La Dolce Veto

Prologue

Members of his party nod in agreement and I want to vomit.

We’re six hours into congressional hearings about sexual harassment at government agencies.

Several, notably male, heads of these agencies have been emphatically testifying that the behavior both they and their, also male, subordinates conducted is protected by free speech and also at the same time didn’t happen, and if it did happen, it was passing comments with no ill intention behind them.

The female employees who testified yesterday feel a lot differently, obviously, and I personally am going to scream if these old men don’t shut up about how ranking the most and least fuckable in the office is merely boys being boys.

“Congresswoman Rhodes,” the speaker says, and I perk up. “You have the floor. Five minutes.”

“Mr. Donaldson,” I say, turning toward the head of the Federal Reserve who’s currently trying to clear his name. “You said the actions of both yourself and your male colleagues were greatly exaggerated. Is that correct?”

He nods. He’s slimy looking, with a head of hair that’s almost completely hardened by gel. “That’s correct, Congresswoman.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And are you prepared to say the testimonies of your female colleagues yesterday are greatly exaggerated?”

“Yes,” he says, certainly keeping it short and sweet as advised by his attorney.

“Thank you, and one such colleague, Rayna Spear, are you familiar with her?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Everyone in America knows Rayna Spear. It was her whistleblowing that forced Congress to launch this investigation in the first place.

“Yes,” Mr. Donaldson says. “Though Ms. Spear was not a direct report of mine.”

“Ms. Spear testified that she was fired after reporting the repeated sexual harassment she endured from her peers and her supervisor.”

Mr. Donaldson swallows so hard I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from my seat several yards away from him. “I am aware that she testified to that effect, yes.”

“Ms. Spear said her supervisor told her aggressors that she reported them and as a result she faced retaliation that was even worse than the original harassment, including crude comments, gestures, and notes left at her desk.”

Mr. Donaldson doesn’t say anything in response. He looks to his lawyer then back at me. “I’m sorry, Congresswoman, did you have a question?”

“My question is, are you prepared to testify today, under oath, that Ms. Spear lied about these claims?”

“Now hang on—” Congressman Finch interjects, violating like six House rules in the process. “I see what you’re doing, Ms. Rhodes.”

“Mr. Finch.” The speaker cuts him off. “This is Ms. Rhodes’s time.”

“No, I’m sick of this,” he says.

“Mr. Finch—” The speaker tries again.

“I’m sick of this little girl always trying to goad good men into saying something that will make them look indefensible,” he says. I merely sit back and watch as he self-destructs.

“Mr. Finch, this is not your time,” the speaker reminds him.

“I’ve known Mr. Donaldson for years and I know him to be a good man,” Finch says, his face now red, though it’s hard to see past the mustache. “I will not allow Ms. Rhodes to sully his good name for the sake of one woman’s comfort at work.”

“And what about my comfort at work?” I ask, because after all, it is still my time.

“Oh, you’re so uncomfortable as the most famous member of Congress? Is that what it is?” Finch says. “I’m not going to let some 25-year-old kid yell at me—”

“I’m 33 but thank you,” I interject.

He scoffs. “The cover of Vogue wasn’t enough; you have to burn everyone else while you rise to the top?”

“Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says, his tone punishing but nonthreatening, like a sitcom principal.

“It was Rolling Stone, actually,” I say. And I looked fucking great on that cover. “You’re probably confused because I was at the Met Gala, which is sponsored by Vogue.”

“You’re an insufferable bitch,” Mr. Finch says, and the Congress floor and the gallery above gasp in response.

“Mr. Finch, that’s enough,” the speaker says again, firmly. “Ms. Rhodes, you have four minutes remaining.”

“Are you done?” I ask Mr. Finch, who says nothing, now embarrassed by his own outburst because he made the speaker speak louder than his inside voice. “I have a point of order before we continue,” I say.

“Go ahead,” the speaker says.

“I’d like Mr. Finch’s words to be taken down,” I say, turning my body to him and remembering to keep my voice calm and even but strong and effective.

It’s always a balance for a woman in power.

“You don’t have to like me, Mr. Finch, but I do expect a semblance of respect while we are both here representing the people of the United States. ”

Mr. Finch glares at me, saying nothing. After a moment, he looks down at his lap. “It’s not necessary. I move to strike my words from the record.”

“And I’d like an apology,” I say, which is not in the congressional rule book, and I might be pushing my luck with our very orderly speaker, but I kind of just want to see if Finch will do it.

I look to Marisol, Congresswoman Reyes, and she’s suppressing a smile.

At 34, Marisol is the only other person on the committee born after the invention of the internet.

And my congressional bestie. She gives me an emphatic fist pump which earns the eye rolls of several of our colleagues.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“Excuse me?” I say. “Excuse you. Do you understand where we are? We are in a hearing for systemic sexual harassment in the very government we serve, and you are here openly harassing one of your female colleagues.” I look around the room to make sure people are still with me; everyone is leaning forward in their seats to see what happens next, even Mr. Donaldson, so I think I’m good.

“By interrupting my time, you showed that you have no respect for me, no respect for these proceedings, and no respect for the women of this country. I am asking for an apology before we move on.”

Finch looks to the speaker, but he does nothing.

He waits another moment, like maybe I’ll take it back and run away like a scared little girl.

That’s what men in these situations are hoping for, right?

That us girls remember our place and choose to flee positions with agency and return to our rightful place in the home.

If they make a powerful position uncomfortable for us, it’ll be our choice to leave it and they can skirt all blame.

Not today. Not on my watch. “An apology,” I say again.

Finch audibly sighs into the microphone. “I apologize.”

“Good,” I say. I turn my attention back to the hearing. “Now, Mr. Donaldson—”

“That was great today,” Kate, my campaign manager, says as she escorts me out of the Capitol.

“The team’s already working on splicing up the clips from the proceedings into a campaign ad.

We aren’t worried about the female vote, obviously, but this will get the granola men who are passionate about virtue-signaling their support of women’s rights. ”

“An important subset of my district,” I say, with zero irony.

I represent one of the bougiest quadrants of Los Angeles: West Hollywood, Hollywood, Los Feliz, Silver Lake—I have to court the Sweetgreen vote.

“We’re all set for the event tomorrow?” I ask.

We’re only a few weeks out from the election, and despite the fact that the media is obsessed with me, I’m not as comfortably ahead in the polls as I’d like to be.

Kate nods. “Get ready to kiss some babies. We’re slightly behind on the stage mom vote.” Kate cracks a smile. This time she is joking.

We get into a car right outside the Capitol and go directly to a small, private airport in Virginia.

I used to fly commercial back and forth from DC to Los Angeles, but the security risk became too great.

My private security detail says I get at least one credible death threat a day.

It used to terrify me, but now I find being constantly surrounded by people whose sole job is to keep me safe comforting.

We board the jet, which technically belongs to Congressman Jennings, whose family owns half of LA and lets me hitch rides back and forth with him.

He’s staying behind in DC this break, though, so my team and I get the plane to ourselves.

I change into my sweats once we’re onboard and curl up in one of the lush chairs, reading through the latest campaign data.

We’re almost ready to land at Burbank Airport when I see one of my advisors, Mark, whisper something to Kate that makes concern splash across her face.

It’s brief, because Kate has a great poker face, but it’s enough that my stomach drops.

Kate makes her way over to me and sits down next to me.

“Izzy,” she says. “Levi wants to meet with you when we land.”

My heart clenches and for a second I wonder if I’ll die from acute stress at 33. “What?” is all I can say. I haven’t seen Levi in months. Not in person anyway. Why did he go through my campaign instead of reaching out to me directly?

“He wants to meet you at your office,” Kate says. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I look out the window. It’s completely pitch black except for a few bundles of lights from the LA outskirts. It was well after 7 p.m. when we left DC and it’s a long flight. I was looking forward to going right to bed when I got home, not meeting Levi.

“Are you ok with this?” Kate asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, of course.”

We pull up to my district office 45 minutes later. The one advantage of the late hour is there’s no traffic, unusual for this part of Los Angeles. Other than a few drunk people wandering into the dive bar on the bottom floor of the building, the block is quiet.