Calls he would later describe, if ever asked, as simply checking in on his son's well-being during a stressful week. Both calls happened to land on the desk of Dean Harold Ingram, a careful, cautious administrator who had learned over many years at Asheford that certain names on the phone required a certain kind of attention. Dean Ingram called Joe into his office on Tuesday afternoon. He was not unkind exactly, but he was formal, careful with his words in the particular way of a man protecting more than one interest at once. "Miss Callaway," he said, gesturing for her to sit.
I want to be clear that nothing has been decided yet, but given the seriousness of the allegation and given some additional concerns that have been raised about your conduct this semester, the university feels it's necessary to move this to a formal hearing. "What additional concerns?" Joe asked evenly. Dean Ingram glanced briefly at a folder on his desk before answering, and Joe noticed, though she said nothing, that the folder looked thin, thinner than a semester's worth of real concerns should look. There have been some questions raised about the accuracy of information on your financial aid application, he said.
I want to stress that this is simply part of a routine review process. Joe felt something cold settle in her stomach, recognizing immediately the rumor she had refused to dignify with a response earlier, apparently now dressed up in official language and given a seat at the table. That information is accurate, she said. My father's death benefits and my survivor's pension are public record. You're welcome to verify them.
We intend to, Dean Ingram said, as I said. Routine. When is the hearing? Joe asked. Dean Ingram checked a calendar on his desk.
Friday, 6:00 in the evening. The boardroom in the administration building. He paused, studying her for a moment, something almost apologetic crossing his face, though he did not let it linger. I'd encourage you to bring anything you feel is relevant to your case. Character references, documentation, anything that might help clarify the situation.
Joe nodded once, the same careful, controlled nod she had given Coach Marsh weeks earlier. The nod that revealed nothing of the storm settling underneath it. "I'll be there," she said. She rose to leave, and had nearly reached the door when Dean Ingram spoke again, quieter this time, almost as though the words had escaped him before he could decide whether to say them. "For what it's worth, Miss Callaway," he said.
"I've read your file, your grades, your record from before you arrived here. None of it looks like someone who needs to cut corners. He hesitated, glancing briefly toward his own desk phone, the one that had carried two calls that weekend from a name he did not particularly enjoy hearing. I hope Friday clears things up. I truly do.