Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  Conscious Bias

  A Monica Spade Novel

  by

  Alexi Venice

  Copyright 2019 Alexi Venice,

  All rights reserved.

  Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

  http://www.eBookIt.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-3317-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, corporations, countries, medicines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Books by Alexi Venice

  The Monica Spade Series

  Conscious Bias

  The San Francisco Mystery Series

  Bourbon Chase, Book 1

  Amanda’s Dragonfly, Book 2

  Stabscotch, Book 3

  Tinted Chapstick, Book 4

  Sativa Strain, Book 5

  Empty Nest Does Not Mean Naked Nest!

  A collection of blog posts

  The Pepper McCallan Series

  Ebola Vaccine Wars

  Svea’s Sins

  Victus – Margaret River Winery (Part I)

  Margaret River Winery (Part II)

  Australia’s Starr

  In Memory of Jennifer Andrews Demaree, a dear friend, damn good lawyer, loving wife and proud mother of two girls. Jen loved reading a good mystery while relaxing on the beach. I hope I did you proud, Jen.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Message from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Apple Grove, Wisconsin

  Monica Spade parked her truck in the small lot adjacent to the Smart, Daniels & Whitworth law firm. She grabbed her bag and got out, inhaling the crisp morning air on her way to the front entrance. A flock of geese flew in a V-formation overhead, their chorus of one-syllable honks signaling the end of summer.

  When she arrived at the entrance, Rich Smart, the son of one of the named partners, held open the glass door for her in an exaggerated show of gallantry. “You seriously need a new ride.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your beater truck. You need to trade it for something more befitting of a lawyer at Smart, Daniels.”

  She noticed he elided Whitworth from the firm name and vaguely wondered how much longer Daniels would survive in Rich’s world. “That truck was my grandfather’s. It’s very sentimental to me.”

  “So keep it in your garage but buy a new car for business—like my Audi.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder as they passed the reception desk. “You have a certain image to uphold now that you’re one of us.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said in the interest of continued employment.

  In college and law school, Monica had never been into cultivating a certain image for anyone or anything. In the last three years, however, she had made personal sacrifices for her career, and was proud of her accomplishments, but was beginning to question the Smart, Daniels’ vision of what lawyers should look like, say and do.

  “Go to Martin’s Cars. I’ve known Verne, the owner, since high school.” Rich stayed on her heels through the office corridors.

  “That’s nice.” Monica turned into her office and flipped on the lights.

  “In fact, he wanted me to marry his daughter.”

  “I’m sorry,” for the daughter, she thought.

  “So was he when I didn’t,” Rich said, his voice thick with bravado. “I took her to senior prom because I’d just broken up with my girlfriend and needed an emergency date. Verne told me I was the most respectable guy she’d ever brought home.” He lingered in Monica’s door, his freshly shaven face blotchy from the sting of shaving cream.

  “Hm.” Monica turned on her desktop computer and stowed her bag in her bottom drawer.

  “Once I hit college, I forgot all about her,” he said. “I wonder what she’s up to now?”

  Ignoring his rhetorical question, Monica hoped he would shove off, but he stayed, staring into the middle space between them, pondering the inexplicable.

  “Thanks for sharing.” Adopting a tone and cadence that signaled the end of a conversation, she said, “I need to dial into a conference call now.”

  He snapped out of doucheville and pushed away from the doorjamb, his grey suit straining against the excesses of soft living. “Right. See you later.”

  Monica clicked on her electronic calendar and found the number for the conference call. Her client, Community Memorial Hospital, was entering into a partnership with Apple Grove University and McKnight Construction Company to build a sports stadium and training complex known as “Thunderbolt Stadium.” It would house the university teams and a state-of-the art clinic to be staffed by the hospital physicians.

  Monica dialed into the call, and a few seconds later, Christina Fox joined. Christina was an ambitious lawyer in her late forties who represented the university.

  “Good morning.”

  “Hi, Christina. This is Monica. Ben hasn’t joined the call yet.”

  “Typical. How was your weekend?” Christina asked.

  “I worked on Saturday, but I’m caught up on all my files now. At least I didn’t get any pages from the hospital.”

  “You take call for the hospital?” Christina asked.

  “Oh yes. Jim Daniels and I alternate the pager, but I seem to have it most weekends,” Monica said.

  “I’m not surprised. I see Jim on the water almost every weekend.”

  “His social life is busier than mine,” Monica said without a trace of resentment, “but he took the pager this summer when I visited my parents’ lake cabin up north.”

  “What lake are they on?” Christina asked.

  “Lake Sissabagama.”

  “Nice. How long have they been there?”

  “About six years. Since they retired.”

  “Very convenient for you,” Christina said while eating something.

  “It’s perfect,” Monica said. “They take me boating, feed me, and Dad and I play cribbage on the porch while we listen to baseball on the radio.”

  “Everyone needs an escape.” There was some crinkling of paper, then Christina asked while chewing, “What types of issues do you get paged about?”

  “Mostly interactions with law enforcement. F
or example, a few weeks ago, I got a page in the middle of the night on a Saturday. A nurse asked if law enforcement could interview a suspect who had broken his hand in a barroom brawl. The victim was in the ED too, unconscious and intubated.”

  “Did you allow the police to interview the suspect?” Christina asked.

  “I advised the nurse to ask the patient if he wanted to talk to the police. If he did, then they could certainly enter his room.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “The police are in the ED all night anyway,” Monica said. “They’d probably wander into the patient’s room whether he consented or not. They have their ways.”

  “They sure do.”

  “Did you have a nice weekend?” Monica asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t have to work, so we played one last round of golf before the course closes. I had a devil of a time finding my ball under the fallen leaves.”

  There was a beep on the line. “Hello? This is Ben.”

  “Hi Ben,” Christina and Monica said in unison.

  “I’m running late this morning. Can we get right to the issues?” Ben asked.

  “Sure,” Monica said. “Did you get the redlined version of the bylaws that I emailed Friday?”

  They had spent countless hours hashing and rehashing the bylaws of the new corporation they were forming to build and manage Thunderbolt Stadium. Each entity had an equal say in how the project would go, requiring diplomacy and consensus. The deal was a marriage of sorts, brimming with mutual adoration and trust, divorce the furthest thing from their minds.

  “The bylaws look fine,” Ben said. “We’re going to need a bank account for the new corporation. I’ll take care of the details and circulate the documents to you.”

  “The university customarily uses Riverview Bank,” Christina said.

  “If you don’t mind,” Ben said, “McKnight Construction would like to use American Credit Union.”

  “Why?” Christina asked.

  “David McKnight has used them for years,” Ben said.

  “Well, I think each of our clients has a favorite bank,” Christina said. “Let me talk to the university.”

  “I’ll discuss it with the hospital,” Monica said, following Christina’s lead.

  “If you insist,” Ben said. “Let me know ASAP. I also just emailed you the latest quarterly report of the financials.”

  “I’ll take a look when I get a chance,” Christina said. “Is everything on track?”

  “I think so,” Ben said.

  “I’ll review them if I get time,” Monica said, cringing at the thought. Financial spreadsheets weren’t her top priority.

  When their call ended, Monica went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She spied a pan of homemade coffee cake on the counter, neatly cut into small squares, inviting her to take a corner piece. Once in her mouth, the moist texture melted into cinnamon and butter causing her eyelids to flutter in a foodgasm. She guessed that Kathy, the receptionist, had made the cake, the presence of excess butter and sour cream a telling sign.

  When Monica returned to her office, her desk phone was ringing, so she quickly picked it up. “Monica Spade.”

  “Happy Monday. Al here.” Al Bowman, the President of Community Memorial Hospital, called Monica on a daily basis for her advice on a wide range of matters.

  “Funny,” Monica said. “I was going to call you about the Thunderbolt Stadium deal. There are a few items we should go over, but you called me, so you go first.”

  “We have a monkey loose in the hospital,” Al said.

  “What? Did you say a monkey?” She coughed on cake crumbs.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “A visitor snuck the monkey in this weekend to cheer up a post-surgical patient.”

  “And?” She quickly washed down the crumbs with coffee.

  “The monkey escaped and ran off. Its owner has been walking the halls, calling, but it won’t come to her,” he said, his voice tense.

  “Does the owner have any papers for the monkey?” she asked. “Is it up-to-date on shots?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Darcy, who is a real character by the way, provided proof of vaccinations and such. We’re not so worried about the monkey biting someone as much as wreaking havoc and shitting everywhere. What are my options? Can I shoot him?”

  “The owner?” she asked.

  “Very funny. Darcy is a woman. I’d like to shoot the monkey.”

  “With a gun?”

  “No. A tranquilizer.”

  She thought a minute. “I think you have the legal right to tranquilize the monkey for the safety of patients and visitors. On the other hand, if Darcy disagrees and tells the media, you might be vilified. Maybe you should work with Darcy to cajole the monkey out of hiding.”

  “How do we cajole a monkey?” he asked.

  “With an organ grinder?” she asked. “Seriously, do you want me to make some calls?”

  “No. I have a team who can do that.” He sighed heavily. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I hate to raise this while you have a monkey on your back, but do you have a preference for a bank on the Thunderbolt Stadium project?”

  “Not really. Let the other two choose.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Nope. Call me if you need anything.”

  “You know I will,” he said.

  After a morning of calls and revising documents, Monica gathered her bag and went out to her truck, the truck she would never, ever leave in her garage. Buying it from her grandfather during her third year of law school was a hard-earned accomplishment. She kept his belongings stashed in their original spots—a roadmap under the seat, money in the dash cubby, a photo of grandma and grandpa tucked in the visor, his pocketknife in the center console. Since he had passed away, they had turned into precious keepsakes.

  A car that looks more like a lawyer? she thought. This truck is like family. Who am I trying impress, anyway?

  She drove from one end of the city to the other—serpentining through the valley where the confluence of the Apple and Pine Rivers defined downtown Apple Grove— then climbing the steep university hill to a shopping district.

  At the age of 28, she felt content and comfortable living in Apple Grove, a vibrant town with university kids and young professionals. A growing tech industry fueled the economy and created opportunities for young professionals like her. She was confident she could shape a successful career if she dedicated herself to being the best lawyer she could be.

  In the meantime, she had to focus on getting healthier. Despite attending yoga classes on an irregular basis and biking all summer, her slacks were mysteriously shrinking over her hips and thighs. On a subconscious level, she suspected she was turning into a stress eater, but she wasn’t ready to admit that yet. Her sedentary office job only compounded her dilemma, so she had to take decisive action. Now.

  When Monica had confessed to Brandi, her yoga instructor, that she needed more exercise, Brandi had suggested CrossFit to build some calorie-burning muscle and work off stress. Brandi referred Monica to a CrossFit Box where Monica had set up an appointment with the owner, Craig, for a noon consultation.

  Wedged between a hardware store and a discount dollar store, the CrossFit Box had a glass exterior and a red sign over the door—MoFit. She entered the sun-filled space and perched her sunglasses on top of her black hair, which was piled in a loose bun. At the front counter, a muscle-bound, young woman in a lime green tank looked up from the flat screen she was staring at.

  “Welcome.”

  “Hi. I’m here to see Craig.”

  “First time here?” the young woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Craig,” a deep voice boomed behind her.

  Monica turned to see a large man in his early thirties wearing a black t-shirt and maroon Lulu shorts. Craig was well over six feet tall and had a chest the size of a whiskey barrel. He flashed a toothy, white smile, and his
grey-blue eyes sparkled. “Are you Monica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Welcome to MoFit,” he said.

  Monica was impressed with his firm handshake. She hated when men gave her a half-assed shake, perhaps assuming she couldn’t muster a grip. Craig didn’t half-ass it, though, so she replied in kind. He looked like an all-in kind of guy, energy pouring off his body.

  “Want to start with a tour?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She felt intimidated by the huge workout space with tons of black metal racks lining the walls, two dozen rowing machines standing on end, and a squadron of Air-dyne bikes waiting for riders.

  Craig led her to the center of the gym where he threw open his arms in a broad gesture. “This is where we hold class. As you can see, we’re surrounded by all kinds of equipment, so we can program workouts that engage all of your muscle groups and keep you entertained. What type of fitness activities do you like?”

  “I mostly do yoga and bike,” she said.

  “That’s a great start for your fitness journey. Do you mind if I ask what your short-term and long-term fitness goals are?”

  “I mostly want to decrease my stress level and look more toned. Lean up, you know, so I look better in suits.” She waved her hand over her conservative, navy pant suit.

  He politely scanned her body. “ You look really capable. A few wall balls and box jumps could help you burn off that stress. What do you do for work?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” she said.

  “The kind that argues in court?” he asked.

  She smiled. “The kind that sits in an office.”

  “Wall balls would be good for you then. I think you’d fit in great here.”

  “I’m kind of afraid that I’ll make a fool out of myself.”

  “Nonsense,” he said with his disarming smile. “Everyone in class was new at one time. Our community of members is polite and understanding.”

  “No one will yell at me if I get in the way?” she asked.

  “Gosh no. We have a really relaxed vibe here. Our classes are coed, and they’re usually split 50-50. I think you’ll be impressed with how many women are MoFit members, from teenagers to grandmothers.”