Speaking Truth to Power

by Anita Hill

  Charles Ogletree is a professor at Harvard Law School with an outstanding reputation for his skills and integrity. He had worked in D.C. for ten years in the public defender’s office, trying criminal cases. We spoke, and I gave him the substance of my concern that my statement had been mishandled. Though I did not know it, Ogletree passed the information to Laurence Tribe, a Harvard colleague, one of the country’s leading authorities on constitutional law and an adviser to Biden. Nor did I know that on September 27 Tribe contacted Biden staffer Ron Klain to impress upon him the seriousness of my charges. “A group of women law professors on the West Coast are concerned about the statement,” Tribe is reported to have told Biden. Again unknown to me, the senator responded by delivering my statement to all of the Democrats on the Judiciary Committee.

  Senator Paul Simon telephoned me after reading the statement and the FBI report. “You cannot maintain confidentiality if the information is circulated to the entire Senate. It is bound to get to the press,” Simon informed me. At this point I had no idea what measures had been taken to investigate my claim. And I could not trust the press to handle the matter properly, since I had no idea what information might be available. And still no one on the committee advised me of what was happening or had happened with my statement.

  That same day the committee voted on Thomas’ nomination. Seven members favored the nominee. Seven voted against him. But by a vote of 13–1, The committee voted to send the name forward for full Senate consideration, to take place on October 8.

  Days passed and I heard nothing. I did not know about the exchange between Tribe and Biden. I did not know which of the senators, aside from Senator Simon, or their staff members had the FBI report or my statement. I assumed the committee had abandoned the matter, and I was angry. All along, I had been skeptical, expecting very little from the process and feeling powerless to demand more. Sue Ross and I put the matter to rest—nothing more would be done and I would never know just what had happened.

  On Thursday, October 3, Nina Totenberg of National Public Radio called. Hers was a voice I had heard many times over the radio. Her stories on legal issues often interested me. By late that week, she had pieced together much of the story. I refused to discuss the matter with Totenberg at that time. On Friday, October 4, acting on a tip that a “certain law professor” had information that might threaten the nomination, Newsday reporter Timothy Phelps called me. I had spoken to Phelps before, when, earlier in the summer, he had contacted me about Thomas’ association with South Africa and rumors that he had been sympathetic to the apartheid government. I had confirmed Thomas’ connection with Jay Parker, whom Phelps had concluded was an agent of the White government, but offered little more. Phelps seemed professional, more issue-oriented than many in the press. Now, contacting me again during the first week of October, he was just as professional and courteous. From at least two sources, he had matched my name with information about allegations of sexual harassment. Immediately, I telephoned Charles Ogletree for advice. Certain that Newsday had some information, but perhaps not enough to go forward without my cooperation, Ogletree advised me to say nothing unless they proved that they had my statement.

  Both reporters had recounted to me so closely what had transpired to date that I was sure they had the statement or would soon, regardless of my actions. At some point during numerous telephone calls, I told both Phelps and Totenberg that I wanted proof that they had the document. And while Totenberg exhibited either feigned or real exasperation with my reluctance, Phelps seemed to understand and called to suggest a deal. His Senate source would give him the information for me to confirm, if I gave the source my permission. I refused. On Saturday afternoon a frustrated Phelps called with details about my statement. I confirmed only the details he had and refused to provide more. Phelps’ story ran on Sunday, October 6, in the morning edition of News day, but the presses ran on Saturday, and the story went out over the wires that evening.

  Totenberg telephoned after Phelps on Saturday and read the opening paragraph of my statement, confirming what I already knew. The press wanted the story badly, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. If she had it, eventually so would others. So, from my office, I granted a taped interview with Totenberg to air on Sunday morning.

  For the remainder of that Saturday, I telephoned family to inform them about the story. “Did you send a statement to the Senate? Is the story true?” my mother asked. This was the first she had heard of it. Afterward, I located my nephew Eric, who had been doing high school recruiting for the college on campus that day. He knew about the FBI’s visit. “The press has the story,” was all that I could say. “How did they find out? Are you all right?” he wondered. For the next few weeks his innocently confused look would haunt me. We were best of friends, and I knew that this would hit him nearly as hard as it did me.

  Despite being consumed by the events of the day, I tried to go about my regular routine. That evening, in tax professor Mark Gillett’s van, a group of my colleagues and friends went together to a yearly law school minority recruitment dinner. I sat with one of the law school alumni, Melvin Hall, and some potential students. I ate my dinner quietly, thinking about but never raising the matter. Returning home in the van, I told the group to expect the NPR report the following day. I gave them the substance of the story but few details. Their mood was quiet, concerned. No one knew what to say or what to expect. Even I could not predict the storm that was about to overtake the law school’s usual calm.

  Tim Phelps’ story in Newsday alerted other members of the press. And starting after midnight, a reporter from CBS called my home every half hour. I gave up the idea of sleeping and got out of bed about 3:00 A.M. I knew that before long, especially once the story aired on public radio, other reporters would find my home. Deciding to check into a local hotel, I dressed and went to the supermarket to buy microwavable food, wanting to be prepared to stay in the hotel room throughout the next day, or longer if necessary. I called Eric to let him know where I would be. Around 7:00 Sunday morning, I drove to Shirley Wiegand’s house. Together we listened to Nina Totenberg’s report on National Public Radio. Shirley decided that she should go to the hotel and get me a room using her name and credit card.

  All that Sunday, I tried to develop a plan to deal with the situation. None came to mind. Eric was my messenger, shuttling back and forth between the law school, my house, and the hotel. “The press is everywhere,” he told me. “Some are staying at this hotel.” Pointing to the law school logo on his sweatshirt, I warned, “Change clothes before you come back. Someone might spot you.” My words made me acutely aware of my predicament and the futility of remaining in the hotel. I could not believe any of it.

  I was anxious, but not yet desperate. Eric and I prepared for our classes. Because I assumed that my schedule would continue uninterrupted, I even made an appointment to meet with my minister from Tulsa about a project he was working on later that week. Shirley came over to visit me late in the afternoon. I had a map of the hotel grounds, and from telephone calls coming into the law school, she provided the numbers of the rooms where press members were staying. Together we avoided journalists and went out to a track for our regular walk. It was a cool, crisp autumn evening, the best time of the year for one. And I needed to be out of the hotel room, if only temporarily. The press was so focused on sexual scandal that later certain reporters suggested I had spent the evening in a tryst with Shirley Wiegand—no doubt easier for some than admitting that I had simply eluded them under their very noses.

  By Sunday evening I knew that I could not avoid the chaos that was to come. It was as if all summer long I had only been putting off the inevitable. My colleague Rick Tepker prepared a statement announcing that I would hold a press conference in the law school on Monday. I could barely read it, so unreal was the entire situation to me. Nevertheless, I signed off on it. I watched a local news report claiming that I had returned home that evening but fled upon seeing the press. The repor
t had footage of a car driven by a black woman with black female passengers pulling into the driveway. Later I learned the occupants were law students playing a prank on the press. I ate dinner and went to bed. Amazingly, I managed to sleep for several hours.

  For weeks and months after the hearing of October 1991, professional news analysts and commentators attempted to explain the intense anger that erupted because of the proceeding. In retrospect it is difficult to understand how the various emotions intensified so rapidly during the confirmation hearing. In a relatively short time, anger, confusion, disappointment, distrust, and more anger reached a boiling point, as people around the country focused on their televisions or radios to try to comprehend the spectacle which the process became. The hearing combined a variety of potentially volatile elements—gender, race, power, sex, and yes, politics—which when combined and subjected to the glare of television caused a mild explosion.

  Memories of behavior which women had once had to “grin and bear” or at least go out of their way to avoid came back to us, and it no longer seemed right to dismiss them. By going back and looking at the entire record of the proceeding and the press accounts, one can begin to recall how the scene was set for the response. In fact, put in context, the intense emotional response was predictable, even natural.

  I woke early Monday morning and returned home from the hotel just before daybreak to find one remaining crew of reporters camped on my neighbor’s lawn. They quickly crossed the street to mine. One member of a crew of three or four journalists carried a glaring light that blinded me so that I could not see the faces of those approaching. Live microphone in hand, a female reporter introduced herself by saying that she wanted to ask me a question about my statement to the Senate Judiciary Committee. “I won’t answer anything until you get that light out of my eyes,” I said. After a brief discussion among themselves, the crew obliged, and I proceeded to tell the reporter nothing she didn’t already know. “Yes, it is true that I sent a statement to the Senate. Yes, there will be a press conference today.”

  I went into my home, concluding that the only purpose of the exercise was to capture me when I was not expecting to be photographed, a form of “ambush” journalism relying on the theory that a surprise visit might elicit some telling response or reaction more newsworthy than a formal interview. Apparently, the statement I had issued the previous day explaining that I would be giving a press conference was not adequate. The competitive nature of the industry required “extemporaneous” reporting. Privacy—my own right to enter my home without intrusion—meant nothing compared to the potential “news” the ambush might elicit. I did not rush into my house to avoid the crew, but frankly, I was very annoyed that I could not go home in the early morning hours without being confronted by reporters. After all, the story had not changed while I slept. This crew’s approach promised that the thoughtful handling the story had received from Phelps and Totenberg would be a thing of the past. In its wake would follow the familiar kind of careless, untrustworthy journalism I had dreaded from the beginning. The crew dismantled their equipment and left my neighbor’s lawn. It was barely 7:00 A.M.

  I had watched news conferences before, but never expected to participate in one myself. As I dressed that morning, I realized that I had no idea what I would encounter. The people who would be helping me were novices. Already, Dean David Swank’s office was swamped with telephone inquiries, and the press corps swarmed the hallways like locusts. The media attention was focused on the law school building. And to quell the uproar, Dean Swank announced that the press conference would take place as planned. As a matter of consideration for students, staff, and faculty, who were in a state of bewilderment about the entire situation, the law school location made sense. But this choice created a different uproar. “You’ve got to send her someplace else,” objected the university administrators. “What about the local Holiday Inn?” one official demanded. David Swank held his ground: “She is a member of this faculty. I will resign before I turn her away.” Later, public officials excoriated him for his stand.

  The conference was initially scheduled for 10:00. CNN asked that it be postponed for an hour so they could carry it live. We agreed. I saw no point in appearing unreasonably uncooperative with the media. Besides, a delay gave me more time to brace myself.

  I drove to the law school by myself and crossed the fifty or so yards from the parking lot to the law school building. Two of my colleagues, Associate Dean Teree Foster and Rick Tepker, spotted me and met me on the walkway, sparing me from having to step into the turmoil alone. Inside the building the scene was surprisingly calm. Most of the press had gathered in the classroom where the conference was to take place. I went to the dean’s office to discuss the procedure with Foster, Tepker, and Swank. Though we were used to evincing self-confidence in most situations, our inexperience showed. And the press statement issued the day before would later be described as amateurish. No doubt it was one of the first Rick Tepker had ever written. But we were all amateurs. There were none of the high-paid professional “handlers” to which Senator Alan Simpson would later allude with disdain. I did not even know what the term “handler” meant until later that day when advised by the press.

  As I walked down the crowded hallway to classroom 2, familiar faces offered reassurance. The circumstances were so unreal that friends seemed out of place. I saw Dr. Thomas Hill, the academic adviser for the athletic department, whom I had known since he arrived at the university in 1988, and Beth Wilson, a friend and the affirmative action director for the university. In a small gesture of support that I will not forget, Beth wrote her home number and a note on a bank deposit slip: “Call me if you need anything.”

  Students, staff, and my colleagues filled the classroom, along with the press. Eric was there with a college friend. Everyone except the press stood and applauded as I entered the room. The Student Bar Association, the Black Law Student Association, and the Minority Coalition presented resolutions supporting me. This at once bolstered my resolve and overwhelmed me with dismay. They did not deserve this massive intrusion of cameras and reporters; none of us did.

  Yet I was in a classroom, a place where after some struggle I had finally come to feel at home. And my statement came more easily for that fact. Though this was one of the rare occasions on which I would receive a standing ovation in the classroom, it was only one of many at which I would be pummeled with questions, a fact I tried to remind myself of as the reporters’ questions began. But somehow the familiarity of the setting only heightened the surreal quality of the press conference. I could not comprehend that it was actually happening. When I think back on it, it is as though I am standing behind myself viewing the whole thing from over my shoulder.

  “One or two more questions,” Dean Swank announced. Each reporter tried to make sure that hers or his was the last. In the statement, as in responding to questions, I tried to urge upon the press that in sending my statement to the Senate I had responded to the inquiry of a Senate staffer, that I was not acting to raise a sexual harassment claim but out of my sense of responsibility to the nomination process, and that I felt the Senate had an obligation to resolve the matter, since some of its members had already responded to the reports of my charges by impugning my integrity. This was the first time I asked for a public resolution, but at that moment I knew that if there was none, I would certainly live under the shadow of the accusations of fabrication forever. Even with a public resolution, the shadow might well continue for years. Without a chance to address publicly the allegations of those who called me a liar, I would spend my entire life addressing them privately. I wanted the matter resolved “so that all of you nice people can just go home,” I concluded. We all laughed nervously.

  After what seemed an hour-long press conference, I went to the dean’s office. Ovetta Vermillion, the dean’s assistant, informed me that Tim Phelps was in the waiting room. She showed a man into the office whose face I had never seen but whose voice I recognized im
mediately. As he introduced himself, he seemed genuinely sorry for the way things had evolved in the thirty-six hours since his story ran in Newsday, or perhaps I wanted so badly for someone to feel remorse for the turmoil that I mistook what was only fatigue in his eyes. At the same time, I was sure that as a journalist he would have liked to get the “scoop” for his paper, and he didn’t get it. I was not trying to be evasive. I just had nothing to tell him, nothing more than I had said at the press conference.

  Finally back in my office, I sat exhausted at my desk. I wanted at least to try to respond to the telephone calls I’d received that morning and to finish preparing for classes. Later in the day, a stereotypically arrogant ABC news correspondent interviewed me for the evening program. He seemed to see the story as an inconsequential Washington political scandal. Dan Rather interviewed me for the CBS Evening News. To my surprise, he conducted a sincere inquiry into the situation. It would be too much to say that I was pleased with the interview, but I was relieved that someone seemed to understand the real-life elements of what was occurring. After confronting incredulity and lack of sensitivity throughout the day, I was refreshed by Rather’s appreciation of the issues. And despite the seriousness of both the day and the subject matter, the interview provided its moment of humor. Throughout the whole thing, a fly buzzed around my head, seeking perhaps its own fifteen minutes of fame. When it was over, I was sure that no one would remember anything I said, only the fly I was trying to ignore.

  As friends and family members telephoned me from around the country, the question first and foremost on their minds was “What is going to happen next?” I had no answer for them. “All I can do is wait to hear from the Senate,” was my only response.