Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  The McKnight family looked as stunned as Trevor: David red with frustration, Carol tearful and fearful, the daughter alternating her time between inspecting the ends of her hair and her cell phone screen, and the lanky younger brother, ill-at-ease and eyes wide, hungry for knowledge.

  Monica used the break to connect with Matt. When she found him, they scooted into a conference room where she made her official police report about the black truck forcing her off the road.

  “We’ll get working on this right away,” he said.

  “No offense, but I’m not hopeful we’ll find the guy,” she said.

  “I’d really like to grill David McKnight about it,” he said, “but I’d probably catch hell for roughing him up during trial.”

  “He deserves it.” She bit back the urge to share McKnight’s attempt to bribe Al Bowman for one million dollars.

  “For the next few nights, I might keep watch on your house from my car,” he said.

  “Why don’t you sleep in my extra bedroom?” she asked. “If black-truck-man tries to finish me off, he’ll find you in my house.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not mind? I’d be honored,” she said.

  “Only for a few nights,” he said.

  “That would be awesome. Thanks for offering.”

  He patted her hand.

  When they returned to the courtroom after the break, everyone’s curiosity was satisfied by a very pale Trevor McKnight sitting next to Halliday, a bailiff within arm’s reach.

  Trevor cast a tearful glance toward his parents then sat stone-faced, staring blankly at the bench.

  Monica half-expected the ends of Trevor’s hair to be fried, but he looked freshly groomed and generally pulled together, if not a little fatigued. He was not the healthy-looking young man he had been one month ago. With the weight loss, time in jail and stress of trial, he looked ten years older.

  Judge O’Brien re-entered the courtroom, and everyone stood.

  “Please be seated.” Judge O’Brien focused his attention on the defense table. “Mr. Halliday, is your client able to sit through closing arguments?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, if they’re short,” Halliday said.

  “What does ‘short’ mean?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  “Maybe 30 minutes each,” Halliday said.

  Judge O’Brien looked at Dominique, who shrugged. “Mine isn’t that long.”

  “I have about 10 minutes of jury instructions to read before closing,” Judge O’Brien said.

  Halliday leaned over and exchanged whispers with Trevor. “That should be fine, Your Honor,” Halliday said.

  “Then we’ll proceed,” Judge O’Brien said. “Bailiff, please bring in the jury.”

  The bailiff made eye contact with the judge then disappeared through the jury door. He re-emerged with the full jury, who took their seats while casting openly curious glances at Trevor McKnight.

  Once they were settled, Judge O’Brien addressed the jury. “We are now ready for the closing argument portion of the trial where each lawyer addresses you to sum up their side of the case. First, however, I’m going to read instructions to you about closing arguments and your deliberations.”

  Judge O’Brien read several pages of instructions to the jury, including that the lawyers’ closing arguments were just that—arguments, not evidence. As such, the jurors weren’t allowed to take notes during the summations.

  “The prosecution may proceed with its closing argument,” Judge O’Brien said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Dominique took the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of felony murder with a component of bias, whether that’s racial, religious, or national origin doesn’t matter. It’s a hate crime due to bias.”

  She pointed at Trevor McKnight. “The Defendant, Trevor McKnight, confronted Abdul Seif in The Night Owl Bar and told him to return to Saudi Arabia to his ‘Islamic girls.’ When Abdul resisted that notion, McKnight shoved Abdul against a column. Abdul didn’t fight back. Instead, he stumbled past McKnight, returning to the bar. You heard Trevor McKnight testify he was rescuing the girls from Abdul, but Autumn McGrath testified that she didn’t need rescuing. She described Abdul as ‘sweet.’”

  Dominique looked at Trevor.

  “Abdul never presented a threat to McKnight, especially after he returned to the bar. Yet McKnight pursued Abdul, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him outside. Unfortunately, Abdul was too drunk to resist. As soon as they stepped outside, McKnight punched Abdul in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him to the sidewalk. The force was so great that Abdul cracked his skull when he hit the concrete. McKnight even broke his own knuckle from hitting Abdul in the face. That’s how hard he punched him.”

  “Abdul was taken to Community Memorial Hospital for treatment. Like any other part of the body, we learned from the physicians that when the brain is injured, it can bleed and swell. They knew that so took appropriate measures, including sedating and monitoring Abdul.”

  “Trevor McKnight also went to the same hospital for repair of his broken knuckle. After McKnight was treated, Officer Petersen interviewed him. You heard the recording. McKnight bragged about knocking out Abdul with one punch. He called Abdul a raghead and camel jockey.” She hovered silently over the words while making eye contact with several of the jurors. “I don’t have to tell you those terms indicate bias.”

  “You know what McKnight didn’t say to Officer Petersen, though? He never told Officer Petersen that Abdul took the first swing.” Dominique spread her hands wide. “McKnight knew he was talking to a police officer, so if he was going to tell the entire story, the story that cast him in the best light possible, you think he would’ve mentioned that Abdul allegedly took the first swing.”

  Her clear eyes swept over the jury, her expression as neutral as possible so as not to overdramatize her point. “I submit to you that there’s a reason McKnight didn’t tell Officer Petersen that Abdul took the first swing—because it didn’t happen that way. McKnight didn’t know that Abdul was going to die, so he didn’t know he would be sitting in this courtroom facing felony murder charges. In short, he didn’t know what was at stake for his future.”

  “In addition, for all McKnight knew, there was security cam footage of their entire exchange, which would have proven that McKnight, not Abdul, threw the only punch.”

  “Once McKnight hooked up with his lawyer, however, he learned that he and Abdul were outside camera range when they stepped outside the bar. For trial, McKnight’s story suddenly included a new fact—that Abdul threw the first punch. Don’t be fooled. We know what’s going on here: McKnight invented a new fact to avoid going to jail. To avoid accountability for his actions. To avoid punishment for felony murder.”

  She turned and looked at McKnight, again keeping a poker face. “Then, on the exterior security cam of the bar, we see Abdul lying on the sidewalk, his nose broken and bloodied, and a pool of blood forming behind his head. What does McKnight do? He leaves Abdul for dead and returns to party with his buddies inside the bar.”

  Dispassionate, Dominique turned from Trevor to the jury. “After a few minutes, some responsible kids called 911, and Officer Ludwigsen came to the scene. He called an ambulance. Abdul was taken to Community Memorial Hospital, where he received state-of-the-art treatment. You heard from both Drs. Khouri and Rice what they did for him. The defense tried to insinuate that the doctors didn’t do enough, but they explained why the defense’s alternate medical theories were negligent and risky—giving a medication prematurely, drilling a hole in Abdul’s skull for an intracranial pressure monitor, or doing a prophylactic surgery. As Drs. Khouri and Rice told you, those suggestions would have been dangerous malpractice. The defense is simply throwing out crazy theories in an attempt to steer your attention away from Trevor’s deadly punch.”

  “The defense even called the next door neighbor and close family friend of the McKnight’s, Dr. King, to try to convince you that
Abdul Seif simply fell down drunk on his own, causing a fracture to his skull. Dr. King isn’t an expert at skull fractures. He’s an expert at being a family friend. I urge you to disregard his biased testimony.”

  Dominique allowed a calm second to pass, a sort of delicacy in the face of violence. A more forceful approach would have given the jurors an excuse to dislike her as being too heavy-handed, or perhaps even imperious.

  “While Abdul was in the hospital, he initially rallied, giving him the opportunity to talk to his parents by phone. What a blessing for both parties—to have one last conversation. God does, indeed, work in mysterious ways. Then, Abdul took a sudden turn for the worse, and not even emergency surgery could save him. Abdul died as a result of the punch that Trevor McKnight delivered to Abdul outside The Night Owl Bar. Both Drs. Khouri and Rice confirmed that medically during their testimony.”

  “As a result, I urge you to check the box “guilty” next to felony murder.”

  Dominique took a sip of water. “You will also be asked on the jury verdict to answer the question of whether the crime was motivated by bias. It doesn’t matter what type of bias—race, religion or national origin. Take your pick.”

  “We heard the audiotape of Trevor McKnight in the ED, bragging to Officer Petersen that McKnight told Abdul to go back to the desert where his Islamic girls were. We also heard McKnight call Abdul a raghead and camel jockey. Then, during Trevor McKnight’s testimony, we learned that he was in the photo doing the Nazi salute and saying, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Look at the photo closely when you return to the jury room.”

  She held it up to them. “Not all the young men in the photo are doing the Nazi salute. Some of them knew it was wrong. Contrary to what Mr. McKnight said, they didn’t all do it simply because the photographer told them to. It wasn’t a mindless impulse. Some chose not to. Some didn’t belong to the secret, white supremacist club that met at George Krause’s house. Trevor admitted that he had visited the Krause home several times, more than 10 times, maybe even 20 times, to do whatever it was that they did there. I ask you to rely on your years of life experience while reviewing the evidence to determine bias in this case. Overt bias. Conscious bias. On behalf of the State, I ask you to mark ‘yes’ next to the box that asks whether the crime was committed with an element of bias.”

  “Thank you for your attention.” Dominique nodded respectfully and returned to her counsel table.

  “Mr. Halliday?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  Halliday flicked back his hair, grabbed his yellow notepad and took the podium. He intentionally made eye contact with each juror.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time and service for this trial. Let me start by saying that you may not like my client, Trevor McKnight, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty of murder.”

  Halliday circled the podium and stood in front of the jury. “I think we can all agree that Trevor isn’t the smartest guy in the room. He got drunk and said and did some stupid stuff, but he wasn’t motivated by hatred, and he didn’t intend to injure Abdul Seif. Rather, Trevor was motivated by a girl, a girl from class he was interested in. When he saw Abdul talking to her, Trevor did what a lot of guys do every day, he came over to Abdul and said some stupid stuff to intimidate him, then pushed him away. That’s it—drunken male competition for a girl. Just because Autumn doesn’t remember Trevor, doesn’t mean Trevor’s version didn’t happen with another girl. Trevor didn’t get a chance to testify whether Autumn was the girl he was interested in.”

  Halliday inclined his head and returned to the other side of the podium. “You saw the number of shot glasses next to Abdul’s head at the bar. His blood alcohol level was over 0.2. He was literally falling-down drunk.”

  “When Abdul lunged at Trevor, Trevor stepped aside, and Abdul’s momentum carried him all the way to the bar. In the same moment, and as a reaction to Abdul’s lunge, Trevor asked Abdul to move their disagreement outside, like men. Sure, Trevor rested his hand on Abdul’s arm, but he didn’t drag Abdul outside. He only guided him.”

  “As soon as they stepped outside, Abdul took a swing at Trevor. It isn’t on the video footage, that’s true, but Trevor’s return punch isn’t on the video either. So, Trevor was lucky, he ducked. Thus, Abdul’s swing didn’t connect with Trevor’s head. Instinctively, Trevor came back with a punch of his own. His fist connected with Abdul’s nose. That happens in bar fights. Because Abdul was so drunk, he fell back onto the sidewalk. The video shows him rallying later and sitting up, then falling back again. Did he crack his head when he fell back down again? Who knows?”

  “You heard Dr. King’s testimony. He’s seen several skull fractures as a result of someone falling down. The mere fact that he’s neighbors with the McKnights doesn’t mean his medical opinion isn’t credible. This is a small community. You’re all neighbors. I asked him point-blank if being a neighbor impacted his opinion, and he said, ‘No.’”

  Halliday consulted his notes. “When Abdul arrived at the hospital, they must have underestimated his injury. They could’ve given Abdul Mannitol, which reduces brain swelling, but they didn’t. They could’ve placed an intracranial pressure monitor, which would’ve told them when his brain swelled, but they didn’t. They could’ve done surgery earlier that evening, as soon as the nurse noticed Abdul’s pupils were fixed and dilated, but they didn’t. You can’t lay all of those mistakes on Trevor. All of that medical negligence was a bigger cause in Abdul’s death than anything Trevor did.”

  Halliday let the weight of his accusations sink in, hoping to create reasonable doubt in a least one juror’s mind. “Given the facts of this case, there’s no way you can say that Trevor is guilty of felony murder. My client and I ask you to mark the box “not guilty” next to the felony murder question.”

  “With respect to race, religious or national origin bias, the prosecution took a few drunk statements about Islamic girls and ragheads out of context. Trevor had no idea what he was saying. Then the prosecution tried to use a four-year old photo to try to prove religious bias, but against Jews, not Muslims. That doesn’t make sense. Anyway, the high school boys were joking around, encouraged by an adult. Their actions don’t even involve this case, so you should disregard that photo altogether. You heard David McKnight’s testimony. He didn’t raise his son to be biased in any way, shape, or form. Trevor himself testified that he isn’t biased. We ask you to mark the ‘not guilty’ box next to the hate crime question.”

  “Trevor and I thank you for your attention to detail during this trial and urge you to come back with a ‘not guilty’ verdict. Thank you for your service.”

  Judge O’Brien cleared his throat. “Now that the jury has heard closing arguments, we will send the case with the jury to deliberate and reach a verdict. Your first order of business when you reach the jury room will be to select a foreperson. The foreperson will serve as a leader and facilitate discussions. The foreperson will also mark the jury verdict form and present it to me once a verdict is reached. If you have any questions, write them on a piece of paper for the bailiff.”

  He looked at the wall clock. “Since it’s late-afternoon, your dinner orders will be taken, and dinner will be ordered in. We can go as late as you like tonight after you eat. I’ll check back with you after dinner.”

  Judge O’Brien turned to the bailiff. “I request the bailiff to sequester the jury at this time. Court is hereby adjourned until further notice.”

  Everyone stood while the jury left. The judge followed shortly thereafter.

  Monica caught Mike on their way out. “Are you going to stay with the Seif family?”

  “Yeah. Dominique has my cell phone number, so if the jury comes back this evening, she’ll text me, and we’ll return.”

  “Will you text me if the jury comes back?” Monica asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Will you ask what their business is with the hospital and text me about that as well?”

  “If I can,” he said.


  While Monica was shrugging on her light black coat and cream-colored silk scarf, Tiffany from WQOD approached her, her trusty cameraman next to her.

  “Hi, Monica.” Tiffany’s smile didn’t crinkle the thick, contouring foundation that covered every millimeter of her face. She was standing so close that Monica could actually smell the thick layer of makeup.

  “Hey, Tiffany.”

  “Care to make a statement about the closing arguments? Do you have any predictions about the verdict?”

  “Ah, no thanks,” Monica said, “and no, I don’t.”

  “No one is willing to talk,” Tiffany said in a pouting, teenager voice.

  Monica shrugged noncommittally. Duh. McKnights versus foreigners. Extremely volatile trial.

  “What do we do while the jury is out?” Tiffany raised an eyebrow.

  “Eat dinner,” Monica said but immediately regretted.

  Tiffany’s eyes brightened. “Want to grab some dinner with me?”

  “I’d love to, but I texted a colleague. We’re having a business dinner.”

  “Oh.” Tiffany’s doe-like eyes looked so sad that Monica almost felt sorry for her, but she suspected Tiffany could turn on and off that expression at will. Besides, all that makeup. Monica couldn’t get past it. However, in a small gesture toward friendship, Monica touched Tiffany’s arm. “Maybe some other time.”

  Tiffany’s eyes turned darker, blending the difference between pupil and iris. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Matt caught up to Monica and walked her out to her truck.

  “So, I’ll come over to your house later tonight?” He snapped some pics of the front left panel of her truck, scraped and dented from the black truck.

  Monica stood back, admiring the damage. “Sure. Even though I have insurance, I’ll still have to pay my deductible to fix all of this.”

  “I’m guessing they’ll have to replace the entire panel here.” Matt ran his hand along the white fender and wheel well where mud and grass still clung to the underside.