€œYou want me to call Maintenance?” Niva asked in mock innocence as she removed her foot from the chair and returned it to her clog. “Suddenly you’ve forgotten that we have no control over the heating?”
    â€œI can hear just fine from over here,” David Shalit said, “and as for speaking, there’s no point in me saying anything. Nobody’s listening anyway, and I’m not the one who makes the decisions around here.”
    â€œWhat’s this about ‘military documents’ written here?” Zadik queried. “What’s the story about military documents?”
    Hefetz leaned forward and massaged the back of his neck. “I told you about this,” he said, fatigued. “I told you: they found some top-secret military documents in the garbage. We’ve shot it, but there’s still no text. Look, I’ve given it eight seconds, two words per second.”
    The door to the reporters’ room opened again and Tzippi plodded toward Hefetz, buttoning with difficulty the plaid flannel shirt that barely covered her burgeoning belly. “You could die from the heat in here,” she complained. “This temperature is definitely not for pregnant women.” She repeated her need of a translation from Turkish of the report sent in by the military correspondent.
    The telephone rang again. “Hefetz,” Niva called, “Bezalel’s on the line. What do you want to ask him? Hefetz, I’m talking to you, what did you want to ask him? Hefetz, are you listening? I’m talking to you, am I not? Answer me already!” Her tone was that of a petulant child, her thin lips set in a crooked slant of dissatisfaction.
    â€œJust a minute,” Hefetz shouted. “I need to make a calculation here, don’t I? What’s he got for us? Ask him if he’s got anything new before we finish the