Had he really gone on air and talked about guilt-free splurges without acknowledging the claim against him? No way. The Twittersphere would have been merciless. These days, the public thinks they’re owed an immediate explanation.
I reached for my phone and googled “Jason Powell New Day,” then narrowed the search for posts within the last hour. I found the answer to my question on a website that covered celebrities from a feminist perspective.
Seven minutes into New Day’s opening, cohost Eric Jordan abruptly interrupted one of Susanna Coleman’s stories about her beloved dog. “I’m sorry, Susanna. But no one wants to hear about Frannie. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.” He identified the elephant as the New York Post’s report that morning that a college intern had accused Dr. Jason Powell—“our own Dr. Jason”—of “inappropriate conduct.”
The irony of a man interrupting a woman to insist that she discuss allegations of sexual misconduct did not seem to be missed by Coleman. “You’re telling me what I can and can’t talk about right now?”
Jordan proceeded to read what appeared to be a prepared statement. “As journalists, we know that every individual is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law. But as a television program, New Day is also aware that the offscreen actions of on-air personalities can be distracting from quality content. As such, the segment we announced yesterday featuring Dr. Jason Powell for today has been canceled.”
The program went to commercial and proceeded as business as usual from there.
In other words, everyone’s presumed innocent unless we think it will hurt our ratings.
Hearing Spencer’s heavy steps on the staircase, I clicked off the television and placed my phone on the counter, screen down.
“Chocolate-chip pancakes?” he said drily as I placed three perfect round discs onto a plate. “I thought you said I shouldn’t ‘eat like a little kid anymore.’”
I hated the voice my son used when he impersonated me—so pinched and harpy. I let it slide for that day, and didn’t mention the context for that particular lecture: his picking at his dinner the night before, only to order pizza two hours later.
I shrugged and handed him the plate and a bottle of syrup. Pancakes were not part of the usual rotation of weekday breakfasts.
“If some skank accuses Dad of murder, will I get a car?”
“Don’t use words like that,” I said, pointing a stern finger, though I was smiling as I said it. Finding humor was my son’s way of dealing with the most unhumorous situations, and he knew how that kind of talk got under my skin. “Besides, I’m in denial that you’ll ever be old enough to drive.”
He didn’t complain when I followed him out the front door after breakfast. At his request, I had stopped walking him to school this year, but I still found days when I was “going that direction anyway.”
Jason had been adamant about paying for Spencer to go to a “good school.” I thought the Springs School had been perfectly good. It was the same grade school I attended. It was the grade school that most kids in East Hampton attended—not the uber-rich sections of East Hampton, but the way-north-of-the-highway area where the normal people lived. People like my family. People like Spencer and me before I met Jason.
Manhattan was different, Jason explained. We couldn’t drop Spencer into any random school. Parents who had to rely on public education chose their zip codes based on the quality of grade schools, and kids had to compete from there for spots in the best high schools. Families who could afford to opted for private schools, hiring consultants to assemble application packages and cozying up to potential references. The whole process sounded nauseating, but Jason knew more about education than I ever would, so I toured the “go-to” private schools. Friends Seminary had been the only one where I could picture Spencer being comfortable. Yes, there were children of rock stars and Oscar winners, but there were regular kids too. And it was Quaker. That had to mean the people were good, right?
I expected Jason to balk at the price tag, but the bigger issue was the school’s Sixteenth Street address. The trip from his apartment on the Upper West Side to the Village was only three miles, but it was a long haul given Manhattan traffic at peak hours. Jason decided we would move downtown.
“But what about the park?” He had opted for the apartment on Seventy-Fourth Street for its access to Central Park, where he could enjoy open space and maintain his twenty-five-mile-a-week running regimen.
“I’ll be the weirdo who does twenty laps around Washington Square. Besides, it’s walking distance to the university. I should’ve moved a long time ago.”
We could barely afford the rent on a two-bedroom on Waverly when we first made the move to the Village. Now, thanks to Jason’s extra income, we owned our own home on Twelfth Street—an actual carriage house, complete with a street-level parking garage—less than a ten-minute walk from Friends.
I could feel Spencer’s pace slow as we neared the school. As usual, his eyes were glued to his phone.
“Catching Pokemons?”
“So two years ago, Mom. And you know what I’m looking at.”
“It’s going to be okay, Spencer. You know your dad wouldn’t do something like that, right?”
“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t matter. Police set people up all the time. People go to prison for, like, their whole lives, and then it comes out they were innocent the whole time. There’s a place called the Innocence Project. Haven’t you heard of it?”
My son is starting to figure out that I’m not as educated as the other adults in his life. I hate the feeling of disappointing him.
“Yes, I’ve heard of it, but that’s irrelevant. Your father’s not going to prison. It’s all a misunderstanding. Absolutely nothing happened.” Once again, I tried to sound like I knew more than I actually did. “Your dad’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “We’re rich.” I hate that my son knows so much already about the world. “Besides, this isn’t nearly as bad as what some other kids went through. Seth’s dad’s been in rehab for basically all of middle school. And Karen’s older sister made a sex tape with Little Pony.”
“My Little Pony?”
“No, Mom. Little Pony. Geez, he’s a rapper.”
“Not my fault his name’s stupid.” We were at the corner before the school entrance, the farthest he let me walk him these days. He did allow me to give him a big hug. When I opened my eyes, I saw Jane Reese standing next to a black Escalade in the middle of the block, watching us. She quickly turned away. I wondered if she had noticed yet that I had unfriended her.
“Thank you, Spencer. You’re a good kid. Remember: When they go low . . .”
“We go high.” I gave him a quick fist-tap for good measure. “Are you going to be okay? I mean—what if people find out about . . . you know, us? I don’t really care, but—”
I felt a catch in my throat. My son, facing school to pretend he wasn’t scared that his entire world was falling apart, was worried about me.
“The police will have this cleared up in no time. It’s all going to be fine.” I looked away so he couldn’t see the uncertainty in my eyes. Even he had no idea how much I distrusted the police, or my reasons.
I was almost home when my cell phone rang. My screen read “AMC.” The American Media Center, the network that runs New Day. Maybe Jason was calling from the green room.
“Jason?” It was about time.
“No, it’s me.” Susanna was whispering. “I’m calling from the set during a commercial break. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I didn’t know anything about this. I found out online. The show felt the need to read a statement? Based on the word of some—” The word skank came to mind, planted in my frontal lobe by Spencer minutes ago. “Student?”