Social Misconduct

  I closed my phone and got up from the curb.

  I should have felt shattered, or been thinking about getting some kind of revenge on Beatrice and Hooknose, but instead I felt cleansed, grateful even. I knew that I had to rely on myself. Better no friends than false friends.

  69

  I tell Simon and Karine that I came up to Scranton to meet a regular client, but things went wrong during our date. He roughed me up and forced me to do things I didn’t want to do. He made me have sex with this skeezy guy who works for him.

  I start crying again. I need time for the roofies to kick in.

  Simon leans forward and speaks quietly.

  “I think you should speak to those guys,” he says.

  Who?

  He nods toward the police, who are behind us.

  Karine agrees.

  “They can help you,” she says.

  That can’t happen. No.

  “Please, no,” I say, looking back and forth at them, trying to show them how they’re worrying me. “What will I tell them? I’m an escort. He’s a local big shot. Who are they going to believe? And I would have to testify. My family would find out what I’ve been doing.”

  I tell them I fled the hotel on foot after his assault on me, only to find myself being pursued by his friend, the scary redneck they saw.

  I thank them yet again for rescuing me, apologize for lying, cry some more and tell them I am headed to Watertown, where I’d never been, to see my sister.

  “I need to stop turning tricks,” I say. “I need to stop doing cocaine. I need to start over.”

  By the end, they’re taking turns consoling me, and promising to drive me to my sister’s house, basically begging me to stop crying.

  70

  The Pandora story was really good.

  It went online at midnight, just after I got back to my apartment after my disastrous visit to Chimmi’s. It immediately buoyed me.

  Lenora opened with the description of my meltdown in the café. If she wasn’t such a good writer, I might have come across as unhinged, but she did such a great job of describing how I’d been victimized that I came across as entirely sympathetic.

  I curled up in bed, clutching my phone, and read it over and over again.

  She didn’t name SoSol but she did write about how the hack was going to make it hard for me to work in social media, and she included some stories about other women whose employers had fired them after this kind of thing.

  The reaction on social was even more heartening. The story went viral as I watched. I could see the number of shares go up each time I refreshed.

  People I didn’t know, all across the country, were posting it and commenting on it. It started with New York feminists, but quickly spread. There were shares from guys in small towns, sports reporters, all kinds of people way outside my normal world.

  The comments were almost universally sympathetic.

  Can’t believe what this girl went through.

  READ THIS.

  This is why we need the death penalty.

  I started to think I could get past this, try to find a new job in a more sympathetic environment. I knew I had the skills. The story could become, in a funny way, an asset. I was becoming a symbol of all victims of social misconduct. I started to think about trying to do some kind of online activism about legal protections for women online.

  I emailed Lenora to tell her how much I liked the story.

  She responded with a thumbs-up emoji and sent me a link to one share, from Wendy, the CNN reporter.

  She emailed me again a few minutes later, though.

  Have you had any contact from SoSol?

  I’ve just had a nasty email from a lawyer. They want the story pulled down. But don’t worry. We lawyered this, asked them for comment. Just thought I should let you know they’re pissed off.

  Wendy also emailed me, to let me know that Anderson was impressed, both by the story and its virality. He was excited about the interview.

  It kind of stung that I’d had to shut down my social accounts, so I couldn’t interact with my supporters and thank them, let them know that their messages meant a lot to me. I decided to use Linda Wainwright’s Twitter account to send a few messages of support.

  I retweeted the story with the comment:

  LOVE THIS! My friend Candace is made of tough stuff!

  I threw in some heart emojis.

  Linda’s followers immediately started to retweet it and a couple of them sent me bland messages of encouragement and for a few minutes, for the first time in days, I started to feel hopeful. Nothing could ever make the picture go away, but it felt empowering to think of all the good wishes, to know that many people wouldn’t blame me or shame me.

  Then there was a reply from @BlackPillForever, who had tweeted mean things about me after the topless pic went up:

  Candace. U dum. Ready to do what you’re told?

  Who knew that Linda was my sock puppet? Someone who hacked me, I guess.

  @BlackPillForever tweeted again:

  I warned you and you didn’t listen. Now you will pay. #RAPE #AQUESTIONOFWHEN #FUN

  He then tweeted my address. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I screencapped the image, blocked him, and opened an incognito browser to try to figure out who he was.

  His tweets were so awful, full of weird MRA jargon I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. I didn’t need to get the finer points to get the message. He hated women, especially attractive young women. One tweet jumped out at me. On June 19 he tweeted two words: Target acquired.

  I did some quick counting. That was the day I downloaded the list from Presumably Declan. Someone had planned this whole scheme. I felt thoroughly chilled. I double-checked the deadbolt on my door, got my biggest knife out of the kitchen, and put it beside my bed. As I lay there, not sleeping, I decided that whatever happened in the big meeting with SoSol, it was time to go to the police.

  71

  I wait ten minutes after we’re back in the car, cruising up the highway, before I ask Simon to pull over.

  “I’m going to be sick!” I say.

  It’s true. My vegan stomach can’t handle the disgusting Denny’s breakfast.

  Simon pulls over by the side of the road and I climb out and promptly vomit into the long grass.

  I drop to my knees and wait, retching and heaving.

  Karine comes and puts her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a bottle of water.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll just be another minute. I don’t want to make a mess in your car.”

  I make myself retch again and gag up some saliva and mucus.

  I look up at her. Am I wrong or is she starting to look drugged? Fingers crossed!

  She wanders back toward the car.

  I drink some water and pray that the roofies do their stuff. I make fake retching noises and wait.

  When I get back to the car, Simon is sitting in the driver’s seat, staring ahead with a funny, dazed look on his face. Karine is in the passenger seat, one leg splayed out the door. The car is beeping.

  A pickup truck whizzes past and startles me, but it doesn’t slow down.

  Karine turns and gives me a drugged-looking smile.

  “Feeling better?” she says.

  “A little. I wonder if it was something in the breakfast. Are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  “No,” she says. “I feel weird.”

  “Come here. I think you’re going to be sick.”

  She takes my hand and lets me lead her to the side of the road. I walk her into the trees and help her sit down on a log.

  I go back for Simon.

  He is in a stupor. I don’t even speak to him. I just open the driver’s door, take him by the arm and lead him, stumble-footed, to the tree line, to join his wife, who is now lying on the mossy forest floor. I plunk him beside her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  72

  I felt terri
ble as the meeting started, so hungover that I was afraid it was obvious to everyone in the room. Maybe they would look at my blanched face and assume that I was just upset, which I was.

  Anyway, I wouldn’t have to speak. Jess had told me on the way up that I had to let her do all the talking. If I wanted to say anything, I should whisper in her ear.

  She gave me an encouraging smile as we sat down on one side of the table.

  On the other side of the table were Rebecca, Alvin, and two men I didn’t know: one middle-aged guy in an expensive suit, and a young, Mediterranean-looking guy in khakis and a golf shirt. The older man had a beautiful watch, diamond cuff links, and a pampered, pale face. The younger man had a ratlike face, with one of those permanent five o’clock shadows. He wore an expensive-looking diving watch.

  Rebecca introduced them.

  “This is Clive Gillespie,” she said, pointing to the older guy. “Of Gillespie, Reynolds, and Cohen.”

  Jess’s face was calm but I could see her shoulders tense and she started to tap her foot. That had to be bad.

  “And this is Uri Deleon,” Rebecca said. “Uri does computer forensics.”

  “Nice to see you again, Candace,” said Alvin, and he gave me an unfriendly smile.

  I ignored him. I didn’t feel good about any of this.

  “Are we ready?” said Rebecca. “Can I get anybody anything?”

  Nobody needed anything.

  Gillespie started the meeting by sliding a letter across the table to Jess.

  “This is to notify you that as of this morning, your client is no longer an employee of SoSol,” he said.

  He gave Jess and me each a cold smile, frowning between the smiles to show that they were unfriendly.

  “See, please, that we are also requesting the return of company property—one laptop and one phone—or, failing that, financial compensation for said items in the amount of $3,782.”

  Jess was staring at him with a blank face.

  “We have reason to believe that the laptop is not going to be returned to us,” he said. “Given what we read this morning in Pandora. So perhaps we can make arrangements now for payment.”

  Jess smiled back at Gillespie, just as quickly as he had smiled at her.

  “Have you contemplated the terms of the separation?” she said. “As you are aware, my client has been severely damaged with a series of online attacks as a result of her employment at SoSol.”

  Gillespie looked as though that confused him.

  “Our payroll department tells us that we owe your sister $894,” he said. “Given the uncertainty about company property, we will withhold that until the matter of the phone and the laptop are settled. We don’t accept that what you call ‘attacks’ on your sister have anything to do with SoSol.”

  Alvin was grinning at me across the table, waggling his eyebrows. I tried not to look at him.

  “Uri,” he said. “Tell her, Uri.”

  Gillespie cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Deleon here is a former IT security analyst for two different Fortune 500 companies. He is a telecommunications security adviser to Shin Bet, the Israeli security agency. He has testified as an expert witness on five occasions in the United States. Mr. Deleon has, at our request, reviewed the electronic record downloaded from the phone that SoSol provided to your client. He is prepared to outline the findings to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gillespie,” Uri said. He looked down as he spoke, referring to notes on his laptop.

  “I was hired on June 21 to review records associated with four alleged incidents of hacking in relation to social media accounts of Ms. Walker. I found no evidence of hacking. Electronic records show that all four incidents were traced to SocialBeast, an app authorized and controlled by Ms. Walker and operated from her personal phone. I conducted a review to ascertain whether any SoSol employees were involved. I was able to conclude, decisively, that none were involved, beyond Ms. Walker.”

  I didn’t think this was going well. Neither, from the expression on her face, did Jess. I wanted to shout: This is crazy. I don’t have a personal phone.

  “I see what you’re proposing,” she said. “Can we discuss this on a without-prejudice basis?”

  “Fine with me,” said Gillespie. “Uri and Rebecca, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”

  As soon as they left, Gillespie started talking again.

  “Look, before you get started, I should tell you that Uri is very good at what he does, and he has found nothing that backs up your client’s story,” he said. “We traced all the so-called harassing texts with Verizon, the provider. We have records of all texts sent and received by your client’s phone, and we can state with 100 percent certainty that SoSol is not responsible.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I felt like curling up into the fetal position and sobbing. To make matters worse, Alvin kept grinning at me.

  “Nobody at SoSol had anything to do with posting those pictures,” Gillespie continued. “If you intend to allege anyone did, I hope that you will provide evidence of that to us, and the sooner the better. I should point out that your client’s interview with Pandora is a clear breach of her employment contract, so you’re starting out on shaky ground.”

  I turned to look at Jess, who had hardly said anything since we entered the room. I needed her to speak up. She gave me a reassuring look and cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Gillespie, you have made a number of unsupported assertions,” she said. “Setting those aside for the moment, there’s also the matter of the workplace environment, in which my client was subjected to a surprisingly wide variety of inappropriate sexual harassment, considering the short time she was employed here. In front of witnesses, Mr. Beaconsfield on two occasions used incredibly crude sexual language, and at one time actually groped my client.

  “Given this behavior, which is shockingly out of step with workplace norms, it’s difficult for my client to take it on faith that nobody here had anything to do with the hacking of her personal photos and their posting on social media, which are bound to have a long-term impact on her career and personal life.”

  Gillespie held up one manicured finger and smiled. This smile seemed actually sincere. Kind. Jess paused.

  “Just so you know, Ms. Walker, we have information that makes us very confident about the source of the social media posts in question.”

  He stared at her.

  “Mr. Beaconsfield and Uri are resourceful. We have evidence that we aren’t at liberty to discuss, but I want you to understand how confident we are regarding these social media posts. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if you pursue this line any further it could be seen as evidence of mental illness. Do you understand me? The facts are on our side. They are assuredly not on your client’s side.”

  Jess was shaking her head.

  “If we take your word for it,” she said.

  “Have you asked your client about her other phone?” he asked. “You don’t have to take my word for it, and you won’t be taking our word for it if we get to discovery.”

  “That’s the way you’re headed,” said Jess. “You’re not going to bluff us out.”

  Alvin started laughing then, opening his enormous mouth and baying with delight.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, putting his finger to his lip. “Sorry. Bad boy. Sorry.”

  He kept giggling, though.

  “Look,” said Gillespie. “We would like to close the door on this. Firmly. We all have better things to do.”

  He took a document from his briefcase and slid it across to Jess.

  “We’re prepared to make a payment, to make this, and your client, go away. You have twenty-four hours to consider it. Any public discussion of the matter and we will withdraw the offer. Okay?”

  Jess looked down at it and frowned. She reluctantly picked it up.

  “This meeting is over. We’ll get back to you.”

  She turned to me and nodded. It was time for us to go. I had
to stand up.

  Gillespie stood up as we did.

  “One thing,” he said. “We need the phone. Now. It belongs to SoSol.”

  Jess glanced at me. I felt weak. She turned to Gillespie.

  “I said we’ll get back to you. We’re done for now.”

  I could hear Alvin giggling as we walked out.

  73

  It feels great to be behind the wheel, moving farther from the city and my past and toward my hopefully brighter future.

  It is about an hour to Watertown from Syracuse. There is no traffic, just me and the sun, the empty road and miles and miles of scraggly-looking softwoods.

  It gives me lots of time to work on my new identity, which, the experience with Simon and Karine has taught me, needs to be a lot tighter.

  I am going to be reborn. The new woman will share as little as possible with the woman I am leaving behind.

  If I want to stay out of court—and I want nothing as badly as that—I have to be brutal with my old self. Eating the disgusting Denny’s breakfast was a good start. I am not vegan anymore. Give me meat.

  I was a redhead. Now I am a blonde. I was snarky and judgmental about music and movies. Now I am open to everything.

  I have to watch my drinking, watch what I say, be slower to speak, listen more. Most people are so consumed with what others think about them that they don’t really doubt what people tell them.

  I have to bank on that, focus on presenting a smooth wall to the world, an identity that nobody would doubt.

  It will be a lot of work, but my future is worth it. Someone has tried to destroy me. The best response, the only response, really, is to make my life a success.

  In a way, I am looking forward to it. In the past, I often felt constrained by others’ expectations of me, by my own expectations of myself. This crisis gives me an opportunity to re-create myself, to be exactly who I choose to be.

  I will write the story of my own past. I will become a character of my own creation. Most people go through their lives buffeted this way and that by their environments, their families, their friends, their economic and social circumstances.