I identified myself as an NYPD detective to Hawkins and informed him that an intern had reported an incident allegedly occurring the previous day. Hawkins nodded as if he knew what I was referring to. He said that Jason Powell had left earlier in the day for a business trip to Philadelphia, even though I had not indicated to him yet that the intern’s complaint concerned Mr. Powell. I asked him directly, “Do you know why I’m here?” He said without hesitation, “This is about Rachel, right?”
Hawkins reported that he studied under Powell at NYU and began working at FSS after a few years at a hedge fund. He explained that this is the first time FSS has supervised student interns, under pressure from the university because Powell is still a professor while pursing outside business endeavors. Rachel Sutton is one of four interns, spending approximately 6–10 hours per week at FSS, primarily researching potential investments.
Hawkins indicated that Rachel Sutton went to his office the previous day, asked to speak to him, and closed his office door. She reported that Jason Powell had “sexually harassed” her. She stated that Powell had “been inappropriate” with her. According to Hawkins, when he pressed Sutton further for details, she responded, “He’s the one who should explain himself.”
I asked Hawkins what he did in response to her complaint. He admitted that he has no training in responding to workplace complaints, and that FSS is too small to have a human resources department. He said that he spoke with Jason Powell, who appeared “completely shocked and even outraged” by the question. Powell indicated that he could not think of any explanation for the complaint except for a brief conversation regarding Rachel Sutton’s recent engagement.
I asked Hawkins if he had any other information to provide regarding the incident, and he said he did not. He said he was “stunned” and “disappointed” that the police were involved, indicating his belief that there was a misunderstanding between the two parties.
After leaving FSS, I telephoned Jason Powell at a cell phone number provided by Hawkins. I identified myself as an NYPD detective (I did not specify SVU) and told him that I wanted to speak to him about a complaint I had received. He immediately stated that he would not answer questions unless he was in the presence of counsel.
Action: Reports forwarded to ADA King, New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau
6
Three Days Later
This is how I found out.
I am used to waking up alone, depending on which moment you count as “waking up.”
The first time is usually around three in the morning. Jason doesn’t know about these restless minutes. No one does. I tell myself they don’t matter, that they’re not real. They have nothing to do with my life as an adult—in this house, with Jason and Spencer. These lost blocks of time belong to the person I used to be. It’s as if sleep carries me into a time machine and I emerge briefly as my younger self: terrified, lonely, but more than anything, flat. That is how I used to feel all the time. Now, it’s only how I wake up—the first time, in the middle of the night, after an awful dream. I force myself to close my eyes and follow the “alphabet game” that Jason taught Spencer when we first spent the night under one roof together.
Spencer was nearly seven years old at the time. He was used to falling asleep on Long Island to the sounds of ocean wind and the hum of cicadas. Jason’s guest room was fifteen floors above Seventy-Fourth Street, but Spencer could not adapt to the staccato eruptions of sirens and honking horns.
He stepped into the living room in his Batman pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes. I looked apologetically to Jason and started to get up to take Spencer back to bed, but Jason pulled him onto the sofa between us.
“Start by thinking of something you like—a cartoon, a TV show, a subject in school.”
I wasn’t surprised when Spencer chose Harry Potter. He was an advanced reader for his age, but I suspected that the movies—and my mother—had helped him work his way through the books.
“Excellent,” Jason said. “Now close your eyes. Start with the letter A. Do you know your letters?”
Spencer smiled and nodded, eyes still closed. He had begun reading when he was only four.
Jason explained the game: Start with A and think of something related to Harry Potter. “Aunt Petunia.”
Then to B. “Broomstick.”
I could tell from my son’s face that he was no longer scared of the street outside. His mind was busy, inside a Harry Potter story. It was the first time I felt sure that Jason was going to love my son, not just me. Jason promised him that if he went back to bed and played the game, he’d be asleep again by the time he made it to Z.
This is how I spend those middle-of-the-night minutes, working through the alphabet—our family’s non-pharmaceutical Ambien—usually in the world of a familiar television show like Scandal or Friends. Something to make time pass. Anywhere except inside the dream that woke me in the first place, back in that house in Pittsburgh.
The second time I wake up—barely—is when Jason’s alarm goes off at precisely 5:30 a.m. By the time I met him, his schedule called for getting up early so he could work on the book he hoped to publish someday. Once that plan had worked, the timeline was set in stone.
As for me, the day doesn’t actually begin until my seven o’clock alarm, at which point my daily routine kicks in. I start with my iPad. Check e-mail. Browse Facebook. Skim the headlines. But I give myself fifteen minutes max, followed by a two-minute plank and a couple of stretches to get the blood moving. I swing by Spencer’s room to make sure he gets up, then it’s down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Boring? Yes. But I’m a firm believer in routine. Predictability is comforting. It’s safe.
I first learned Rachel the Intern’s last name from my iPad. From Facebook, to be precise. Jason hadn’t brought up the incident since initially mentioning it at dinner. He’d spent two days in Philadelphia. By the time he came home, I had actually forgotten about it. I assumed that if an intern’s complaint had moved beyond Zack, Jason would have mentioned it.
On the right side of the screen—beneath the name of an Oscar winner who was in the middle of a contested divorce and that of an athlete I barely recognized—were the words Jason Powell. My husband was “trending.” For a split second, I felt excitement, but then I clicked on the link.
After a quick skim of the article, I reached for the remote control on the nightstand and turned to New Day, where Jason was scheduled for a segment this morning. They were on a commercial break.
I clicked over to MSNBC, where Jason was also a frequent contributor. The Morning Joe panel was interviewing some congressman I’d never heard of. No mention of Jason on the crawl beneath the program.
I flipped up three stations to the channel that focused on finance issues. Nothing.
One more click up to the leading “conservative” station. A photograph of Jason appeared in the upper-right-hand corner, not far from the face of the attractive blonde who was speaking his name. And then I saw the letters in a banner across the bottom of the screen. Progressive Celebrity Economist Accused of Intern Sex Abuse.
The article was from the Post, and 3,000 Facebook users had already shared it. The paper had pulled a photo from Jason’s listing on the university’s website. Jason looked so young. His long face was fuller then, and he wasn’t yet sporting the short-stubble look he’d adopted a few years ago. His green eyes seemed to stare straight through the camera, and he was smiling as if he had thought of a joke.
The article itself was only two paragraphs long. It said that an unnamed college intern had accused “economist turned pundit and political lightning rod” Jason Powell of “involuntary sexual contact.”