Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  Silencing.

  But nobody read the article, so she stayed a junior reporter on the beat nobody else wanted, and her editor still treated her like she spent her nights listening to the scanner.

  Someday she’d find her breakthrough story. She just hadn’t thought it would be this messy.

  Sam hasn’t pressed charges. Didn’t save evidence. And her rapist’s dad works on Wall Street.

  Untangling all the little complexities takes Harper the whole drive home, and it only gets bigger and uglier.

  First complication: Sam has to tell someone.

  Harper can already hear her boss Mark’s voice saying, There’s gotta be a court case. People want to see justice.

  She can work on that part. Cities aren’t built in a night.

  But for now, one foot in front of the other. Transcribe the interview. Make calls, verify details. Write a draft.

  Transcribing the interview takes hours. Sam’s voice is quiet and restrained, so Harper has to replay some parts two or three times to get it all.

  The transcription fills dozens of pages. She stops around three because she needs a change of pace, and she starts searching online for Waldo Wilson. He’s her first target for verifying Sam’s story—and Scully’s history of abuse.

  Surprisingly, Waldo doesn’t have any profiles anywhere. Weren’t teenagers heavy social media users now? Having a prominent parent must make someone keep pretty private.

  When words on the screen start to blur, Harper stops searching. After writing up a short pitch for Mark, she sets aside her computer, recorder, and notebook and crawls into bed.

  If only Sam had been able to give her a bit more, describe the rape in the same detail as she described her school, or the Mixer, or Scully. The article needs that gruesome detail to hit home, as much as that hurts.

  The phone gives a little ding! A new email at three in the morning?

  TO: Harper Brooks (hbrooks@nyinspector.com)

  FROM: Sam Barker (sbterrier@shmail.com)

  SUBJECT: Additional materials

  I debated a long time about whether to show this to you. But after meeting you, I think you should see.

  I started an anonymous Tumblr the day I started at Edwards. I was going to document private school life for people outside. Maybe write some funny, pithy things that would get shared around.

  Harper leans forward in bed, bringing her phone screen close to her face. It’s as if Sam has been reading her mind.

  It was the only place I could get personal and real. No one found it except a few strangers.

  Here’s the link:

  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com.

  After a while it became the only place I could really write what I was feeling.

  This can’t go public. It would be easy to trace back to me. I’m only sending it hoping that it’ll make your work easier—so you can publish the story without revealing my identity.

  There were some things in here I didn’t know how to say to you. I hope this gives you what you need.

  Harper clicks through the link.

  Page after page of posts, from newest to oldest. The first one drops her in at the worst part—Sam trying to get through life at school after Scully raped her.

  Harper goes backward. She reads one where Scully asks Sam, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Harper’s whole body contracts, drawing away from the glowing screen. She feels a phantom ache in her stomach as she reads.

  It’s almost dawn when Harper reaches the old Sam, way back at the beginning, who was so eager to start at her new school. Who was bright, shining, optimistic.

  Harper swallows back a lump in her throat. She makes a few notes to herself of new details. There’s so much Sam never said out loud in the interview—how she and her roommate were both artists. The girls who got caught smoking pot, but no one outside Isabel House found out.

  That’s how the honor code demands their silence. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

  This is one of those stories you have to carry out perfectly, with exacting precision. If only she was covering college basketball instead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HARPER

  Harper’s not surprised when she gets into the office and finds a note on her desk from her editor, Mark.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he says in his usual too-loud way when she enters his office. He gestures four times at the open chair.

  “Good morning to you, too,” says Harper, dropping into the chair.

  “I read your pitch.”

  “I figured—”

  “Michael Chapman’s son, huh.” Mark doesn’t say it like a question, though it is. He spins halfway around so he’s facing his computer.

  “Do you know that Mike Chapman is worth $4.5 billion?” Mark asks. Before Harper can answer, he says, “I do. Because I looked him up. Did you look him up?”

  Mark’s a good editor: He catches her mistakes; he pushes her to push her sources; he backed her up when the university story got some blowback. But it’s like pressing tiny wood stakes under her fingernails when he starts to talk to her like she’s a small, unintelligent child.

  “No,” says Harper. “I thought the article was about Scully, not Mike.”

  “Of course it’s about Mike. If you write this, the way you’re framing it—‘Rich Private School Boys Take Whatever They Want, No Apologies’ is what this headline should read—it will definitely be about Mike. It’ll be about every rich daddy who sends his kid to Edwards Academy, and they’ll come out for our blood.”

  “So, do you want me to drop it?” she asks, almost hoping he’ll say yes. She could do a hot think piece about her three days using Tinder in Brooklyn instead.

  “You have other sources to confirm the girl’s story?” Mark says.

  “Working on it.”

  “If you can corroborate the big stuff,” he says, “then I think it could be a bombshell story. But.”

  The word but stands between them like a brick wall.

  “She has to press charges and try justice before we run this,” he says.

  Duh. “I know,” Harper starts. “But she doesn’t—”

  “I’m just as inclined as any editor to want to jump on a good story,” he says. “But this isn’t just rape; it’s statutory. The DA might press charges. The school will have something to say about this whole hazing allegation.” He waggles a finger at her. “We’ll be right at the center of the crossfire if we push out this story too soon, before the wheels of justice can start moving. You know, CYA.”

  Yes, she knows. Cover Your Ass.

  Harper simmers while she thinks of what to say next. It’s not that simple. Except Mark doesn’t leave her room even to speak. “Talk to this girl and get her to come forward—to the school or the DA. That trial is the story.”

  Harper can see what he’s thinking already—the court theater, a school in uproar. A scandal that they can run with for weeks. It’s a thin shot considering how rarely the DA takes on rape cases, but covering a controversial court case is the kind of thing that wins Pulitzers.

  “Court or not, it still revolves around Scully Chapman,” Harper says. “A story doesn’t exist without outing him as the rapist.”

  “Is he eighteen?” Mark asks. Before she can reply, he says, “Find out. If you do this the smart way, the negative publicity could help put this guy away. Like you want.” She never said that was what she wanted, but he’s not wrong.

  Mark points to the door, effectively dismissing her. Harper knows her way out.

  “One more thing,” he calls after her. Harper leans back into the office. “Don’t be afraid to walk away if you need to, if something feels off. You’re on the hook if anything goes wrong.”

  As if she’d stick around in this viper pit—but she says nothing. Then he waves her off, and Harper hurries back to her desk, eager to escape from the weight of Mark’s condescension.

  Harper pulls up her transcription, looking for some way she can c
onvince Sam that it’s in her best interest to reach out to the police. To tell her parents.

  “Yeah,” Harper mutters to herself, thinking of Sam’s blog, where the last few entries read like broken glass held together with Scotch tape. “Like that’ll happen.”

  -----------------------

  SAM

  I’m holed up in the library, breathing the same recycled air as the dozen other kids sitting at our huge table. I’m covered in sweat. I have never been so nervous about anything in my life.

  Not my upcoming exam. That interview. Telling that reporter everything yesterday . . . I still can’t believe I sent her the blog link. I couldn’t hit the button until three or four in the morning, when I was so tired that it didn’t mean anything anymore. Now every one of my nerves is pulled tight as a guitar string, ready for whatever happens next.

  The other kids go over discussion questions and quiz each other on dates, but it flows over me like white noise.

  When will this explode? I got scared when Harper said she’d call people from school. The blog was risky enough, but a reporter asking around about what I said, even if she doesn’t mention my name . . . if she asks the wrong questions, someone will connect the dots.

  What then? Will people who saw me at the Mixer with Scully, or spotted us together at the Roast, believe me? They might say they’re my friends, but we’re all Edwardians first. And Scully is our King.

  But if this goes public in a newspaper, the school will have to act. If they want to preserve their image, they’ll have to kick Scully out, won’t they? Edwards can’t afford the bad publicity. And without Scully hanging between us anymore, Gracie will definitely come back to school. It might be hard for me here for a few months, but Scully’s reputation will be destroyed. The public schools will deny him, and his daddy will have to hire a private tutor.

  Hot, silvery vengeance shoots through me, coating me in a protective layer of Kevlar. I can take on anyone, endure anything, while I wear this.

  Maybe I should bring an official complaint—whatever Harper called it. But then it might just stay inside Edwards, and Scully would just go on to college to find other victims.

  Harper’s got to back down from this “going to the cops” thing. Maybe it’ll be enough that she talks to a couple people, verifies the details, feels confident that I’m telling the truth. She believes in justice, too. I can tell.

  We could be a pair of avenging angels.

  My computer, where I’ve been taking notes and writing essay answers, lets out a bonk. A new email.

  It’s from Harper.

  I go to the bathroom and open it on my phone so no one can read it over my shoulder.

  TO: Sam Barker (sbterrier@shmail.com)

  FROM: Harper Brooks (hbrooks@nyinspector.com)

  SUBJECT: Moving forward with your story

  Sam,

  Hope you’re doing well. Thank you for sharing your story with me, and your very personal blog. I know how hard it was for you to share it, but it will help me flesh out the details and sell this story to my editor.

  I need your help contacting a few individuals you mentioned in our interview to corroborate some details, such as Waldo Wilson. Can you provide me with his school email address, or a phone number?

  Also, was S.C. under eighteen, or over eighteen, when it happened?

  I know you want this to run in order to protect other women—I share this goal with you. But what would really inspire so many girls is if you came forward. Of course I’ll keep you anonymous, and the police will protect your identity as a victim.

  I have to let you know that the paper can’t run the piece unless you’ve taken this step. I know you have reservations, but this is our best and only way forward to justice.

  I’ll be safeguarding all the information you gave me like my life depends on it.

  Best,

  Harper Brooks

  When I’ve finished reading the email, my breath comes fast. I push down the fury working its way up to the top like lava.

  She never mentioned all this stuff about the police in her first email. I’ve watched plenty of Law & Order with Mom—regular girl versus wealthy Wall Street mogul? The court case will be drawn-out and painful.

  No. It can’t go like this. I need to get my hands back on the wheel of this car.

  I leave the bathroom and ponder Harper’s email for a good hour. Back in my dorm room, I start typing up a reply.

  TO: Harper Brooks (hbrooks@nyinspector.com)

  FROM: Sam Barker (sbterrier@shmail.com)

  SUBJECT: RE: Moving forward with your story

  I’ve thought long and hard about this answer. I promise, I really have.

  Even if I did go to the cops, the case won’t go anywhere—you know that. They never do. It’s my word against his. Words, words, words. I can’t do that to my family.

  And by the way, Scully is eighteen. That’s why going to the cops is such a terrible idea. It’ll blow up in my face if they can try him as an adult.

  I don’t want to bring someone like Mike Chapman down on me and my family because I ruined his son’s life.

  -----------------------

  HARPER

  Harper’s on her way to meet some friends at the corner bar when her phone dings. She yanks it out and sucks in a breath when she sees who sent the new email.

  Its contents are pretty much what she expected.

  . . . ruined his son’s life.

  What about the way his son ruined Sam’s life?

  Chapman can keep people quiet before they even open their mouths.

  Harper growls to herself and shoves the phone back in her pocket. That silencing tactic should be enough reason for Mark to publish this story.

  Isn’t that the point of journalism? To dig up the illegal stuff that people are trying to hide?

  -----------------------

  SAM

  I jolt upright out of reflex, and it startles me awake. I straighten my shoulders and rub my eyes with one fist.

  I’ve been doing this all night—falling asleep without realizing it, then all the caffeine kicks in again and I jump awake. The text on the printed study packet bleeds like someone spilled water on it. I shake my head and start reading the paragraph over from the beginning. It’s so hard to pay attention in this quiet, empty room that used to belong to me and Gracie: where she’d sit and eat Twizzlers while reading in her textbook; where we’d watch stupid TV shows on her computer when we were done with our homework, bundled up in all our blankets.

  Now I’m a stranger in this room with its whitewashed brick walls and brown, Scotchgard-sprayed carpet.

  The day we all got back to school, Jean came to tell me that Gracie wasn’t returning. I hid her note.

  “The whole room is yours until summer,” Jean had said.

  When I asked her why Gracie wasn’t coming back, Jean confessed that she didn’t know. But she didn’t seem too concerned.

  How come I’m the only one who’s worried about Gracie?

  I’ve called a dozen times, but she never answers. I also write her emails.

  Please come back. I miss you.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything.

  I can’t be here alone.

  Please answer me. I don’t want to do this by myself.

  Gracie?

  Gracie, please write back.

  What if something bad has happened? Maybe someone is watching her, keeping tabs on her, and that’s why she doesn’t return my calls or emails. What if Scully is intentionally trying to keep us apart? To keep me vulnerable? I know it sounds paranoid, but I can’t help it. The only remnant of her I have left is an old sketchbook of hers that must have fallen under her bed when she moved out.

  My phone rings, and I almost fall backward in my chair. When I check the screen, the number has a New York City area code. Harper.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “How are you?” Harper asks, sounding upbeat and friendly.

  I don’t respond,
because the answer right now would be too long.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your email yesterday,” Harper continues, despite my silence. “I want you to know that I hear your concerns about coming forward.”

  I bite my lip. I know what’s coming.

  “But I absolutely can’t write the story without you telling some authority figure,” Harper says. “Try the school grievance system first. Under Title IX sexual assault laws, they’re not allowed to retaliate.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Title Whatever,” I whisper into the phone. No—she needs to think that the article is the only way forward. “Mike Chapman is Edwards Academy’s biggest donor. They wouldn’t punish his son, no matter what.”

  “Then go to the police,” says Harper.

  “Who has more money for lawyers?” I ask. “Scully, or me?”

  “You don’t need a lawyer,” Harper says. “The district attorney would take the case. That’s their job.”

  “I’m still sure he has better lawyers.”

  “Sam.” I hear her take a deep breath. “Scully can’t buy his innocence. He thinks he can—that’s why he keeps doing this. Because people let him get away with it.”

  “That’s why I contacted you in the first place,” I say, frustrated that she can’t see the obvious. “So he won’t keep getting away with it.”

  “We have to give the justice system a chance to work before we can call it out for not working.”

  “No.” My voice is hard and unyielding, as I’d hoped. I’m not letting Harper think she can change my mind about this. “You said all you needed to publish my story was to corroborate some details,” I say. “So call Waldo. Get what you need. And write it like you promised.”

  “I’m really sorry you read my email as a promise,” Harper says. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

  Right. Whatever.

  “I wish I could change it,” Harper says to my resolute silence. “But my editor won’t back this story unless—”

  “Fine,” I say between my teeth. “Throw me under the bus. Forget about me.”

  Just like everyone else will. Like Scully already has.