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We have forgotten how to say ‘I don’t know yet’

There are four words that have apparently become unacceptable in American public life:

“I don’t know yet.”

I found myself thinking about that Saturday while we continued talking about the allegations surrounding the Cornell fraternity case.

Everybody wants an answer.

Everybody wants a side.

Everybody wants to know whom we’re supposed to believe, whom we’re supposed to condemn and whom we’re supposed to defend.

Preferably before lunch.

What caught my attention Saturday was New York Attorney General Letitia James.

A reporter confronted James about a Facebook post she’d made before being put in charge of the investigation. In that post, she said what the young woman had been forced to endure was “horrific and unacceptable,” adding, “To her and to all survivors, you’re not alone. We stand with you.”

The reporter asked a perfectly reasonable question: If you’re now responsible for investigating what happened, why did you publicly appear to affirm the allegations before conducting your own fact-finding?

James’ answer?

“I will not comment on the Facebook post.”

Well, that’s convenient.

The governor expressed confidence that James would examine the facts and draw the proper conclusions. Maybe she will.

But surely we haven’t reached the point where it’s unreasonable to ask whether the person investigating an allegation should have reached a conclusion about that allegation before conducting the investigation.

That’s not a left-right question. That’s a common-sense question.

And it gets at what bothers me about this entire episode.

Why are we so terrified of waiting for the facts?

The more details that emerge from this case, the less interested I am in hearing somebody give me a simple answer.

There are allegations of terrible conduct. There are disturbing messages reportedly exchanged among fraternity members. There are serious questions about intoxication, drugs and consent.

There are also statements attributed to the young woman from 2024 that complicate the picture considerably.

On The View, Sonny Hostin—a former sex-crimes prosecutor—went through some of those details. She pointed out that under New York law, voluntary intoxication or drug use does not automatically establish an inability to consent. She also discussed portions of the woman’s earlier statement indicating that some sexual activity had been consensual, that three of the young men did not touch her and that one young man reportedly entered and told everyone else to get out.

Hostin also made another important point: none of that means this isn’t serious.

That’s exactly where grown-ups ought to be able to live for a while.

In the uncomfortable middle.

We can say a young woman made decisions that put her in a dangerous situation without saying she therefore consented to anything anybody wanted to do to her.

We can say the allegations deserve serious investigation without declaring seven young men rapists before they’ve been charged, tried or convicted.

We can question New York’s consent law without rewriting what the law was when these events allegedly occurred.

We can even encounter ugly facts without immediately knowing what legal conclusion those facts support.

That isn’t weakness.

That’s what thinking looks like.

Later in the show, a caller named Jada gave us a fascinating example of how difficult this conversation has become.

She is a veteran and described having been around groups of men who propositioned her. Her argument was that the young woman at Cornell had voluntarily placed herself in a risky situation.

I understood what Jada was saying.

But I kept asking her the question that matters.

Does that absolve the young men?

No, she said.

So I pushed further.

Based on what we know now, should they be charged with rape?

And suddenly the answer wasn’t so easy.

Jada kept returning to the same point: “She put herself in that situation.”

Maybe she did.

But that still doesn’t answer the question.

Personal responsibility and criminal responsibility are not the same thing.

If I leave my car running with the doors unlocked and somebody steals it, you can tell me I was an idiot.

You’d be right.

The thief is still a thief.

At the same time, if I accuse somebody of stealing my car, you don’t put him in prison because I sound convincing on television.

You investigate.

That’s the part we’ve lost.

We no longer seem capable of separating judgment from judgment of guilt.

There are things young women should be taught about protecting themselves. There are things young men desperately need to be taught about sex, intoxication, consent and basic human decency.

And none of those lessons determines what happened in this particular case.

Evidence does.

I understand why people hate uncertainty. Uncertainty isn’t satisfying. It doesn’t make a good chyron. It doesn’t produce a viral post. You can’t chant it at a protest.

But sometimes “I don’t know” is the most truthful answer available.

And adding one little word makes it even better:

Yet.

I don’t know yet.

Let the investigators investigate. Let the evidence come out. Let the people accused answer the allegations. Let the woman be heard. Then follow the facts wherever they go—even if they don’t take you where your politics, your instincts or your favorite television personality wanted them to.

There used to be a name for that.

Fairness.

Maybe we should try it again.

— Bo

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