Conscious Bias Read online

  “For some reason, I thought the gym would be mostly men.”

  “Nope. We have a strong female force, and quite a few professionals like you—accountants, nurses, teachers, you name it. They attend the early morning class then shower and change here for work. Look us up on Facebook under MoFit Sweat Community, and you’ll see that we have a lot of fun.”

  “I guess I didn’t expect ‘fun.’ I thought everyone would be super serious,” she said.

  “We have tons of fun during workouts. Would you like to see the workout for today?”

  “Sure.”

  He led her to a an eight-foot tall white board on wheels. It was filled with phrases like “overhead squats” and acronyms like WOD and AMRAP, followed by lots of numbers. “Let me explain what all this means.”

  As Craig spoke, Monica listened attentively, gauging the level of difficulty, until something caught her eye. Someone, actually. The women’s locker room was to their right, and through it emerged a stunning woman. For a brief second, their eyes met, and Monica lost her bearings, everything around her fading away.

  The edges of the woman’s lips curved up before she turned toward the front of the gym. Monica watched her back, cataloguing every detail: the way her naturally curly, brown hair—shot through with lavender highlights—fell over her shoulders; her straight back and toned shoulders under a soft, flowing blouse; the sway of her narrow hips in a short, black skirt; and the exposed swath of slim legs above stylish black boots.

  Something primal registered deep in Monica’s core, calling her to connect with the captivating force of nature. She returned to Craig’s spiel, interrupting him. “Yes. That workout sounds terrific. I’d like to start tomorrow. How do I sign up?”

  Craig stumbled a second and regrouped. “Follow me. We’ll have you sign a waiver form and take your credit card info for monthly payments.”

  Monica followed the giant-of-a-man back to the front desk where the young woman who looked like she would be comfortable lifting weights in a bikini was still sitting. Monica signed whatever they put in front of her, hoping membership would afford her another opportunity to see the alluring woman who had so quickly passed by. Or, better yet, work out with her. Who is she? Monica didn’t have the guts to ask Craig, but she silently vowed to find out.

  Chapter Two

  When Monica returned to the Smart, Daniel’s office, she was joined at the front door by an elderly gentleman in a grey suit that had more wrinkles than his face—not an easy accomplishment.

  “Hello, young lady,” he said. “Do you work here?”

  “Yes. I’m Monica Spade.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “When we get inside, I’d like a cup of coffee for my meeting with Charles Smart.”

  “Of course.” She held the door while his feet shuffled inside, the rest of his tilting body following as if pulled by a string tied around his ankles. “I’ll make sure the receptionist takes your request.”

  “What do you do at the firm?” he asked.

  “I’m a lawyer,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said, inspecting her face. “A woman lawyer. When did the firm start hiring women lawyers?”

  About a decade later than they should have, Monica thought but didn’t say. “A few years ago. You can just call us ‘lawyers.’ You don’t have to call us ‘women lawyers.’”

  “Huh,” he said. “Nobody told me.”

  Relieved they had arrived at the reception desk, Monica was ready to ditch the smelly old man. “Kathy, this gentleman would like a cup of coffee for his meeting with Charles, please.”

  Kathy stood and extended her hand to the disheveled gent. “Mr. Whitworth, welcome back.”

  He beamed. “Finally, someone who recognizes me!”

  “We could never forget you.” Kathy’s eyes twinkled behind her leopard print cheaters. “You’re the founding partner.”

  “Damn right I am,” he said. “Fifty years ago with only a dollar to my name. I had one client, the local bank, but they stuck with me through thick and thin, as I built Smart, Daniels & Whitworth,” he said, emphasizing his name.

  “That’s impressive,” Monica said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  His filmy eyes dropped down Monica’s body. “Too bad they didn’t have women lawyers back then. I would’ve relished my long days and nights at the office if I had had someone like you working on the davenport next to me.”

  “Oh, and see, we ‘women lawyers’ don’t cozy up to male colleagues on the ‘davenport’ merely because we’re working late,” Monica said, holding his stare. “We would call that harassment today.”

  “You’re too sensitive,” he said. “I liked the old days, when ‘harass’ was actually two words!” His laughter was followed by old-man coughs and wheezes.

  Adopting her familiar mask of tolerance, Monica shook her head slightly.

  Kathy, the consummate smoother-outer, cleared her throat and handed Monica a few pink message slips. “These came in while you were at lunch.”

  “Thanks, Kathy.” Monica faced Whitworth. “I have to return some phone calls. Pleasure to have met you.” She left quickly before he could say anything else. This firm, she thought on her way back to her office, was built by sexist, probably homophobe, white men.

  She pictured herself bringing a woman to the holiday party. The look of astonishment on the partners’ faces might be worth it, except for the fact that she feared being “let go” the subsequent week. They’d trump up some flimsy excuse, but she knew the real reason would be that she was gay. Until I build a stellar reputation with a solid base of clients, I’m stuck in the closet here.

  Glancing through the message slips, she sulked to her office and sank into her leather chair. The top message was an urgent call from Al Bowman, who was a priority, so she immediately dialed his number.

  He greeted her in his sharp tenor. “Al Bowman here.”

  “Hi Al. This is Monica. Did you find the monkey?”

  “Not yet. Darcy told me his name is Marcus. She’s walking the basement hallways with Security, calling for the wily little thing. I’m told he’s stealing cafeteria food.”

  “At least someone likes your food,” she said.

  “Very funny, but that’s not the reason I’m calling. I have another issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The District Attorney served subpoenas on four of our physicians to testify in a murder trial. My administrative assistant called the physicians, and they’re freaking out. Can you help?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Scan and email the subpoenas to me, and I’ll contact the DA to see what she needs.”

  “Do you think you can get the physicians out of testifying?”

  “I doubt it, but I’ll see what I can do. What murder trial is it?”

  “The beating of the foreign exchange student outside the bar on River Street.”

  “I remember the news coverage.”

  “He came to the hospital by ambulance, and we treated his head trauma, but he died a few days later.”

  “I’m pretty sure I took a page from an ED nurse that night about the local kid who got drunk and beat him,” she said.

  “Really? What did the nurse ask you?”

  “If the police could interview the drunk kid because he was a suspect.”

  “Did you let them?”

  “I told the nurse to ask him if he was willing to talk to the police,” she said.

  “Was he?”

  “I never heard,” she said.

  “Do you think the physicians are being subpoenaed to talk about that?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “I’m sure the prosecution wants to establish how severe the victim’s injuries were as a result of the beating.”

  “The Emergency Department physician could do that,” he said.

  “I’ll call the DA and ask her why she subpoenaed four of them,” Monica said.

  “Then contact the physicians directly, would you?” he asked.

>   “Will do.”

  They rang off.

  This is a good project, Monica thought. I like preparing providers for testimony.

  Before calling Dominique Bisset, the DA, Monica went to the break room to make herself a chai tea. She was fighting the urge to eat some chips and a cheesy, spinach dip that someone had made for an afternoon snack. The chips were calling out to her since she had skipped lunch, but she had to ignore them. If I’m going to lose weight, I need some self-control.

  As she was battling her hunger, Nathan, a fellow associate who started at the firm the same year she did, entered.

  “Hey Mon, how’s it going?” Without hesitation, he dove into the chips and dip. He was skinny as a rail even though he ate everything in sight.

  “Swell. And you?” She turned her back to the chips as she steeped her tea.

  “Can’t complain,” he said with a full mouth. He opened the fridge and removed a Coke. “What’s new?”

  “I joined a CrossFit Box today.”

  “Cool. Can I come?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I’m way too self-conscious to be seen in workout tights by anyone at work.”

  “Me too. I’m sure you’d be disappointed in my legs.”

  She had to hand it to Nathan for making her laugh. “The hospital has a monkey running loose in it.”

  He almost spit out a mouthful of Coke. “Get out.”

  “Not joking.”

  “That’s gotta suck. Can you imagine waking up from an operation to a monkey staring you in the face?”

  “I doubt it’s in the surgical recovery area,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s in the Operating Room, so when a surgeon says, ‘a monkey could do this,’ the monkey can hop down from a piece of equipment and start operating.”

  “That’s sick,” she said.

  “Did Ross Geller visit someone and bring Marcel with him?”

  “I can so picture that, but the owner is a woman named Darcy, and the monkey’s name is Marcus.”

  “Insane.” Nathan dove in for another bite.

  She adopted a more serious tone. “District Attorney Bisset served subpoenas on some physicians to testify in the Saudi Arabian student murder trial.”

  “That will be a big deal,” he said. “Lots of media coverage.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Did you list the physicians on Jim’s intake sheet for a conflicts check?” he asked. Jim Daniels, a partner at the firm, kept track of the clients, and who was suing whom, so the lawyers within the firm didn’t end up on opposite sides of a fight.

  “No. I haven’t received the names yet,” she said.

  “Submit them as soon as you can, so Jim can do his thing.”

  “Will do, Mr. Responsible.” She dropped her tea bag in the garbage and stirred sugar and cream in its place.

  “I’m going with a friend to a River City Rascals game tonight,” he said, referring to the local independent baseball team. “Wanna come?”

  “Who else is going?” Not Richard, I hope.

  “A non-work friend,” he said.

  “Cool. Can I let you know later?”

  “Sure. It’s the playoffs, so it will be crowded, but there’s always room on the bleachers.”

  “Sounds like fun.” She moved toward the door before the spinach dip got the best of her.

  “Keep me updated on the monkey,” he said, stuffing his mouth. “In the wise words of the Barenaked Ladies, ‘Haven’t you always wanted a monkey?!’”

  She was already walking away but raised her hand and waved over her shoulder. As soon as she returned to her office, she checked her emails for the subpoenas. Voila! Al’s email had arrived with four physicians and their contact information. She forwarded the names to Jim Daniels, so he could run the conflicts check.

  Within minutes, her phone rang, the display indicating it was Jim.

  “Hello, Jim.”

  “Have you done any work on these subpoenas yet?” he asked.

  “No. I only took the call from Al asking me to prep the physicians. I haven’t called any yet.”

  He sighed, and she pictured him rubbing his shaggy beard, as he looked at his computer monitor. “Well, we’ve done work for two of them. We drafted a will for Dr. Danielle Rice, the neurosurgeon, and did a property deal for Dr. Rashid Khouri, the ED physician. Neither of those create a conflict, obviously.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she said.

  “I don’t see anything adverse to Drs. King or Epstein, the other two, so the coast is clear. Why does Dominique need them?”

  “I haven’t called her yet, but I’m guessing she wants them to testify regarding the cause of death of the Saudi Arabian student who was beaten and died.”

  “That trial,” he said. “Trevor McKnight is the defendant. His father, Dave McKnight, is a prior client of the firm.”

  Monica heard Jim typing in the background.

  “I remember looking this up when Trevor was charged,” Jim said. “I actually anticipated that Dave would call us to represent Trevor, but he went with that flashy criminal defense lawyer in Minneapolis.”

  “Yes. Jeffrey Halliday,” she said.

  “What a tool.”

  “I’ve never dealt with him or seen him in action,” she said.

  “Well, watch your back,” Jim said. “There’s no telling what Halliday will do to get Trevor McKnight off a murder rap.”

  “So noted,” she said. “The physician testimony should be pretty straightforward though, don’t you think?”

  “Their testimony about the victim’s condition will obviously be adverse to Trevor McKnight,” Jim said. “The McKnight family isn’t going to like that, but the physicians have been subpoenaed, so they have to go.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m mulling over whether I should call Dave McKnight—who Charles did a lot of work for back in the day—as a courtesy.”

  “Well, McKnight is currently using Ben Rasperger on our construction deal for Thunderbolt Stadium, so McKnight doesn’t have a basis to complain about our firm representing someone who might be—and I stress might be—adverse to his son.”

  “I remember Charles getting really pissed when McKnight switched to Ben.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said. “Even if McKnight convinced us not to prepare the physicians, though, the hospital would hire some other lawyer in town to represent them.”

  “I know, but the fact is that McKnight is a big player in the community. With the optics of his son’s trial, maybe the firm should pass on getting involved.” He sighed again, and she pictured him rubbing his forehead, as he was prone to do when mulling over a problem.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” she said, “but teaching the physicians how to testify shouldn’t be controversial.”

  “Theoretically, not. When the McKnights are involved, however, you never know what will happen. The bottom line is that I don’t want to lose the hospital as a client, so I’ll approve it. Keep me in the loop, though.”

  “Of course. I’ll get started right away. Al told me the physicians are freaking out.”

  “I’m sure they are,” he said. “The stakes are high, and they don’t like testifying anyway. Just be cautious.”

  “That’s my middle name.”

  He chuckled. “By the way, how is Al doing these days?”

  “He seems to be doing well. He calls me almost every day with something.”

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yeah. We have a good relationship, and I like the work.”

  She heard him typing again. “I see you billed a ton of hours for the hospital in the last few months. Keep it up.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Maybe we should take Al to a Packer’s game,” he said. “Would you be interested in going?”

  Ugh. Football. “Sure. I’d love to,” she fibbed, envisioning the three of them in the firm’s coveted box.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. She could hea
r the smile in his voice.

  After they hung up, she contacted the physicians’ secretaries to set up an individual meeting with each. Next, she called the DA, Dominique Bisset.

  “This is Dominique.”

  “This is Monica Spade. I’m an attorney at Smart, Daniels & Whitworth.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Spade?”

  “I represent the four physicians you subpoenaed to testify in the State versus McKnight case.”

  “Good,” Dominique said. “Maybe you can help me narrow down who will be the best to testify about the gravity of the victim’s injuries and the cause of death.”

  “I can try. What’s your theory as to how the victim died?”

  “According to the forensic pathologist, a blow to his head. The force of McKnight’s punch and resulting crash to the sidewalk led to bleeding and swelling around the victim’s brain, killing him.”

  “I think the Emergency Department physician and the neurosurgeon will be most helpful on those points. I don’t know why you’d need a pulmonologist or an intensivist, but let me talk to them and get back to you.”

  “What’s an intensivist?” Dominique asked.

  “A physician who works only in the Critical Care Unit,” Monica said.

  “You never know,” Dominique said. “His testimony might be very relevant. Anyway, time is of the essence, so—”

  “I understand. I’ve set up meetings with them.”

  “I’ll expect to hear from you soon then,” Dominique said.

  They rang off.

  Chapter Three

  As Monica wound down a busy afternoon, she decided that a baseball game with Nathan and his friend sounded like a refreshing change of pace to her late evenings at the office. She had dedicated herself solely to work for three years—learning healthcare law and proving herself to the partners—so it was high time she indulged in a weeknight of fun. She ran home and changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then drove to Hank Aaron Stadium, where the lot was already full.

  She parked a few blocks away but enjoyed the short walk to the stadium grounds in the cool fall air, the tree canopy a sea of red and orange leaves. Excitement lightened her step as she joined late-arriving fans at the general ticket window.