Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  Monica swallowed a guffaw. “Um, no. Patient confidentiality remains intact after the patient passes. Would you want your medical record released if you passed away suddenly?”

  There was silence while Tiffany processed. Clankity, clankity, clankity clank. “I guess not.”

  “I didn’t think so. Let’s take your questions one at a time, and I’ll see what I can tell you.”

  “I heard the Seif family is in town. Are they going to meet with the hospital and physicians?” Tiffany asked.

  “Really?” Monica said. “I didn’t know that, and I don’t know.” Where the hell does she get her intel? There was no way Monica was going to confirm that she was arranging a meeting between the Seif family and the hospital. They deserved their privacy, and a public disclosure might blow the entire meeting.

  “Did you see Jeffrey Halliday’s interview after the motion hearing?” Tiffany asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What is the hospital’s reaction to his allegation that Abdul Seif died because he was mistreated at the hospital?”

  “First, the hospital and physicians extend their condolences to the Seif family for the tragic death of their son,” Monica said. “Second, I can assure you that Mr. Halliday’s remarks are nothing more than a legal ruse to shift the focus of the criminal charges off his client and onto someone else.”

  “In what way?” Tiffany asked.

  “Trevor McKnight is charged with felony murder for hitting Abdul Seif in the face and knocking him down so hard that he cracked his skull. That blow is believed to have resulted in his brain bleeding and swelling at a rate that couldn’t be treated with modern medicine despite heroic efforts by the entire team at the hospital.”

  “Can I run with that?” Tiffany asked.

  “Yes,” Monica said, but her stomach lurched at the bold declaration. Even though she knew that both Drs. Khouri and Rice would testify to that, she had a premonition that her statement would fuel a simmering fire.

  “Are you saying that McKnight murdered Seif?” Tiffany asked.

  “That’s what jury trials are for, Tiffany. My statement on behalf of the hospital speaks for itself.”

  “I know, but do you think that McKnight murdered Abdul Seif?”

  “Again, that’s for the jury to decide.”

  “But you’re not saying ‘no?’”

  “It’s none of my business. I represent the hospital and doctors.”

  “So, it’s a mute point then,” Tiffany said. “Who will be testifying from the hospital?”

  Like a hook getting caught on a branch under water, Monica’s mind couldn’t get past ‘mute.’ “Um, if you mean that my opinion is a moot point, then yes. As far as witnesses for the hospital, the Emergency Department physician—Dr. Khouri, and the neurosurgeon—Dr. Danielle Rice, will testify.”

  “Oh,” Tiffany said. “I always thought that term was mute, like the same as on my TV remote.”

  Oh dear. “Nope. Two different words. Google moot. M.O.O.T.”

  “I definitely will,” Tiffany said. “What will the physicians say?”

  “It all depends on the questions they’re asked. You’ll have to attend the trial and find out.”

  “Oh, trust me, I’ll be there,” Tiffany said.

  “I’ll see you there then. Will that be all?” Monica asked.

  “Yes.” Tiffany took a deep breath. “For now.”

  “Thanks much. Goodbye.”

  They hung up and Monica reflected on what was about to unfold: Her physicians would be caught in the middle of a racially-charged murder trial with families on each side of the courtroom. She cogitated on that for a minute. Was it racially charged because Abdul was Arab? Or, was it religiously-charged because he was Muslim? Or, was it ethnically charged because of his nationality? Or, simply “charged” because he wasn’t from Apple Grove?

  In any event, they were about to find out, and the TV cameras would be there to broadcast all of it. What a shit show. I hope we all make it out of there alive.

  ***

  Later that afternoon

  Nathan came bounding into Monica’s office, this time closing the door rather than slamming it. “Jim offered me the partnership deal.”

  “And?” she asked.

  “I told him I’d consider it if I were a named partner. Are you cool with that?”

  “‘Spade, Daniels & Taylor?’” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She shrugged and nodded. “It has a certain ring, doesn’t it? Have you informed your clients about our new firm?”

  “Yes. All of them are on board.” He walked over to her small bank of windows and peered out, as if he expected to see Charles and Richard standing in the parking lot with a large eavesdropping dish pointed at Monica’s office.

  “Awesome,” she said, watching him. “How about Christina? Have you told her?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to make absolutely certain that this thing is real before I call her.”

  “I’m counting on it to be. I’ll just be tied up with the McKnight trial for several days, but then I’ll turn my attention to helping Jim start the firm.”

  He turned, clapped his hands and did a little jump. “Space?”

  “No idea.”

  “Anyone else coming from here?” Now he was standing in front of her desk, doing a poor imitation of soft shoe.

  “Maybe a few staff,” she said.

  “Date the doors will open?”

  “No idea.”

  “Let me guess. Jim is taking care of the details.”

  “Yep.”

  “I assume Jim will be bringing all of his business clients?” he asked.

  “Me too.”

  “We could make some decent coin.” He did a spin like Michael Jackson used to.

  “Probably not the first year, but maybe after that.”

  “I’m stoked.”

  “I can tell. Me too.”

  “I’m outta here. Got places to go and telephone calls to make.”

  “Go for it.” She smiled reassuringly. Why do litigators have so much energy?

  No sooner had he walked out her door than her phone rang.

  She hit the speaker button. “Monica Spade.”

  “Hi Monica. It’s Mike Warner. I’m calling to see if the Seifs can meet with you, Al Bowman and the physicians at the hospital at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Check with your people and get back to me.”

  “Consider 10 a.m. the meeting time unless you hear otherwise from me.”

  “Where do we meet?”

  “Come to the front entrance—you know, the revolving door—and we’ll greet you as soon as you step inside.”

  “Got it. See you then.”

  She called Al Bowman. “Did the recovery team get Marcus?”

  “No.” His pained sigh echoed through the phone.

  “I’m sorry. The Seif family is meeting us at 10 a.m. tomorrow in the main entrance, so we better do something about the monkey.”

  “Oh shit,” he said. “I’m sorry I swore, but this situation is taking a toll on me.”

  “No worries. I’m used to profanity,” she said. “The plan is to meet in Administration, so they can ask the physicians questions. Then we’ll bring them over to the CCU room that Abdul occupied.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Is the CCU room vacant?”

  “I’ll make sure it is. How many physicians are joining us?” he asked.

  “Only Drs. Khouri and Rice,” she said. “Dr. King might offend them.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks Abdul fell by himself due to drunkenness. I don’t think the family would take kindly to that.”

  He huffed a snort. “I agree. Is Dr. King testifying at trial?”

  “Maybe. Depends on when he leaves on vacation. I’ve alerted Dominique Bisset to his unhelpful position.”

  “Brilliant,” Al said sarcastically. “Our physici
ans might be disagreeing with each other in front of a jury.”

  “Only if he appears by subpoena.”

  “From either side?”

  “Dominique won’t call him.”

  “But Halliday might?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Let’s wait and see.”

  “What a cluster,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll make sure we’re on our A-game tomorrow though.”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  They ended the call.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night

  Monica jolted awake in bed at the sound of nothing. She squinted at her bedside alarm clock—half past two. A few more hours before I have to get up for CrossFit. Still in a sleep daze, she padded to the bathroom and used the toilet. After sipping her middle-of-the-night glass of water, she returned to her soft, cozy bed.

  She crawled under the down comforter—pulling the edge up tightly around her neck—and as she closed her eyes for the sleep she needed, her unbidden thoughts conjured a dreamlike image of Shelby at the gym. Monica’s eyes roamed through her memory bank of Shelby’s contrasting features—the soft curves, the hard planes, the smoldering eyes, the lavender highlights.

  Monica lingered over Shelby’s toned shoulders and those tiny, but distinct, muscles that popped when Shelby raised a dumbbell overhead, revealing a tiny mole under her left armpit. Adorable. Kissable. Only Shelby’s sports bra and a slim band of fabric covered her shoulders, laying bare her tanned skin that was sprinkled with tiny freckles and youthful whimsy. Alluring. Monica knew that Shelby’s skin would be tantalizingly soft to the touch.

  As a moonbeam sliced across her bed, Monica’s gaze floated in a mist-like vision up Shelby’s neck to her inviting mouth, where her suggestive smirk underscored the playful glint in her eyes. When someone cracked a joke in class, the smirk appeared, and Shelby’s eyes searched out Monica’s, making Monica feel like she was the only person on earth. The intimacy shared in those milliseconds of connection promised more, as Monica allowed her heart to float into the bliss of Shelby’s attention. Does she feel it too?

  Reaching for evasive sleep, Monica remembered her first experience of the power of Shelby’s undivided attention. They had been lying on mats next to each other, stretching out after the workout. Monica’s playlist was still going strong, but Craig had turned down the volume for stretching.

  Shelby angled her face toward Monica, joyously flushed from the workout, and rasped in a low voice, “I love this song.” Monica had forgotten there was music playing at all while lying so close to Shelby, but when she focused, she heard the cigarette-strained voice of Dave Matthews singing That Girl Is You. In that moment, listening to that song, and feeling the passion behind Shelby’s sultry smile, Monica realized Shelby was the girl of her dreams, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that was going to stand in the way of Monica going after her.

  Monica’s longing was about more than sex. About more than kissing and caressing every spot on Shelby’s toned body. About more than tasting her mouth and every intimate inch of her skin. About more than naked bodies fused to each other. About more than giving Shelby the best orgasm she’d ever experienced. About more than glistening skin in the afterglow of sex. About more than taking a loving shower together, soaping each other’s backs.

  Monica sought to discover what lay in Shelby’s heart. What ignited her passion? What made her laugh? What made her cry? Her favorite movie. Her favorite song. Her favorite food. Her passion. Monica wanted to curl up in Shelby’s world and become an integral part of it. She wanted all of her.

  Monica had never before needed another woman. Really needed her—heart and soul, but she felt like there was galactic history between them. A shared bond. Some connection from long ago, maybe from a different lifetime altogether. Shelby’s charisma, sweetness, stunning hazel eyes, and devious smirk were novel yet familiar, powering every beat in Monica’s heart.

  As her mind sent feelers to her subconscious, Monica felt like she could fall in love with Shelby. Yes, love. The streamers of heat that sprang from her heart and travelled to every nerve ending in her body celebrated at the prospect of falling in love with Shelby.

  As if Shelby were a ballerina floating across a mystical stage, Monica focused on the shape of Shelby’s lips—full but not Melanie Griffith-collagen-injected full. Just beautiful and naturally plump, even staying so as they stretched into a wide smile over her white teeth. And the color of Shelby’s lips could stop traffic: a dusty rose that made Monica want to explore other erotic areas of Shelby’s body that were dusty rose too.

  Monica had noticed a distinctive vee in the center of Shelby’s upper lip, like an inverted chevron. That chevron demanded that Monica run her thumb across it, then kiss it lightly, then swipe it gently with the tip of her tongue. She pictured herself kissing Shelby and groaned, pulling a pillow into her chest.

  Sleep. I have to sleep.

  Torturing her now, Monica’s imagination moved to Shelby’s seductive eyes. There was a playfulness to them, whether Shelby was looking at the whiteboard to see what the WOD was or chatting with someone. When Shelby invariably swiveled those hazel firebombs around to lock eyes with Monica, her heart thundered and everything else in the gym faded away. Like a clever thief, Shelby had stolen Monica’s heart. Does she feel our indefinable chemistry? This powerful force? This irrefutable thing between us?

  Monica ultimately fell asleep, picturing herself following Shelby through a swirling mist to a four-poster bed with gossamer curtains slightly parted, inviting them to enter.

  Her sleep was deep but too short. In the minutes before her alarm rang, as she was swimming toward the surface of consciousness, Monica dreamed that Marcus-the-monkey was giving a hospital tour to elegant Saudis who were riding Shriners’ motor cycles. Then everyone was waving to bystanders in a parade down Main Street. Finally awake in the predawn light, Monica shook off the disturbing monkey images as the worst sort of anxiety.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning

  Monica had already stretched out and joined her fellow CrossFitters at the white board by the time Shelby came breezing into the gym, five minutes late, dressed in black leggings and a white, long-sleeve layered over something that Monica couldn’t wait to see. Take off the long-sleeve already!

  Shelby sidled up to Monica at the back of class, shoulder-to-shoulder, as they pretended to listen attentively to Craig describing the workout.

  “How’s your back?” Monica whispered.

  “Good,” Shelby whispered back. “Thanks for asking.”

  How’s your front? Monica wanted to ask but didn’t. Feeling uncharacteristically bold, Monica put her hand on Shelby’s far shoulder and, instead of patting it, anchored her fingers there while pressing her thumb into the curve around Shelby’s shoulder blade. “I was worried about you.”

  “Oh?” Shelby asked, followed by an “Ahhhhh.”

  Monica felt Shelby lean into her touch then roll her shoulder to absorb the pressure of Monica’s thumb. She continued to rub in a circle, methodically tracing the muscle around Shelby’s shoulder blade. Monica pressed hard, following the muscle north to the trapezius that overlay Shelby’s collarbone, applying pressure when she arrived, releasing the tension there.

  “Ooooh…” Shelby whispered.

  Score. A self-satisfied look claimed Monica’s face, her dimples appearing.

  “The name of this MoFit workout is the “Pammy Rae,” Craig said.

  “Why are all of your workouts named after a woman?” someone asked.

  Craig smiled his big, toothy grin. “Because only a woman can lay you out flat, gasping for air, like one of my workouts.”

  Monica muttered under her breath, “Touché.”

  “I can’t wait to do the Monica,” Shelby whispered.

  Monica’s eyes whipped around to find Shelby’s dancing with humor. I’d like nothing more.

  “Everyone get a kettl
e bell and mat, and let’s get started,” Craig barked.

  Monica let her hand drop from Shelby’s shoulder.

  “You have a magical touch,” Shelby said.

  Monica wanted to say, “Let’s get out of here,” but couldn’t. Or, more accurately, she didn’t have the guts. It’s too soon. Take your time.

  “I’ll get the mats if you get the kettlebells,” Shelby said.

  “I’m on it,” Monica said.

  They went in opposite directions but returned to each other, waiting for Craig to start the timer on the wall. Once the timer beeped, everyone started swinging kettlebells. There was no time to talk, as they transitioned from kettlebells to the mats for pushups. While Monica savored being so close to Shelby, Monica was growing frustrated with the strenuous, breathless exercise—while fully clothed—being their only time together. They couldn’t even talk while doing this workout. She could think of better things to do with Shelby while not talking.

  Now that Monica had come out in her profession, she wanted more. She had to dig deep in her inexperienced reservoir to find the courage to ask the woman on the mat next to her on a date.

  Shelby was currently doing slow, perfect pushups, but not on Monica, which was the problem.

  Monica willed herself not to look over, but her will was broken when Shelby leaned back on her heels and removed her white long-sleeve to expose a tight, pink tank hugging her breasts and rib cage. Only two feet away—all that skin staring Monica in the face. Her eyes bugged out at the sight of Shelby’s tan breasts—full and firm—ready for Monica to claim. To feel the weight of them against her own skin. To kiss. To fondle. To everything.

  Shelby studied Monica’s face for a second, undoubtedly observing what Monica was staring at. When Monica raised her eyes, she was knocked off balance as those flickering hazel swirls saw right through her, reading her dirty mind. “See something you want?”

  “Ahh…yeah.” Monica rocked back on her feet and stood. She grabbed a kettlebell and started swinging again. “I was merely admiring the lavender highlights around your face.”

  Shelby grabbed a kettlebell too. “Hm. I got those before school started. Do you like them?”