Got famous. Got rich. Her voice hardened. And when your father tried to fight back, tried to prove the work was his, Hartwell accused him of plagiarism. His own work.
His own work. And the university believed the tenured white professor over the young black graduate student. No investigation. No fair hearing. Just destruction.
Isaiah felt rage building. You were there. You could have said something. I know. Dr.
Moore's voice cracked. I was 22 years old. A black woman trying to survive in a department that barely tolerated my existence. Speaking up meant losing everything. She met his eyes.
I've carried that guilt for 24 years. I wake up thinking about it. Go to sleep thinking about it. Every time Hartwell walks past me in the hallway, I remember what I didn't do. Why are you helping me now?
Ed. "Because I'm tired of being a coward." Dr. Moore sat back down. "And because you have something your father never had." "What?" "Proof that can't be ignored." She pulled a folder from her desk drawer. "After you emailed me, I did some digging.
University archives, department records, things Hartwell thought he'd buried forever." She opened the folder, spread documents across the desk. "This is a research proposal your father submitted to the department in October 1994. It describes the exact methodology that Hartwell published in 1995." Isaiah stared at the papers. His father's name. His father's work.
Dated before Hartwell's publication. "And this." Dr. Moore pulled out another document. "This is a formal complaint your father filed in February 1995, alleging that Hartwell stole his research." Isaiah read it. His father's words.
His father's pain. Preserved on paper for 24 years. "The complaint was dismissed. Insufficient evidence. Your father was expelled 2 weeks later." "So Hartwell has done this before," Isaiah said.
"And gotten away with it." "For 24 years. But here's the thing." Dr. Moore leaned forward. "Your father's notebooks. If we can prove they're authentic, that they weren't fabricated, then Hartwell's entire defense collapses." "How do we prove that?" "We don't.
We get someone else to prove it. Someone whose credentials are so impeccable that the university can't ignore them." She picked up her phone. "My doctoral advisor, Dr. Benjamin Crawford, MIT emeritus, Fields Medal nominee, the most respected mathematician in the country. If he says your abilities are real, nobody can argue.
"Will he help?" "I don't know. He's 71, semi-retired, doesn't take meetings. She started dialing. But for something like this, for a chance to right a 24-year wrong, he might make an exception." The phone rang. Once, twice.
A voice answered. Isaiah couldn't hear the conversation, just Dr. Moore's side. "Benjamin, it's Lydia. Yes, I know it's been a while.
I need a favor. A big one. Academic fraud, 24 years old. The victim's son. Yes, I'm certain.
His name is Parker. James Parker's son." Silence on the other end. Then Dr. Moore smiled. "Thank you.