by KG MacGregor
He drew a small notepad from his chest pocket. “I know he’s about five-nine with dark hair and a mustache with flecks of gray. That puts him at forty-five or so, and he had a couple of bars on his collar. Probably makes him a sergeant.”
“But he was too shy to leave his name. What do you make of that?”
“Raynelle…that’s the nurse’s name, Raynelle Willis. I knew her back when I was at APD and she worked over at Emory. She said the cops treated this case like it was a big emergency, like they were really going to nail those guys. She couldn’t believe it when I told her they never even filed charges.”
So he knew Harwood’s rape specialist from his days on the police force. And apparently he’d wanted to make a good impression on her, since he’d cleaned himself up.
“And by the way, Raynelle couldn’t tell me much because of the privacy laws, but she let it slip that Hayley Burkhart showed signs of sexual trauma consistent with multiple assailants.”
Theo did her best to fight off a visible shudder.
“So the police now have the rape kit?” Jalinda asked as she started a new page of notes.
“Funny you should ask.” He leafed through his notepad. “After I talked to Raynelle, I called Bobby Hill at the police station, my rookie contact. He took a look around the evidence room, including their cold storage. I’ll give you three guesses what’s not there. These guys’ve got some brass ones, all right.”
The conspiracy grew more brazen at every turn. Everyone involved in the case was acting with impunity, certain there would be no accounting. Even Celia, who’d witnessed the duplicity firsthand, would be shocked to know the coverup ran so deep.
* * *
Celia arranged her dinner on a tray with a small salad and glass of chardonnay. Her evening ritual—a “gourmet” meal in a disposable dish from the microwave, eaten in front of the evening news.
The teaser had promised a story about the salary discrepancies between male and female nurses, which was in the news because of a recent national study. Ever since she’d read about Theo and the work of her law firm, anything remotely related to equal rights for women got her attention. But she hadn’t expected Theo’s face to suddenly fill half her screen alongside that of the baritone news anchor.
“…if you could explain why these researchers concluded this is the result of systemic bias. What exactly does that mean?”
Theo’s response was delayed by a couple of seconds while his question transmitted over the airwaves. “Right, systemic bias involves human systems, such as those in place at work, at school or within a consumer transaction. One of the ways it manifests in the workplace is when employees are judged not by their skills, knowledge and performance, but by their characteristics—in this case, by their gender. The importance of this study is that it proves men in the nursing profession are paid more than women across the board for the exact same jobs, even when their skill sets and experience are identical.”
The blue blouse picked up the color of her eyes, which looked especially bright in the studio lights. Small white earrings that matched her necklace peeked out beneath her blond hair. She truly was an attractive woman, worthy of her vaunted inclusion on People magazine’s list.
The news anchor challenged her in a voice that suggested he took her implications personally. “There’s a counterargument however, one that says their jobs aren’t identical, that men are called on to perform more physical tasks, such as lifting patients or controlling those who become unruly.”
With a hint of a condescending smile, Theo waited patiently for him to finish. “Female nurses are called on also for such duties, but they aren’t paid extra when they do them. In fact, they perform the same jobs as male nurses day in and day out. Some may even be physically stronger than men, but the point is we don’t measure their strength and use those results to set their salaries. Let’s assume we did, however. No matter where they scored on the strength measure, they’d still be required to lift patients and perform other physical duties. For those who scored lower, the work would be more difficult. What sense would it make to pay them less?”
The anchor tried to jump back into the conversation but Theo hardly took a breath.
“In our society, women more than men are socialized to nurture others and dispense compassion, qualities that are universally recognized as essential in the nursing profession. Yet they aren’t paid more for possessing those qualities. It goes without saying there are plenty of nurturing, compassionate men, just as there are women who are physically strong. But studies have documented that men aren’t called on as often as women for emotional support. Why is it we value physical strength over compassion when we assess someone’s worth?”
“Zing!” Celia shouted.
“Furthermore,” Theo went on, “women are far more likely to experience social assaults in the workplace or abusive treatment from patients, doctors and administrators. Yet female nurses who have to put up with those things are paid less—more than five thousand dollars a year on average. That amounts to as much as two hundred thousand over a career, twice that when you consider the lost opportunity to grow wealth. That’s blatant sex discrimination, all because the systems in which nurses work overvalue the perceived skills of men while undervaluing those of women. Such discrimination is against the law.”
With cold, hard facts, Theo had practically laid out a legal case for the taking. The news anchor could only manage a contemptuous scowl as he grudgingly thanked her and introduced the commercial break.
Celia hit the rewind button and watched the interview again, paying special attention to Theo’s emphatic expressions and confident voice. She was almost robotic—fact, fact, fact, fact, conclusion. An unbending pragmatist, she’d shut down the anchorman’s argument with the same bluntness as she’d dismissed any notion of dating Celia. While it wasn’t exactly endearing, there was a certain appeal to her candor and precision when it was directed toward someone else.
Admittedly, she’d become frustrated with Theo’s professional demeanor. Their only contact since talking on the phone the day she dropped off Michael’s thumb drive had come through her administrative assistant, Penny Lowrey—confirmation they were proceeding with the case and thanks for setting up the meeting with Michael and his boyfriend. Not a word about what she’d learned from their interview. Considering how deeply Celia was invested in the case, she surely deserved to be kept in the loop.
But it wasn’t only case updates she wanted. Now that Theo had briefly opened the door, she wanted to throw the rules out the window. If not now, then she wanted a promise for later when the case was over. Women like Theo didn’t come along every day. Or every decade.
Chapter Seven
“Right here’s fine,” Theo told the Uber driver as she passed him an extra five bucks.
Parking on Harwood’s campus was nearly impossible for visitors, even now that spring semester was officially over. At least the ride from her office in the backseat had given her time to review Jalinda’s notes on the woman she was set to meet. Sarah Holcomb, Hayley’s sorority sister and roommate, the girl who’d found her in the shower. She was a junior from Chattanooga majoring in computer science.
According to Michael, Sarah had been supportive of Hayley after the rape, unlike some of her sisters.
Jalinda was waiting at the designated meeting point, sitting on a low wall that lined the sidewalk in front of Jackson Library. “She’s waiting for us in a study room on the third floor.”
For someone who seldom interacted socially with co-workers, Jalinda had an uncanny ability to relate to total strangers. Her no-nonsense approach made them feel as if they were compelled to answer, when in fact, their testimony wasn’t required unless they’d been served a subpoena.
“Is she cooperative?”
“Traumatized is more like it. I got the feeling she found it therapeutic to talk about it.”
To blend in better on campus, Theo had dressed down for the day in ankle pants and a lig
ht blazer with the sleeves pushed up. No doubt the university would take umbrage at her trespassing so she could gather information to sue them.
Sarah sat behind a small table facing the door. “Just a second,” she said in greeting as she finished messaging on her phone.
Jalinda set up the recorder and readied herself with a blank legal pad while Theo studied their subject. She looked like hundreds of coeds on Harwood’s campus—trim and athletic with straight dark hair pulled tight in a ponytail. A starter on the volleyball team, according to Jalinda’s notes.
“All done.” She set her phone aside. “I guess you want to talk about Hayley. Do I need a lawyer or anything? I’m just a witness, right?”
“That’s correct. We’re just trying to get some background information about Hayley’s state of mind last spring. We’re talking with lots of people who knew her.” Theo introduced herself as an attorney representing the family. “Jalinda tells me you and Hayley were roommates.”
“Just this past year. Not best friends or anything, but we got along okay. I was the one who found her in the shower.”
They listened patiently as she described her personal aftermath of Hayley’s suicide. To this day, Sarah felt guilty for being wrapped up in a “stupid” basketball game while Hayley suffered. And still wishing she could have done something to help her.
Through a series of probing questions, Theo got some of what she needed—confirmation that Hayley’s overall demeanor had changed dramatically in late February.
“She started doing everything with Michael Fitzgerald, a guy she knew from the drama department. He wasn’t her boyfriend or anything like that. Everybody knew he was gay. But he was a nice guy…I met him a few times. He was practically the only one she’d talk to. She came back to the room a couple of times and it was obvious she’d been crying. Or she’d be really quiet like she was worrying about something. It was like that for three or four days before she finally told us what happened.”
According to Gloria’s research, it wasn’t unusual for women to keep their sexual assaults secret. The stigma attached to being a rape victim was more than some could bear.
“You seem certain of the date. Why does it stand out for you?”
“It was right before spring break. She was supposed to come with us to Daytona but she backed out at the last minute. And wouldn’t say why at first. But then she did.”
“How did the other women react when she told them about the rape?”
Sarah’s face fell. “Not everybody believed her. It happened at a party—most of us were there, and everybody was pretty wasted. People always celebrate after big games. Things get kind of wild, you know? You lose control…you forget stuff. Nobody saw anything like what she said happened.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“That she went with Michael, but he ran into somebody he knew. Probably a guy. The last thing she remembered was talking to Morgan Hunter and me right after she got there. Morgan’s in our sorority too. She lives two doors down on our hall.”
“Do you remember that conversation? With Hayley and Morgan, I mean.”
“Yeah, we were standing by the big TV.”
The more details, the better. “Was Hayley drinking anything?”
“We all were. There was a big table near the door where they were passing out drinks when you came in.”
Theo turned to Jalinda. “Go back to the people we’ve talked to already and see if anyone has photos from the party. It would be good to know who was handing out those drinks.”
“I can answer that,” Sarah said, suddenly sitting up straight. “It was Ruben Vargas. They always make him do stuff like that, serve drinks and clean up, on account of he’s a freshman.”
Vargas was a reserve shooting guard, not otherwise implicated in the assault.
“I still want photos, Jalinda. Anything you can get.” To Sarah, she said, “About Hayley’s story…did you believe her when she said she was assaulted?”
“Not at first. Sawyer Niles—she’s our president—she thought Hayley was being a drama queen, like she was playing a role. And a couple of them, like Morgan, kept telling her not to say anything because the guys could get kicked off the team.”
So far, it was completely consistent with what Hayley had revealed in her messages with Michael.
“The thing is, we were all there and nobody saw anything. But I do remember she stayed out all night. It wasn’t like her to do that. And then later she said somebody made a video of it—the rape, I mean—but she never showed it to any of us. I honestly didn’t know what to think, but it was obvious to me Hayley believed she was assaulted,” she mumbled, her voice hardened with regret. “I could have been a better friend about it.”
As Sarah paused to compose her cracking voice, Jalinda produced a bottle of water from her shoulder bag.
The young woman went on to describe the party atmosphere in detail. Lots of booze and loud music, everyone in a joyous mood because they’d just beaten Vanderbilt. She couldn’t recall seeing Hayley when the party began to break up.
Leaving aside the fact that being wasted meant a woman was incapable of giving consent, there was still a question of how much alcohol Hayley had consumed. According to Michael, she wasn’t into it.
“Did Hayley drink a lot?”
“Not that I knew of. I never saw her drunk or anything. Or even buzzed. She wasn’t much of a partier. She only went to things like that because it was a sorority event for all of us to go together—she was a good sister that way—but she usually left parties early, especially the wild ones.”
Theo pressed on. “Did Hayley have any boyfriends? Did she ever talk about her sexual experiences?”
Sarah shook her head. “The only guy she ever mentioned having a crush on was Michael. That was her freshman year before she found out he was into dudes. But let’s face it—even if she’d wanted to have sex with somebody, it wouldn’t have been with three guys at the same time. That’s what she said, that they took turns. I can tell you, she wasn’t like that at all.”
It wasn’t enough to get Sarah’s opinion. Theo needed examples of things Hayley had said or done that supported that characterization. With prodding, Sarah recounted conversations about dating and sex, the sort of girl talk roommates shared when they were drifting off to sleep.
“Tell me what you remember about Hayley’s behavior in the weeks after the incident. Was she depressed? Angry? Frustrated?”
“All of those. Some days she was hysterical. Like the day they called her from the dean’s office. I was sitting right there with her in the room. They told her how serious it was to make false allegations…something like that. She could be expelled.”
That also tracked with the other evidence from her notes to Michael. Sarah’s independent corroboration was an important addition, but not a smoking gun. A threat delivered by phone could have come from anyone—an administrator, a coach or even another student who wanted to protect the basketball program.
“One of her professors told her to go see a therapist so she did. Three or four times maybe. I don’t think it helped all that much though. Her prof was going to report what happened to the chancellor. But nothing ever came of it—they didn’t do anything at all.”
As a last effort to confirm the version of events Celia and Michael had cobbled together, she asked for the names of everyone in their sorority who might have talked with Hayley about what happened. In particular, she needed to substantiate the claim that Hayley’s state of mind deteriorated as a direct result of the school’s inaction. That was critical in order to hold the university responsible for her death.
“…and Jordan Cooke. Now there’s somebody you really ought to talk to. She’s a Chi Omega but we’re all friends. She was super pissed about it on account of it happened to her too, like a month ago. Not a whole bunch of guys like Hayley, but he did practically the same thing—put something in her drink while they were watching the tournament at Theta Pi house.”
&
nbsp; “A month ago, you say.” The timeline was striking, but not as much as the fact that Jordan Cooke also had been drugged. “Did she report it?”
“Why bother? She saw how they handled Hayley. Those guys know all they have to do is say it was consensual. That’s it. No more questions.”
Theo looked at Jalinda, who nodded as she furiously made notes. They definitely wanted to talk to Jordan Cooke.
* * *
Celia cleared a corner of her desk for the cardboard box. “I appreciate this, Duncan. I packed that way too heavy to carry all the way from the faculty parking lot.”
Duncan had been eager to help in any way he could, though his brown-nosing was for naught. She’d already submitted her final grades for the semester.
“Anything else I can do?” he asked.
“Relax already. You got a B-minus.”
He pumped his fist and said a silent prayer skyward.
“But I’ll be honest with you. A lot of that was for effort and for turning in your work on time. Acting requires a fair bit of natural aptitude, and I don’t really think it’s your grace. If you’re set on a career in the performing arts, you might want to look on the business side.”
“Don’t worry. I promise not to sign up for any more of your classes. I’m a broadcast journalism major. I thought it would help if I had some performance experience, but Shakespeare doesn’t exactly jibe with SportsCenter.”
“And vice versa,” she added with a chuckle.
As she arranged the research materials on her desk, she took another opportunity to look at the embossed letter that had arrived that morning in campus mail. Her promotion to full professor had been approved by Harwood’s board of trustees, effective immediately. Finally, she could breathe a sigh of relief.
“You want me to unpack this for you?” Duncan asked, indicating the box.
“Sure, just stack it all on that middle shelf for now. Thank you.”
The migration from home to office was routine, and one of the few days she drove her car to campus. During spring and fall semesters, she kept regular office hours but did most of her scholarly work at home where she wouldn’t be interrupted. Summers were different. With the Fowler twins next door out of school for the summer, her office in Forbes Hall was quieter. Since there was nothing on her teaching schedule, she could come and go as she pleased and work undisturbed on campus. The third edition of her widely-used text, The Television Actor’s Handbook, was due back to the publisher by the end of August. She’d submitted the book as the centerpiece of her promotion packet.