by Alexi Venice
Monica instantly warmed at Shelby’s touch, like bubbles coming to life when a bottle of champagne was uncorked, her body overflowing with effervescent desire. She didn’t know which she was trying to conceal more—her embarrassment or her attraction.
She let her eyes fall over Shelby’s shoulders and arms, flushed from exercise. She breathed in, and Shelby’s heady mix of sweat and natural scent filled her lungs. Heavenly. Not like product or deodorant, but feminine and sweet, like a woman. If it was true that smell triggered memories, then Monica could’ve sworn she had known the sweetness of Shelby in a former life. She was meant to be with this woman, and karma had provided the opportunity. She vowed not to squander it.
“Excellent job, everyone,” Craig yelled, interrupting their quasi-intimate moment. “Let’s put away the equipment, and for those of you who have time to stay for some cool down stretching, please do. Otherwise, I’ll see you next time.”
“I have to get to work,” Shelby said. “Are you coming tomorrow?”
Monica lit up at the invitation but remembered that she had reserved—and paid for—a spot in yoga class. “Sorry, I’m doing yoga tomorrow.” She was tempted to blow it off, but hot, slow, stretchy yoga felt so good.
Shelby pulled a disappointed face. “I don’t enjoy yoga.”
“Why?” Monica asked, as they returned dumbbells and kettlebells to their racks.
“When I’m in down dog, my hamstrings give out, and my feet buckle, so I crumple to the mat.” Shelby demonstrated like a rag doll flopping down.
Monica didn’t know what to make of that, other than they wouldn’t be doing yoga together. “I’m sorry.” She batted her eyelashes, trying to look sympathetic while excited beats thrummed through her chest. Think of something else to say. She came up short.
Shelby didn’t elaborate, so they walked in silence to the coat racks. Monica nervously gathered her car keys and jacket, unsure why she felt so insecure. Maybe because her feelings were stealing her brain’s ability to make simple conversation? The effect this woman has on me!
Being her polite and cheery self, Shelby didn’t seem to notice Monica’s discomfort, walking side-by-side out to their cars.
Chapter Nine
On her drive home, Monica received a text from Dr. Dani Rice indicating her morning surgery had cancelled, so she could squeeze Monica in before seeing patients in clinic. Perfect. If Monica took a fast shower and didn’t apply any makeup, she’d have enough time to talk to Dr. Rice before going to the motion hearings at court.
Later, her long hair still damp, Monica checked in at the Neurosurgery Department reception desk, and was taken directly to Dr. Rice’s office, which was missing Dr. Rice. There were signs that the doctor had been there—the lights were on, a Starbucks cup was on the desk, car keys lay next to the computer keyboard, and a half-eaten banana rested on the corner of the desk.
Either Marcus-the-monkey has been in here, or Dr. Rice is close by, Monica thought.
She directed her attention to the numerous diplomas and awards on the walls, noting that Dr. Rice apparently had won every academic achievement since kindergarten. Typical overachiever but very impressive, nonetheless. Monica heard a rush of air and fast-moving feet then turned to greet a woman who was no less a medical giant for her diminutive stature.
“Are you the lawyer?” Dr. Rice asked.
“Yes. Monica Spade. Pleased to meet you.”
Before Monica knew what was happening, her hand was scooped up in a shake so hearty and strong that it left her fingers tingling and her hand white where the doctor’s vice-like grip had been.
“Please, sit,” Dr. Rice commanded.
Monica sat, flexing her fingers to return blood flow and sensation.
The doctor looked expectantly at Monica, studying her.
“Yes. Well, I have a subpoena for you to testify in the State versus McKnight case.” Monica fished the official document out of her attaché and handed it to Dr. Rice.
In contrast to Dr. King, Dr. Rice sought out her electronic calendar, turning her back to Monica, so she could view her computer monitor. “I have patients all day in clinic on the date of the subpoena.”
“Is there a way to cancel them?”
Her back still to Monica, Dr. Rice grunted. “We don’t cancel patients to testify in legal matters.”
“How about the next day?”
Dr. Rice clicked on the next day. “I have two surgeries.”
“Since this is a subpoena, you’re required to testify or be held in contempt of court. I can appreciate that you’re booked, but we have to carve out some time for you to testify.”
“Can you narrow down my time slot to a day and hour?” Dr. Rice asked.
Monica smiled. “It will take longer than an hour. You’ll have to come down to the courthouse.”
“What? Usually we do these in a conference room or by phone.”
“For civil cases like car accidents, that’s normal. This, on the other hand, is a murder trial in front of a jury, so your testimony will have to be live.”
Big sigh. “That McKnight kid should plea and save us the expense of a trial.”
“That doesn’t look like where this is going.”
“Fine,” Dr. Rice said. “Can you at least give me a specific day?”
“I’ll talk to the DA about it and get back to you. I assume you’d rather cancel clinic than surgery?”
“Yes.”
Getting that concession, Monica switched gears and asked, “Can we talk a little about your care and treatment of Abdul Seif?”
Dr. Rice swiveled back to face Monica. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything.”
The doctor visibly warmed when she was asked to talk about patient care. “I’m so sorry he didn’t survive his injury. What a tragedy.”
“Senseless,” Monica said.
“One punch with a fist, and a young man’s life was taken.”
“Very sad. So, in your opinion, it was the punch that killed Abdul?” Monica asked.
“The punch set the wheels in motion, that’s for sure,” Dr. Rice said.
“As long as it was a ‘substantial factor,’ then the District Attorney will move forward with prosecuting the case,” Monica said.
“The punch was a central factor in causing bleeding and swelling.”
“Please tell me about the care you provided,” Monica said.
“When I first saw Mr. Seif in the ED, he was intubated and unconscious. We did a CT scan, which showed some oozing on the brain and a fractured occiput.” She reached to the side of her desk and grabbed a 12-inch-high model of a skull. She held it up and pointed to the base of the skull. “The fracture was here.”
“How did you treat that?”
“We sedated him and performed neuro checks every hour. He was doing well enough by Monday morning—approximately 24 hours after being admitted—to be extubated. He was awake but groggy. His eyes looked fine. His speech was slow, but he enunciated well. He could move all of his extremities. I honestly thought he was going to pull through because his Glascow Coma Score was 15, which is the highest it goes, and he had youth on his side.”
“What does the Glascow Coma Score measure?” Monica asked, flipping open her yellow legal pad to take notes.
“The GCS describes the level of consciousness in a person with a brain injury.” Dr. Rice held up three fingers to emphasize the categories. “You get five points each for (1) eye opening, (2) best verbal response, and (3) best motor response. Fifteen is the highest.”
“And, Abdul had the highest—15?” Monica asked.
“Yes. He was groggy but very functional.”
“Okay, what happened after that?” Monica asked.
“He suffered sudden brain swelling about 10 hours later. When nursing assessed his neuro status at nine o’clock on Monday night, one of Mr. Seif’s pupils was fixed and dilated, which is an emergent sign of brain swelling. They paged me, and I ordered a CT scan then dro
ve immediately to the hospital.”
“What did the CT scan show?”
“It’s easier if I can pull it up on the screen and show you.” Dr. Rice turned her back to Monica and pulled up the black and white image of Abdul’s head CT on one of her oversized flat screens. She used her index finger on the screen as she spoke, similar to how Dr. Khouri had shown Monica the earlier CT. “This is the small pool of blood that he presented with. Here’s the fracture in his skull. And, here’s the new evidence of the brain swelling. See the shift there?”
“Yeah. I think I see it,” Monica said. “What did you do for that?”
Dr. Rice nodded. “Two things: I ordered the medication known as Mannitol by phone right away then I took him to surgery as soon as the OR crew could assemble a team and prepare a room. I performed bilateral craniectomies on the sides of his skull.” She traced circles on each side of the skull model with her index finger, showing Monica where she made the incisions.
“Did the surgery help him?” Monica asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Mr. Seif’s brain swelled rapidly through the openings we created, suffering an irreversible and fatal herniation.” Dr. Rice’s voice lowered, and her expression turned somber.
“There isn’t anything you can do for that?” Monica asked.
“The reason we do the craniectomies is to decompress a swollen brain. However, if it’s in the process of swelling, like Mr. Seif’s was, there isn’t any magical treatment we can apply in the operating room. Frankly, I’ve never seen a brain herniate as rapidly as his did. We’re talking minutes, not hours.”
“I’m sorry,” Monica said.
“So am I. He had us fooled. He had made it through the initial impact of his head injury, but the force that cracked his skull was too much on his brain.”
“Let’s talk about that,” Monica said. “Could a drunken fall, with him landing on the back of his head, have caused this type of swelling?”
Dr. Rice chewed the end of her middle nail, contemplating Monica’s question. “Anything is possible, but I doubt it. Mr. Seif had a broken nose from a punch to the face. I think the force of the punch set in motion his fall to the sidewalk that shook his brain, not unlike a head trauma in a car accident. It takes a lot of force to crack the thickest part of your skull. The trauma caused bleeding, and like any trauma to the body—a broken ankle or wherever—the tissue swells. Here, the swelling was confined by the skull for a time then ballooned out when we decompressed the skull.”
Monica quickly wrote notes. “Are you saying he couldn’t have suffered this type of injury from simply falling on his own?”
“I doubt it. We see people fall down drunk all the time. They don’t have this type of brain injury. If they did, can you imagine how many deaths we’d see from simple falls? There had to have been more force involved for Mr. Seif’s injury, evidenced by the broken nose.”
“If asked by the DA while you’re on the stand, would you say that a substantial factor in Abdul Seif’s death was the punch to the face?”
“That set in motion a fatal head trauma, yes. The swelling from the trauma actually killed him.”
“I think that’s the reason the DA needs you there in person—to teach the jury what happened medically,” Monica said. “Can you bring the skull model with you?”
“Yes, as long as I get it back,” Dr. Rice said.
“You will. Mind if I take it today and give it to the DA?” Monica asked.
“I suppose.” Dr. Rice nervously bit the end of another short nail, then absent-mindedly pushed back her cuticles as if her life depended on it. “I’m really going to have to do this, huh? This McKnight kid isn’t going to enter into some type of deal?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Monica said. “There’s a motion hearing this morning that I’m attending. I’ll know more after that.”
“Okay. Keep me posted,” Dr. Rice said. “In the meantime, I’ll ask my nurse to cancel the patients for the clinic day. I’m not cancelling the surgeries scheduled for the next day though.”
“Understandable. Thank you.” Monica carefully picked up the skull and extended her hand for another militaristic squeeze. She tried to mask her eyes from squinting in pain but felt like she wasn’t successful, especially as they misted over.
As soon as they broke contact, the doctor reached into the breast pocket of her white coat and pulled out a business card. “My cell phone is on here. Call or text me. That’s the best way to reach me.”
“Will do,” Monica said, grasping the card with numb fingers. She dropped it into the pocket of her jacket and reciprocated by handing Dr. Rice her card.
“Thanks.” Dr. Rice strummed the card with her fingers and set it on her keyboard.
“Nice meeting you,” Monica said from the doorway.
Dr. Rice pierced Monica with her intelligent eyes. “Likewise.”
There was some type of unspoken communication in that moment, but Monica didn’t have a good handle on what it was. She hustled out of the doctor’s office and raced down to the courthouse.
She found a seat toward the front of the courtroom seconds before the judge came through a door hidden by a façade wall behind his massive desk. They heard the strength of a metal door slam, and he bustled around the wall to his desk, known as the bench. When Judge O’Brien sat, everyone else in the courtroom did too. His half-glasses were perched on top of his balding head as he quickly surveyed his courtroom.
Monica situated herself and removed the yellow notepad from her attaché. The skull, which she intended to give to Dominique Bisset after the hearing, was resting quietly beside her, not making a peep.
At counsel table in front of Monica sat Dominique and her squadron of legal assistants. Across the aisle from Dominique, at opposing counsel table, sat Jeffrey Halliday, wearing a thousand-dollar suit and a Rolex watch. Beside him, sat a sullen Trevor McKnight in a government-issued orange jumpsuit with matching ankle and wrist bracelets of the carbon steel variety. Since there wasn’t a jury present, McKnight was in jail garb. Once his trial began in front of a jury, however, he would be allowed to wear street clothes without shackles. The police would put an electric belt around his waist—under his shirt—to tase him in the event he tried to escape.
“Let’s go on the record,” Judge O’Brien said to counsel while ignoring the television cameras. “The matter before us today is State versus McKnight. The State is represented by District Attorney Dominique Bisset and the defendant, who is present today, is represented by Jeffrey Halliday. The court will take up two motions by the defendant today: the first to suppress Defendant Trevor McKnight’s statements made to Officer Petersen at Community Memorial Hospital, and the second to call an expert neurosurgeon to testify at trial. Counsel, are there any other matters for the court to hear today?”
He looked down at each counsel table.
“Actually, your Honor,” Halliday said, “I request that my client’s handcuffs be removed, so he can communicate with me by writing notes during this hearing.”
Judge O’Brien blinked in surprise, immediately turning his attention to Dominique for her position.
She appeared nonplussed, waving her hand in McKnight’s general direction. “The prosecution defers to the bailiff and his ability to secure the courtroom, Your Honor.”
“Bailiff, please approach the bench.” Judge O’Brien covered his microphone while he and the bailiff whispered to each other.
After they finished, Judge O’Brien said, “The request to unshackle the defendant is denied. Counsel for defendant can cover the microphone while his client whispers. Anything else before I address the pending motions?”
Halliday shrugged and shook his head.
Dominique tipped up her chin and nodded, as Monica would come to learn was Dominique’s courtroom style—subtle and stealthy. “Yes, your Honor, the prosecution moved yesterday for the Court to order release of the defendant’s medical record regarding his care in the ED the night of the fight.”
/> “Ah, yes. I saw that,” Judge O’Brien said. “Mr. Halliday, did you oppose the prosecution’s motion?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Halliday said. “I haven’t had time to brief it though.”
“I’m not going to allow a briefing period for that motion,” Judge O’Brien said. “Do you have any oral argument you’d like to make today?”
Halliday’s back went stick-straight. “I request the opportunity to brief it, your Honor. I’m unprepared to make oral argument on the merits right now.”
“Well, I’ll rule on the suppression motion while you think about it. I think my ruling will dovetail nicely into the medical record issue.”
“But, your Honor—” Halliday interrupted.
Judge O’Brien held up his hand. “I know passions can run high in this case, Mr. Halliday, but I run my courtroom in a civil manner. We don’t interrupt each other. We don’t talk over each other. Unless I’ve invited you to present oral argument, I don’t appreciate your talking over me. Are we clear?” Through his half-glasses, the judge peered down his proboscis at Halliday.
Halliday hmphed, but knew better than to challenge a judge’s authority. “Yes, your Honor. We’re clear.”
Dominique remained calm, having heard Judge O’Brien’s remonstration of out-of-town defense counsel on many occasions. If she had one thing going for her in the prosecution of this case, it was the home-court advantage with the judge. Ironically, the same couldn’t be said for the potential jury.
Judge O’Brien cleared his throat and directed his attention to a stack of papers in front of him. “The Court has reviewed the briefs and affidavits submitted by each party and finds the following facts: Defendant Trevor McKnight was admitted to Community Memorial Hospital Emergency Department at 2:10 a.m. on Sunday morning. He was seen and treated for a fractured knuckle. During the time he was there, after a splint was applied, and he was reclining in bed, Officer Petersen asked the defendant’s permission to enter the room. The defendant granted permission. Officer Petersen’s audio recording device on his uniform lapel was turned on and recorded their conversation. For purposes of making the record, I’m going to play their conversation, so the court reporter can take it down.”