Prologue
“A woman’s bodily autonomy is not what’s up for debate here,” Congressman Finch says, the edges of his fingers greasy from the hamburger he just devoured during the lunch break. There’s still flecks of salt in his dusty mustache. It’s like he saw a picture of Tom Selleck in the ’90s, decided he could pull off the same look, then kept it up with a pair of children’s safety scissors ever since. “It’s the principle of office talk. The message we send to young boys everywhere that their entire lives could be derailed by one flimsily tossed-out sentence.”
Members of his party nod in agreement and I want to vomit. We’re six hours into congressional hearings about sexual harassment at government agencies. Several, notably male, heads of these agencies have been emphatically testifying that the behavior both they and their, also male, subordinates conducted is protected by free speech and also at the same time didn’t happen, and if itdidhappen, it was passing comments with no ill intention behind them. The female employees who testified yesterday feel a lot differently, obviously, and I personally am going to scream if these old men don’t shut up about how ranking the most and least fuckable in the office is merely boys being boys.
“Congresswoman Rhodes,” the speaker says, and I perk up. “You have the floor. Five minutes.”
“Mr. Donaldson,” I say, turning toward the head of the Federal Reserve who’s currently trying to clear his name. “You said the actions of both yourself and your male colleagues were greatly exaggerated. Is that correct?”
He nods. He’s slimy looking, with a head of hair that’s almost completely hardened by gel. “That’s correct, Congresswoman.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And are you prepared to say the testimonies of your female colleagues yesterday are greatly exaggerated?”
“Yes,” he says, certainly keeping it short and sweet as advised by his attorney.
“Thank you, and one such colleague, Rayna Spear, are you familiar with her?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Everyone in America knows Rayna Spear. It was her whistleblowing that forced Congress to launch this investigation in the first place.
“Yes,” Mr. Donaldson says. “Though Ms. Spear was not a direct report of mine.”
“Ms. Spear testified that she was fired after reporting the repeated sexual harassment she endured from her peers and her supervisor.”
Mr. Donaldson swallows so hard I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from my seat several yards away from him. “I am aware that she testified to that effect, yes.”
“Ms. Spear said her supervisor told her aggressors that she reported them and as a result she facedretaliation that was even worse than the original harassment, including crude comments, gestures, and notes left at her desk.”
Mr. Donaldson doesn’t say anything in response. He looks to his lawyer then back at me. “I’m sorry, Congresswoman, did you have a question?”
“My question is, are you prepared to testify today, under oath, that Ms. Spear lied about these claims?”
“Now hang on—” Congressman Finch interjects, violating like six House rules in the process. “I see what you’re doing, Ms. Rhodes.”
“Mr. Finch.” The speaker cuts him off. “This is Ms. Rhodes’s time.”
“No, I’m sick of this,” he says.
“Mr. Finch—” The speaker tries again.
“I’m sick of this little girl always trying to goad good men into saying something that will make them look indefensible,” he says. I merely sit back and watch as he self-destructs.
“Mr. Finch, this is not your time,” the speaker reminds him.
“I’ve known Mr. Donaldson for years and I know him to be a good man,” Finch says, his face now red, though it’s hard to see past the mustache. “I will not allow Ms. Rhodes to sully his good name for the sake of one woman’s comfort at work.”
“And what about my comfort at work?” I ask, because after all, it is still my time.
“Oh, you’re so uncomfortable as the most famous member of Congress? Is that what it is?” Finch says. “I’m not going to let some 25-year-old kid yell at me—”
“I’m 33 but thank you,” I interject.
He scoffs. “The cover ofVoguewasn’t enough; you have to burn everyone else while you rise to the top?”
“Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says, his tone punishing but nonthreatening, like a sitcom principal.
“It wasRolling Stone, actually,” I say. And I looked fucking great on that cover. “You’re probably confused because I was at the Met Gala, which is sponsored byVogue.”
“You’re an insufferable bitch,” Mr. Finch says, and the Congress floor and the gallery above gasp in response.
“Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says again, firmly. “Ms. Rhodes, you have four minutes remaining.”
