"No," Sanders said, shaking his head slowly. "No, I was just leaving."

In the car, driving to the courthouse, Louise Fernandez recounted Sanders's story to the two junior lawyers traveling with her. One lawyer, a woman, said, "You don't really believe him?"

"Who knows?" Fernandez said. "It was behind closed doors. There's never a way to know."

The young woman shook her head. "I just can't believe a woman would act that way. So aggressively."

"Why not?" Fernandez said. "Suppose this wasn't a case of harassment. Suppose this was a question of implied promise between a man and a woman. The man claims that behind closed doors he was promised a big bonus, but the woman denies it. Would you assume that the man was lying because a woman wouldn't act that way?"

"Not about that, no."

"In that situation, you'd think that anything was possible."

"But this isn't a contract," the woman said. "This is sexual behavior."

"So you think women are unpredictable in their contractual arrangements, but stereotypical in their sexual arrangements?"

The woman said, "I don't know if stereotypical is the word I'd use."

"You just said that you can't believe a woman would act aggressively in sex. Isn't that a stereotype?"

"Well, no," the woman said. "It's not a stereotype, because it's true. Women are different from men when it comes to sex."

"And black people have rhythm," Fernandez said. "Asians are workaholics. And Hispanics don't confront . . ."

"But this is different. I mean, there are studies about this. Men and women don't even talk to each other the same way."

"Oh, you mean like the studies that show that women are less good at business and strategic thinking?"

"No. Those studies are wrong."

"I see. Those studies are wrong. But the studies about sexual differences are right?"

"Well, sure. Because sex is fundamental. It's a primal drive."

"I don't see why. It's used for all sorts of purposes. As a way of relating, a way of placating, a way of provoking, as an offer, as a weapon, as a threat. It can be quite complicated, the ways sex is used. Haven't you found that to be true?"

The woman crossed her arms. "I don't think so."

Speaking for the first time, the young man said, "So what'd you tell this guy? Not to litigate?"

"No. But I told him his problems."

"What do you think he should do?"

"I don't know," Fernandez said. "But I know what he should have done."

"What?"

"It's terrible to say it," she said. "But in the real world? With no witnesses? Alone in the office with his boss? He probably should have shut up and fucked her. Because right now, that poor bastard has no options at all. If he's not careful, his life is over."

Sanders walked slowly back down the hill toward Pioneer Square. The rain had stopped, but the afternoon was still damp and gray. The wet pavement beneath his feet sloped steeply downward. Around him the tops of the skyscrapers disappeared into the low-hanging, chilly mist.

He was not sure what he had expected to hear from Louise Fernandez, but it was certainly not a detailed account of the possibility of his being fired, mortgaging his house, and never working again.

Sanders felt overwhelmed by the sudden turn that his life had taken, and by a realization of the precariousness of his existence. Two days ago, he was an established executive with a stable position and a promising future. Now he faced disgrace, humiliation, loss of his job. All sense of security had vanished.

He thought of all the questions Fernandez had asked him-questions that had never occurred to him before. Why hadn't he told anyone. Why hadn't he made notes. Why hadn't he told Meredith explicitly that her advances were unwelcome. Fernandez operated in a world of rules and distinctions that he did not understand, that had never crossed his mind. And now those distinctions turned out to be vitally important.

Your situation is not good, Mr. Sanders.

And yet . . . how could he have prevented this? What should he have done instead? He considered the possibilities.

Suppose he had called Blackburn right after the meeting with Meredith, and had told him in detail that Meredith had harassed him. He could have called from the ferry, lodged his complaint before she lodged hers. Would it have made a difference? What would Blackburn have done?

He shook his head, thinking about it. It seemed unlikely that anything would make a difference. Because in the end, Meredith was tied in to the power structure of the company in a way that Sanders was not. Meredith was a corporate player; she had power, allies. That was the message the final message-of this situation. Sanders didn't count. He was just a technical guy, a cog in the corporate wheels. His job was to get along with his new boss, and he had failed to do that. Whatever he did now was just whining. Or worse: ratting on the boss. Whistleblowing. And nobody liked a whistle-blower.

So what could he have done?

As he thought about it, he realized that he couldn't have called Blackburn right after the meeting because his cellular phone had gone dead, its power drained.

He had a sudden image of a car-a man and a woman in a car, driving to a party. Somebody had told him something once . . . a story about some people in a car.

It teased him. He couldn't quite get it.

There were plenty of reasons why the phone might be dead. The most likely explanation was nicad memory. The new phones used rechargeable nickel-cadmium batteries, and if they didn't completely discharge between uses, the batteries could reset themselves at a shorter duration. You never knew when it was going to show up. Sanders had had to throw out batteries before because they developed a short memory.

He took out his phone, turned it on. It glowed brightly. The battery was holding up fine today.

But there was something . . .

Driving in a car.

Something he wasn't thinking about.

Going to a party.

He frowned. He couldn't get it. It hung at the back of his memory, too dim to recover.

But it started him thinking: what else wasn't he getting? Because as he considered the whole situation, he began to have the nagging sense that there was something else that he was overlooking. And he had the feeling that Fernandez had overlooked it, too. Something hadn't come up in her questions to him. Something that everybody was taking for granted, even though-

Meredith.

Something about Meredith.

She had accused him of harassment. She had gone to Blackburn and accused him the next morning. Why would she do that? No doubt she felt guilty about what had happened at the meeting. And perhaps she was afraid Sanders would accuse her, so she decided to accuse him first. Her accusation was understandable in that light.

But if Meredith really had power, it didn't make sense to raise the sexual issue at all. She could just as easily have gone to Blackburn and said, Listen, it isn't working out with Tom. I can't deal with him. We have to make a change. And Blackburn would have done it.

Instead, she had accused him of harassment. And that must have been embarrassing to her. Because harassment implied a loss of control. It meant that she had not been able to control her subordinate in a meeting. Even if something unpleasant did happen, a boss would never mention it.

Harassment is about power.

It was one thing if you were a lowly female assistant fondled by a stronger, powerful man. But in this case Meredith was the boss. She had all the power. Why would she claim harassment by Sanders? Because the fact was, subordinates didn't harass their bosses. It just didn't happen. You'd have to be crazy to harass your boss.

Harassment is about power-the undue exercise of power by a superior over

a subordinate.

For her to claim sexual harassment was, in an odd way, to admit that she was subordinate to Sanders. And she would never do that. Quite the contrary: Meredith was new to her job, eager to prove that she was in control of the situation. So her accusation made no sense-unless she was using it as a convenient way to destroy him. Sexual harassment had the advantage of being a charge that was difficult to recover from. You were presumed guilty until proven innocent-and it was hard to prove innocence. It tarnished any man, no matter how frivolous the accusation. In that sense, harassment was a very powerful accusation. The most powerful accusation she could make.

But then, she said that she wasn't going to press charges. And the question was

Why not?

Sanders stopped on the street.

That was it.

She assured me, she's not going to press charges.

Why wasn't Meredith going to press charges?

At the time that Blackburn said that, Sanders had never questioned it. Louise Fernandez had never questioned it. But the fact was, Meredith's refusal to press charges made no sense at all. She had already accused him. Why not press it? Why not carry it to its conclusion?

Maybe Blackburn had talked her out of it. Blackburn was always so concerned about appearances.

But Sanders didn't think that was what had happened. Because a formal accusation could still be handled quietly. It could be processed inside the company.

And from Meredith's standpoint, there were real advantages to a formal accusation. Sanders was popular at DigiCom. He had been with the company a long time. If her goal was to get rid of him, to banish him to Texas, why not defuse the inevitable corporate grumbling by letting the accusation work its way through the company grapevine? Why not make it official?

The more Sanders thought about it, the more it seemed that there was only one explanation: Meredith wasn't going to press charges because she couldn't.

She couldn't, because she had some other problem.

Some other consideration.

Something else was going on.

We can handle it quietly.

Slowly, Sanders began to see everything differently. In the meeting earlier that day, Blackburn hadn't been ignoring him or slighting him. Not at all: Blackburn was scrambling.

Blackburn was scared.

We can handle it quietly. It's best for everyone.

What did he mean, best for everyone?

What problem did Meredith have?

What problem could she have?

The more Sanders thought about it, the more it seemed that there could be only one possible reason why she wasn't pressing charges against him.

He took out his phone, called United Airlines, and booked three round-trip tickets to Phoenix.

And then he called his wife.

Ygoddamn son of a bitch," Susan said.

They were sitting in a corner table at 11 Terrazzo. It was two o'clock; the restaurant was nearly deserted. Susan had listened to him for half an hour, without interruption or comment. He told her everything that had happened in his meeting with Meredith, and everything that had happened that morning. The Conley-White meeting. The conversation with Phil. The conversation with Fernandez. Now he had finished. She stared at him.

"I could really learn to despise you, you know that? You son of a bitch, why didn't you tell me she was your ex-girlfriend?"

"I don't know," he said. "I didn't want to go into it."

"You didn't want to go into it? Adele and Mary Anne are talking to me on the phone all day, and they know, but I don't? It's humiliating, Tom."

"Well," he said, "you know you've been upset a lot lately, and-"

"Cut the crap, Tom," she said. "This has nothing to do with me. You didn't tell me because you didn't want to."

"Susan, that's not-"

"Yes it is, Tom. I was asking you about her, last night. You could have told me if you wanted to. But you didn't." She shook her head. "Son of a bitch. I can't believe what an asshole you are. You've made a real mess of this. Do you realize what a mess this is?"

"Yes," he said, hanging his head.

"Don't act contrite with me, you asshole."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You're sorry? Fuck you, you're sorry. Jesus Christ. I can't believe you. What an asshole. You spent the night with your goddamned girlfriend."

"I didn't spend the night. And she's not my girlfriend."

"What do you mean? She was your big heartthrob."

"She wasn't my `big heartthrob.' "

"Oh yeah? Then why wouldn't you tell me?" She shook her head. `Just answer one question. Did you fuck her or not?"

"No. I didn't."

She stared at him intently, stirring her coffee. "You're telling me the truth?"

"Yes."

"Nothing left out? No inconvenient parts skipped?"

"No. Nothing."

"Then why would she accuse you?"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"I mean, there must be a reason she accused you. You must have done something."

"Well, I didn't. I turned her down."

"Uh-huh. Sure." She frowned at him. "You know, this is not just about you, Tom. This involves your whole family: me and the kids."

"I understand that."

"Why didn't you tell me? If you told me last night, I could have helped you."

"Then help me now."

"Well, there isn't much we can do now," Susan said, with heavy sarcasm. "Not after she's gone to Blackburn and made an accusation first. Now you're finished."

"I'm not so sure."

"Trust me, you haven't got a move," she said. "If you go to trial, it'll be living hell for at least three years, and I personally don't think you can win. You're a man bringing a charge of harassment against a woman. They'll laugh you out of court."

"Maybe."

"Trust me, they will. So you can't go to trial. What can you do? Move to Austin. Jesus."

"I keep thinking," Sanders said. "She accused me of harassment, but now she isn't pressing charges. And I keep thinking, Why isn't she pressing charges?"

"Who cares?" Susan said, with an irritable wave of the hand. "It could be any of a million reasons. Corporate politics. Or Phil talked her out of it. Or Garvin. It doesn't matter why. Tom, face the facts: you have no move. Not now, you stupid son of a bitch."

"Susan, will you settle down?"

"Fuck you, Tom. You're dishonest and irresponsible."

"Susan-"

"We've been married five years. I deserve better than this."

"Will you take it easy? I'm trying to tell you: I think I do have a move."

"Tom. You don't."

"I think I do. Because this is a very dangerous situation," Sanders said. "It's dangerous for everybody."

"What does that mean?"

"Let's assume that Louise Fernandez told me the truth about my lawsuit."

"She did. She's a good lawyer."

"But she wasn't looking at it from the company's standpoint. She was looking at it from the plaintiffs standpoint."

"Yeah, well, you're a plaintiff."

"No, I'm not," he said. "I'm a potential plaintiff."

There was a moment of silence.

Susan stared at him. Her eyes scanned his face. She frowned. He watched her put it together. "You're kidding."

"No."

"You must be out of your mind."

"No. Look at the situation. DigiCom's in the middle of a merger with a very conservative East Coast company. A company that's already pulled out of one merger because an employee had a little bad publicity. Supposedly this employee used some rough language while firing a temp secretary, and then Conley-White pulled out. They're very skittish about publicity. Which means the last thing anybody at DigiCom wants is a sexual harassment suit against the new female vice president."

"Tom. Do you realize what you're saying?"

"Yes," he said.

"If you do this, they're going to go crazy. They're going to try to destroy you."

"I know."

"Have you talked to Max about this? Maybe you should."

"The hell with Max. He's a crazy old man."

"I'd ask him. Because this isn't really your thing, Tom. You were never a corporate infighter. I don't know if you can pull this off."

"I think I can."

"It'll be nasty. In a day or so, you're going to wish you had taken the Austin job."

"Fuck it."

"It'll get really mean, Tom. You'll lose your friends."

"Fuck it."

`Just so you're ready."

"I am." Sanders looked at his watch. "Susan, I want you to take the kids and visit your mother for a few days." Her mother lived in Phoenix. "If you go home now and pack, you can make the eight o'clock flight at Sea-Tac. I've booked three seats for you."

She stared at him, as if she were seeing a stranger. "You're really going to do this . . . ," she said slowly.

"Yes. I am."

"Oh boy." She bent over, picked up her purse from the floor, and pulled out her day organizer.

He said, "I don't want you or the kids to be involved. I don't want anybody pushing a news camera in their faces, Susan."

"Well, just a minute . . ." She ran her finger down her appointments. "I can move that . . . And . . . conference call . . . Yes." She looked up. "Yes. I can leave for a few days." She glanced at her watch. "I guess I better hurry and pack."

He stood up and walked outside the restaurant with her. It was raining; the light on the street was gray and bleak. She looked up at him and kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck, Tom. Be careful."

He could see that she was frightened. It made him frightened, too.

"I'll be okay."

"I love you," she said. And then she walked quickly away in the rain. He waited for a moment to see if she looked back at him, but she never did.

Walking back to his office, he suddenly realized how alone he felt. Susan was leaving with the kids. He was on his own now. He had imagined he would feel relieved, free to act without restraint, but instead he felt abandoned and at risk. Chilled, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his raincoat.

He hadn't handled the lunch with Susan well. And she would be going off, mulling over his answers.

Why didn't you tell me?

He hadn't answered that well. He hadn't been able to express the conflicting feelings he had experienced last night. The unclean feeling, and the guilt, and the sense that he had somehow done something wrong, even though he hadn't done anything wrong.

You could have told me.

He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself. But then why hadn't he told her? He had no answer to that. He passed a graphics shop, and a plumbing supply store with white porcelain fixtures in a window display.

You didn't tell me because you didn't want to.

But that made no sense. Why wouldn't he want to tell her? Once again, his thoughts were interrupted by images from the past: the white garter belt... a bowl of popcorn .... the stained-glass flower on the door to his apartment.

Cut the crap, Tom. This has nothing to do with me.

Blood in the white bathroom sink, and Meredith laughing about it. Why was she laughing? He couldn't remember now; it was just an isolated image. A stewardess putting a tray of airline food in front of him. A suitcase on the bed. The television sound turned off. The stained-glass flower, in gaudy orange and purple.

Have you talked to Max?

She was right about that, he thought. He should talk to Max. And he would, right after he gave Blackburn the bad news.

Sanders was back at his office at two-thirty. He was surprised to find Blackburn there, standing behind Sanders's desk, talking on his phone. Blackburn hung up, looking a little guilty. "Oh, Tom. Good. I'm glad you're back." He walked back around Sanders's desk. "What have you decided?"

"I've thought this over very carefully," Sanders said, closing the door to the hallway.

"And?"

"I've decided to retain Louise Fernandez of Marin, Howard to represent me."

Blackburn looked puzzled. "To represent you?"

"Yes. In the event it becomes necessary to litigate."

"Litigate," Blackburn said. "On what basis would you litigate, Tom?"

"Sexual harassment under Title VII," Sanders said.

"Oh, Tom," Blackburn said, making a mournful face. "That would be unwise. That would be very unwise. I urge you to reconsider."

"I've reconsidered all day," Sanders said. "But the fact is, Meredith Johnson harassed me, she made advances to me and I turned her down. Now she's a woman scorned, and she is being vindictive toward me. I'm prepared to sue if it comes to that."

"Tom..."

"That's it, Phil. That's what'll happen if you transfer me out of the division."

Blackburn threw up his hands. "But what do you expect us to do? Transfer Meredith?"

"Yes," Sanders said. "Or fire her. That's the usual thing one does with a harassing supervisor."

"But you forget: she's accused you of harassment, too."

"She's lying," Sanders said.

"But there are no witnesses, Tom. No evidence either way. You and

she are both our trusted employees. How do you expect us to decide who to believe?"

"That's your problem, Phil. All I have to say is, I'm innocent. And I'm prepared to sue."

Blackburn stood in the middle of the room, frowning. "Louise Fernandez is a smart attorney. I can't believe she recommended this course of action to you."

"No. This is my decision."

"Then it's very unwise," Blackburn said. "You are putting the company in a very difficult position."

"The company is putting me in a difficult position."

"I don't know what to say," Phil said. "I hope this doesn't force us to terminate you."

Sanders stared at him, meeting his gaze evenly. "I hope not, too," he said. "But I don't have confidence that the company has taken my complaint seriously. I'll fill out a formal charge of sexual harassment with Bill Everts in HR later today. And I'm asking Louise to draw up the necessary papers to file with the state Human Rights Commission."

"Christ."

"She should file first thing tomorrow morning."

"I don't see what the rush is."

"There's no rush. It's just a filing. To get the complaint on record. I'm required to do that."

"But this is very serious, Tom."