“I also perform that role, and it has already begun.”
Eph tried to process this. It occurred to him he should have done more research into the whole Title IX thing. “So, and again, I apologize, but this is all new to me—you act as sole investigator, plus judge and jury, while I am apparently allowed no counsel?”
“I don’t make the rules, Professor. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with the Office for Civil Rights at the Department of Education in Washington. Now let’s proceed.” Martika poked her reading glasses up her nose and began flipping through papers. “Professor Russell, you teach a fall-semester class called English 240—Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
“And you had a student in that class named Louise Harris, correct?”
“Yes, I did, but I think you already know that.”
“We are just establishing the background facts for the record. How would you describe your relationship with Ms. Harris?”
“She was my student. Beyond that, there was no relationship.”
Martika looked down at some papers. “An examination of your university email account shows that she sent you fifty-seven emails last semester, considerably more than any other student. Would you say that’s normal, Professor?”
“I suppose it’s more than normal. I was under the impression she liked the course.”
“In one email, she asks for your opinion on which dress to wear. Wouldn’t you say that’s an odd question for a student to ask a professor?”
“I suppose it is, yes, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“And why is that?”
“Sometimes students try to ingratiate themselves in different ways. They hope that by establishing a rapport they might get a better grade.”
“And did any other students ask you for clothing advice?”
“Not that I recall, no. But I just thought she was an engaged student.”
“And you know this because of the emails.”
“Yes, but she also contributed in class now and then.”
“You made quite an impression on Ms. Harris.”
“I am a teacher. I believe that’s in my job description.”
“Still, she was emailing almost daily.”
“Was she? I honestly didn’t give it much thought.”
Removing her reading glasses for effect, the dean then asked, “Professor Russell, how long had you been having a sexual relationship with Ms. Harris?”
“I have never had a sexual relationship with Ms. Harris. Never. Not one time.”
“Are you sure that’s the story you want to stick with, Professor?”
“If I may, what are the exact charges being brought against me?”
“You may not,” interjected Stephanie Coughlin, the lawyer.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Under Title IX regulations, we are not obliged to offer specifics, including information about the charges. Our role is merely to gather testimony and evidence and then come to a just conclusion.”
“Well, I object!”
“Noted, Professor,” Coughlin said.
“I’d at least like to get Ms. Harris in here to talk to her directly.”
“That will not happen, Professor.”
“Excuse me? I wish to confront my accuser. That is a universal right. Everyone knows that.”
“I’m afraid you are very much mistaken,” Coughlin said. Eph could swear Malik-Adams was trying to suppress a smile. “Title IX proceedings operate under a different set of guidelines than the criminal justice system. The process is designed to encourage survivors to come forward. Studies show that forcing them to directly face their attackers has a chilling effect on reporting.”
“How about the goddamn chilling effect on my rights?”
“We’ve been through this already, haven’t we, Professor?” said the dean. “We will move on. Isn’t it true, Professor, that you and Ms. Harris kissed in your office?”
“It’s partially true.”
“How can this be partially true? You either kissed, or you didn’t. Could you be more specific?”
“She tried to kiss me.”
“So you admit you and she kissed.”
“I admit she kissed me.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Why don’t you just ask her, for Pete’s sake. It sure as hell took me by surprise.”
“And you just sat there, I suppose?”
“No, I pushed her away.”
Martika reached into her pile of papers and pushed a photograph across the table. It was the one that Lulu had taken in his office of the two of them, with Lulu making duck face. It must have been found in a search through Eph’s emails. “Can you please explain this?”
“Yes. It’s a photo she took in my office.”
“We know what it is, Professor. Can you explain it?”
“You mean why would this girl try to kiss me and then take a selfie of the two of us while making that ridiculous face? No, I can’t. I can’t explain any of it. I can’t explain a goddamn thing. Why is the sky blue? I don’t know. Why is this girl out of her mind? I don’t know that either. Maybe she’s on drugs. Have you asked her that?”
“Or perhaps alcohol?” asked Martika, eyebrows arched so high Eph thought she might pull a muscle. “Would you please examine the photo more closely?”
Eph looked at it carefully. Shit. In the background, you could see part of a bottle. The word Jack was clearly legible.
“Were you and Ms. Harris drinking?”
“I keep a bottle in my desk. A lot of us do. It was Friday evening and I was having a glass when she walked in.”
“Do you often drink alcohol before meeting with students?”
“No, of course not, but it was after office hours and I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“And yet there is an email to you from her saying she was coming.”
“Well, I didn’t see it until later.”
“Did you offer her a drink?”
“No. She grabbed the bottle and took a sip. I suppose I should have put it away when she walked in, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“Professor, would you please read the time stamp on that photo?” Martika asked.
“December nineteenth, five-oh-eight p.m.”
“Now, would you please examine this photo.” Martika pushed another photo across the table.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Eph. The picture showed Lulu with violent bruising across one side of her face. It looked as if someone had taken a two-by-four to her face.
“Now, Professor, would you please read the time stamp on the second photo?” Martika’s eyebrows were arching again in a way that suggested her prey was wounded and she was circling in for the kill. It was starting to get on Eph’s nerves.
“December twentieth, seven forty-two a.m.”
“So, the next morning.”
“It would seem.”
“So the established facts are that Harris was with you, you were drinking and kissing, and that sometime between the time on that photo and the next morning she was attacked. Perhaps it would save time for all involved if you just told us what really happened.”
Eph wondered what the dean otherwise did with her time that made it so precious. “I did nothing to harm Lulu Harris. I have no knowledge of how she was hurt. Whatever happened must have occurred later in the evening.”
“Professor, have you ever threatened Ms. Harris?”
“What? No!”
“How many times have you spoken to her since the date of the incident?”
“Zero.”
“I see. Tell us, can you prove you didn’t do any of this?”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t it the other way around? Isn’t the burden of proof on your side?”
“I don’t have a side, Professor.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“We are here to see if there’s a preponderance
of evidence. Nothing more, nothing less. In that spirit we are asking if you have any exculpatory evidence to offer.”
“I’d like to ask you something. Did Lulu Harris actually say I did any of this?”
“Ms. Harris’s testimony is protected by confidentiality.”
“Seriously? This is a joke.”
“I can assure you, Professor Russell, this is a very serious matter, and you would be advised to take it as such.”
“Perhaps this would be a good point to end this session, Dean,” said Coughlin, looking to defuse things.
Martika looked like she was just getting started, but relented. “Very well. We’ll meet for a final session Thursday. What time works for you?”
The Internet Says So
“SO, WHAT ARE we going to do? I mean, this is terrible!” said Milton, who paced back and forth on his Oriental rug.
Martika looked unconcerned. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s clearly guilty.” She sat, watching Milton wear a path in the carpet.
“But you said that their stories match up. They both say nothing happened.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have a lot of experience with cases like these, and so does our counseling staff. We are in agreement that Lulu Harris is clinically traumatized and Russell’s lying through his teeth to save his skin. There’s a clear preponderance of evidence.”
“This makes me uncomfortable, Martika.”
“Russell is a bad seed. First, he shows no cultural awareness over racist course materials, that business in his class, and now this. You know, I’ve been looking at his file, and I’m not sure how he ever got hired. He’s a fish out of water. You should have seen him in the hearing—utterly disrespectful of the process. The bottom line is that he attacked one of our students. I’d stake my career on it.”
Martika gauged Milton’s expression and didn’t note the appropriate alarm. Possessed of an astute understanding of Milton’s priorities, she tried a different tack. “Think of it this way—do we need this one man blowing up our school’s reputation? They’re saying we protect predators.”
Milton looked up. “Who’s saying that?”
“Everyone. The internet.”
“There’s a process, and we’re respecting it. No one can fault us for that.”
“Process? You think people are paying attention to those kinds of details? Please. They want to see results. I get that we have a process, but it must be expeditious or our reputation will suffer.”
Milton shifted gears. “Martika, what are your thoughts on the Crawl?”
“She’s a brave girl. It’s her means of expression, the only way she’s found her voice.”
“If she’s clinically traumatized, as you say, should she be out there doing this?”
“It’s her way of healing.”
“You say Russell makes us look bad—what about this? The Crawl’s becoming a circus.”
“I think it shows we are a united campus that embraces free expression and will not tolerate violence.”
“Not everyone sees it that way, you know.”
“Who?”
“Some alums, for one.”
Martika’s expression grew dark. “And are you going to allow a bunch of out-of-touch old white men to dictate how this school is run?”
“Am I not an old white man?”
Martika shifted in her seat. “Milton, you are in touch with the feelings of the students and have earned their respect. Look at how you handled the students of color this winter. They came to you with serious issues and you treated them with the respect they deserved.”
“Some of the ‘crawlers’ seem to have a different view of me. They have signs.”
What Milton wasn’t sharing was the panicky call he had recently received from Pete Whitson in the development office. According to Whitson, Devon was becoming nationally synonymous with the Crawl, and it was all the alums were talking about. Younger, more progressive alums were upset because the Crawl drew attention to Devon as a playground of sexual predators. The older, more conservative alums thought social justice warriors were now controlling the school. Whitson was getting it from both sides, the practical consequence of which was that small and middling donations were drying up.
Whitson had added, sotto voce, that losing progressives wasn’t of great concern since they never gave much anyway. (Devon had reams of data on demographic giving habits, although it was kept tightly under wraps for fear of causing offense.) But losing the conservative alums, the ones who wrote 10K checks every year, was more concerning. Sure, Milton knew, many were out-of-touch cranks who refused to keep up with the times. But their love for “Old Devon” was normally unshakable, and most of the time they were easily managed. A winning football team and boozy reunions—held safely after potentially offending students had left for the summer—did the trick. But this time felt different. Whitson pleaded with Milton to put an end to the Crawl.
“Those ‘out-of-touch white men’ pay our salaries, Martika.”
“Are you gonna tell me that with twenty-eight billion dollars in the bank we have to worry about what Chip Worthington the Fourth from the all-white, all-male class of ’59 thinks?”
“How do you think we got the twenty-eight billion dollars in the first place? These people need care and feeding. Part of that is allowing them to think that their Devon, the Devon they knew, is still today’s Devon. You follow me?”
“Maybe. I’m just glad that care and feeding is not part of my job description.”
“But it is part of mine.” Milton realized he should have anticipated everything that was happening, but support for Lulu Harris was so pervasive on campus that sometimes it was hard to remember that a broader spectrum of opinion existed.
Out there.
Simply shutting the Crawl down, though, would be tricky. Campus activists were not a bunch of shrinking violets. Violence was not out of the question. Just as concerning were the free speech implications. Shut down the Crawl and the ACLU, an organization Milton otherwise fervently supported, would probably show up at his office the next day.
Then there were the signs. About him. There were more every day. One particularly upsetting one said GIRLS: DON’T SIT ON UNCLE MILTIE’S LAP! Even the normally supportive @FakeUncleMiltie Twitter account had turned against him, suggesting this was all somehow his fault.
How could they say such things? About him! He had been supportive of the Crawl from the beginning, even making sure campus security maintained safety. He was a champion of progressive causes!
Perhaps the solution was the usual one: money. He could provide a generous package for campus feminists. The playbook was clear from his experience earlier in the year: more tenured positions in Women’s Studies, a bigger budget for women’s health services, some direct cash into the Womyn’s Collective and other organizations … He would also approve that fraternity committee’s recommendations and make it part of the package. This had also been on the African-American students’ list of demands, so he’d score some points there as well.
This couldn’t appear to be a quid pro quo for ending the Crawl, but he was confident it could be handled. As for Professor Russell, perhaps all parties would be best served if he left Devon. Yes, this seemed the best course.
“Martika, I agree the Russell matter needs to come to an end. Respect the process, but make it fast.” He knew exactly how the process would conclude. “And Lulu Harris needs to be reined in. She’s made her statement and we respect her for it. But let her know it ends this week. This campus needs to return to normal.”
“Speaking of which, I need to talk to you about the fraternities.”
“You are reading my mind. I believe I will accept the committee’s recommendations.”
Martika smiled. This had turned into a most productive year. “It’s the right decision. You will be praised for it.”
“They are a vestige of another era, as you say, and do nothing to add to our cultural fabric. But we need to ensure it goes down smoothly.�
��
The Enemy of My Enemy
EYES PEERED THROUGH the slotted door of the Fellinghams clubhouse. They could make out little but a mess of red tangles. “Who calls?” the voice said through the slot.
“My name is Red Wheeler.”
“State your business, Mr. Wheeler.”
“A mutual friend of ours. Lulu Harris.”
After a pause, the voice said, “We have no affiliation with anyone of that name.”
“C’mon, I know she used to be a member of your thing here. I just want a minute of your time.”
“Miss Harris is a nonperson to us. We returned her plaque.”
Her what? Red decided he didn’t care. “Well, I think she’s a dick, too.” The little slot closed and the door remained shut. “Look, man, would you just open the door for a minute. I think we may have a common interest here.”
The door remained shut. “I have information,” Red said finally.
Red heard a lock turn and the door opened. The guy stood there, wearing an ascot and red velvet smoking jacket. This took a moment for Red to take in. What a complete douche.
“Enter. We may speak here in the vestibule. Nonmembers are allowed no further.”
“Ah, yeah.” Red stared farther in to the living room with its tired furniture. “I can live with that.”
“Very well, Mr. Wheeler. My name is Winslow Gubbins. Tell me why we have the pleasure of your company today.”
“You can call me Red. Everyone does.”
“We’ve only just met.”
“Okay, then.”
Another time, Red might have taken great pleasure in focusing his progressive attentions on Winslow Gubbins and the Society of Fellingham, but now was not that time. Perhaps next year, he thought.
“I believe you and I have common cause. She fucked you guys over, am I right? Stole your scepter? I saw it in the Daily.”
“What of it?”
“Well, this crawl of hers. I’m not a buyer.”
“Meaning what?”
“I think it’s bullshit. Chick is a player. I know firsthand, if you know what I mean.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
Red sighed. What is with this guy? “Do I have to spell it out? Chick rode me like she was roping calves. And it’s not like I’m the only one.”
Campusland: A Novel Page 26