bank teller who’d pointed a trembling finger at my client, whispering, “His face is burned into my mind.”
I knew firsthand just how often eyewitnesses made mistakes. In law school my evidence professor had started class one day with a whispered discussion with a strange man who then left the room. An hour later she stopped, mid-lecture, and asked us to provide a physical description of the man. I thought he was about six feet tall or so, and I was absolutely positive that he was a young Latino man in his early twenties. I knew that he was wearing a blue wind-breaker and khaki pants. I raised my hand and described the individual, absolutely certain that I was correct. A good half of the class agreed with me. My professor then walked to the door and opened it. In walked the man. He was a light-skinned black man who looked about thirty years old. He was a good deal shorter than six feet, but looked taller standing next to my petite professor. He was wearing a denim jacket and a pair of stonewashed jeans. I’d been absolutely wrong. And worse, the sheer force of my conviction had swept many of the other eyewitnesses along with me.
For all I knew, Yossi would turn out not to be the medium-height, brown-haired Israeli I remembered, but rather an eighty-year-old Inuit in a wheelchair.
While I pondered this and other challenges of detection, Ruby grew bored with her crayons and Isaac lost patience with his car seat. The next few minutes were taken up with bouncing him on my lap and trying to entertain her with a story. Finally, the food arrived. Ruby tucked into her felafel with vigor and I popped Isaac on my breast, covered his back with a napkin, and stared at the vast plate covered with multicolored salads that the waitress set before me. There was easily enough food for three hungry men or one nursing woman. I almost groaned with delight as I scooped up garlicky hummus with warm pita.
I was so engrossed in cramming as much food into my mouth as I could before Isaac finished nursing that I almost forgot the object of my search. Luckily, I had stopped for a breather when a group of young men walked into the restaurant. From across the room I heard a voice call out, “
Shalom Yossi, Yiftach! Ma ha-inyanim
? What’s up?” Any one of the four or five guys could have been my particular Yossi. They were all of short to medium height with close-cropped, brown hair. Two were wearing bomber jackets. “Yossi!” I said loudly.
One of the young men turned to look at me. He pointed to his chest and frowned as if to ask, Who, me?
Of all the felafel joints in all the towns in all the world.
“Yossi?” I said again.
He walked over to me. “Do I know you?” he asked. His voice was soft with just the slightest trace of accent.
“I think you know a friend of mine, Fraydle Finkelstein?”
He stiffened for a moment and looked at me more intently. “Do I know you?” he asked again.
“My name is Juliet Applebaum. Fraydle was watching my baby the other day? On Orange Drive?”
“We did not meet.”
“No. No, we didn’t. But Fraydle told me all about you.”
He looked doubtful.
“Well, maybe not all about you. She told me that you guys are friends.”
He smiled ruefully. “Friends. Yes, we are friends, I suppose.”
“Yossi, would you sit down a minute so that we can talk?”
“I’m sorry. I cannot help you. I know her only a little. Just from the neighborhood.” He turned his back to me and began to walk across the floor.
“Yossi!” I was almost shouting.
He turned back to me. “Please. I don’t know what you want from me. I barely know this girl. We talk once, maybe twice. I did nothing wrong.”
I looked at him. What made him assume that I was accusing him of anything?
“Do you know where Fraydle is?”
“What do you mean? She is where she always is. She is with her father. The rabbi.” He fairly spat the words out.
“Actually, that’s just where she’s not. She hasn’t been home since
I knew firsthand just how often eyewitnesses made mistakes. In law school my evidence professor had started class one day with a whispered discussion with a strange man who then left the room. An hour later she stopped, mid-lecture, and asked us to provide a physical description of the man. I thought he was about six feet tall or so, and I was absolutely positive that he was a young Latino man in his early twenties. I knew that he was wearing a blue wind-breaker and khaki pants. I raised my hand and described the individual, absolutely certain that I was correct. A good half of the class agreed with me. My professor then walked to the door and opened it. In walked the man. He was a light-skinned black man who looked about thirty years old. He was a good deal shorter than six feet, but looked taller standing next to my petite professor. He was wearing a denim jacket and a pair of stonewashed jeans. I’d been absolutely wrong. And worse, the sheer force of my conviction had swept many of the other eyewitnesses along with me.
For all I knew, Yossi would turn out not to be the medium-height, brown-haired Israeli I remembered, but rather an eighty-year-old Inuit in a wheelchair.
While I pondered this and other challenges of detection, Ruby grew bored with her crayons and Isaac lost patience with his car seat. The next few minutes were taken up with bouncing him on my lap and trying to entertain her with a story. Finally, the food arrived. Ruby tucked into her felafel with vigor and I popped Isaac on my breast, covered his back with a napkin, and stared at the vast plate covered with multicolored salads that the waitress set before me. There was easily enough food for three hungry men or one nursing woman. I almost groaned with delight as I scooped up garlicky hummus with warm pita.
I was so engrossed in cramming as much food into my mouth as I could before Isaac finished nursing that I almost forgot the object of my search. Luckily, I had stopped for a breather when a group of young men walked into the restaurant. From across the room I heard a voice call out, “
Shalom Yossi, Yiftach! Ma ha-inyanim
? What’s up?” Any one of the four or five guys could have been my particular Yossi. They were all of short to medium height with close-cropped, brown hair. Two were wearing bomber jackets. “Yossi!” I said loudly.
One of the young men turned to look at me. He pointed to his chest and frowned as if to ask, Who, me?
Of all the felafel joints in all the towns in all the world.
“Yossi?” I said again.
He walked over to me. “Do I know you?” he asked. His voice was soft with just the slightest trace of accent.
“I think you know a friend of mine, Fraydle Finkelstein?”
He stiffened for a moment and looked at me more intently. “Do I know you?” he asked again.
“My name is Juliet Applebaum. Fraydle was watching my baby the other day? On Orange Drive?”
“We did not meet.”
“No. No, we didn’t. But Fraydle told me all about you.”
He looked doubtful.
“Well, maybe not all about you. She told me that you guys are friends.”
He smiled ruefully. “Friends. Yes, we are friends, I suppose.”
“Yossi, would you sit down a minute so that we can talk?”
“I’m sorry. I cannot help you. I know her only a little. Just from the neighborhood.” He turned his back to me and began to walk across the floor.
“Yossi!” I was almost shouting.
He turned back to me. “Please. I don’t know what you want from me. I barely know this girl. We talk once, maybe twice. I did nothing wrong.”
I looked at him. What made him assume that I was accusing him of anything?
“Do you know where Fraydle is?”
“What do you mean? She is where she always is. She is with her father. The rabbi.” He fairly spat the words out.
“Actually, that’s just where she’s not. She hasn’t been home since
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