Conscious Bias

by Alexi Venice

  “Did Abdul like living in Apple Grove?” she asked.

  “Yes. He initially glowed about his experience when we Face-Timed. He loved the football games, the classes where both males and females attended, and the openness of the academic discussion. He liked his host family. Everything.”

  “When did you first hear he was injured?”

  “When Dr. Khouri called us,” he said.

  “We heard Dr. Khouri’s testimony yesterday. What was you and your wife, Basmah’s, reaction when you spoke to Dr. Khouri?”

  “We hugged each other and cried after the call. Then we prayed for Abdul’s recovery.”

  “Did you make plans to come to Apple Grove?”

  “Yes. We thought Abdul would need our help to fly, and we wanted him home.”

  “Why?”

  “We feared for his life.”

  “Did you speak to Abdul on the phone on Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not very much. He was drowsy, you know. He sounded sleepy. He told us he….” Mr. Seif inhaled and closed his eyes, gathering himself. “He told us he loved us and not to worry. That was the last we heard his voice.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dominique said. “No further questions.”

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

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Seif. You may step down,” Judge O’Brien said.

  As Mr. Seif returned to his row, Judge O’Brien said, “The court will take a short recess before the next witness. We’ll resume in 15 minutes.”

  Everyone rose while the judge and jury exited.

  Solemnity and respect permeated the courtroom as the Seif family made their way out to the corridor. Monica fell in step with Mike at the rear of the family, her legs weak from the road attack and the stress of trial. They turned right and walked to the opposite end of the floor from the courtroom. An unspoken agreement had been declared between the two families—the McKnights took one end of the building and the Seifs the other.

  In reality, the McKnight family had no reason to harbor ill will against the Seifs, but the Seifs’ foreign, well-to-do presence seemed to create a visible manifestation of Trevor’s bad judgment and current predicament, so the McKnights couldn’t bring themselves to approach the Seif family with the slightest bit of grace. Monica found their cold conduct embarrassing to the point of abhorrence.

  Those fuckers hired someone to kill me. They’re capable of anything. It was all she could do to restrain herself from walking up to David McKnight and slapping him across the face.

  She followed Basmah and Ameerah into the women’s restroom. They had it to themselves.

  As they washed their hands, she said, “I’m so sorry for your loss and that you’ve had to endure this entire trial.”

  “Thank you for your support,” Ameerah said. “Mohamad told us something happened on the road. Are you okay?”

  Monica blushed, not wanting to burden them with her problems. “A man forced me off the road with his truck. We think it was someone hired by the McKnight family.”

  Ameerah and Basmah’s eyes grew wide.

  “I’m so sorry. You’re putting your life in jeopardy for us,” Ameerah said.

  Monica pushed down the feelings of panic that threatened to overtake her with a nauseating force. “I know I’m doing the right thing by helping your family and representing the hospital. I’m not going to be intimidated by the McKnight family.”

  Basmah stepped closer and reached for Monica’s trembling hands, holding them in hers. She spoke in Arabic, which Ameerah translated. “We’re grateful for you and the hospital. We can see that we aren’t welcome here, but you and Mr. Warner have been warm to us. I hope that you’re safe when all of this is over.”

  Tears pricked the back of Monica’s eyes. “It’s not that you aren’t welcome. I believe you are more than welcome in our town and in our country. It’s just this trial. The McKnight family is…I don’t know how to say this…making a fight out of this, and they have a lot of support in the community. I’m so sorry. Not everyone feels the same way they do.”

  Ameerah translated Monica’s message, and Basmah’s wise, kind, and understanding eyes gazed upon Monica’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered in English.

  Monica nodded.

  Basmah and Ameerah turned to leave.

  “I’ll be a minute,” Monica said.

  After the door closed behind them, Monica let the tears fall. She rested her elbows on the sink and cried into the white porcelain. Even though her sobs were silent, they were no less painful for that. The reality of being run off the road crashed down on her, as she fully absorbed the danger in which she found herself. I need to talk to Matt and create a plan.

  She splashed some cold water on her face—again—and dried it with the scratchy paper towels. After a few deep breaths, she joined the periphery of the group in the hall. She could feel Mike’s eyes studying her, and, as they all walked toward the courtroom, he put his hand on her shoulder, giving her support. No words were exchanged, but she knew she could count on him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When court resumed after the break, Judge O’Brien invited Dominique to call her next witness.

  “The prosecution calls Officer Duane Petersen, Your Honor,” Dominique said.

  A weathered officer dressed in blues walked forward, was sworn, and entered the witness box.

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

  “Officer Duane Petersen, Apple Grove Police Department,” he said.

  “How long have you been on the AGPD?” Dominique asked.

  “Thirty one years,” he said proudly, his thinning grey hair and deep wrinkles proof.

  “Were you working on early Sunday morning when Trevor McKnight punched Abdul Seif.”

  “Object,” Halliday said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  Dominique enjoyed baiting Halliday. The more he called attention to the fact that she hadn’t established—yet—that Trevor had punched Abdul, the more impact Officer Petersen’s testimony would have.

  Knowing full well what she was up to, Judge O’Brien admired her with his brown eyes and said, “Objection sustained. Get on with it, District Attorney Bisset.”

  “Who, if anyone, did you interview in the Emergency Department at Community Memorial Hospital?”

  “I interviewed Trevor McKnight.”

  “Did you record that interview with your lapel microphone?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Let me play the beginning of it and ask you to identify the parties on the recording.” Dominique hit play on her laptop, which was connected to the overhead speaker system.

  “Hello, Mr. McKnight, I’m Officer Petersen. May I come in?”

  “Yeah,” Mc Knight said.

  Dominique paused the recording. “Who are the parties on the recording?”

  “Myself, as I identified myself as ‘Officer Petersen’ when I asked permission to enter Trevor McKnight’s room; and Trevor McKnight, who said, ‘yeah.’”

  “Thank you. Was anyone else there?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Very well. So, for the remainder of this recording, it’s only you and Trevor McKnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, when did this conversation take place?”

  “At approximately 1:20 a.m. on Sunday, September 22nd.”

  “Thank you.” She hit play again, and everyone listened.

  Officer Petersen asked, “Do you know why I want to talk to you?”

  “Cuz I was in a fight?” McKnight asked in a voice heavily 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, narrating the actions of McKnight for the benefit of later listeners. Then, addressing McKnight, Off
icer 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,, “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?” the officer 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 on the recording.

  “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 pole, stayed there for a sec, then sort of rushed by me on his way back up to the bar.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “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?” Officer Petersen asked.

  “I KO’d the camel jockey with one punch. He went down on the sidewalk like that!” There was a snapping sound, presumably McKnight snapping his 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 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,” McKnight said.

  “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, and I’ll get back to you,” Officer Petersen said. The recording ended.

  Most of the jurors found themselves inevitably looking at Trevor McKnight, who was slinking so far down in his chair that he looked as if he might slide under the table.

  “Was that a true and accurate recording of your conversation with Trevor McKnight at Community Memorial Hospital?” Dominique asked.

  “Yes,” Officer Petersen said.

  “Did you talk to your partner about Trevor McKnight?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you decide to do?” Dominique asked.

  “We arrested Trevor McKnight for assault and battery,” Officer Petersen said.

  “Were those charges changed after Abdul Seif died?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Then we charged Trevor McKnight with felony murder.”

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

  “Any cross-examination?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  “None,” Halliday said, recognizing restraint was the better part of valor in this instance.

  “You may step down,” Judge O’Brien said to Officer Petersen.

  Officer Petersen left the witness box and returned to the back of the courtroom.

  “The prosecution rests, Your Honor,” Dominique replied.

  There was a collective intake of breath, so accustomed were the jurors and gallery to long, drawn out trials where the prosecution went on for days, meandering through a vast forest of motives and details of the crime, the tedium drugging the jury into a state of indecision. Not Dominique. She tried her cases with merciless efficiency and a calm, low-drama demeanor. She was still a trial attorney, thus well-schooled in the art of theatrical tactics, but she used them sparingly.

  “Very well,” Judge O’Brien said, not surprised, although his tone implied she was traveling a little light on evidence and testimony in the face of such a heavy burden—beyond a reasonable doubt. “The defense may call its first witness.”

  Halliday stood. “The defense calls Dr. Robert King.”

  Monica snapped her head up from her laptop, wondering if she’d heard correctly. She turned to the back of the courtroom to see one of Halliday’s legal assistants leading Dr. King to the front of court. Keeping his gaze fixed on the judge’s bench, King didn’t see Monica as he walked by. After he was sworn, he entered the witness box and sat down with a thud in the chair, his knees stiff and unyielding against the weight of his top-heavy frame.

  Al will be pissed, Monica thought.

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

  “Robert L. King, M.D.”

  “Are you here today under subpoena, Dr. King?” Halliday asked.

  “Yes.”

  Oh, like a subpoena makes him appear ‘neutral,’ Monica thought.

  “Very well,” Halliday said officiously. “Where do you work?”

  “Community Memorial Hospital,” Dr. King said.

  “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m an intensivist.”

  “What do you do as an intensivist?” Halliday asked.

  “I take care of patients in the Critical Care Unit.”

  “How many years have you been a physician?”

  “Twenty six.”

  “Did you provide care and treatment to the victim in this case, Mr. Abdul Seif?”

  “Yes. I was working day shifts, so I saw the patient on Sunday and Monday.”

  “What was his main injury?”

  “A head trauma,” Dr. King said.

  “Have you treated head traumas before?”

  “Yes. Hundreds of them.”

  “Have you seen skull fractures at the occiput like Abdul Seif had?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Have you seen those result from a person merely falling down?”

  “Yes.”

  “From the person’s normal height? Falling down on a hard surface like a sidewalk?”

  “Absolutely,” Dr. King said.

  Monica thought he oversold the point with his emphatic tone, but she never ceased to be amazed at what a jury would believe. She hoped Dominique was as deadly at cross-examination as her reputation advertised.

  “What was Abdul Seif’s blood alcohol level on admission?” Halliday asked.

  “Over 0.204, I think,” Dr. King said.

  “Is that intoxicated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do people fall down on their own when they have that blood alcohol level?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a chance to review the medical record in this case?” Halliday asked.

  “Many times,” Dr. K
ing said.

  “What, if anything, did you see in the medical record about Abdul Seif falling down?”

  “Well, there were several entries about him falling down before he came in. However, I also saw a nursing note that Mr. Seif fell in the hospital while trying to use the bathroom. He could have hit his head at that time,” Dr. King said.

  What the what? Monica thought. No one told me about this, certainly not Dr. King when we met.

  “Do you regularly read the nursing notes in your position as an intensivist?”

  “Constantly, so I can stay updated on the patient’s status,” Dr. King said.

  “If I showed you a copy of the nursing note, would that be helpful?” Halliday asked.

  “Yes.”

  Halliday picked up a piece of paper from his counsel table. He showed it to Dominique then proceed toward the court clerk for an exhibit sticker.

  Dominique turned and locked eyes with Monica, questioning.

  Monica subtly shook her head, signaling she hadn’t seen or heard of the note.

  “Approach the bench, Your Honor,” Dominique said before Halliday could show the note to Dr. King.

  “Of course,” Judge O’Brien said.

  The lawyers met at the bench, and Judge O’Brien leaned over to hear Dominique’s concern, covering the mic with his palm.

  “The alleged nursing note that Mr. Halliday is holding wasn’t in the certified medical record that the hospital produced,” she said. “Look. There’s no bate stamp at the bottom. We weren’t put on notice of this, and we need time to verify its authenticity.”

  “Dr. King printed the note yesterday,” Halliday said. “I’m going to authenticate it when I ask him about it.”

  “It isn’t his note,” Dominique said. “Only the nurse can authenticate it.”

  “Are you implying the note is fabricated?” Judge O’Brien asked.

  “That’s what I need to find out,” Dominique said.

  “We’ll have to excuse the jury, so we can do this outside their presence,” Judge O’Brien said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Dominique said.

  She and Halliday returned to their counsel tables, and Judge O’Brien excused the jurors, telling them a matter needed to be taken up outside their presence.