But that was not to be. Instead, Mandelbaum was going to be indicted under state law for murder or conspiracy to commit murder or some such criminal charge, as if he were some gangbanger picked up on the streets. As a result, Shapiro had no choice but to treat this like every other criminal case—build his facts, file some motions, and either plead his client out if he could work a deal or roll the dice in front of a jury. In any event, the wheels of Massachusetts justice turned slowly, and Mandelbaum was facing at least six months behind bars before anything was likely to happen in court.
Even though Shapiro had visited scores of incarcerated clients, he was stunned by the change in Mandelbaum’s appearance from the last time he saw him. All hints of cockiness were gone. Mandelbaum did not walk, but shambled, as if his feet were held together by invisible chains. He looked at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with anybody—with the guards on either side who brought him to the interview room, or even with Shapiro when the two sat facing each other.
“Howie, what happened to you?” Shapiro asked softly. He’d left their last meeting with a sour feeling about this client. The lack of enthusiasm he felt when he arrived at the jail vanished and his heart went out to the young man, who continued to stare at the floor as if his head were too heavy to lift.
“Are you all right, Howie? Speak to me. Do you remember me, Howie? I’m Ben Shapiro, your lawyer.”
The young man continued to look at the floor as he spoke softly, almost too softly for Shapiro to hear him.
“You’ve got to get me out of this place. Please, please get me out of this place. They’ll kill me if I stay here. Get me out. Can you please get me out?” He began quietly crying. Shapiro reached out and placed his hand under the young man’s chin, then lifted his face until they were eye to eye with one another.
“What happened, Howie?” Shapiro asked.
“They raped me. Lots of them. Lots of times. And the guards just turned their backs.” His sobs grew louder, convulsing his shoulders. “Mr. Shapiro, please help me. They keep talking about Jew this and Jew that, about Jews killing Americans and about setting up camps, camps like the Nazis did. They talk about finishing the job this time. It’s hell, Mr. Shapiro. It’s goddamn fucking holy-shit hell here.”
Mandelbaum wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked in his chair, sobbing louder now, all restraint gone. Shapiro reached out to touch the young man’s shoulder. Mandelbaum flinched back from that touch, then looked up at Shapiro, eyes flat. Dead. Cold.
“There’s a bunch of them and the guards unlock their cells and unlock my cell and whenever they want they come into my cell. In the middle of the day. The middle of the night. They hold me down. They rape me. They stuff underwear in my mouth so I can’t scream. They hold my arms and… and, oh God, Mr. Shapiro, I’ve stopped fighting them because I can’t stop them and I just let them do it to me now because I can’t stop them.”
Mandelbaum’s head dropped to the wooden arm of the chair. He lifted his head and slammed it down on the wood surface, his forehead striking with a thud. He lifted his head again and slammed it down, harder. Then again. Shapiro leaped forward and grabbed the young man’s head between his hands. Mandelbaum’s forehead was red. The skin mangled. Blood oozing.
Shapiro reached into his back pocket, removed a handkerchief and pressed it against the man’s forehead. He reached for the man’s right hand and brought it, lifeless by now, to the handkerchief.
“Stop that,” Shapiro shouted. “Here, hold that, hold that. Get control. We don’t have a whole lot of time.”
The shouting, or perhaps the stern tone of Shapiro’s voice, focused the young man’s attention. He looked up, still holding the bloody handkerchief to his forehead.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help me. I apologize,” he said. “I can’t take any more of this.” He sighed deeply. “Okay. What’s happening with the case? How much longer do I have to stay here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have very good news for you, Howie,” Shapiro said. “I met with the district attorney and got absolutely nowhere. We’re going to have to treat this like a criminal case. I’ll speak with witnesses and collect evidence and we’ll probably be going to trial. I don’t see much choice.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Shapiro. I don’t mind going to trial. I didn’t do anything, not a thing except push my way onto that boat and then jump in the water when somebody said jump. That’s good news. Great. We’ll have a trial. Let’s go. Can we do it before the end of the week? I’ll have to hold out for just a few more days, right?”
Shapiro saw hope brighten the young man’s face like a searchlight finding its target. The man’s back straightened in the chair. His head lifted.
“It doesn’t work quite like that, Howie,” Shapiro said softly. “You haven’t even been formally indicted yet. The DA has to put your case before the grand jury. I can guarantee they’ll indict you. Grand juries always indict. When I was in the DA’s office I used to brag that I could get the grand jury to indict a grilled cheese sandwich.
“But that’s going to take a while. He’s got to get his witnesses lined up. This isn’t an ordinary case that goes in with one cop testifying. My guess is you won’t be indicted for another month or so. You’ll get arraigned before a judge and then the DA will have a while, several months at least, to get his case together. Nothing is happening right away, Howie.”
“No, don’t say that, Mr. Shapiro,” the young man sobbed. “How long is this going to take?”
“I can’t say exactly, Howie, but at least six months before trial, maybe twice as long if the DA gets a judge who’ll give him that much time. There’s nothing we can do about that. From what he told me when we got together, the DA isn’t much interested in a plea. It’s not like you could give him any information that he needs for another case, he said, since the feds grabbed up everybody else from those ships.”
“This isn’t fair, Mr. Shapiro. I had nothing to do with anything. It isn’t fair. How come they aren’t going after the ones who did it, instead of me? This isn’t right, you know.”
Shapiro looked up from the yellow legal pad on which he’d been making notes.
“Howie, what do you mean about the ones who did it? Do you know who did it, who fired at the Coast Guard?”
“Yeah, sure I do. It was the soldiers, the IDF guys. The guys and that one girl. She and I hung out together on the ship all the way over, sort of had a little thing going, you know.”
“Are you telling me there were Israeli soldiers on the ships, that the soldiers were the ones who fired at the Coast Guard?”
“Of course there were soldiers,” Mandelbaum said. “Everybody knew who they were. They pretty much organized things, set up the rotation for meals and work and cleanup assignments. They had their own space all the way at the front of the ship. They kept all their shit up there, you know, their army stuff. Nobody was allowed up there unless you were one of them.
“Well, pretty much nobody. There wasn’t a whole shitload of privacy on that ship, you know. And when this girl, Dvora her name was, well when Dvora and I needed a little privacy she took me up there when all the others were out organizing stuff. Man, they had some heavy-duty shit there, you know, Uzis and grenades and these rocket things. They were ready for anything, man. I know who they all are, the soldiers. Once I started hanging with Dvora I spent a lot of time with the rest of them, too. Why, can this help me?”
“Maybe, Howie. Let’s give this some thought. It at least gives us something to bargain with.” Shapiro hesitated. “Howie, how would you feel about identifying these soldiers if it meant they would be charged with pretty heavy crimes, maybe even crimes they could be executed for? Would you do that, Howie? I suppose what I mean is, could you do that?”