Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  He was so matter-of-fact that he could’ve been talking about an old horse whose time had come. Nonetheless, his account—and perspective—was something Dominique would want to know.

  “Thank you for explaining that. Is there anything else I should know about his care and treatment?”

  “Not that I can think of,” he said.

  “Okay. The District Attorney might want to call you to testify at the trial. Are you available next week, as indicated on the subpoena there?”

  “My wife booked a vacation for us, but I can’t remember the exact dates. I’ll have to ask her.”

  You don’t remember your vacation dates for next week? I see an iPhone in your pocket. Why don’t you look at your calendar?

  Before she could suggest that, he unceremoniously stood, stiff as a board. “I need to get back to the unit. Are we finished?”

  She noticed he left the subpoena on the table. “You should take the subpoena with you.”

  “Do I have to?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s been legally served on you.”

  He reluctantly swiped it off the table and folded it, stuffing it in the same pocket as her business card.

  “Thanks for your time today,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Have a good day.” He left without shaking her hand.

  What’s his deal? she wondered.

  She tossed her notepad into her attaché and returned to her little white truck in the ramp. As she drove away from the hospital, she called Dominique, who picked up right away.

  “Did you have any luck meeting with the doctors?” Dominique asked.

  “Yes. I can tell you that you don’t need the pulmonologist, Dr. Epstein. He can’t speak to the gravity of the injuries or cause of death.”

  “Can the others?” Dominique asked.

  “Yes. We can discuss them in a minute if I could get your formal agreement to release Dr. Epstein from his subpoena.”

  “Done,” Dominique said.

  “Thanks. The ED physician, Dr. Khouri, will do a good job testifying about the initial injuries of a broken nose, bleeding on the brain and the fractured skull.”

  “Excellent,” Dominique said.

  “Funny thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was worried that a jury in our community wouldn’t believe his testimony because he’s from Dubai.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Dominique? Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” Dominique said. “Part of me is surprised that Dr. Khouri expressed that. The other part of me also wonders whether we’ll find an unbiased jury. The McKnights are well-regarded in town, and David McKnight is pretty successful in the construction industry. I think I’ll have an uphill battle convincing a presumably all-white jury, some of whom might rely indirectly on the McKnight business empire for income, to convict Trevor for murder as a result of being in a barroom brawl with a drunk foreign exchange student.”

  “Due to bias, or is the evidence you have ambiguous?” Monica asked.

  “Probably a combination,” Dominique said. “Here are my problems with this case. First, the eyewitnesses are drunk kids in their twenties. They can’t remember shit. Second, the security video from inside and outside the bar is very limited. It doesn’t show McKnight actually hitting Abdul. It only shows Abdul falling on the sidewalk into the camera view. Third, Abdul was extremely intoxicated and arguably could’ve fallen down on his own. I doubt he would’ve fallen straight back on his head hard enough to crack his skull, but I suppose it’s possible. Fourth, I don’t really have a motive for McKnight other than Abdul was talking to a girl who McKnight wanted to talk to. The hate crime charge will be difficult to prove. So, let’s just say I’ve got challenges, but I charged McKnight with felony murder because I had to. A lot of DA’s would have charged him with only assault or aggravated assault.”

  Monica thought about that for a second. “I think Dr. Khouri will be helpful about the punch being hard enough to knock Abdul to the sidewalk, cracking his skull. In opposition, the intensivist, Dr. King, will likely say that Abdul fell because he was drunk, and that Dr. King has seen lots of cracked skulls from drunk falls.”

  “What about the neurosurgeon?” Dominque asked.

  “I didn’t get the chance to talk to Dr. Rice. She got called to a trauma.”

  “Let me know as soon as you do,” Dominique said. “She might be the tie breaker, and she’s the one who did the surgery.”

  “I will,” Monica said. “I have another question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did Trevor McKnight receive care in the ED that night?”

  “Yes,” Dominique said.

  “Do you know what he was receiving care for?”

  “The officer said it looked like a hand injury, presumably from hitting Abdul, but McKnight won’t agree to sign a release for his medical record, so we’re taking up the matter before the judge tomorrow.”

  “Let me know if you get a court order for Mr. McKnight’s medical record. I’ll coordinate getting a copy for you,” Monica said.

  “You can attend the hearing yourself if you want. There are a few motions being argued.”

  “What are those?” Monica asked.

  “The defense has moved to suppress McKnight’s confession that he made to an officer at the hospital. They contend he should’ve been Mirandized, but we disagree. Halliday is also requesting permission for an expert neurosurgeon to testify that Dr. Dani Rice committed malpractice, causing Abdul’s death.”

  “Malpractice?” Monica balked. “How?”

  “Their theory is that Dr. Rice should’ve performed decompressive surgery, removing pieces of Abdul’s skull, a day earlier to relieve the pressure on Abdul’s brain.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Monica exclaimed, suddenly realizing her task was getting more complicated. “The defense is arguing that Dr. Rice killed Abdul instead of Trevor McKnight killing him?”

  “You’ve got it,” Dominique said. “But I don’t think the judge is buying it. We’re hoping he denies their motions. Halliday is an experienced defense attorney who can cross-examine Dr. Rice while she’s on the stand, so he doesn’t need his own expert.”

  “Unbelievable,” Monica said, hot blood pumping through her veins.

  “I’d prep Dr. Rice for that if I were you,” Dominique said.

  “Blaming her is a risky defense that could backfire on McKnight,” Monica said. “Generally speaking, our physicians are well-liked and respected in the community. The jury should be able to see through Halliday’s tactic.”

  “You’d be surprised what works,” Dominique said. “Remember, Halliday just has to create reasonable doubt in a few juror’s minds to thwart a unanimous guilty verdict. He doesn’t have to prove by a preponderance of the evidence that the medical care was negligent.”

  “So, they’ll fight a felony murder charge by arguing that McKnight’s punch didn’t result in Abdul’s cracked skull; that Abdul fell on his own. And, once Abdul got to the hospital, that Dr. Rice committed malpractice.”

  “I believe that will be Halliday’s narrative, yes.”

  “I get it,” Monica said. “Well, I’ll do my best to make sure the doctors are prepared for an attack. In the meantime, I think I will attend the hearing tomorrow. What time is it scheduled for?”

  “Ten o’clock in Branch three.”

  “See you there,” Monica said.

  “Stay in touch.”

  Monica thought about the harsh realities of Dominique’s job. As an advocate of the State, Dominique had no choice but to charge Trevor McKnight because there was probable cause to believe he killed Abdul by punching him in the face. Perhaps McKnight’s confession in the ED that night convinced Dominique to prosecute. Monica was dying to know what McKnight had said.

  She also was impressed that Dominique didn’t let idealism, or her own ego get in the way of the judicial process. She broug
ht the charge and would turn the facts over to a jury who hopefully would apply the law as instructed by the judge. The outcome would be out of Dominique’s control once the case was in the jury’s hands.

  Mindful to curb her own zeal in the face of powerful emotion, Monica set aside thoughts of recrimination, and instead mentally mapped preparing the physicians for the courtroom theater.

  Midway back to the office, a glance at her dashboard clock confirmed her stomach’s whines for lunch. She dialed Nathan. “Hey, I’m going to pick up a sub. Want one?”

  “From where?” he asked.

  “Jimmy John’s.”

  “How about I meet you there? I need to get out of here.”

  “Great. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “I’ll leave now,” he said and hung up.

  A few minutes later, she pushed through the glass door to loud music and a scruffy young man behind the counter yelling a greeting at her. She wondered if he yelled due to damaged hearing from the loud music or because he was paid to exhibit false enthusiasm.

  She spied Nathan and Matt sitting across from each other in a booth, so she placed her order for a sub and a soda. She filled her cup with Coke, even though it had a week’s supply of sugar, and joined them. She couldn’t resist the caffeine and taste.

  “Hey guys.” She noticed that Matt was in his police uniform.

  Nathan slid over, so she squeezed in next to him, now face-to-face with the handsome Matt. He was better looking than she remembered from the game. His short black hair had a shiny sheen from product, and his bright blue eyes were framed by long, dark lashes—the kind that women would die for. Despite being clean shaven, his beard was thick and dark. The mass of hair covering his forearms completed the picture of a healthy, youthful man brimming with testosterone.

  “How are you today?” Matt asked.

  “Okay, I guess, and you?”

  “Just okay?” he asked, not answering her question.

  “Work is presenting some challenges.” She explained the posture of the McKnight case and that her physicians’ care would be attacked by Halliday.

  “Sounds like a typical defense attorney,” Matt said. “I was there. The victim was bleeding pretty badly on the sidewalk.”

  Monica’s eyes snapped to attention, but they heard their orders being called at the counter. She and Matt stepped up and grabbed them. After the first few bites, she resumed where he had left off. “You were at the scene?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Can you tell me about it?” she asked.

  “I’d like to, but we’re sworn to secrecy until the trial. District Attorney Bisset’s orders.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I get it.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Monica said, “I’m dying to know what McKnight told the cop in the ED that night.”

  “I heard he was bragging about dropping Seif to the sidewalk with one punch,” Matt said.

  Her ears perked up. “Did you hear the audio yourself?”

  “No. Just the rumor mill.”

  “Dominique told me that Halliday is moving to have McKnight’s confession excluded because McKnight wasn’t Mirandized by the officer in the ED.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Matt said. “McKnight wasn’t under arrest or in custody. He was free to remain silent or ask the officer to leave.”

  “Could McKnight really leave if he was lying in a hospital bed, presumably drunk, and receiving care?” Nathan asked.

  “Well, he could’ve asked the officer to leave,” Matt said around a bite.

  “That’s what officers do—talk to drunk people to find out what happened.” Monica turned to Nathan, “So, how are things back at the office?”

  He finished chewing and pulled at his soda through the straw. Once he swallowed, he said, “Not so hot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He ran his long fingers through his medium-length, brown hair. “Richard saw Matt and me at the game.”

  “So?” she asked. “He saw all three of us.”

  “Well, he showed up in my office this morning, first asking 20 questions about you, which I found hilarious, then asking about Matt and me.”

  “Okay,” she said in a dubious tone. “There is no ‘Matt and you’ as far as Richard is concerned. You were merely sitting next to each other at a ball game. Stadiums are filled with straight men doing that every day.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t be surprised if Richard intensifies his efforts of hitting on you.”

  “Oh fuck,” she said, then muttered under her breath, “If he only knew.” Fortunately, Nathan was chewing a mouthful of chips so didn’t hear her.

  “Second,” he said, “that wasn’t the first time Richard has seen Matt and me out on the town.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “He saw us at Whiskey Dick’s a few weeks ago. We had just finished dancing, when I noticed Richard at the bar. He might have seen us on the dance floor.”

  Monica switched her gaze to Matt and asked in a deadpan, “I’m dying to know. Is Nathan a good dancer?”

  Matt smiled. “He’s coming along. I taught him a few moves.”

  Nathan sat up straighter. “Hey, I’ve got moves that haven’t even been invented yet.”

  “Those are called spasticity,” Matt said, a spark in his eyes. “No one knows what the hell you’re doing!”

  “You’re jealous,” Nathan said.

  “Of what?” Matt asked.

  “You know—” Nathan said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matt said.

  Monica was thrilled to watch them flirt, and actually a little jealous that Nathan had someone in his life. Was now the right time to tell them she was gay too? “What else did Richard ask you this morning?”

  “Typical homophobe stuff,” Nathan said, “asking me who Matt is, what our relationship is, that I have an image to uphold as a lawyer of the firm that bears his last name. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “He actually said, ‘The firm that bears my last name?’”

  “Yes!” Nathan spewed in disgust. “I told him my relationship with Matt is none of his fucking business, and that I’m one of the best lawyers at the firm, so have actually enhanced its reputation.”

  She was genuinely concerned about Nathan’s job. “Do you think he’s going to tell the partners?”

  Nathan snorted. “Probably. And you know what? I don’t give a fuck.”

  “What if they stop sending you work?” This was the precise reason she hadn’t come out at work—for three whole years! She had kept her private life under the radar of the men at the firm, even though her school friends and family knew she was gay. None of them lived in Apple Grove anyway, and she didn’t advertise her status on social media.

  “We would call that ‘discrimination’ where I come from,” Matt said.

  “Are you out and proud at the police station?” she asked, her voice more challenging than she intended.

  “Absolutely,” Matt said. “They knew I was gay when they hired me. Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of cold stares, but I’m a good cop, so they leave me alone.”

  Nathan put his arm around Monica’s shoulders. “I’m not worried about my job or work. If I left the firm tomorrow, I’m pretty confident I could take a few clients with me. This is a good opportunity to see who’s open-minded and who’s an asshole.”

  “Well, if truth be told,” she said, “almost all of the partners are sort of assholes, but we’ll see who’s a biased son of a bitch, like Richard.” She covered her face with her hands. “Fuck. What am I going to do about him having the hots for me?”

  “Tell him your hands are full,” Nathan said.

  “But that’s a lie. It’s a small town when you don’t want it to be.”

  They were interrupted by the radio on Matt’s belt crackling with chatter. He slid to the end of the bench. “Thanks for lunch. Gotta go.”

  Monica slid out, too, so Nath
an could say goodbye to Matt. Nathan stood, and the men hugged briefly but didn’t kiss. “Talk to you later?” Nathan asked.

  “I’ll text you when I get off work,” Matt said. “Bye, Monica.”

  “Bye, Matt.” She was glad Matt had joined them. Good for Nathan, having the guts to come out. I’m fucking terrified for him.

  She and Nathan cleaned their table and walked out to their cars. “See you back at the office,” she said. She slid into her truck and looked at the note she had saved from her grandfather, tucked into the underside of the visor. He had included it in a birthday card soon after she had come out to her family. In his handwriting, it said, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

  She applied it to the law firm in her mind for the hundredth time as she drove away.

  Chapter Seven

  Monica barely returned to her desk and clicked open her emails when her phone rang. The display indicated it was a hospital number.

  “Monica Spade.”

  “Hi, Monica. It’s Al Bowman.”

  “Hi, Al. I bet you’re calling to get an update on the physicians.”

  “Actually, no. I’m calling about this ridiculously clever monkey.”

  She stifled a laugh. “What is Marcus up to now? Performing same-day surgery?”

  “Eating bananas and leaving a trail of peels in the basement.”

  “Follow the trail, and it will lead you to the monkey,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, there’s also a trail of shit,” he said. “Do you realize what the state and federal regulators would do if they saw that? They’d shut down our kitchen and issue so many citations that we’d probably lose our ability to bill Medicare.”

  “Have you called in the professionals yet?”

  “We’ve called the exterminators.”

  “Whoa… Wait a minute. What about the owner? What’s her name? Darcy? Have you worked with her to coax Marcus out of hiding?”

  “She’s been walking through the hallways and looking in nooks and crannies with our security force. Marcus doesn’t come when she calls him.”