In ordinary professional life, certain things can end a career.
An executive accused of serious misconduct may be suspended. A lawyer whose judgment is questioned may lose clients. A university administrator who mishandles allegations of sexual assault may discover that an impressive résumé provides remarkably little protection.
At least, that is how we like to imagine the world works.
But the more powerful someone becomes, the more complicated accountability seems to get. Conduct that would be professionally devastating for an ordinary person becomes a controversy to be managed, a misunderstanding to be explained, or an unfortunate distraction from more important work.
Sometimes the person simply matters too much.
Consider Jeffrey Epstein and the extraordinary collection of influential people who moved through his world. Association alone establishes neither criminal conduct nor knowledge of his crimes. But it is reasonable to ask what these people knew, what they witnessed, and what they chose not to ask.
The conversation, however, often turns to whether their associations can be satisfactorily explained away.
Pete Hegseth’s confirmation proceedings raised different questions. Allegations concerning his personal conduct became part of the debate over his qualifications to lead the Department of Defense. His supporters disputed the allegations. His critics questioned whether the standards applied to him were consistent with those imposed on the people he would command.
The allegations deserved careful examination. So did the standards.
And now Cornell University.
Allegations of a violent sexual assault have raised questions about the university’s handling of accusations involving its own students. Cornell has reported taking disciplinary action, and New York’s attorney general has been appointed to lead the criminal investigation.
The accused are entitled to due process. So are the allegations entitled to a serious investigation. Neither obligation excuses the university from examining its own conduct.
Institutions sometimes develop an unfortunate habit of confusing their interests with those of the people they are supposed to investigate. Protecting a reputation can become more important than discovering what happened. A fraternity, an administration, a political appointment, or a valuable relationship begins to look like something worth preserving.
The institution forgets whom it was supposed to serve.
President Trump has weighed in on the Cornell controversy, expressing sympathy for the accused and concern that they would not receive a fair shake.
It is an interesting concern coming from a man with a rather different history of speaking about accused young men.
In 1989, Trump took out newspaper advertisements calling for the return of the death penalty amid public outrage over the Central Park assault. Five teenagers were subsequently convicted. Their convictions were vacated in 2002 after DNA evidence and another man’s confession undermined the case. Trump has continued to dispute their exoneration.
Now, confronted with allegations against seven young men at an elite university, he is concerned about their treatment.
One wishes he had discovered the principle a little earlier.
For people without wealth, influence, or institutional protection, a mistaken judgment can have immediate and irreversible consequences. For those who possess those advantages, even serious allegations may begin a lengthy discussion about whether any consequences are appropriate.
Evidence matters. Fairness matters. Due process matters. None should depend on the importance of the person whose conduct is being examined.
Not every allegation should end a career. That would merely replace one injustice with another.
But the rules should not change according to who is accused.
We are remarkably good at recognizing that principle when the accused is someone we dislike.