Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  As they gathered around the whiteboard, Craig explained several exercises they would do for a 20-minute AMRAP, an acronym for “as many reps as possible” in a given time. They would start by rowing 2000 meters. Since Monica had no basis for comparison, she figured 2000 meters sounded reasonable.

  Each person, about eight in the class, grabbed a rower and rolled it onto the black mats in a side-by-side formation. To Monica’s delight, Shelby wheeled her rower next to Monica’s. Monica lowered herself to the seat and strapped her feet in.

  After strapping her feet in, Shelby grabbed the handle. “Did you have a good time at the game last night?”

  “Yeah. Nathan and Matt are fun, but it’s too bad the Rascals lost. How was the fan deck?” Monica noticed that Shelby’s lever was set at eight, so Monica set hers at four, hoping that would be a suitable resistance for a novice, acting all casual and I’ve-done-this-before.

  “It was okay,” Shelby said.

  “I take it you didn’t enjoy your date’s work party?” Monica refused to say her name.

  “Not really. I mean, the deck is fine, but Michelle and I are two very different people.”

  “In what way?” Monica was dying to know Shelby’s type. She pulled the rower handle.

  “She’s more of a techie, and I’m…well…I’m the opposite.” Shelby looked like she was going to say something else but smothered the expression and pulled the rower handle.

  “So you won’t be seeing her again?” Monica regretted asking as soon as the question left her mouth.

  A tiny smirk appeared even though Shelby was staring straight ahead. After a few strong pulls, she tossed Monica a side glance. “Probably not.”

  Monica rowed harder, feeling energized. “Good, because I think you can do better.”

  Shelby threw her head back and laughed then applied herself to rowing. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Guess we’re done talking for a while. Monica remembered Craig’s tips as she strived for their 2000 meter goal. Back straight as I pull the handle. Push with my legs. Bring the handle to my chest. Bend my legs during the recovery. Try not to let the chain whack the edges, as I slide back in recovery mode. Drive with my legs. Strong stroke. Smooth chain. With great effort, Monica worked into a rhythm that felt comfortable. Not natural; but comfortable.

  Seemingly oblivious to her aerobic ability, Shelby blew by everyone on her rower, cleanly and smoothly rowing faster than an Olympic athlete. As far as Monica could tell, Shelby didn’t even break a sweat, as she cranked out 2000 meters faster than anyone else. Finishing in record time, Shelby unstrapped her feet and proceeded to the next station, which was pulling a 35-pound kettle bell up to her chest in a sumo deadlift high pull.

  Since Shelby was conveniently standing in front of Monica’s rowing machine, Monica had no choice other than to watch Shelby raise and lower her kettlebell. As Shelby flexed, Monica admired the rippling muscles overlying Shelby’s shoulders and collarbones. Shelby’s skimpy tank invited Monica’s curious eyes to admire Shelby’s tanned skin and the tops of her breasts. Not built like a body-builder, Shelby was naturally toned and tight—a blend of feminine curves and defined muscles.

  Snap out of it! Monica chided herself. You’re staring.

  Shelby caught Monica’s eyes. “You done on that rower yet?”

  Monica looked at her display. She was waaay past the 2000-meter mark. “Yeah. I forgot how far we were supposed to row.”

  “Unstrap your feet and throw this kettle bell around.” Shelby pointed to Monica’s 26-pound bell resting on the floor beside her then moved onto the next exercise—box jumps.

  “You’re amazing at those too?” Monica muttered.

  “You will be too,” Shelby said, hopping like a bunny onto a two-foot high box. “Give yourself time.”

  Craig sidled up next to Monica and watched her sumo deadlift high pulls for a minute. “You want to go into a squat position as you lower that kettlebell to the floor. Then, pull it up along your body and keep your elbows high.” He demonstrated.

  Monica followed his direction. “That makes it a lot easier.” She actually enjoyed the high pulls once she did them properly.

  “How is work going?” he asked.

  “Busy.” She was grateful for a little conversation to temper her nerves.

  “Do you like the American flag I made out of barnwood this weekend?” He pointed to a gigantic flag hanging on the wall.

  It had to be fifteen feet long. “That’s impressive for one weekend of work. How many hours did it take you?” She started doing popovers—jumping laterally—across a smaller box with a pyramidal shape to allow for stability. Some people jumped forward onto the box with both feet, but Monica was uncomfortable doing frontal “box jumps,” fearing that she would skin her shins if she didn’t clear the edge. She liked going sideways, thinking it might condition her for both downhill and water skiing.

  “I didn’t keep track exactly, because I spent some time lying on the garage floor thinking about what materials to use and how big to make it. You have to get the dimensions just right, so I researched it on the Internet a few times.”

  Monica finished her popovers and pushed out a compliment between breaths. “The dimensions look perfect. So do the stars.”

  “Those were a challenge,” he said. “I ran to Hobby Lobby and picked up some five-inch foam stars, then made a stencil from those for spray-painting. I had to use a ruler to make the rows straight.”

  “Very straight,” she panted.

  “Then I started sawing and hammering, took a break for dinner, drank a few beers and finished around midnight.”

  “You did a fantastic job. I love the patina on the wood.” She glanced at her classmates to see what she was supposed to be doing next.

  Shelby was doing mountain climbers, her hands on the box, her face toward the floor, her legs running in place with her knees reaching her armpits.

  Craig continued, “My friend, Rusty, and I actually removed the boards from his old, red barn. I didn’t have to paint the red ones; only the white ones.”

  Monica half-listened, watching Shelby’s form. Monica allowed her eyes to travel the length of Shelby’s backside, admiring her strong shoulders in the racerback tank, her slim waistline, and her powerful glutes, flexing under the sheen of Lulus. That body. Holy hell.

  “You’re very creative,” Monica said to Craig then dove into mountain climbers herself on the box next to Shelby.

  As Monica forced herself to concentrate on form, all she could picture was Shelby’s body. Monica wanted to plant her hands on Shelby’s ass while she did mountain climbers to feel the raw strength of those gorgeous muscles in motion. It had been ages since she’d experienced a fervent desire to touch another woman’s body, and the beckoning of her carnal nature was hitting her with hurricane force.

  She knew her errant thoughts were premature, but Shelby had switched on the lights in Monica’s world. How can she have this effect on me? I feel like I’m drunk with energy.

  Monica aspired to be her best self in that moment, which was a new and welcome feeling outside of the work environment. It had been a while since she had embraced something other than counseling hospital administrators and drafting documents.

  “How are you feeling?” Shelby asked, entering Monica’s introspection.

  “Ready to take on the world. How about you?” Monica asked.

  Shelby smiled. “Getting into it, huh?”

  “Totally. My job can be pretty sedentary, so working out all my nervous energy is huge for me right now.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “What type of law do you practice?”

  “Mostly healthcare law and business transactions.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing as ‘healthcare law,’” Shelby said, taking a sloppy drink from her water bottle.

  Monica watched the water trickle down Shelby’s chin, onto her chest, and disappear under her ta
nk, where it saturated the fabric below her breasts. It’s going to be hard to erase that image from my head.

  Shelby wiped her chin and smiled. “Guess I spilled, huh?”

  Monica looked into Shelby’s fiery eyes and wondered if Shelby was messing with her. Is she flirting with me? Does she know I’m gay? Am I sending the right vibes?

  “Yes, but you never looked so good wet,” Monica said before she could stop herself.

  Shelby’s eyebrows shot up, luring the right corner of her lip with them, punctuated by the tiniest of moles resting above it. At the ball game, Monica had thought it was a freckle but now saw an adorable mole.

  “A sassy attorney, huh?” Shelby asked. “We have ways of dealing with your kind.”

  Monica smiled with hope as she returned to the rower. She strapped her feet in and pulled the handle as if a crocodile were chasing her down a river. I guess we’re flirting now. Shit. Have to be careful. Don’t want word to get back to the firm.

  “What do you do?” Monica asked, even though Matt and Nathan had told her last night.

  “I’m a teacher at South High School.”

  “Cool. What subjects?”

  “Art.”

  Monica pictured Shelby standing in front of a class, painting. “Do you like it?”

  “Love the kids and the subject matter. Administration, not so much.”

  “What’s your favorite medium?”

  “Pottery.”

  “I can picture you throwing pots.” Monica smiled, stealing a glance at Shelby’s broad hands.

  “I’ll make you one sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” Monica said. “How long have you been teaching?”

  “Eight years. I’m thirty-one.”

  “Oh.” Monica thought it was odd that Shelby volunteered her age so quickly, but Monica liked being attracted to a woman who was three years older. She liked being attracted to Shelby period.

  Shelby gave Monica a side-eye but didn’t ask her age.

  They focused on rowing, the conversation naturally subsiding, as they gave it their all under the watchful eye of Craig, who was shouting motivational phrases like, “Put the hammer down! That’s not sweat on your T-shirts; it’s fat crying!”

  Monica almost burst out laughing, but everyone else was striving to finish strong, so she played along. Sometimes, she had to follow convention even if it killed her.

  When Craig called time, everyone slowed to a stop and sat for a minute to catch their breath. Craig came around with a spray bottle and towels to wipe off the rowers, a practice the germaphobe in Monica appreciated. She hoisted up her rower like the others were doing, and rolled it into a line alongside Shelby’s. They returned to the center of the floor, where water bottles, phones, car keys and sweatshirts were piled in a heap.

  Suddenly, Monica felt Shelby’s hand on her back. “Excuse me, I just need to grab my sweatshirt.”

  Shelby leaned around Monica and bent down to grab her black sweatshirt. Monica’s skin sizzled from the touch. Did she really need to touch me to get her sweatshirt?

  Monica felt herself melting, so she resisted the urge to look at Shelby, afraid her eyes might look as gooey as she felt inside. She had to maintain some semblance of self-respect, as she picked up her own sweatshirt and felt in the pocket for her car keys.

  “Ready to go?” Shelby asked, lingering.

  “Sure.” Monica pulled on her sweatshirt to ward off the morning chill.

  As they walked the length of the gym toward the front door, Monica noticed how Shelby greeted everyone with a smile, saying a few words here and there about someone’s weekend or Facebook post. Does she know everyone here? Is she this sweet all the time?

  Craig raised his hand and waved goodbye. “See you next time, Monica. Be sure to hydrate like crazy today.”

  She raised her water bottle in salute. “Thanks for the workout.”

  Shelby held open the glass door for Monica, a welcome gesture, and they walked out to the parking lot together.

  “I’m glad you joined our class this morning,” Shelby said.

  “Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Monica said, forcing herself to sound nonchalant.

  “Have a great day.” Shelby opened the door to a muddy Jeep Wrangler and got behind the wheel.

  “You too.” A muddy Jeep. This woman is full of surprises. She’s like a sexy action figure from the toy store. I wonder if she comes with batteries…

  Monica dropped into the driver’s seat of her little white truck and blew out a sigh. As she turned the key in the ignition, she decided to dedicate herself to CrossFit.

  Chapter Five

  Later that morning, Monica parked her truck in the hospital parking ramp and took the elevator to the second floor of the sprawling hospital campus in downtown Apple Grove. As she hustled along the skyway, she gazed out the windows, making note of an unkempt patch of lawn and trees filled with tall grasses and runaway weeds. A sign described the area as “Natural Prairie Grasses.” Monica thought a more apt description would have been “Tragedy of the Commons.”

  She entered the main hospital and skirted around a construction zone, which seemed to be ever-present. There was a fresh wall of sheet rock and plastic covering an area that would later be revealed as a modern, state-of-the-art patient care space. She was reminded of the ever-changing and appearing staircases, doorways and rooms in the Harry Potter series.

  Despite the shape-shifting building, her feet abided her memory on the serpentine path to the physician offices, as legal business had brought her to the campus several times in the last three years.

  She checked in with the receptionist on the third floor, who must have been on the lookout for a lawyerly type, because she nodded knowingly and ushered Monica to a conference room rather than telling her to sit in the waiting area with patients.

  Monica scooted up to the modest table and removed a writing pad and the four subpoenas from her attaché case. Her first meeting was with a pulmonologist, and she expected it to be short. She didn’t think his treatment of the Saudi student would be germane to establishing causation of the head injury or resulting death.

  There was a light knock on the door, and an older gentlemen who resembled Albert Einstein entered. If possible, the doctor’s mustache and curly cap of hair was even more disheveled than Einstein’s.

  “I’m Monica Spade.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dr. Epstein.” He shook her hand and sat across from her.

  After introducing why she was there, Monica told the doctor, “I think we can make this meeting brief. You’ve been subpoenaed to testify in the State v. McKnight case about the murder victim, Abdul Seif, who was your patient. Could you please describe the care you provided to Mr. Seif?”

  “I consulted on him twice while he was in the Critical Care Unit to make sure he was appropriately ventilated. Since he was unconscious when admitted, in the wee hours of Sunday, I believe, I had to confirm the ventilator was breathing effectively for him. The next day, I extubated him, and confirmed he was breathing on his own.”

  “Did you conduct any assessments of his head or other injuries from the fight?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything you can add regarding his cause of death?”

  “Well, he died of rapid brain swelling, but I’d defer to the neurosurgeon on that,” Dr. Epstein said.

  “Very good,” Monica said. “That’s what I thought. My plan is to get you released from your subpoena.”

  “Oh, thank God.” He tugged on his mustache. “I’m terrified of testifying. I’ve gone an entire career without being sued or having to testify in court.”

  “Let’s keep the streak going. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Epstein. I’ll let you get on your with your day, and I’ll be in touch by email to confirm you’ve been released.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you, Ms. Spade.” He rose from the room and shuffled like a penguin out the door.

  The ED physician, Dr. Rashid Khouri, ha
d requested Monica to page him when she was ready to meet. He had emailed her his pager number, which she dialed then entered her own phone number at the prompts. A minute later, her phone rang.

  “This is Monica Spade.”

  “Dr. Khouri here. Are you the lawyer?”

  “Yes. Can you meet now?”

  “Yes. Where are you?” he asked.

  “In the third floor conference room in the physician office building.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up.

  While waiting, she walked to the bank of windows and admired the view of the small lake that had been formed by an oxbow in the Apple River. Barely swimmable in the spring, the lake became so thick with algae by mid-summer that the city habitually closed its small beach. With the cooling temperatures of fall, the water was losing its green sheen but still didn’t look very inviting.

  Monica’s assessment of the lake was interrupted by a light knock. She turned to see a man of average height and appearance enter the room. He wore a white doctor coat over an oxford shirt. Grey pants and black shoes completed his professional attire. After introductions, they sat across from each other at the table.

  She gently pushed the subpoena toward him. “Here’s your subpoena to testify. I spoke with the District Attorney, Dominique Bisset. She’ll need you to describe the injuries to Abdul Seif’s head and give an opinion of whether they’re consistent with being punched in the face and falling to the sidewalk.”

  “Will this be in open court in front of a jury?” he asked, his large, dark eyes astute and assessing.

  “Yes. This is a jury trial.”

  “The jury will be chosen from the community?” he asked.

  “The jury pool, usually 60 people, will be selected from residents in Apple Grove County. After the selection process, 14 jurors will sit for the trial, and two will be dismissed before deliberations.”