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“The VA matter is much more complicated,” Patrick says, intervening before we can get started. “Now, you say that they were already aware of the local news coverage.”
“Yes. Chen even put a note in a permanent file about me describing me as a predator. Because, reasons.”
“Yes, that’s both a burden and a gift. The burden is that it exists, and thank you, Levi, for your very detailed summary of the findings.”
“I brought a copy,” I say, passing the printout I agonized over across the desk.
“Thank you.” He opens it and skims the inside. “I assume these are your annotations, Dr. Saint-Jacques.”
Bastien sits up. “My husband’s, actually.”
Patrick looks at me in surprise. “Ultra vires. Nice. Thank you for doing half my job for me, Levi.” He smiles and closes the document. “So, while they couldn’t use that broadcast, or any insinuations about predatory behavior because of the scope of the inquiry, if you go after Chen to allege that he attempted to persecute you, the gloves will come off. Then it becomes one character assassination after another. You need to be prepared for that. Any good lawyer will take that thirty seconds of video and turn it into something ugly. And I’m telling you this as a gay man: there are still a lot of people who take a lot of delight in watching us burn.”
“I see,” Bastien says. “I don’t want to pursue damages. I don’t want money from them. I—I’m angry. Because I worked my ass off, and this horrible man sat on a committee knowing nothing about who I am and said, Aren’t you a filthy little queer? And I could still hear it when they acquitted me. Because the only good queer for them is one who is dead or celibate forever.”
Patrick puts up his hand to calm the torrent of words. I squeeze Bastien’s hand.
Bastien puts his hand on his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so angry!” He looks at me and then at Patrick. “The thing is that people like Chen have been able to do that to other researchers, probably for decades, and even if people noticed, nobody told him to stop. I want to be the one who gets to say stop. No more. Jamais encore.” He takes a deep breath.
Patrick sets his pen down. “A formal finding of discriminatory conduct goes on record. It becomes something the next researcher can point to. It establishes a pattern rather than an isolated incident.” Patrick considers me. “Dr. Chen is sixty-three. A formal complaint, properly documented, may be sufficient to accelerate a retirement that is likely coming regardless. There would be no acknowledgment of wrongdoing — these things rarely produce that — but the pressure of a formal investigation tends to resolve certain situations.”
“And after?”
“That’s less certain. It’s possible the VA might want to demonstrate accountability in some visible way. Restructuring of how these panels are conducted. Oversight. Possibly — and I want to be clear this is speculative — consultation with people who have direct experience of what the process looks like from the other side of that table.”
Bastien snorts. “They would ask me to sit on a panel? Me? After what they did?”
“It’s not unthinkable.” Patrick looks at us both. “What I can tell you is that the alternative — taking money and no formal complaint — is cleaner for you personally and meaningless to everyone who comes after you.” He taps the file. “Corrupt systems protect their own, Dr. Saint-Jacques. They try to squash the people they hurt and use silence and shadows to hide everything. The only way that changes is if someone puts it on record.”
The room is quiet. I can hear the secretary typing outside. Through the window there is an unremarkable view of Roosevelt Street and the old movie palace with its missing marquee letters.
“My reputation,” Bastien says slowly, “is already on fire.”
“Exactly,” Patrick says. “Unless you fight back.”
Bastien straightens. “Then let’s burn down whatever is within reach.”
I raise Bastien’s hand to my mouth and kiss his knuckles.
Patrick picks up his pen. “Right,” he says. “Let’s talk about Dr. Chen.”
Chapter thirty-nine
Bastien
Iam at the dining room table doing sudoku in ink when Levi comes in, looking happy.
“How’s it going?” he asks, craning his neck at the booklet. I had told him—mistakenly—that I was good at sudoku when he decided he was going to buy it for me and I have been paying for that sentence ever since. Four squares are scribbled black. I have started writing very small so the corrections fit.
“Badly,” I admit.
“You’re so smart. You’re just not in the habit of doing it yet.” He bends over and kisses the top of my head.
I try not to roll my eyes at that, because now I have an entire lifetime stretching ahead of me. An old lady at the mailbox today told me, with complete sincerity, that her son-in-law at the bowling alley is hiring.
“You got a package,” he says, depositing the box on the table. He looks at it significantly. “Who do you know in New York?”
I stare at the box like it’s going to bite me. I should have felt pride about this moment. I had been picturing it for over a year: the moment when I unwrapped it and saw my first book. It was going to be reverent, the kind of moment they show in the movies where all the external sounds are muted by the sheer impact of the moment.
