Finally, justice begins to pierce the Teflon... And E. Jean Carroll is the tip of the spear.

E. Jean Carroll was one of the first female voices I read on repeat. She wrote advice columns for women that began “Dear Reader” and ended with a smart, upbeat takeaway. Not to say she was frivolous, she wasn’t. She framed her point of view in a way that was hopeful, less cynical than the typical New York City scribes at the time. Even when she advised making a hard choice, it was always with a snappy twist—the sugar to help the medicine go down.

She spoke to her readers in a familiar voice, one that was reliable and relatable. I found that voice soothing at various times in my life. The world could be on fire, and yet E. Jean was still spinning out solid advice with a wink and a smile. She never wavered in who she was or what she had to say.

Over the years, I tuned in to different voices, and I lost track of E. Jean in exchange for louder, more radical views. It wasn’t until she released her book in 2019 that I realized 1) holy crap, E. Jean is still writing, and 2) holy crap, E. Jean has a Trump story.

That story, about how she was raped by Donald Trump in a dressing room at Bergdorf Goodman, became an instant headline, shadowing every other chapter in her memoir. Trump, a seeping cold sore on the face of humanity, went wild trying to paint E. Jean as a liar, and in response, she filed an assault and defamation suit against him. The case was settled a few months ago and Trump was found liable, forced to pay the maximum fine of $5 million. *

And as for the dressing room where E. Jean was attacked? I’m familiar. Tucked into the back of the lingerie floor, those rooms were isolated, lonely cubes with mismatched benches and the occasional silky negligee left waiting for its return to the racks.

In high school, my friends and I shoplifted bikinis in those empty rooms. Ralph Lauren, Norma Kamali, Calvin Klein—all the names we wanted but couldn’t afford on our babysitting salaries. As a gaggle of teenage girls dressed in Catholic school uniforms, our presence was largely ignored. We moved through the store like we owned it, our loot stuffed into backpacks alongside chemistry books and old Latin quizzes. Occasionally, we’d get a nod from a security guard or an annoyed look from a salesperson, but for the most part, no one cared. Why? Because Bergdorf’s is where wealth whispers the loudest. It hums with money and smells like fresh Birken. There’s no comparing it to, say, Macy’s or Lord & Taylor, where departments swarm with people and clearance racks dot the perimeter. At Bergdorf’s, shoppers are “clients,” and they swish through glass-encased designer salons wearing dark sunglasses in the light of day. Of course, E. Jean and Trump would have gone unnoticed here. Of course he could have surprised her in the back of that dressing room, violently, quietly. As E. Jean walks us through that account in her testimony, I can see it unfold in full color, right down to the dusty velvet benches.

I read those court transcripts. I watched Trump stumble through his deposition and face plant while identifying E. Jean as his wife, Marla Maples. I dove into the editorials, dissecting the timing of the book release and the validity of the story itself. As expected, and per the course for so many victims of sexual assault, E. Jean was vilified, torn, and tarred by the public before she could speak one word in court.

This crushed me in a way I didn’t expect. A protective way, in that I couldn’t bear having E. Jean, that steady voice of reason from my past, defamed by someone like Trump, a sidewalk shit stain that should have been hosed to the curb years ago.

I hated that Elle magazine fired her because of the bad publicity, ** and I cringed just thinking about what would happen in the courtroom. Not because I thought she would fold under the pressure; I know better than that, dear reader! But because it would be like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Sure, she would walk away from the crash, smoke rising from her shoulders as she swept ash from her bobbed hair. But as the runaway train, Trump would take down everything in his path, leaving a toxic cloud of sexist poison in his wake.

She’s a liar, she just wants to sell a book.

I’ve never seen her before, I don’t even know her.

She’s not my type.

He reads from the same handbook that has informed our social code for decades. These are the same sexist tropes that twist the narrative for sexual assault victims, forcing them to defend their moral character and prove their merit as reasonable people before the court of public opinion.

At least 26 women have come forward to accuse Trump of sexual misconduct, some cases dating back to the 1970s. He’s on tape spewing about how easy it is to get away with it when you’re famous. He publicly disgraced Ivana Trump, his first wife and mother of his three eldest children, the same woman who accused him of rape, violence, and intolerable cruelty in her divorce filing. His infidelity to his wives, his inner circle, and the truth is well documented and somewhat comical if it weren’t so horrifying. It’s all so revealing. It’s all so blatant. It’s all such crap.

And yet... and yet, I still hear the refrain of his defense from people all over the internet, on TV, and in real life.

C’mon just look at her! No way.

Why now? Thirty years later? It’s a hit job!

Who the hell is she anyway?

She’s fucking E. Jean Carroll, that’s who.

She’s been writing books and articles for national publications since before Trump’s first bankruptcy. She hosted her own cable news show, wrote for SNL, and delivered a monthly advice column for Elle magazine for nearly 27 years. She’s part of a distinct class of NYC writers whose voices echo beyond the city’s streets and into the mainstream. She did that. Her words had power then, and they still do.

Just think about what it took for her to get up on that stand to tell her story now, at this moment in time. Trump is more popular than ever, with a rabid base that riles easily and engages fully. The frenzy surrounding the case must have been suffocating, but E. Jean never backed down. At 79 years old, she has the ramrod posture of a model walking with a stack of books on her head. She is poised. She is polished. She is well versed in the manners of her time—a generation of women trained to smile in the ugly face of misogyny. *** She believes in herself and her words. And it shows.

On the other hand, Trump carries himself like a leaking bag of old Chinese takeout. He oozes the greasy menace of a seasoned liar, his smile scarier than his scowl. His swagger and arrogance are tells of course, nobody who has been falsely accused acts like such a coward, hiding behind a camera rather than appearing in court to face his accuser. He dodges and weaves through questions in that deposition, attempting to distance himself from the event. He knows it’s bad, he’s feeling the heat, his face says it all.

Trump continues to show us who he is every single day. E. Jean’s case is just the beginning of a full reveal that will strip him down to the bones for the starving dogs to finish off. At least, that’s how I’m dreaming of his demise. And a girl can dream. E. Jean told me so.

* E. Jean has since amended her claim to include the defamatory comments Trump made after the original case was settled. She is seeking $10 million in damages this time around. The case is scheduled to go to trial on January 15, 2024.

** What the actual fuck Elle mag? You were always the edgier, cooler choice at the newsstands because, unlike most of the fashion rags, your pages were filled with articles about culture, careers, and politics. You spoke to us, your female readership, like we were so much more than skirts in need of another lipstick or tips on how to get the guy. You were a trusted publication, and you betrayed that trust. By sacking E. Jean just as her story went public, you announced to the world that it’s not OK to be a victim, it’s not OK to fight for your name, your dignity, your fucking soul. You have reinforced the ugly reality that victims will be punished for speaking out and that the consequences of going public are dire. You’re like a blind dinosaur swatting at the flies gathering around your stinking, rotting corpse. Stick to selling lipstick and frocks while you still can.

*** E. Jean Carroll was of a different generation, my mother’s generation, late Boomer with a hint of hippie. They wore white gloves, starched linens and carried the weight of systemic misogyny while mixing the perfect martini. The term sexual assault didn’t exist for them, and rape only happened to those who deserved it, the shame of such an attack placed squarely on the female. In stepping into court, E. Jean has refused to carry that shame, daring to defy the spineless stereotype assigned to her and her sisters for decades. And that, dear reader, is the definition of a badass.