“Panelists?” Beatrice and her clipboard were back. “We’re going to mic you, and then get you seated during the commercial break.”
I held still while a big, bearded man with delicate fingers clipped a microphone to my sweater collar and looked me up and down before hanging a small black box with an on/off toggle switch to the back of my skirt’s waistband. The Decent Christian got his clipped to the back of his belt. The parenting expert, evidently a TV veteran, produced her own microphone from her pocket. Then we were led onto the set that I’d seen a thousand times from my own kitchen and living room—the curving desk where the sports guy and the weather girl would banter with the anchorman, a map of Pennsylvania off to one side. The three of us were positioned on a raised platform, in armchairs grouped around a coffee table with a neat stack of books and a vase of flowers on top of it. As soon as the commercial break began, the Sunday anchor, a gorgeous woman named LaDonna Cole, came and took the seat across from us.
“Pretend we’re all just sitting around talking,” she instructed as a woman with a blow-dryer in a leather holster around her waist sprayed something onto LaDonna’s hair and another lady brushed powder onto her cheeks. “Interrupt each other! Jump in if you’ve got something to say! Keep it lively, ’kay?” She gave us a twinkling smile. I studied her face anxiously. She was wearing a ton of makeup, even though, as far as I could tell, her skin was flawless. Should I be wearing more?
“In three . . . two . . . one.” The bearded man behind the camera pointed two fingers toward LaDonna, who flashed her dazzling teeth again. “Good morning. I’m LaDonna Cole. It’s the case that’s on every paper’s front page, and all over social media. It happened in Akron, last Friday night, and almost everyone knows the details. A fifteen-year-old girl goes to a party hosted by an eighteen-year-old classmate, whose parents are away. There’s drinking. The girl passes out. Her ex-boyfriend, who’s seventeen, tells her friends that he’ll take her home. Instead, according to the girl’s testimony, he and three of his friends carry her down the street, to one of the friends’ basements, and sexually assault her, posting pictures and video of the assault to popular social media sites. And that’s where things get complicated.” Photographs flashed on the screen behind LaDonna’s head to illustrate her talking points—yearbook pictures of the accused, candids from the football field. “The ex-boyfriend, a popular athlete, says that she did, in fact, consent to their activities. He claims he had no idea that his friends were recording them. The other boys also posted pictures of a vibrator the girl allegedly had in her purse. The case has sparked vigorous debate,” said LaDonna, angling her body expertly to face a second camera. “Does the young woman have any responsibility for what allegedly happened that night? Is this a case of rape or, as some have said, a case of a girl who woke up with regrets the morning after? We’re joined this morning by Father David Ryan of the Christian League of Decency, Dr. Carol Bendinger, child psychologist and author of Online and On Guard: Keeping Our Kids Safe in a Wired World, and Allison Weiss, a popular blogger whose column at Ladiesroom.com deals with sexuality, marriage, and motherhood.”
Okay, I thought. Not bad.
“Father Ryan, let’s start with you.”
“Of course, what happened last Friday is a tragedy, for all the young people involved—the young woman and the young men,” Father Ryan intoned. “None of them will emerge from this unscathed. The young woman’s had her reputation ruined, and the young men are now facing the possibility of prison time, and of having to be registered as sex offenders for the rest of their lives.”
“And you think that’s wrong,” LaDonna prompted.
“I think it’s a tragedy, and I think that the young woman has to shoulder some of the blame.”
“Why is it her fault?” I asked. All three of their heads turned toward me, and, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the camera’s motion. “She went to a party and drank. So did the boys. We’ve got a lot of he-said/she-said about whether she consented to sex. But the pictures aren’t ambiguous. The pictures don’t lie. And what the pictures show is a group of boys assaulting a girl who is clearly unconscious, a girl who is in no position to say yes or no or anything at all.”
“The pictures also show how she was dressed,” Father Ryan said smoothly. “You can’t go to a party wearing little more than underwear and not realize that you’ve put yourself in danger.”
“So she deserves to be raped for wearing a short skirt, and the boys who did it, and the ones who took pictures of their buddies, they don’t deserve to be punished at all?” I was surprised to find how furious I was, how easily I could imagine my own daughter wearing the wrong thing, downing a drink that was stronger than she’d known, letting the wrong guys walk her home. “What kind of fine, upstanding citizens go to a party and take pictures of one of their buddies having sex, and then put those shots online?”