by Alexi Venice
Judge O’Brien looked at his computer screen and moved a mouse. In a few seconds, they all heard crackling over the courtroom speaker system, then Officer Petersen identified himself.
Halliday bolted out of his chair, almost knocking over his Grande coffee. “I object to playing the recording in open court, your Honor.”
The judge paused the recording. “What?”
“I object to playing this recording in open court. We thought your Honor was going to listen to the recording in camera to protect my client’s privacy under HIPAA. He’s entitled to keep his healthcare information private.”
The judge looked at Dominique, who was shaking her head.
“What’s the prosecution’s position?” Judge O’Brien asked.
“We listened to the recording, and there isn’t any healthcare information on it,” she said. “What is discussed is relevant to the crime of punching Mr. Seif in the face. Balancing the defendant’s interest in privacy against the commission of felony murder, your Honor, HIPAA and Wisconsin law allow release. This is also our argument in favor of obtaining a copy of Mr. McKnight’s medical record about his care that night.”
Judge O’Brien nodded. “Please be seated, Mr. Halliday. The court has noted your objection, and it’s overruled.”
“But, your Honor,” Halliday continued, unpersuaded by the judge’s instruction, “there is extensive media in the courtroom today, and once this recording is played, my client’s right to a fair and impartial jury will be jeopardized.”
The judge glared at Halliday. “Sit down, Mr. Halliday, or I’ll hold you in contempt of court.” He waited while Halliday sat. “This is an open courtroom, and the media is allowed to be present. Mr. McKnight’s right to a fair trial with an impartial jury will be taken up during the jury selection process. If you want to make a motion for a change of venue, feel free, but your objection to my playing the recording is overruled.”
Chapter Ten
Judge O’Brien once again hit play, and the courtroom fell silent, as they listened to Officer Petersen broach a conversation with Trevor McKnight.
“Hello, Mr. McKnight, I’m Officer Petersen. May I come in?”
“Yeah,” McKnight said.
“Do you know why I want to talk to you?” Petersen asked.
“Cuz I was in a fight?” McKnight asked in a voice laden with fatigue or alcohol, or both.
“McKnight is waving me in with his right hand, which has a splint on it,” Officer Petersen said in a low voice directly into his microphone, presumably narrating the actions of McKnight for the benefit of subsequent listeners. Then, addressing McKnight, Officer Petersen said, “Yes. I want to ask about the bar fight you were in at The Night Owl on River Street. Can you tell me about it?”
“Well,” McKnight began, but there was a long pause. “My friends and I were in The Night Owl when this guy started hitting on a girl in my organ…iz...uh…organsaaaytional management class. I’m sort of friends with her, you know? I was going to ask her out, but he came out of nowhere, getting up in her grill and everything.”
“How?” Officer Petersen asked.
“You know…his face was really close to hers…and he was talking. But she wasn’t talking. She was just standing there, and I could tell she didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Then what happened?” Officer Petersen asked.
“I went over to him and said, ‘Back off, Pal,’ or something like that. I’m kinda wasted, so I can’t remember everything.”
“Then what happened?”
“That mother fucking raghead looked at me and said something like, ‘I have a right to be here as much as you do.’”
Without commenting on the prejudicial remark, Officer Petersen asked, “Then what happened?”
“I grabbed him by the shirt and said, “Like hell! This is ‘Merica. Go back where you came from. To your Islamic girls,” McKnight said, except in his drunken state, he pronounced “Islamic” as “Isahmic.”
“Then what happened?” Officer Petersen asked.
“He mumbled something, but I couldn’t understand him. He didn’t move, though, so I told him to get the hell out of the bar.”
“And, did he?”
“Fuck no. He pushed me in the chest, but I didn’t budge. I stood there and pushed him back. He stumbled back into a post, stayed there for a sec, then sort of rushed by me on his way back up to the bar.”
“What did you do then?”
“I followed him and told him we were gonna take our little disagreement outside like real men.”
“Did you?”
“He didn’t want to, but I grabbed him by the arm, and we went out front on the sidewalk. He started yelling at me for pushing him around, so I hit him in the face.” McKnight laughed.
“Then what happened?”
“I KO’d the camel jockey with one punch. He went down on the sidewalk like that!” There was a sound, like snapping fingers. I said, ‘Get up!’ but he didn’t, so I went back in the bar.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but I think we left pretty soon after that. On the way home, one of my buddies looked at my hand and said it looked fucked up enough to come to the hospital, so they brought me here.”
“Did you check on Mr. Seif when you left the bar?” Officer Petersen asked.
“Mister who?”
“The young man who you punched. Did you see him when you left the bar?”
“That’s his name? Seif?” McKnight laughed.
“Abdul Seif,” Officer Petersen said. “Did you see him again?”
“No. We went out the back door.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“You mean about tonight?” McKnight slurred.
“Yes.”
“No. That’s it. I’m not in trouble, am I?”
“I don’t know yet. Let me talk to my partner, I’ll get back to you.”
Judge O’Brien tinkered with his mouse while looking at the flat screen. After he turned off the technology, he looked down from the bench upon the young Trevor McKnight, a wise, old buck regarding a reckless youth with big ambitions. The judge held McKnight in his gaze for a minute—perhaps looking for contrition.
“The Court has read the briefs and considered the audio recording of Officer Petersen’s conversation with the defendant while he was a patient in the Emergency Department,” Judge O’Brien said. “The defendant argues that he was never given his Miranda warning, so the statements should be excluded from evidence at trial. The legal question is whether improper police procedure was used deliberately to procure a confession. Officer Petersen didn’t arrest Mr. McKnight, even after hearing Mr. McKnight’s confession, so a reasonable person in Mr. McKnight’s position would not consider himself to be in police custody. Mr. McKnight was free to leave, or ask Officer Petersen to leave, at any time during the interview. Therefore, the Court finds that Officer Petersen was not conducting a custodial interrogation that required a Miranda warning. The audio recording is admissible at trial.”
Jeffrey Halliday slapped his counsel table. All eyes in the courtroom flew to him, including the bailiffs’. “What about the fact that my client was clearly impaired, sleep deprived, and had a prescription sedative on board? He had no idea what he was saying and certainly didn’t appreciate the seriousness of the circumstance in which he found himself.”
Judge O’Brien reeled back in surprise, and in his authoritative baritone, barked, “Attorney Halliday, I hereby find you in contempt of court for slapping your hand on counsel table in response to my ruling. Provoking the bailiffs in this manner is unbecoming of an officer of this court. They’re trained to secure the courtroom, and with all the media in here, I don’t want a circus. I hereby fine you $1,000, which is payable at the Clerk of Court’s Office.”
Halliday turned white, and there was a collective gasp in the courtroom, the spectators in the gallery whispering about the rapidity with which the judg
e fined Halliday. Usually, a judge would give an attorney the chance to apologize, but Judge O’Brien was sending a message in the first inning that he would be calling a tight game.
“As for Mr. McKnight’s impaired state, if any, it will go to the weight of the testimony, not the admissibility,” Judge O’Brien said.
Halliday leaned over and whispered to a confused-looking McKnight.
Unconcerned, Judge O’Brien continued. “With respect to the second motion, for the defendant to call an expert witness in neurosurgery, the motion is hereby denied. The prosecution has subpoenaed the treating physicians, who can provide the expert testimony on the causation of death. Counsel for the defendant is experienced and capable so can cross-examine the treating physicians.”
Judge O’Brien’s fiery blue eyes swept over Halliday then rested on Dominique. “Is there anything else?”
“Mr. McKnight’s medical record the night of the incident, Your Honor,” Dominique said.
Judge O’Brien snapped his fingers. “Yes. I almost forgot. I hereby order Trevor McKnight to sign a release for his medical record on the night of Saturday, September 21st. His care is relevant to the charge.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Dominique said.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No,” Dominique said.
“No, your Honor,” Halliday said, smarting from the fine.
“Very well then, we stand adjourned,” Judge O’Brien said.
Everyone in the courtroom stood and waited for the judge to exit behind the wood-paneled façade. They heard a heavy metal door open and close, indicating he was gone.
Halliday conferred briefly with Trevor, who turned and nodded at his family, giving them a stiff upper lip, as the bailiff led him, jingling and jangling in his shackles, to a side door for the jail. After he was gone, his mother broke down and cried on David McKnight’s shoulder.
In a flurry of motion, Dominique gathered her laptop and files and walked briskly down the aisle toward the double door to exit. She cut a regal image with her hair in a bun and her grey suit tailored to her slim figure. Monica admired Dominique’s silhouette as she passed by, and was fairly certain that Dominique didn’t see her. After most people left, Monica introduced herself to one of Dominique’s legal assistants, Lori, who was packing up their files from counsel table.
“Here’s a skull model for Dr. Danielle Rice’s testimony,” Monica said. “Can you give it to DA Bisset for me?”
“Follow me back to the DA’s Office,” Lori said. She led the way out of the courtroom into the hall where Dominique was giving an interview to Tiffany, a local TV reporter for WQOD news. They stopped and watched.
“We’re prepared to try this case,” Dominique was saying.
“Is it true that, while receiving treatment for his broken hand, Trevor McKnight admitted to punching Abdul Seif in the face?” Tiffany asked.
“I can’t comment on the facts of the case,” Dominique said. “You were in court and heard the audiotape. It speaks for itself.”
“When is the trial?”
“Next week,” Dominique said.
“That seems fast for a criminal trial,” Tiffany said.
“The defendant pushed for a speedy trial since he’s in jail,” Dominique said.
“Will the victim’s family come from Saudi Arabia?”
“My understanding is that the Seif family will be in attendance for the entirety of the trial.”
“Did they plan to attend from the gecko?” Tiffany asked.
“I’m sorry. What?”
Tiffany’s doe-like eyes zeroed in on Dominique. “You know. Did they always plan to attend, or did you invite them?”
Dominique shook her head slightly, processing Tiffany’s turn of phrase. “If you’re asking whether they planned to attend the trial from the get-go, I assume so. We’ve kept them apprised of the status of charges, the hearings, etcetera.”
“Oh,” Tiffany giggled, “I always thought that was from the gecko, like, as in the lizard, you know?”
Exercising great restraint, Dominique said, “I think the phrase is ‘from the get-go.’”
“Learn something new every day,” Tiffany said. “How many family members are coming?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard the victim’s parents and siblings,” Dominique said.
“Won’t the courtroom be uncomfortable if both the McKnight family and the Seif family are here?” Tiffany asked.
“I can’t comment on that,” Dominique said.
“Will anyone from the Seif family testify?”
“Maybe,” Dominique said. “We haven’t decided yet.”
“Do you think you’ll get a fair jury in Apple Grove?” Tiffany asked.
“Yes,” Dominique said. “I have great faith in the criminal justice system and believe we can select a fair and impartial jury to hear the facts of this case and apply the law as instructed by Judge O’Brien.”
“Do you expect Trevor McKnight to testify?”
“I don’t know if he will. He certainly has the right to remain silent,” Dominique said. “That’s all I have time for today. Thanks, Tiffany.”
Dominique broke from Tiffany’s interview and walked down the long hallway to the DA’s Office. Monica and Lori trailed behind, Monica hugging the skull to her chest, hoping no one would notice.
Lori used her badge to unlock the door separating the reception area from the DA offices in back, escorting Monica to Dominique’s office.
“Dominique?” Lori asked, knocking on Dominique’s open door.
“Yes?” Dominique looked up from setting her materials on her conference table.
“This is Monica Spade, the lawyer for Community Memorial Hospital. She has a model of a skull for one of her doctor’s testimony if you’d like to use it.”
Dominique smiled as she advanced on Monica. “Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands, Monica noting that Dominique’s hand was sturdy and warm.
“I met with Dr. Rice this morning, and she walked me through Abdul Seif’s injuries using this model. Then she explained how she did the bilateral craniotomies on the sides of his skull—here,” Monica said, tracing an outline.
“Excellent,” Dominique said. “Can she use this while she testifies?”
“That’s the reason I brought it today.”
“Thank you,” Dominique said. “Did you hear Judge O’Brien order Trevor McKnight to sign a release of his medical record for his broken hand?”
“Yes. I’ll expedite the request for you,” Monica said.
“Great,” Dominique said. “Anything else?”
“No. Happy to be of service.”
Monica left Dominique’s office and walked down the long hallway toward the front entrance. In the grand foyer, she could see the media swarming around someone else. As she drew near, she saw Jeffrey Halliday holding forth in full glory, illuminated by bright lights with cameras and microphones held to his face. Monica hesitated at the outer edge, her face lowered, careful not to make eye contact with anyone, not drawing attention to herself.
Halliday declared, “My client is innocent of all charges, and we look forward to proving that at trial.”
“Didn’t Trevor McKnight brag on the police recording that he hit a ‘raghead,’ his words, not mine, in the face?” Tiffany asked.
“He was drunk and medicated on top of that, and when a 23-year-old boy is drunk, he says all sorts of stupid things. Ignorant things. Untasteful things. We’ll show at trial that my client didn’t target or punch Abdul Seif out of bias—any type of bias—race, religion or national origin. McKnight was only concerned about a young woman that Seif was pestering. Moreover, my client will testify that Seif threw the first punch as soon as they exited the bar. In self-defense, McKnight punched back, but his drunken punch didn’t do anything to Abdul Seif other than make him stagger.”
The media whispered to each other in reaction to that tidbit of information.
“Just to cla
rify, did you say that Abdul Seif took a swing at your client first?” Tiffany asked.
“I did,” Halliday said. “As soon as they stepped outside, Seif threw a punch. Trevor dodged it and punched back.”
“Are there any witnesses to that?” Tiffany asked.
“No,” Halliday said.
“Video surveillance?” Tiffany asked.
“No,” Halliday said.
“What killed Abdul Seif if it wasn’t Trevor McKnight’s punch to his face?” a different reporter asked.
“Mr. Seif didn’t fall from my client’s punch. Rather, Seif was so drunk that he fell on his own and cracked his skull. He was taken to Community Memorial Hospital where he was underdiagnosed and undertreated. The doctors sat on a brain injury, not giving him Mannitol prophylactically or inserting an intracranial pressure monitor in his skull to measure swelling. If they had done those two things, at a minimum, Mr. Seif would have lived. My client shouldn’t be prosecuted for the negligence of the physicians. In addition, he was getting better, even using his phone, but then took an unexpected turn for the worse. Who knows what happened at the hospital. Seif could’ve fallen out of bed for all we know.”
“Which physicians were negligent?” Tiffany asked, flicking back her bleach-blonde hair.
“The Emergency Room physician, Dr. Khouri, and the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rice. Abdul Seif’s death is probably more her fault because she’s the one who could’ve taken action sooner, but she waited until his brain swelled before operating.”
“Does the Seif family know that?” Tiffany asked.
“I have no idea,” Halliday said. “They live in Saudi Arabia.”
“How does your client feel about them attending the trial?”
“We have no comment about the Seif family attending the trial,” Halliday said. “That’s all for now.”
Monica was enraged at Halliday’s brazen accusations of negligence. I just met with those physicians, and everything they told me made sense. Jim was right. Halliday is an asshole. He’s practically baiting the Seif family to sue my physicians for negligence.
She quickly slipped out the side door and rushed through the parking lot to her pickup truck.
