He said – she said.
She said: ‘Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter – the laughter – the uproarious laughter between the two.
I was – you know – underneath one of them while they laughed’.
He said: ‘My Dad started keeping calendars of his life in the summer of 1978’ so he started doing the same.
‘My calendar shows all but definitively that I was not there’.
He was out of town almost every weekend.
Where I don’t know.
But watching these extraordinary Senate hearings what mattered a lot was not only what was said but the way it was said.
Dr Christine Blasey Ford is seen by many as the perfect victim: a professor – married – white – with two kids – she took great pains to explain not just her memories of the alleged assault but how memory works – how trauma embeds itself and lurks unbidden in women’s lives.
Her strange desire to have two front doors – another way out – all these years later – had led to rows with her husband.
She recalled catching the eye of the other man she alleged was in the room (Mark Judge) and thinking he might help her – but he didn’t.
She was terrified but composed.
Many women watching recognised something in the details she went over – more than that they recognised her compliance – her desperate need to be pleasing and helpful.
This was not a trial – we had to keep reminding ourselves – but it sure as hell felt like one.
Ranged before her were a semi-circle of old men.
In a rare flash of self-awareness they had thoughtfully arranged for a woman to sit beneath them to put the questions they were too cowardly to ask.