by Leigh Stein
Felice
@KhadijahWalker how closely do you work with Evan?
NicoletteLee
@Felice @KhadijahWalker wait does he have access to this group???
JustDiana
@Felice @NicoletteLee I will definitely check!
I texted Maren: Please call me when you get this.
Then I emailed Devin:
I’m on my way in.
How Being Investigated by the Secret Service Changed My Life
BY MAREN GELB
Sponsored By Lunar Milk
There’s something I’ve never told anyone before. I have a secret to admit. I have a confession to make. I was investigated by the Secret Service. It’s not what you think. It’s different than you imagine it would be. It could happen to you.
Are you a woman who believes in something? Not God or your star chart—I mean democracy. Do you understand how at risk we are of losing it? Do you want to call Putin daddy? Do I sound hysterical? Is it because I have a uterus? Do you believe no one should be putting his hands anywhere near your pussy without your consent? Do you believe that if he were your dad, you would definitely distance yourself from him publicly and professionally, atone for the sins of your privilege, and purge yourself of your con artist DNA, not ride the nepotism cabriolet all the way to the White House?
Do you believe Americans have the right to speak truth to power on social media?
I do.
There were two of them. They looked like college admissions officers. The man was wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt and a striped tie. The woman was in a gray pantsuit and a light pink blouse with the collar unbuttoned. Her hair was limp with blond highlights, tucked behind her ears. Small pearl earrings.
If you think all Secret Service agents wear dark sunglasses, you’re totally right, but they take them off inside because they’re “just like us.”
“Ms. Gelb,” the woman said, and shook my hand. “I’m Agent Hannigan and this is Agent Bower.”
Sure, they were going to have the female agent speak to me first, to form some kind of phony camaraderie, like I would better comprehend her lady speak.
I could play their game. I was fluent in lady speak, too.
“Can I offer you something to drink, Agent Hannigan?” I said. “Some pinot grigio or a sprinkle of Lunar Milk® in a mug of warm almond milk?”
“What is Lunar Milk®?”
“An adaptogenic super-herb compound.”
“What does adaptogenic mean?”
“Adaptogens are plant-derived substances used in herbal medicine that increase the body’s natural resistance to stress.* Have you been under a lot of stress lately, Agent Hannigan?” Can you even imagine how many house calls like this they had to make? It must be a 24/7 job, checking on Reddit randos. And all I did was tweet a joke. It wasn’t even about the president.
“A glass of water would be fine, thanks.”
Her partner had a bottle of XXX-flavored Vitamin Water Zero with him already, and I almost asked him to read the ingredients aloud to see if he could pronounce them all, but that seemed needlessly cruel. “John has been a big help, while you were out of town,” he said.
My boyfriend, John, is a Democratic Socialist. He was in the bedroom on his laptop, writing a memoir by an heiress to an interstate natural gas pipeline conglomerate fortune, whose philanthropic work funded a network of moderately impactful inner-city charter schools.
“Ms. Gelb, John shared with us an email you sent him on Thursday, February 23, that said, ‘Uh oh,’ and it linked to your own tweet—”
My socialist sweetheart must have given them my email password.
“Thanks, John,” I yelled toward the bedroom. “Thanks for all your help!” I poured myself a generous glass of pinot grigio and sprinkled some Lunar Milk® on top.
“Were you aware, Ms. Gelb, that it’s a felony to knowingly and willfully make any threat against the life of the president, or any of his successors, in writing?” Bower asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is Ivanka a ‘successor’ to the presidency now? Has the United States of America become an aristocracy?”
“I’m just asking the question,” he said.
“And I’m just standing up for my right to freedom of speech.”
“John tells us you are currently under the care of a mental health professional,” Hannigan said.
“I’m on 150 milligrams of Zoloft,” I said. “Should I have a lawyer present?”
She recorded something in a notebook. I nursed my wine.
“I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t threaten violence against any woman, not if I’m a feminist, but, to quote Malcolm X: ‘We are nonviolent with people who are nonviolent with us.’”
“Freedom of speech actually does not include the right to incite violence,” Bower said.
The adaptogens must have been working; my brain fizzed with an alert focus.
Finally I understood what they wanted. They wanted me to say I was sorry.
I started singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in my head until my eyes filled with tears. “I love my country,” I said. “I’m actually from Wisconsin.
“I’m really sorry,” I continued. “Yes, I have clinical depression, but no, I don’t have violent thoughts or intentions. I’m an ignorant millennial and I apologize. We think we know everything, but we don’t. I thought everyone would know I was just joking about the factory fire, but I see now that I didn’t read the room.”
“What is it that you do for a living, Ms. Gelb?” Bower asked.
“I’m the COO of Richual, a pioneer in the wellness space. We use social technology to connect, cure, and catalyze women to be global changemakers through the simple act of self-care.”
They blinked at me.
“I work on making the internet a safer place for women,” I said.
Being under investigation by the Secret Service changed my life because for the first time I was on the front lines of understanding how much the elite is invested in stifling women’s voices. I will play their game if it allows me to continue my work, but I will not be silent when I see an abuse of power.
*These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.
Khadijah
There was no time to shower. I changed out of my yoga pants into jeggings and hustled to the Q, a banana in one hand and my phone in the other. In full-on damage-control mode, Katelyn had emailed the whole team, forbidding anyone from responding to questions about Evan or the article, from the press or from our own users. She added:
Devin and I are working on a statement. Maren and Khadijah are on their way in.
On the subway nobody gave up their seat for me or even looked at my face. I watched a biracial couple leaning against the doors as they kissed and sipped coffee from paper cups, kissed and sipped, kiss, kiss, kiss. Their public joy seemed uncalled for. Why couldn’t they at least pretend to be as miserable as the rest of us? I was sweating through my blouse, holding my coat in my arms like a puffy barricade.
Come back. I forget what you look like , I texted Adam.
Soon , he said. How are you feeling?
Drama at work , I typed, debating whether or not he needed all the details. His interest in following the daily play-by-play of the internet was about as great as my interest in learning the entire catalog of Phish. Whenever I talked about work Adam never remembered who was who. “Devin is the investor or Evan is the investor?”
“Devin is the CEO.”
“Which is the one who calls you K. in emails?”
“That’s Evan.”
I wanted Adam’s sympathy, but not his concern. Had to skip yoga , I said. I made a frowny face with a colon and a parenthesis, the only w
ay to communicate my disappointment in a language his ancient cell phone would understand.
Evan had once stopped to ask if my hair was “real” during a board meeting when I was there to take notes for Maren. After streaming the ESPN doc on O.J., he was curious whether or not I believed O.J. should have been acquitted. “I was five years old during the trial,” I told him. Evan had also personally nominated me for Forbes’s 30 Under 30 list and taken me to dinner at Dirt Candy to ask what my long-term career goals were. He had never once made a pass at me.
“Is It Because I’m Black? One Woman Speaks Up About Not Being Targeted for Sexual Abuse in Her White Workplace,” I mused. I remembered all the essays I’d read online by women who’d never been catcalled, “not even by construction workers,” and how that was its own form of marginalization, not being beautiful enough to be objectified.
There was an upside to all of this. There were five board members and three of them were male investors. If Evan was ousted and a woman took his seat, Maren would have the leverage to institute a paid family leave policy across the board, even for hourly community moderators. We could give health benefits to our part-timers. I could persuade Devin that the installation of a chill lactation oasis onsite would pay for itself in positive press.
I waited at my desk to be needed. I was too distracted to do anything but play with my lavender-scented therapeutic meditation putty and check the CMS to be sure the scheduled posts met Maren’s standard of two stock photos with women of color for every one stock photo of all white women:
Are You Eating Too Much Before Your Reformer Class?
Ancient Fasting Wisdom That Will Blow Your Mind (And Clear Your Gut)
The Real Reason You Think You Need a Snack
Can’t Stop Thinking About Food? How to Stop Obsessive Thoughts When You’re Cleansing
Five Sex Toys That Will Make You Literally Give Up on Human Intimacy
If You Aren’t Doing Kegels at Your Desk Right Now, You’re Not Doing Enough
Squish squish squish.
I Slacked Diana and asked her to help me with a project in the beauty closet, the only place in the office with nontransparent walls and a door. The floor-to-ceiling storage shelves were stocked with samples of foundation in every shade of milk, cheek tint to raise skin cancer awareness, cheek tint that changed color based on your mood, cheek tint with a built-in mace spritzer, boxes of lucid dreaming tea, a Winona Ryder and Johnny Depp–themed tarot deck, individually wrapped sheet masks that said “Charcoal Power” below a drawing of a black fist, bottles of SPF 50 hairspray, blue vials of hyaluronic acid, and tiny brown jars of ashwagandha powder.
“I know her,” Diana said.
“Know who?”
“The ex-girlfriend in the article. Do you think I should text her? Tell her that I work at Richual?”
Diana seemed thrilled to be so close to the eye of the shitstorm. She wanted to be acknowledged as an essential player in the drama.
“Let’s focus,” I said. “I want you to go on Slack and tell them that we’ll share more information on Evan as soon as we have it.”
“Which Slack? The internal Slack?”
“No, the Stay Woke, Y’All Slack.” Saying the words out loud was more humiliating than seeing them on a screen. The title had to go.
“Got it,” Diana said.
“Pretend you don’t know anything because, um, you don’t know anything. Get them back on topic. I need examples of influencers who generate good conversation. Ask them—”
Maren was calling me. I texted back: Meet me in beauty closet.
“Ask them to share the last post that made them mad, okay?”
“Fo sho,” Diana said.
“Oh hey.” Maren squeezed in. Her greasy hair was piled in a nest on top of her head. One brown strand hung down in back. There were purple moons under her eyes.
“You were just at Evan’s house, right?” Diana said.
“There’s a post I just added to the queue. Can you add the sponsor logo? But don’t publish it yet.”
“You mean right now?”
“Unless Khadijah has you working on something else.”
“Go,” I told Diana. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
The air was stale and claustrophobic. A bead of sweat ran down my low back. I had to pee but willed myself to hold it. As much as my body expanded in space, I reminded myself of the ways in which I remained its master.
“I’d love it if you could look at my post, too,” Maren said. “It’s almost like a manifesto of my value system. I haven’t written anything that long since college. I don’t know how you do it three times a day!” Eight times a day, I wanted to correct her but didn’t. “But I think if we don’t speak up with our voices, who will? It’s like that poem, ‘First they came for the Jews, and I didn’t know what to say . . . ’” She continued rambling as she took out her phone to look it up.
I had no idea when I would have another minute alone in a room with her.
“No, it’s ‘First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a socialist.’ Isn’t wifi incredible? Too often we take it for granted. You can look up Nazi stuff whenever you want, check your email, read the—”
“Maren, listen,” I said. “There’s something I have to tell you. I’m sorry to be telling you like this.” Don’t apologize, I thought. The script. The script. Stick to the script.
“Your face looks different,” Maren said, squinting. “Did you get your brows waxed?”
“It’s not that.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “I already know.”
“You do?”
“Devin texted me the article. And she doesn’t even know.” Maren was pulling on one eyelid and blinking.
“Doesn’t even know what?” You always put Maren and her feelings first. She’s a grown-up. She can handle it.
“Is there something in my eye?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s an eyelash or something. I can’t get it.”
Just say, “I’m pregnant.” Say, “Maternity leave.”
My phone buzzed. It was Devin: Do you know where Maren is? I lost her.
“We have to go meet Devin,” I said, letting myself off the hook. There would be another opportunity. This was not it.
“When’s the last time you ate something?” I asked her. I grabbed a bottle of aloe vera water from the shelf and two packs of organic multivitamin gummies, the closest thing there was in the closet to actual food.
Devin was facedown on the massage chair while Sharona, our South African in-house masseuse, dug the ball of an elbow into her left trapezius. Katelyn sat at Devin’s desk, as engrossed in her laptop as if she were Rami Malek hacking a bank.
“Read it again,” Devin said.
“Richual supports—no, Richual stands behind board member . . .”
“I’m not cosigning that,” Maren said.
“It’s not a contract,” Devin said. “It’s a statement.”
“Let me write it then.”
“You can’t do everything, Maren!”
“Mommy and Daddy are fighting,” Katelyn muttered to herself, without taking her eyes off the screen.
“We’re not fighting,” Maren said. “I just don’t think we should give Evan a ‘get out of jail free’ card. How does that look for our brand? Self-care for all victims except, like, the ones whose abuser we know personally?”
“Harder,” Devin said to Sharona. “What about Ivanka? Was she not the victim of your tweet? Did you ever think about her feelings? She’s a mom of three!”
“Did you wear your MAGA hat when you went to the polls, Devin?”
Maren sounded like one of the women on Slack. Having an audience only made her meaner. No one had the power to make her apologize.
De
vin said nothing.
“I think,” I said, “that maybe one of the positive takeaways from this is that the tweet wasn’t all bad, because we got ten thousand new users from it. Because being angry takes a toll on your mental health. And Richual offers an antidote to that.”
“Khadijah gets me,” Maren said, shooting a pack of gummies into her mouth.
“What I’m hearing from everyone,” Katelyn said, “is that we need to control the message about Evan and get ahead of the narrative.”
Too late, I thought. In the background, without me, the conversation continued on Slack, on Twitter, on Richual itself. The virus was already spreading.
“Evan should apologize,” Maren said. “That’s how we spin it. Evan should be the one worrying about the wording of his statement. He can defend himself. Or whatever. He can use Katelyn if he wants to.”
“Borrow Katelyn,” I suggested.
“What?”
“You said ‘use,’ but I think you meant ‘borrow.’”
“Stop,” Devin said to Sharona, holding up an arm as pale as a wishbone. When she lifted her head from the face rest, her cheeks were damp and splotchy. “Maren, these women are lying.”
“How do you know?”
“Why are they saying this now? Evan is helping us raise our series B and they come out with this now?”
“You think this story about Evan is going to keep us from closing the round?” I asked.
“Fuck,” Maren said, rubbing her eye again. “But that’s insane. That’s . . . victim blaming.”
“Is it?” Katelyn asked. “I’ll google it.”
“Devin is blaming the victims for not coming forward sooner.”
“No,” Devin said, standing up. She looked Maren in the eye. “You’re not listening to me. I’m blaming them for making up that they’re victims in the first place. Evan didn’t do anything with them that they didn’t want to do.”
“What are you—a sex psychic?” Maren asked.
Sharona looked at me and gestured to the massage chair, my only shot at escape. I shook my head.
“If someone accused you of abusing them, I would defend you,” Devin said. “Because that’s how much I care about you.”