by Anita Hill
Senator Simpson used the letters solicited from the fraternity members to stage his dramatic claim. “I have all kinds of incriminating stuff coming over the transom. I’ve got letters hanging out of my pocket,” he said, flapping his jacket. “I’ve got faxes, I’ve got statements from her former law professors, statements from people that know her, statements from Tulsa, Oklahoma, saying, ‘Watch out for this woman.’ But nobody’s got the guts to say that, because it gets tangled up in this sexual harassment crap. I believe that sexual harassment is a terrible thing … [but] I don’t need any test, don’t need anybody to give me the saliva test on whether one believes more or less about sexual harassment … So if we had one hundred and four days to go into Ms. Hill and find out about her character, her background, her proclivities, and all the rest, I’d feel a lot better about this system.”
To say that Senator Simpson was doing his typical grandstanding with the solicited canned information is to miss the point. Simpson was restating claims he had raised about my character and raising new ones as well as denigrating the whole concept of sexual harassment. When asked by the press to support this allegation, Senator Simpson declined. But the purpose of his jacket-flapping display was not to prove any of the contents of the documents which he purported to have, so much as to put the idea in the mind of the public that it could not trust me to be truthful. Moreover, no one with an honest understanding of the seriousness of sexual harassing behavior could have called it “sexual harassment crap,” as Simpson did then, or distinguished its pain from that of “real harassment,” as he had done earlier. And in advising that the committee should have one hundred and four days to look into my background, as it had to review Thomas’, Simpson must have forgotten that I was not being considered for the Supreme Court. I was not being scrutinized for a position of public trust. I was simply giving evidence as a witness. No one else acting in that role had ever been scrutinized or had to be qualified in such a manner. In one statement, no part of which was made in my presence or objected to by the chairman of the committee, Senator Simpson questioned my background, character, and “proclivities.” Journalist William Safire later gave definition to the term “proclivities,” lest there be any doubt that Simpson was questioning my sexual orientation and following up on earlier efforts to get Oral Roberts law students to state that I was a lesbian.
On Sunday Senator Simpson suggested that there should be an investigation of me—to discover my “proclivities.” As if to follow that lead and notwithstanding the lack of relevance to the issue of harassment, Lynn Duke, one of the reporters at The Washington Post, telephoned Keith Henderson seeking verification that I was a lesbian who had had an affair with my roommate in Washington. Henderson took her to task for resorting to the same myths that the senators had to explain the claim. The senators’ actions were explainable: their political agenda was more important than painting a clear picture of the nature of the problem. However, the Post, whose objective was to inform the public, in stooping to the same tactics, was irresponsible. Even if the claims about my sexual orientation had been true, in pursuing the information the newspaper seemed only interested in satisfying the public about intensely private matters, unrelated to the claim. The investigation resembled so closely voyeuristic tabloid journalism as to be indistinguishable. Unfortunately, Duke was not the only reporter to pursue this approach to the story.
By Saturday afternoon, after the “high-tech lynching” claim, it appeared as though none of the members of the committee were my allies. And with the media blitz organized and executed by the Republicans, even time was against me. In pensive moments I listened to what was going on before me and wondered how it might have turned out differently. How might I have avoided being sucked into the nastiness that I was witnessing? Had I refused to participate when called or lied when questioned, might the whole matter have ended in September? At one point I closed myself into the bedroom of the hotel suite and started to cry. Almost instantly, however, I reminded myself that it would do no good for me to fall apart at this point. I pulled myself together and returned to the living room area where Shirley Wiegand was preparing for the following week’s classes. When called, I did what most citizens confronted with such a situation would do. Having made the decision to disclose what I knew, I had to complete it no matter how badly the process was failing. I just prayed to live through the next few days.
Though the team had been apprehensively hopeful, after my testimony on Friday, less than twenty-four hours later we felt we had been crushed. Thomas had concluded his second day of testimony. The Republicans had stepped up their crusade to shatter any chance that the substance of my complaint be heard by bombarding the media and committee with false information and taking control of the process. We were clearly outnumbered, outfinanced, and, in terms of media and political sophistication, outfinessed. On Saturday, October 12, my time for reflection was scarce, and it was certain that no official was going to rein in a process that had become devoid of balance and even lacking in civility or decency. With little time to second-guess or ponder the past decisions, I had to act to protect myself from the attack being waged.
Despite my own isolation, the lawyers and other volunteers were working to establish some way of responding to the attack. Clearly, to go on simply denying the negative assertions of the senators was to give them a credibility they did not deserve and to allow their allegations to set the terms of the discussion. As much as my attorneys, Emma Coleman Jordan, Sue Ross, and Charles Ogletree, had tried to protect my testimony in case I was called again, and as eloquently as they had spoken on my behalf, I could no longer remain outside of the fray of the events. We needed some positive act in order to reverse the downward turn of the process, and the circumstances demanded that I be the one to take it. With some hesitance in his voice, Ogletree reminded me that I had told the committee that I would be willing to take a polygraph examination. “Would you still be willing to do so?” he questioned. At that moment I was thinking like a client and not like a lawyer. Had I been a lawyer advising a client in a legal proceeding, I would have discouraged her from doing so, because of the risk of manipulation of the results. “Sure,” the client in me who wanted some exoneration responded readily.
Charles Ogletree arranged for the examination. He was thinking like the seasoned criminal lawyer he is, and thus was the one who had qualms about the decision to go forward with the polygraph examination. And as he would report to me afterward, he hardly slept on the Saturday night before the examination.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Sunday morning I dressed to go to an undisclosed location; to take an unfamiliar examination; to be administered by someone whom I did not know. I had taken many exams in my life—to enter college, law school, professional life. I had always prepared for the examination for weeks before taking them, but over the past few days I began to believe that life turns on the unanticipated—those things that we do not even contemplate and therefore cannot plan. That the credibility, reputation, and future that I had so thoughtfully planned for might turn on an examination which I had only the night before decided to take seemed ironic but fitting in light of the occurrences of the previous days.
I received three telephone calls before I left the hotel to take the examination. One was from Sonia Jarvis, who called to give me a scripture for my reading Sunday morning. The Reverend Beecher Hicks called to share a scripture with me as well and to pray with me. He and Reverend Harris, who had come by the caucus room to minister to my family, had graciously arranged to have cars to take my family to his church, the Metropolitan Baptist Church, a predominantly African American church in Washington, D.C. I was later relieved that my family not only enjoyed the sermon but was warmly received by the congregation.
After Thomas’ “high-tech lynching” comment and the charges of conspiracy, I worried that the manipulation of racial sentiments in the black community might be turned against my family. They were easily identifiable after their appeara
nce on television on Friday and owing to a strong family resemblance. On Saturday, as they shopped in Georgetown, strangers asked their identity. The press had been following them, and my brother Ray says that he saw the same Secret Service man throughout the weekend at various spots throughout the city. But after their visit to the Metropolitan, where they were welcomed, my immediate concerns about their well-being were relieved.
The third call came from a group of friends, Ronald Allen and Gary Phillips, two law school classmates, and Keith Henderson. Ronald Allen had been involved in the hearings as a legal adviser to Judge Hoerchner. The three were down the hallway in the hotel where I was staying and wanted a chance to visit with me. They were visibly distressed, looking as though they hadn’t slept much the night before. They had been behind the scenes in the caucus room and knew that the proceedings had taken a pro-Thomas direction. Moreover, they felt that the core legal team had not chosen a successful strategy. I had been close with Gary and Keith when I lived in Washington and had shared some of the information just prior to the press story. The experience they were now having, both up front and behind the scenes, deeply pained them. They suggested that I take a more proactive posture, bypassing the committee, if necessary, in order to be heard by the public. Realizing that they were in agony on my behalf, it was difficult to dismiss them. In retrospect, given the extent to which things had collapsed, they were right to question the “strategy” of our team. Though they deserved some assurance, I could not give them any. The media attention and the Republicans’ campaign were such that the fewer people aware of the polygraph examination, the better.
Gary and Keith, particularly as Washington residents with contacts with the federal government, recognized the antics of the Republicans as politics in the purest and ugliest form and believed that the only way to combat them was to counter their political maneuvering. Aware that the Republicans were attempting to gather negative and harmful information about my witnesses and other supporters, they were fearful, with good reason, that any show of support for me could result in professional retaliation. I knew that no ordinary citizen could match the resources of the senators. Moreover, I viewed the experience as a choice about how I was going to live my entire life, not just these few days in Washington. When the episode was over, Senators Simpson, Hatch, Specter, and Danforth, I had no doubt, would continue to act in the same fashion; this was the way of life they had chosen—and it was politics as usual for them. But it was not what I had chosen. I had left it eight years prior and wanted no part of it, particularly now. Moreover, no matter how smart, resourceful, and committed our team was, we were not equipped to play their game.
I reminded Ronald, Gary, and Keith that I had started out saying that I did not want the matter to be tried in the press and that I intended to maintain that posture throughout the proceeding, no matter how tough it became. Though they were not satisfied with my responses, they did not push. Keith, perhaps better than the other two, knew firsthand that once I had made up my mind on a matter of principle, I would not budge. More important, I am certain that they did not want to cause me any discomfort. Disappointed, they left the room just minutes before I left, to take the examination, accompanied by Shirley Wiegand, Charles Ogletree, and Ray McFarland.
Despite the task that I was about to undertake, I was grateful to be out of the hotel room. The day was a typically overcast cloudy autumn day, but being outside offered me a glimpse of life that I missed in the grim reality of watching the hearing from my hotel room. Ray McFarland delivered us to the appointed place, the law office of Arnold and Porter in northwest Washington, D.C. One of the partners there, Charles Ruff, a well-known Washington, D.C., attorney and former president of the Washington, D.C., Bar Association, arranged the polygraph examination. Because it was Sunday morning, Ruff met us in the lobby to give us access to the conference room and office in the secured building. The stillness of the building with its huge empty corridors gave the process an even greater sense of mystery. Ruff spoke only briefly with Ogletree, Wiegand, and me, before he took me to a small conference room where the polygraph equipment was set up. We were all anxious to get the examination under way. It did not seem the time for small talk.
Through the corridors of expensive modern furnishings and tasteful artwork selected to inform visitors of the law firm’s good judgment and prestige, Ruffled me to the conference room. There I met Paul Minor, the polygraph expert. After introductions, Mr. Minor explained to me his background and experience with the examination. Mr. Minor, too, was a man of few words, except to recite his credentials. He’d begun with the army and then with the FBI as polygraph program coordinator, revamping the agency’s use of the examination in investigations. Throughout his career the FBI had ranked his work as “exceptional.” Letters from William Webster himself attested to the agency’s confidence in him. Finally, he started his own private investigation firm. All told, Minor had about twenty years of training and experience using the polygraph. Clearly, he had explained the process many times before. But his stern face and tone indicated that he was not particularly interested in responding to questions about his expertise. All of which indicated a hostility—at the least a criticism—as though he were on the verge of chastising me. “So what,” I sighed to myself with a sense of resignation. After all, his demeanor was no worse than what I had experienced from the Senate Judiciary Committee members just two days prior. I had come to expect no better. At least no one could accuse Minor of being biased in my favor. It occurred to me that whether I reported the results of the examination or not, the information would surely get out. The press, I was certain, would somehow learn of the examination and the matter would be disclosed whatever the result.
The conference room itself had a strangely calming effect. It was small, with no windows, and neutral-colored, textured walls on which hung few embellishments of any sort. The drone of the fluorescent lights and the walls themselves muted any outside noises, a welcomed break from my hotel room, where the unavoidable television set served as a constant reminder of the hearing. From Friday to Sunday morning my scenery had not changed, as I had holed up in the room listening to the testimony of Thomas and his witnesses well into the night.
Paul Minor’s explanation of how the examination process worked made me realize its importance. As he ran through the questions he would ask, ensuring that I understood them, I thought of all the different ways I’d been asked the same questions over the past week. At one point he asked me if I had ever done anything to encourage Clarence Thomas’ behavior or to give the impression that his conduct was invited. It was like FBI investigator Luton’s question about whether I dressed provocatively at work. And not unlike so many other questions which amounted to a familiar accusation, “You must have done something to deserve this.” But here, rather than anger, the question stirred self-doubt. Minor, Luton, and now even I couldn’t help but reflect society’s training to question the behavior of the accuser, rather than the behavior of the accused.
“Sometimes,” I tried to explain, returning to the period ten years prior, “when these things happen, you wonder whether you have done or said something that might be misinterpreted. But I had done nothing purposely to give Thomas the impression that I was interested in him other than as his assistant.” Once more I searched my mind for something that Thomas might have misconstrued and found nothing.
The pre-test interview completed, Minor began the test. Through a system of wires and suction cups and Velcro as I recall, he hooked me to the polygraph machine—which began to measure my blood pressure, heart rate, and respiration. I sat facing the wall and with my back to Mr. Minor and his polygraph machine. Over the drone of the lights, I could hear the graphs of my responses to his questions being drawn onto white paper as it fed through the machine.
Paul Minor: “Have you deliberately lied to me about Clarence Thomas?”
Anita Hill: “No.” The machine scratched out a graph of my response.
Paul Minor:
“Are you fabricating the allegation that Clarence Thomas discussed pornographic material with you?”
Anita Hill: “No.” Again, the machine scratched out my response.
Paul Minor: “Are you lying to me about the various topics that Clarence Thomas mentioned to you regarding specific sexual acts?”
Anita Hill: “No.”
Paul Minor: “Are you lying to me about Clarence Thomas making references to you about the size of his penis?”
Anita Hill: “No.”
Interspersed among these relevant questions were control questions. Over and again for thirty minutes we each took our turn, Minor, then me, then the machine—my credibility, perhaps even my sanity, were measured. “Let’s take a break,” he said halfway through, but shortly thereafter we began the routine again. At the end, he excused me while he read the graph to detect deception in my responses to the questions.
I rejoined Shirley, Tree, and Ray, who had been waiting in one of the offices on that floor and we vainly attempted conversation. After a while, Mr. Minor called Charles Ogletree in to discuss the examination results. He had found no indication of deception. When I saw the look of relief on Tree’s face as Minor reported the results, I got my first glimpse of the anxiety he’d gone through in asking me to undergo the polygraph examination. Despite any confidence he had in me, he, too, must have known that the examination could not remain secret. We were both overjoyed that it was over and pleased at the outcome. Minor and Ogletree planned a press conference to announce the results of the examination.