That morning I arrived at work just before Rachel. She caught up with me at the foot of the staircase. Grinning, she conceded: “So you won the race, my pet. You must have got up right after you crawled into your bed.”
“I don’t need much sleep. And you waited by your ‘phone for my call. I really don’t know why you fret like this.”
“You left my flat at 2.00 a.m. and were too proud to call a taxi! You had to take the half hour walk home!”
“So why not marry me and solve the problem,” I coaxed.
“Now, now, Eli – how about our agreement?”
“Eh?” I let my surprise show.
“You undertook, solemnly and formally, to propose just once a month; and you proposed just two days ago.”
“This is not a joking matter, Miss Rachel Zeitlin!” I let my chagrin show.
“Quite, quite. So, let’s change the subject!”
We had by now reached the third floor of the ramshackle building, which housed Jacob Keren and Associates, one of the best law firms in Tel-Aviv. As we walked through the waiting room, my glance fell on an attractive Sephardic girl, sitting beside her mother on the bench in front of our employer’s room. She was young, with dark skin, brilliant black eyes and elegantly styled lush hair. Neatly dressed and groomed, she looked out of place in the dark, spacey yet crammed outer room. Unwittingly, I bestowed on her an admiring glance, which she pretended not to note.
“Love at first sight, my pet?” asked Rachel, sweetly, as we turned into corridor leading to our offices.
“Don’t be silly: I’m in love with just one woman!”
“Not readily discernible from that admiring glance!”
“Purely aesthetic, Rachel, purely aesthetic.”
“Lucky, then, that you didn’t see her hands!”
“She kept them under the table,” I conceded, puzzled.
“With good reason, Eli. She is Dahlia Nissim!”
I was about to say ‘Eh’, when the penny dropped. Rachel’s nod put the matter beyond doubt. The mysterious girl in our waiting room was, indeed, in need of legal representation. Her rosy future had been put in jeopardy by a gruesome accident.
Dahlia Nissim’s tragedy took place during the long vacation following her penultimate year in High School. Having a penchant for smartly bound books, she secured temporary employment in a firm of master printers called Wollor. One of her tasks was to clean and polish the electric paper guillotine, used for trimming the edges of bound volumes. In the process, the protective guard, placed in front of the blade, had to be removed. Naturally, the switch was off and, of course, the blade was not expected to operate. But, on that fateful day, the blade unexpectedly came down and amputated Dahlia’s hands. The shock would have killed an older person. Dahlia, though, was young, strong and resilient. After a spell in hospital, she came out recovered in spirit. Her hands, alas, were gone.
The owner of Wollor, an aging Second World War migrant from Leipzig, was heart broken. His firm was renowned for its excellent relations with staff. And its record for safety measures and accident prevention was impeccable. Far from seeking to shirk responsibility, Herr Franz Wolf ensured that Dahlia got the best medical care available and visited her regularly during her spell in the hospital. He was keen to make reparation but, to his dismay, discovered that Wollor’s accident and third-party liability policy had lapsed.
Wollor did not have the funds needed to pay the damages. The only hope was to induce the insurance company to admit liability. As Wollor had been a customer for many years, Franz Wolf hoped the insurers would be open to argument. He was dismayed to discover that this was a difficult task. After all, why should an insurance company, which had not received its premium, agree to fork out the stupendous amount involved?
The Press did not disclose the name of the insurers. I was surprised when Rachel told me they were Rotem, an Israeli company effectively owned the labour party. Our firm was on Rotem’s panel, and, in addition, Jacob Keren was one of its non-executive directors. In consequence, we normally turned down briefs against them.
“Dahlia’s late father was a comrade in arms of Keren’s days in the labour movement,” explained Rachel. “I suspect he had also been a tout. Dahlia’s mother turned to us when the chips were down. And Jacob Keren is not one to forget an old friend.”
“But did we get dispensation from Rotem?”
“Of course we did. They were happy to see the matter in the hands of a responsible adversary – with whom they could talk. You know they hate uncivilised courtroom skirmishes. And in this type of case, an aggressive opponent would resort to such tactics. Keren intends to pass the file on to us. He says he thinks we’ll do an excellent job!”
“How pious,” I muttered. “Who acts for the other parties?”
It turned out that Israel Silver’s firm acted for Wollor. Both Silver and Franz Wolf were on the Board of the Tel Aviv Ceramics Society and knew each other well. As Silver’s firm was also on Rotem’s panel, they too had to secure dispensation. To avoid acting against a major client in person, Israel Silver delegated the file to Boaz Tamir, a pal from my University days. Regrettably, Rotem’s choice of counsel was less encouraging. They had engaged Ben Zion Vered.
“Shit,” I said.
“You mean ‘shut’, my pet. But why this gloomy look? Ben Zion is a good lawyer. And a smart opponent keeps you on your toes. He’s better than a dud whom you don’t take seriously.”
As a general statement, Rachel’s sentiment was supportable. In the instant case, though, she overlooked two factors. The first related to Ben Zion’s outlook: he was a stickler to the rules. Moved by Dahlia’s tragedy, some other lawyer might encourage Rotem to make an ex-gratia payment. Ben Zion was unlikely to succumb to such sentimentality. In his eyes, a strict application of doctrine would be preferable to a settlement based on sympathy. An insurance company was not a charitable organisation. So why should it pay money if it was not legally bound to do so?
Ben Zion’s circumstances were bound to encourage him to stick to this line. Having resigned from a leading law firm after a shouting match, Ben Zion had launched his own law firm. Competition remained fierce and, even after two years, Ben Zion was still on the make. To get established, he had to win cases referred to him. Voluntary settlements of unsustainable claims brought against his clients were to be avoided at all costs.
My second apprehension related to a motion reading “this House opines that the Law is an Ass” debated at the Philosophical Society of Israel. Ben Zion moved; Boaz and myself, who were then still in our student days, opposed.
I recalled with a grin how Ben Zion, who had already been called to the Bar, rose to his feet and delivered a measured and well-structured speech. His sober suit, tall figure, broad shoulders, ruddy face and beaked nose conferred on him an aura of respectability, underscored by the blue-and-white scalp-cap pinned to his thinning hair. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he demonstrated that our legal system was full of contradictions, inconsistencies and plain absurdities. It was plain stupid or – in other words – an ass!
There could be no doubt about the soundness of the address. Unfortunately, Ben Zion was not endowed with a sense of humour and, to exacerbate matters, repeated himself incessantly. When at long last he resumed his seat, applause was restrained.
Speaking in refutation, Boaz, who delivered our address, pointed out that the motion comprised two determinative words: “Law” and “Ass”. Boaz conceded that the Law was stupid, adding that this was to be expected: the “law” was nothing but a blunt tool used to prevent people from doing what they desired. For instance, once a speaker (and here Boaz mimicked Ben Zion) had repeated himself thrice, every intelligent listener wished to punch him. But in law such a rational act constituted assault. Was this not absurd?
Waiting for the laughter to subside, Boaz turned to the “ass”. Boaz insisted that, far from being stupid, the noble “donkey” deserved admiration. Passages in the Bible (such as the episode of Balaam) and in later sources supported our contention. So did observations taken from everyday life. For instance, you could ride a horse to its death or keep loading a camel until the last straw broke its back. The donkey, in contrast, jettisoned a rider who drove him too hard and shook off a load once it became too heavy! Accordingly, was the humble donkey not smarter than the silly horse and the dumb camel?
To conclude our address, Boaz turned back to the motion before the House. While we accepted that the law was stupid, we were convinced the humble ass was a wise and intelligent being. Ergo the Law was not an ass: it was too stupid to deserve such an honourable title!
The recollection of that episode brought a blush to my face. Rachel, who had been observing me keenly, was quick to catch on. “You are not thinking of that old debacle, when Boaz and you lampooned poor Ben Zion?”
“I am rather. Wouldn’t he love to pay us back?”
“I don’t think so, my pet. I know he was furious. I watched him whilst the two of you carried on that childish prank …”
“I didn’t know you were there. It happened long before we met!”
“True: but I, too, am a member of the Philosophical Society.”
“I hope you weren’t bored.”
“Disappointed rather; but I was amused. Still, you needn’t worry about this old business. Ben Zion won’t let it affect his ‘judgment’. But he’ll be on his guard when he deals with you two; and we’ll have to persuade him and Rotem that payment is ‘appropriate’. They won’t buy the ‘poor helpless victim’ argument. We need something better.”
She was right. At this stage, I could not find a sound legal argument to pressure Rotem. I was about to express my doubts, when Jacob Keren’s secretary summoned us to his office. The clients, she said, were keen to meet us.