EPH SUPPOSED THIS was what purgatory was like, assuming he believed in such things. He’d been told to stay off campus grounds while his case was being “processed.” This left him hanging out in his small apartment most of the time. He tried reading some Melville—Billy Budd—but found himself reading the same lines over and over, his thoughts constantly drifting to his current plight. When the walls closed in, he’d go for a ride on his new bike. He and D’Arcy went to the movies once or twice when she had time. Sometimes she spent the night.
One afternoon he looked himself up on Rate My Professor. He knew he probably shouldn’t, but morbid curiosity got the best of him. His rating was now an almost-unheard-of 1.6. Over four thousand people had rated his classes. Doing a quick calculation in his head, he guessed he’d had no more than eight hundred students in all his classes since starting at Devon.
At a local newsstand he saw last week’s New York magazine had Lulu Harris on the cover. “The New Face of Feminism,” it said. Against his better judgment, he forked over five bucks and took the magazine home. The article featured extensive quotes from a Woman’s Studies professor from Reed College named Tonya Washington.
“One sees the self-abnegation, the pathos, in this brave young woman’s eyes as she gives up her body in the name of a movement that she herself started. We feel her agony as every inch of this mostly silent drama plays out in front of us. The silence is broken by a lonely, cathartic scream, only to have the cycle play out again. Lulu Harris is a cry for all those whose voices have gone unheard for so long.”
As he read on, Eph’s heart sank when he saw his name.
While Ms. Harris has never explicitly stated the reasons for her protest, or even the cause it represents, many on the Devon campus believe they are tied to a professor named Ephraim Russell, who is currently facing Title IX charges thought to involve allegations from Harris.
The press had been calling his apartment and sending him emails almost constantly. He knew better than to engage. His sister, Ellie, even called, but Eph wouldn’t answer. He was mortified that word of all this might have spread to Ashley.
Eventually, Eph gave in to a combination of curiosity and sheer boredom. Throwing on a hoodie, he went to see the Crawl for himself. There was some risk, he knew, but it was dark and he drew the hood well over his face. He was confident no one would recognize him.
The cherry blossoms had bloomed and the scent of lilac was in the air. Devon had emerged from its winter hibernation. He decided to approach Mathers discreetly from a perpendicular walk. Rounding the corner, he was astonished by the scene unfolding before him. Along the colorfully chalked path, hundreds of people walked in procession behind Lulu Harris like medieval flagellants. Many of the women wore duct tape over their mouths, and a few wore hijabs, which he didn’t quite understand. Others had signs that said highly unpleasant things about him and Milton Strauss. A typical one said:
Russell + Strauss = Devon Rape Culture!
Dozens more lined either side of the walk, with more than a few filming the procession on their phones. Those videos would be on YouTube within hours, he knew. Some were probably livestreaming already. The media were there as well.
One of the reporters, followed by a cameraman, approached Lulu and thrust a microphone into her face. “Ms. Harris, can you tell us why you’re out here every night? What happened to you?”
Lulu, as usual, appeared to be in a trance and gave no response. Another student intervened. Eph recognized him as one of those who had sabotaged Eph’s class, the one with the red dreadlocks. “No questions, my man—back off!” he yelled. Several female students wearing T-shirts from the Womyn’s Collective went over and shoved him out of the way, seemingly more upset with their fellow crawler than the reporter. That was curious, Eph thought. If Lulu noticed any of this internecine drama, it wasn’t clear.
When the marchers came to Dudley Street, they formed a human alley, blocking traffic until Lulu could safely cross. Traffic backed up for several blocks. There was a considerable police presence, too, as well as campus security. They were assisting with traffic control.
Eph followed along cautiously, head down. At Duffy, Lulu stood and screamed. As usual, it was the only sound she made the entire time, save for the scraping of her iron ball. The long and tortured scream was done on a single breath, leaving little doubt among observers that it welled up from a deeply personal place. It was loud enough to echo off the other buildings in East Quad. When the last sound of it died away, the assembled crowd responded in kind, making for an enormous roar. Then Lulu disappeared inside.
Eph felt like he’d just witnessed some sort of atavistic ritual. How had he gotten mixed up in all this?
As the crowd disbursed, one couple walked in his direction. A flash of recognition came over the girl’s face. “Hey…”
Eph realized he’d been standing there a bit too long. He turned and walked briskly toward the nearest gate.
“That’s him.”
Eph broke into a jog.
“That’s him … the rapist!”
As others turned to look, Eph broke into a run and disappeared out onto the street.
Two days later, Eph was back on campus, staring across Bingham Plaza. It was finally time to meet the Title IX people. He wore a blazer and tie and a baseball cap lowered over much of his face in case anyone noticed him. For insurance, he had a lightweight Columbia jacket with the collar pulled up. The hearing was in Stockbridge, but a phalanx of demonstrators were camped outside the entrance. Someone must have tipped them off. Giving the demonstrators a wide berth, he walked around behind Stockbridge looking for another way in. He found a door in the back but it was locked. Taking out his phone, he dialed D’Arcy. Luckily, she answered right away and came down to let him in.
“I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” she said.
“Hey, another day, another hearing. I might get good at this.”
“I’m going to talk to Milton.”
“Don’t. It won’t make a difference, and you’ll just get yourself in trouble. But did I mention I love you for offering?”
“Well, come on, then. I’ll show you where it is.” D’Arcy led him to a small, windowless conference room in the basement. They seemed to be sending a different message this time. There, he found that once again Dean Malik-Adams held his fate in her hands. She and two other women sat across the table.
“We meet again, Professor,” said Martika.
“Dean.” Eph took a seat. He had been specifically told he had to come alone—no counsel. He had reluctantly called a lawyer at D’Arcy’s urging, someone who had been involved with several Title IX cases. The lawyer told him that counsel wouldn’t be allowed into the process but he was happy to give (paid) advice from a distance, and even happier to be Eph’s plaintiff lawyer when he sued Devon later, the idea of which Eph found horrifying. He demurred.
“You’ll come around,” the lawyer had said.
“This is a convening of the Devon University Title IX Tribunal,” said the dean, wasting no time. “To my right is Stephanie Coughlin, who will act as counsel to the university in this matter. To my left is Linda Gomez, who will act as stenographer.” Linda Gomez was Eph’s old friend from last time. He could swear she was giving him the stink eye.
“Excuse me. A question, if I may. Where is the rest of the tribunal? If Ms. Coughlin is counsel, and Ms. Gomez is the stenographer, that just leaves … you.”
“That’s correct.”
“So where is everyone else?”
“I am the tribunal, Professor Russell.”
“Just you?” That lawyer warned him it might be the case, but Eph had found it difficult to believe that the university would put his professional future in the hands of a single person.
“The majority of Title IX cases are adjudicated by a single person; it’s well within the federal guidelines. It’s a question of efficiency.”
“Will there be an investigation? How does this process establish facts?”
“I also perform that role, and it has already begun.”
Eph tried to process this. It occurred to him he should have done more research into the whole Title IX thing. “So, and again, I apologize, but this is all new to me—you act as sole investigator, plus judge and jury, while I am apparently allowed no counsel?”
“I don’t make the rules, Professor. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with the Office for Civil Rights at the Department of Education in Washington. Now let’s proceed.” Martika poked her reading glasses up her nose and began flipping through papers. “Professor Russell, you teach a fall-semester class called English 240—Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
“And you had a student in that class named Louise Harris, correct?”
“Yes, I did, but I think you already know that.”
“We are just establishing the background facts for the record. How would you describe your relationship with Ms. Harris?”
“She was my student. Beyond that, there was no relationship.”
Martika looked down at some papers. “An examination of your university email account shows that she sent you fifty-seven emails last semester, considerably more than any other student. Would you say that’s normal, Professor?”
“I suppose it’s more than normal. I was under the impression she liked the course.”
“In one email, she asks for your opinion on which dress to wear. Wouldn’t you say that’s an odd question for a student to ask a professor?”
“I suppose it is, yes, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“And why is that?”
“Sometimes students try to ingratiate themselves in different ways. They hope that by establishing a rapport they might get a better grade.”
“And did any other students ask you for clothing advice?”
“Not that I recall, no. But I just thought she was an engaged student.”
“And you know this because of the emails.”
“Yes, but she also contributed in class now and then.”
“You made quite an impression on Ms. Harris.”
“I am a teacher. I believe that’s in my job description.”
“Still, she was emailing almost daily.”
“Was she? I honestly didn’t give it much thought.”
Removing her reading glasses for effect, the dean then asked, “Professor Russell, how long had you been having a sexual relationship with Ms. Harris?”
“I have never had a sexual relationship with Ms. Harris. Never. Not one time.”
“Are you sure that’s the story you want to stick with, Professor?”
“If I may, what are the exact charges being brought against me?”
“You may not,” interjected Stephanie Coughlin, the lawyer.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Under Title IX regulations, we are not obliged to offer specifics, including information about the charges. Our role is merely to gather testimony and evidence and then come to a just conclusion.”
“Well, I object!”
“Noted, Professor,” Coughlin said.
“I’d at least like to get Ms. Harris in here to talk to her directly.”
“That will not happen, Professor.”
“Excuse me? I wish to confront my accuser. That is a universal right. Everyone knows that.”
“I’m afraid you are very much mistaken,” Coughlin said. Eph could swear Malik-Adams was trying to suppress a smile. “Title IX proceedings operate under a different set of guidelines than the criminal justice system. The process is designed to encourage survivors to come forward. Studies show that forcing them to directly face their attackers has a chilling effect on reporting.”
“How about the goddamn chilling effect on my rights?”
“We’ve been through this already, haven’t we, Professor?” said the dean. “We will move on. Isn’t it true, Professor, that you and Ms. Harris kissed in your office?”
“It’s partially true.”
“How can this be partially true? You either kissed, or you didn’t. Could you be more specific?”
“She tried to kiss me.”
“So you admit you and she kissed.”
“I admit she kissed me.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Why don’t you just ask her, for Pete’s sake. It sure as hell took me by surprise.”
“And you just sat there, I suppose?”
“No, I pushed her away.”
Martika reached into her pile of papers and pushed a photograph across the table. It was the one that Lulu had taken in his office of the two of them, with Lulu making duck face. It must have been found in a search through Eph’s emails. “Can you please explain this?”
“Yes. It’s a photo she took in my office.”
“We know what it is, Professor. Can you explain it?”
“You mean why would this girl try to kiss me and then take a selfie of the two of us while making that ridiculous face? No, I can’t. I can’t explain any of it. I can’t explain a goddamn thing. Why is the sky blue? I don’t know. Why is this girl out of her mind? I don’t know that either. Maybe she’s on drugs. Have you asked her that?”
“Or perhaps alcohol?” asked Martika, eyebrows arched so high Eph thought she might pull a muscle. “Would you please examine the photo more closely?”
Eph looked at it carefully. Shit. In the background, you could see part of a bottle. The word Jack was clearly legible.
“Were you and Ms. Harris drinking?”
“I keep a bottle in my desk. A lot of us do. It was Friday evening and I was having a glass when she walked in.”
“Do you often drink alcohol before meeting with students?”
“No, of course not, but it was after office hours and I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“And yet there is an email to you from her saying she was coming.”
“Well, I didn’t see it until later.”
“Did you offer her a drink?”
“No. She grabbed the bottle and took a sip. I suppose I should have put it away when she walked in, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“Professor, would you please read the time stamp on that photo?” Martika asked.
“December nineteenth, five-oh-eight p.m.”
“Now, would you please examine this photo.” Martika pushed another photo across the table.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Eph. The picture showed Lulu with violent bruising across one side of her face. It looked as if someone had taken a two-by-four to her face.
“Now, Professor, would you please read the time stamp on the second photo?” Martika’s eyebrows were arching again in a way that suggested her prey was wounded and she was circling in for the kill. It was starting to get on Eph’s nerves.
“December twentieth, seven forty-two a.m.”
“So, the next morning.”
“It would seem.”
“So the established facts are that Harris was with you, you were drinking and kissing, and that sometime between the time on that photo and the next morning she was attacked. Perhaps it would save time for all involved if you just told us what really happened.”
Eph wondered what the dean otherwise did with her time that made it so precious. “I did nothing to harm Lulu Harris. I have no knowledge of how she was hurt. Whatever happened must have occurred later in the evening.”
“Professor, have you ever threatened Ms. Harris?”
“What? No!”
“How many times have you spoken to her since the date of the incident?”
“Zero.”
“I see. Tell us, can you prove you didn’t do any of this?”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t it the other way around? Isn’t the burden of proof on your side?”
“I don’t have a side, Professor.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“We are here to see if there’s a preponderance of evidence. Nothing more, nothing less. In that spirit we are asking if you have any exculpatory evidence to offer.”
“I’d like to ask you something. Did Lulu Harris actually say I did any of this?”
“Ms. Harris’s testimony is protected by confidentiality.”
“Seriously? This is a joke.”
“I can assure you, Professor Russell, this is a very serious matter, and you would be advised to take it as such.”
“Perhaps this would be a good point to end this session, Dean,” said Coughlin, looking to defuse things.
Martika looked like she was just getting started, but relented. “Very well. We’ll meet for a final session Thursday. What time works for you?”