Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  Out of instinct, she must have pressed her eyes shut, because when she opened them, she was perpendicular to the highway, the back of her truck on the downslope of the embankment. She looked over her shoulder and saw the edge of a tree line, which she thankfully hadn’t hit. Her hands shaking now, she put the truck in park and turned off the engine, then rolled down her window for some fresh air.

  I’m alive. At least I’m alive. She put her head in her hands and sobbed, wondering what the hell had just happened in the span of only a few minutes.

  When she looked up, she saw two black Suburbans at the top of the hill, coming to a stop on the side of the road. The back door opened on the lead one, and Mike burst out and ran pell-mell down the hill, Mohamad behind him.

  Mike skidded across the grass, grabbed onto her door, and rested his hands on the open window. “Monica! Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” she said, placing her hand over his. “I’m pretty shaken though.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. One minute I was driving back to court, and the next minute a guy in a giant, black pickup truck literally forced me off the road.”

  Mike’s eyes grew wide as Mohamad joined him. “Forced you off the road?”

  “Yes! I slowed down, so he could pass me, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove his truck right into mine, as we approached the guard rail. I had to slam on my brakes and turn into the ditch.” Her voice caught as her throat constricted, the fear taking her breath away.

  “You can ride back with us,” Mohamad said. He turned and signaled the driver of the Suburban, who was standing alongside the vehicle, an Uzi clearly visible in his hands.

  Monica wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. The Seif driver is holding an assault rifle in broad daylight?

  She watched as the security guard signaled the driver of the second Suburban. When there was a break in traffic, he pulled out and sped off toward the courthouse.

  “What’s happening?” Monica asked, feeling like she had been dropped into a combat zone.

  “My family is returning to the courthouse,” Mohamad said. “Our driver will stay here with us.”

  “Is he holding an Uzi?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mohamad said.

  Mike rubbed his chin. “Do you want to leave your pickup truck here or try to drive it out? I see some damage on the front left fender, but I think it’s okay to drive.”

  “There’s no way I can drive right now.” They looked at her trembling hands, still resting on the steering wheel.

  As soon as the words left her mouth, a police car pulled up behind the Suburban. The officer got out and walked over to the Seif security guard. They chatted for a second, and Monica was relieved to see the officer was Matt. He came bounding down the hill to her door.

  “Monica, are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Only shaken.”

  “What happened?”

  She explained.

  “McKnight supporters threatened your life?” he asked, expressing what they were all thinking.

  “Most definitely,” she said. “They left a note on my windshield before court this morning.” She found her bag on the passenger floor and dug in the outside pocket, coming up with the note.

  Matt read it. “McKnight has gone too far. Mind if I keep this?”

  “Please do.”

  “Did you get the make and model of the truck?”

  “It was big and black,” she said.

  “License plate?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, feeling like an idiot. “He was beside me the entire time.”

  “Get a look at the driver?”

  “The windows were tinted black. I’m sorry I’m not more help.”

  “That gives us something to go on,” Matt said. “Let’s get you out of here. Can you get out of your vehicle?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  She unbuckled and opened her door. Matt stood on the downside of the hill, his large hands helping her out while Mike held the door open. Once she was standing, she felt a whoosh of dizziness, followed by hot nausea. She covered her mouth out of instinct, but it didn’t help.

  Quickly lurching to Matt’s side, she vomited into the grass down the hill. She grabbed her ponytail with one hand and put her other hand on her knee as she wretched. Embarrassed and confused, she said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry I just vomited in front of you.”

  Matt placed a steady hand on her arm. “That’s a natural reaction to trauma. Trust me.” He removed a white paper napkin from his back pocket and handed it to her. “Here.”

  She wiped her mouth and shivered. What’s wrong with me? she wondered as goose bumps spread over her.

  “Let’s get you up to the car,” Mike said. “I think you’re in shock.” He put his arm around her waist and guided her up the hill to the Suburban. “You sit here while we figure out what to do with your truck. There’s a bottle of water in the cupholder.”

  “Thank you.” With his help, she hoisted herself into the large seat and opened a bottle of water, pouring some onto the napkin and dabbing her face with it. She leaned her head back against the seat to calm her nerves.

  Meanwhile, she was vaguely aware of Matt driving her truck up the hill. He pulled it onto the shoulder in front of the Suburban, the security standing guard all the while, his Uzi clearly visible.

  Matt exited her truck and exchanged a few words with Mike, who got into her truck and drove off toward the courthouse.

  Mohamad returned to the Suburban and got in the back seat with her. “Mike’s driving your truck back to the courthouse. How are you?”

  “Better,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “It’s the least we can do.” He motioned to the driver, and they pulled into traffic, Matt on their tail in the police car.

  She was thankful that they rode in silence for the 10-minute drive, so she could process everything that had just happened. When they turned the corner into the courthouse parking lot, it was brimming with police cars and media vans. The driver dropped them at the curb, and Mohamad helped Monica out, providing her a steady arm.

  “Thank you, Mohamad. I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll be in the courtroom shortly.”

  He walked her to the restroom door.

  Monica went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, even using the commercial soap to wipe away the sweat and traces of vomit. As she was drying off with the paper towels, she looked in the mirror. Her eyes were a wild shade of fright, accented by bloodshot. I have to get a grip on myself for this trial. Pull it together.

  She dug in her bag and found a toothbrush and toothpaste, for which she was eternally grateful. After running a brush through her hair and pulling it into a pony, she exited into the hallway to find Matt waiting for her.

  “You’re going to file a police report, right?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Good. Let’s do that as soon as court is over today,” he said.

  “Deal,” she said.

  They walked together down the long corridor.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said.

  “I’m lucky I didn’t hit that guard rail. My life flashed before my eyes.”

  “You’re okay now,” he said soothingly, patting her arm. “You go ahead. I have to testify next, so I’ll stand at the back.”

  “Good luck,” she said, and entered the courtroom to find her seat.

  The courtroom was filling rapidly with the McKnight family—now pitted against the swarthy Seif family, supporters flanking them on each side of the aisle. Monica thought more bailiffs were warranted to keep the peace in case the hooded glances turned into something more, but her perception was skewed after what she’d been through.

  As if by seating chart, people returned to the same spots they had taken initially, as did she. Still behind the Seif family, Monica nodded and smiled at Ameerah when she glanced back, silently sending
support.

  Everyone rose as Judge O’Brien entered and sat, then ordered the bailiff to bring the jury in. A few seconds later, the jurors filed into the box and took their seats.

  Judge O’Brien sat, said a few preliminary remarks about the afternoon schedule, and looked at Dominique. “The prosecution may call its next witness.”

  “The prosecution calls Officer Matthew Ludwigsen,” Dominique said.

  In his uniform, Matt walked forward from the back of the courtroom. He passed through the bar between counsel tables and was sworn by the court clerk. No stranger to testifying, he commandeered the witness box with his large body, laden with a belt of equipment. Dominique took him through his background, education and experience as an Apple Grove police officer. The main thrust of his testimony was describing an unconscious Abdul on the sidewalk in front of The Night Owl bar.

  “Was his head bleeding?” she asked.

  “Objection,” Halliday said. “Leading the witness.”

  Dominique closed her eyes, giving the impression she was praying to a higher power for patience. After a suitable amount of time for the deity to grant her request, she adjusted her left lapel and reformatted her question. “What, if anything, was coming from Abdul Seif’s nose and skull?”

  “The victim was bleeding profusely from his nose and the back of his head,” Matt said.

  “What did you do next?” she asked.

  “I turned him on his side—so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood—and put a towel at the side of his head to cushion it from the sidewalk. Next, I wiped off his face and wedged a towel between his cheek and the sidewalk. Finally, I threw a wool blanket over him to keep him warm.”

  At Matt’s last statement, an involuntary sob escaped Basmah Seif.

  Dominique suspended her examination, so the jurors could hear Basmah crying. Most of them looked at her with sympathy.

  When Judge O’Brien squinted at Dominique, she got the hint and asked Matt to explain the security video from inside and outside the bar. The video was black and white with low resolution, but both Trevor and Abdul were visible at different times inside the bar.

  “You can see the victim resting his head on the bar, a glass of beer next to it,” Matt said.

  Dominique continued playing the video, which showed Abdul raising his head and shoving off from the bar. He almost fell off his bar stool, but stood, weaved, and stumbled out of view.

  “Eyewitnesses told me Abdul went to talk to a young lady and Trevor followed him over there,” Matt said. The footage had limited value, because it didn’t capture their argument when Trevor pushed Abdul into the post.

  A few minutes passed, and Abdul stumbled back into view at the edge of the camera angle. At that point, Trevor came into view and grabbed Abdul by the arm, dragging him toward the door. It was clear that Abdul didn’t want to go with Trevor but didn’t have the wherewithal to shake him off.

  Both Khalid and Mohamad Seif were riveted to the video, soaking in every detail.

  Once the men exited The Night Owl, they were standing too close to the front door for the exterior camera to capture Trevor’s punch. It did, however, show Abdul suddenly coming into view as he fell to the sidewalk. His head hit the concrete with a smack, and he lay motionless for a few seconds. Trevor wasn’t in the picture at all. Abdul sat up briefly in a dazed stupor then lay back down like a ragdoll.

  Soon, college-aged kids gathered around him and the police arrived. That’s when Matt appeared, his dash cam filming the scene and his lapel mic picking up his interviews.

  “What did you do when you reached the scene?” Dominique asked.

  “I treated the victim, as I described earlier, and called an ambulance,” he said.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Yes. I called for backup, so we could secure the scene and interview witnesses.”

  “Did you get any witness statements?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  “No one witnessed the punch,” he said.

  “Did you talk to anyone inside the bar?”

  “Yes. We spoke to a few people who had seen and talked to the victim.”

  “What, if anything, did they tell you?”

  “That Trevor McKnight led the victim outside the bar after they argued.”

  “What about their argument inside the bar? Did Mr. McKnight hit the victim at that time?”

  “No. It was described as a “push,” resulting in the victim stumbling backward against a support column.”

  “Did Abdul fall to the floor?”

  “No.”

  “When you reviewed the video clip from inside the bar, did you see Abdul fall at any time?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see Trevor lead Abdul outside the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next on the video?”

  “The video outside the bar showed Abdul suddenly coming into the picture, his nose bloodied, and falling back to the sidewalk.”

  “Did the fall look like a drunken fall on his own?”

  “No. It’s clear from the video that a force sent him backward. Plus, his nose is bloody.”

  “And, when you arrived, was Abdul Seif injured?”

  “Yes. His nose and the back of his head were bleeding.”

  “Thank you,” Dominique said. “No further questions.”

  “Defense?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  “Just a few, Your Honor,” Halliday said. He scrolled the video back to the starting point inside the bar where Abdul was draped over the bar, his head resting on his outstretched arm.

  “Can you identify that individual?” Halliday asked, using the arrow to point to Abdul.

  “That’s the victim, Abdul Seif,” Matt said.

  “What’s that by his head?” Halliday asked.

  “A glass of beer.”

  “Are there some empty shot glasses there too?” Halliday said, pointing to them with the cursor.

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “It’s hard to make out on the limited resolution camera, but several.”

  “More than three or four?”

  “Probably more than that. Yes.”

  “What was Abdul Seif’s blood alcohol level when he was admitted to Community Memorial Hospital?” Halliday asked.

  “0.204,” Matt said.

  “Is that over the legal limit?” Halliday asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was Abdul Seif intoxicated?” Halliday asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Halliday said. “Nothing further.”

  “Any redirect, DA Bisset?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  “None, Your Honor.”

  “The witness may step down,” Judge O’Brien said.

  Matt left the witness box and returned to the back of the courtroom.

  “Next witness?” Judge O’Brien asked Dominique.

  “The prosecution calls Mr. Khalid Seif, the victim’s father.”

  As if watching a tennis match, all the jurors turned to Mr. Seif, who rose slowly from his spot, his grey suit adjusting to the strain of a large body in motion. His sedate grey tie matched his thick head of hair, accenting the color of his olive skin.

  A man accustomed to moving through life at his own pace, he entered the center stage of the courtroom and stood before the court clerk. After replying “I do” to the testimonial oath, Mr. Seif confidently took the witness chair and maneuvered himself into place.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Dominique said.

  “Khalid Bin Nayef al Seif,” he said in a deep baritone, gravelly with emotion.

  “How are you related to the victim, Abdul Seif?”

  “He was my son.”

  Dominique paused to let the jurors acquaint themselves with Mr. Seif.

  “Do you have other children?”

  “Yes. They’re here. Mohamad, the oldest, and Ameerah, the middle child. Abdul was our youngest
.”

  “And, is your wife here today?”

  “Yes.” He indicated with his hand. “My wife of 36 years, Basmah, is seated next to Ameerah.”

  “How old was Abdul when he died?”

  “He was twenty-one years old.”

  “Where do you and your family live?”

  “We live in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.”

  “How long have you lived there?”

  “For generations, going back roughly one thousand years.”

  “I take it your family keeps track of your ancestors and lineage?”

  “Yes. It’s all computerized now, but we originally recorded our family names on scrolls that we transported from one camp to another as we tended our livestock, living a Nomadic existence in the desert.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “We live in the city and run our family business. All of my children are involved.”

  “What is your business?” Dominique asked.

  “Shipping.”

  “Did Abdul work in the business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Object, Your Honor,” Halliday said, rising to his feet.

  “Approach the bench,” Judge O’Brien said. He covered the mic when Halliday and Dominique arrived.

  “This background info from Mr. Seif is irrelevant and highly prejudicial,” Halliday said.

  “I’m establishing why Abdul came to America,” Dominique said, angling her chin up and away from Halliday, as if trying not to smell him.

  “Move it along, DA Bisset,” Judge O’Brien said.

  “Will do, Your Honor,” she said.

  Counsel returned to their tables and Dominique resumed her questioning. “Why did Abdul come to America to study?”

  “To study financial accounting methods and experience your culture.”

  “How did he come to choose Apple Grove, Wisconsin?”

  “We wanted him to experience the culture of the heartland of America. We had been to New York City several times but considered it too dangerous to send our youngest to school. As the baby of the family, Abdul was used to his older siblings and mother helping him navigate life.” His gaze moved to Basmah then back to Dominique.