28 Summers

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “I have to stay neutral,” she says.

  “Oh, come on, Ursula,” Jake says. “You can’t tell me you think he’s innocent?”

  “He’s a good judge,” Ursula says. “Smart. His decisions are thoughtful and nuanced. He would be a wonderful addition to the bench.”

  “He attacked a girl,” Bess says. “He tried to rape her. You can’t just overlook that because you happen to like the way he adjudicates, Mom, sorry.”

  “Allegedly attacked her,” Ursula says. “I don’t think we have enough proof to convict.” She smiles at her daughter. “Sorry.”

  Three days later, a second woman comes forward. This woman, Meghan Royce, is a public defender in Broward County, Florida. She says she met Stone Cavendish at a New Year’s Eve party in Miami in 1991. The party was held in a condo in a luxury waterfront building. Royce and Stone struck up a conversation on the balcony, then moved inside to one of the sofas amid the crowd of noisy revelers. Both of them were drinking. Stone eventually suggested they go “somewhere quieter,” so he led Royce back into one of the bedrooms. They started kissing. Royce says that after a little while, Stone worried someone else would come into the room so he suggested they go into the closet. Royce says she agreed, but that once she was in the closet with Cavendish, she started to feel “claustrophobic and uncomfortable.” She tried to leave; she explicitly told Stone she wanted to “get out,” but he laughed and pushed her farther into the closet, back into the hanging clothes. Royce raised her voice, and Stone clapped a hand over her mouth, saying, Just be quiet, we both know why we’re here. Royce says she finally kicked him in the crotch hard enough that he called her a psycho and spit in her face, but he let her go. She left the party almost immediately, but before she left, she told her girlfriend what happened; she says she categorized it as “some guy just tried to date-rape me in the closet,” to which her friend responded, “Thank God you got out, though it’s too bad you’re going to miss midnight.”

  That’s the way things were in the early ’90’s, Royce says. I didn’t realize how bad it was until years later.

  Stone Cavendish claims he has no memory of meeting Royce. He admits to being in Miami over New Year’s of 1991 with his friend Doug Stiles, but according to Cavendish, they had dinner at a restaurant, then went to a few clubs. He doesn’t remember a party. The girlfriend Royce spoke to about it, Justine Hwang, is an expat living in Mongolia and can’t immediately be reached for comment. No one knows where to find Doug Stiles.

  The media does a hit job on Meghan Royce. She’s twice divorced and lost custody of her only son to her ex-husband, who lives in Tampa. The ex-husband, when questioned, said that Meghan has a drinking problem.

  Meghan Royce hires an attorney, and she points out Royce’s impeccable record as a public defender; she’s never missed a day of work and routinely goes to the mat for defendants who have no other champion. She adds that Royce’s personal life has no bearing on her memories of what happened between her and Stone Cavendish on New Year’s Eve 1991. He pushed her farther into the closet when she asked to get out. He clapped his hand over her mouth. She had to kick him to escape.

  The FBI investigates this second claim and manages to reach Justine Hwang in Mongolia, who makes a statement that she does recall the night in question and she does remember Meghan Royce saying that someone forced her into a closet and that she fought her way out. Justine Hwang can’t say for certain that this person was Stone Cavendish. She never met the guy that Meghan was talking to, that party was crowded, and she has no recollection at this point of the address of the party or how they ended up there. Word of mouth, she assumes.

  Stone Cavendish’s spokesperson says that clearly Meghan Royce had been drinking and while something might very well have happened to her at the party she went to, she is mistaken about the identity of the man because it was not Stone Cavendish.

  “She probably heard the other accuser’s story and decided to try for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Bess is outraged. “I hope you see what’s happening here, Mom. They’re shaming these women and they’re trying to say that just because a woman has lost custody of her son, she’s not credible. It’s disgusting. The two stories are pretty similar, and the first story has a corroborating witness who remembers seeing Stone Cavendish follow Eve into the dunes and seeing Eve emerge alone. What other proof do you need? People are saying, ‘Oh, Cindy is bitter because Stone ditched her for another girl and now she’s getting back at him.’ Getting back at him thirty-five years later? What’s so hard to believe about a woman just remembering what happened and speaking up?” Bess pauses to catch her breath. “You know he did it, Mom.”

  “There wouldn’t be enough to convict him in a court of law,” Ursula says.

  “Mom.”

  Ursula sighs. Frankly, she would like to see Cavendish own up to the allegations—or at least admit the possibility that these women might be right even if it’s so long ago he doesn’t remember—and apologize. How refreshing would it be for someone in power to just admit to wrongdoing instead of unequivocally denying it? Stone could say he was forceful with women, that he was—just say it—abusive, that he was intoxicated and thoughtless, and that he felt invincible and entitled, like so many privileged white males do. And then he could say that he’s sorry now. He wishes he could go back to his younger self and give him a thrashing. He has learned so much in the past thirty years. He has grown up.

  Ursula could write the statement for him. This will work! she wants to say. But Kevin Blackstone Cavendish remains in deny-deny-deny mode. He digs in. His team collects statements from eighty-four female attorneys that he’s worked with over the past three decades vouching for his integrity, his character, his manners. They get letters from his priests, from his neighbors, from his teachers and classmates.

  The FBI concludes its investigation.

  The night before the confirmation hearing, Ursula receives a phone call from Bayer Burkhart.

  “Take it easy on him in the hearing, please,” Bayer says. “This is the guy we want. He’s centrist, speaks for the majority of normal working Americans. Throw him some softballs, please, Ursula. You’ll be rewarded.”

  You’ll be rewarded. What Bayer means is that he and his billionaire friends will back Ursula for president in 2020. Until recently, there was talk of running Vincent Stengel for president with Ursula as VP. But the country is ready for a female president; hungry for one, even.

  Isn’t that what Ursula wants? Isn’t that what she has always wanted?

  And isn’t it true that Kevin Blackstone Cavendish would make an excellent Supreme Court justice? Doesn’t America deserve an end to partisan politics? Can’t they compromise on issues while preserving the central tenets of freedom, equality, and justice for all? Isn’t it time to usher in an era of reason and enlightenment?

  “Do you think he did it?” Ursula asks.

  “Whether he did it or not isn’t relevant,” Bayer says. “It was relevant in 1983 and 1991 but it’s not relevant now. Do you know who the president was in 1983, Ursula? Ronald Reagan. Do you know who was president in 1991? Bush the father. What these women are digging up is ancient history. And I’m old enough to remember someone saying, ‘Men are not the enemy.’ Do you know who that someone was, Ursula? It was you.”

  “What’s relevant,” Ursula says, “is that Cavendish is lying about it. Right, Bayer? If he did these things, and I’m inclined to believe that he did, then why doesn’t he just admit it?”

  “Have you ever lied about anything, Ursula?” Bayer asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” Bayer says.

  “But not about something major like this!” Ursula says. “This is denying some egregious behavior.”

  “What about egregious behavior like sleeping with Anders Jorgensen while the two of you were working on a case in Lubbock, Texas?” Bayer says. “You were married, were you not?”

  Ursula nearly drops her phone. She’s behind
her partners’ desk in her home study, sitting in the dark. Jake is somewhere else in the condo. Watching the news, maybe, the pundits’ endless speculation.

  Anders. Somehow, Bayer Burkhart knows about Anders.

  “Bayer,” she says, because she’s afraid to say anything else.

  “A. J. Renninger told me,” Bayer says. “She knows because Anders told her. She thought I would be interested. And I am, Ursula, I am—because you seem so squeaky clean, so…irreproachable. But we all mess up. Believe me, I know. I’ve done what you did, and worse—and that’s why I’m not running for office myself.”

  “Bayer,” she says again.

  “Tempted to deny it, aren’t you?” he says.

  Yes, actually, she is tempted to deny it.

  “Throw him softballs,” Bayer says. “And above all, vote to confirm.”

  Ursula skulks out to the living room. She’s giddy with panic.

  AJ knows about Anders, and she told Bayer. Who else might she tell? She hates Ursula. Maybe she’s always hated her. Yes, okay, let’s be realistic, there wasn’t a single woman at Andrews, Hewitt, and Douglas who hadn’t hated Ursula, but it wasn’t Ursula’s job to be liked, it was Ursula’s job to be the best damn M and A attorney she could be. She was a better attorney than AJ; she was a better attorney than Anders. When AJ ran for mayor and called on Ursula for an endorsement, Ursula said she couldn’t get involved, but behind the scenes, she’d supported AJ’s opponent, and since nothing in Washington stayed a secret for more than five minutes, AJ must have found out.

  And you know what? AJ has been a fine mayor. The city has improved under her stewardship. Ursula was a fool not to endorse her. Why did she not guess that Anders had confided in AJ? Why did Ursula assume that Anders would keep their secret? He had probably told AJ in a moment of tender soul-sharing early in their relationship, when it seems wise to disclose details about your past lovers. He’d probably thought it wouldn’t matter. Jake and Ursula were in Washington. Anders and AJ were in New York. Nobody was running for office.

  Jake is sitting on the edge of the sofa, nearly doubled over, leaning all the way in to the TV, like he might take a bite of it.

  “Where are your glasses?” Ursula asks, and Jake startles, then falls back against the leather cushions.

  “You’ve heard?” he says. “They’ve found that guy Doug Stiles. He’s talking.”

  Doug Stiles turned up in Sonoma County, California. He lives in the hills amid vineyards, some of which were burned out in the fires. He’s a hermit, a survivalist. A woman who works at the Healdsburg post office figured out that this was the Doug Stiles the country was waiting to hear from.

  Yes, Doug Stiles remembers New Year’s Eve 1991, Miami, with Stone Cavendish, a person he hasn’t seen or even thought of in eons. He recalls the night. They went to dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab and then to a party in a penthouse apartment overlooking Biscayne Bay. They were at the party all night. Doug Stiles doesn’t remember any girl in particular. There were a lot of girls, he says. And he and Stone were drunk and high, and there might have been some cocaine involved as well, he can’t say for sure, but it’s definitely not out of the question. It was the early nineties.

  Despite this bombshell at the last minute, the confirmation hearing goes much as Ursula thought it would. Stone Cavendish is a darling for nearly every senator on the Judiciary Committee. They handle him with kid gloves and no one mentions the new information from Doug Stiles—yes, Stone Cavendish did apparently attend a party in a waterfront condo as Meghan Royce said. He and Doug Stiles did not “go to the clubs.” But does this lie—or misremembering—on his part mean that the entirety of Meghan Royce’s accusation is true?

  When it’s Ursula’s turn to question Stone Cavendish, she says, “Is there any statement you’ve made over the past two weeks that you’d like to retract or change, even just a little, so that we have the record straight?”

  Stone Cavendish leans into the microphone, eyes down. “No.”

  “So you are flat-out denying that you ever followed a girl into the sand dunes, tackled her, threw sand in her face—either intentionally or unintentionally—clapped your hand over her mouth, and tried to lift her skirt against her wishes? And you’re flat-out denying that you met a woman on New Year’s Eve 1991 and asked her to join you in a closet and pushed her farther into that closet when she said she wanted to get out, and clapped a hand over her mouth? And furthermore, you’re flat-out denying that you were even at a party that night, despite the friend you were with recently saying otherwise?”

  Stone Cavendish meets her eyes this time. He’s defiant—angry, even; she can see that. His expression says, How dare you hold my feet to the fire like this? Ursula worries for a second that AJ or Bayer told Stone about Ursula’s own indiscretion and that Stone Cavendish is going to turn the questioning back on her in a nationally televised hearing.

  “That’s right, Senator,” he says.

  Ursula can feel dirty looks from her fellow committee members. She is not usually a disrupter. She’s neutral, a political Switzerland. She is straight up the fairway.

  “So you would like us to believe that four American citizens—Dr. Eve Quist, Ms. Cynthia Piccolo, Ms. Meghan Royce, and your own friend Mr. Douglas Stiles—are lying and that you are telling the truth.”

  “Yes, Senator.”

  Ursula doesn’t ask any further questions, but news anchors and political pundits across the spectrum later comment about the expression on Ursula’s face.

  Rachel Maddow says, The senator looks skeptical.

  Shepard Smith says, Senator Ursula de Gournsey clearly doesn’t believe him.

  Luke Russert says, It’s obvious the senator thinks Stone Cavendish is full of…baloney.

  The Senate votes on the confirmation of Kevin Blackstone Cavendish three days later. Before Ursula leaves the house that morning, Jake says, “Just think if one of those young women were Bess.”

  “Bess is too smart to get herself in that position,” Ursula says.

  “Is she, though?” Jake asks.

  Kevin Blackstone Cavendish is confirmed to the Supreme Court by a vote of 61 to 39, which is not surprising. What is surprising is that one of the dissenting votes is cast by Ursula de Gournsey.

  Frankly, she surprised herself.

  People will talk about her vote for an entire news cycle—five days—but no one will know exactly what moved her near-certain yes to a resounding no.

  Jake might think it was his last-minute insertion of Bess into the conversation, and Bess might think it was because of her own final teary plea to her mother—she’d called Ursula during her car ride to the Capitol Building and said, Mom, please stand up for womankind!

  No one will know that in the hour before Ursula cast her vote, she was visited by a memory that she’d relegated to the delete-from-deleted file of her brain.

  She’s a first-semester sophomore at Notre Dame and she and Jake have just broken up. Ursula is upset about this. Jake was the one who wanted to split; he thought they should date other people. This doesn’t mean we won’t get married, he said. But I think it’s a good idea to see what other people have to offer. Ursula doesn’t philosophically disagree but hearing the words come from Jake, who has been so ardent since the age of thirteen, is hurtful. Ursula feels she has lost her magic.

  She turns to religion, which is a comfort. She joins the campus ministry and attends every meeting, and in a few short months she is spearheading outreach for the undergraduates as well as service projects in the community. She organizes trips to shelters and soup kitchens in Gary, Indiana. At the start of the spring semester, she’s a shoo-in for president of the group. But when she approaches Father Gillis, he suggests she run for vice president instead. Father Gillis supports a junior named Nathan Bowers for president. Nathan, after all, is a year ahead of Ursula and has been in the group a year longer.

  Right, Ursula thinks, but Nathan Bowers doesn’t do anything. He’s a heavy-lidded dope smoker, go
od-looking, and with a certain lazy charm; he’s too cool for the campus ministry. He lies around, and makes wisecracks. He’s not exactly a model Christian. In November, when the group goes downtown to fill Thanksgiving boxes—frozen turkey, Stove Top stuffing, cranberry sauce—Nathan keeps calling them handouts.

  It takes a while for Ursula to realize that Father Gillis wants Nathan to be president because he’s male.

  Nathan becomes president of the Notre Dame campus ministry and Ursula, VP.

  Fast-forward to the end of the spring semester, mid-May. Nathan Bowers and his three roommates are throwing a party at the house they’ve rented for the summer on Chapin Street and Nathan is eager for Ursula to attend. Ursula doesn’t go to parties very often; she’s too busy studying. But it’s a mild spring evening, it’s a Friday, and Ursula thinks it sounds like fun.

  She drinks way too much—two cups of the grain alcohol–and–Ocean Spray punch they’re pouring out of plastic pitchers. After that, there’s a game of Mexican, a bunch of warm beers, maybe a shot of Jägermeister. At some point, Nathan asks Ursula if she wants to go upstairs. Ursula isn’t sure if she says yes or no. The next thing she remembers is waking up to find Nathan grinding on top of her. They aren’t having sex, but she wants him to stop whatever it is he’s doing. However, she’s too tired and too drunk to push him away. She closes her eyes.

  She wakes up in the middle of the night to find Nathan sitting in a papasan chair in the corner, smoking a joint and staring at her so intensely it feels like a violation.

  Ursula looks down. She’s lying on Nathan’s comforter, fully clothed, thank God. He was on top of her before, yes? Or did she dream that? “What did you do to me?” she asks.

  He exhales a plume of smoke. “Don’t you remember? You seemed pretty into it.”