Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur

social affairs; and the host, Nehemia, a veteran newsman famous for his evenhandedness, his formal manners, and the special brand of boredom he cast over his viewers. It appeared as though Nehemia had lost control for a moment; Danny Benizri was staring the director general down with sparks in his eyes.
    â€œEx cuse me,” the latter was saying as he fingered the edges of his tie, “I am very sorry, but—”
    Judging by the actions of the host—Nehemia was touching his earlobe, behind which was located a transmitter that was providing him with instructions from the control room—it appeared that he was indeed being told to rein in the correspondent. “Danny,” he said, “Danny. Please, I must to ask you to…just—”
    But Danny Benizri ignored Nehemia completely. He leaned toward the director general and asked, quietly, “Tell me, please, sir, what alternatives do they have?”
    The thick, pale eyebrows of the director general rose halfway up his forehead, giving his round face a look of shock and wonder. “Mr. Benizri,” he said, straining to maintain his composure, “are you aware of what you are implying, that it is indeed an acceptable way to get what they want? We’re talking here about people who earned large sums of money from shift work, and some of them live in luxurious villas—”
    â€œGentlemen!” the host cried, though neither man paid him any attention.
    â€œWhat?!” Benizri said, shocked. “What are you saying? Maybe they’re actually millionaires!”
    Nehemia touched his earlobe again, and his brows furrowed until a deep crease formed between them. “Uh…Danny, please,” he said, waving his hand at the control room on the other side of a glass partition that could not be seen on-screen. He cast a pleading look toward the director and the producer and the rest of the staff sitting in the control room, but they could do nothing to rescue him. It was an unplanned live broadcast, and he had been unable to take charge of his guests, who were arguing as if completely oblivious to his existence.
    â€œI can only discuss the facts,” said the director general as he pored over the pages spread out on the table in front of him.
    Nehemia leaned over the pages, inspecting them like someone who had been taught it was forbidden for a participant—and certainly the host himself—to appear as though he were not actively engaged in what was taking place. But there was something pathetic about the way he feigned interest in the pages on the table when in the background Benizri could be heard demanding to know, “What luxurious villas?”
    The director general laid his hand on the pages. “There are workers who earned more than 30,000 shekels a month during the weeks they worked shifts—”
    â€œYou are purposely misleading the public!” Danny Benizri shouted, and cast a look of reproach at Nehemia. “He is misleading the public, not a single one of them is rich,” he said emphatically, “and not a single one of them earns the kind of money he’s talking about. There was only one such worker, his name was Baruch Hasson, and even in his case it was just one month, three and a half years ago, when there was a big order from Greece—”
    A sudden commotion broke out in the control room, and the producer waved her arms and called on Nehemia to take charge of the discussion. Nehemia cleared his throat, shifted in his chair, touched his ear as a way of drawing strength and authority from the transmitter and from the producer’s voice, and interrupted the director general. “These difficult events remind us of the tragic case of Hannah Cohen,” he said, turning to Danny Benizri. “In your opinion, can matters deteriorate as dramatically in this case as they did then?”
    Benizri, too, glanced sideways toward the glass partition. “If you ask