Dr. Crawford leaned forward, watching intently. The third problem. Open-ended proof construction. No right answer.
Just demonstration of mathematical thinking. This was where most students failed. Where raw talent mattered more than memorization. Isaiah closed his eyes. Thought of his father's approach.
Sideways. Unexpected. Beautiful. He opened his eyes and wrote. 3 Hours and 22 minutes.
Isaiah set down his pencil. "Done." Okay. The panel collected his work, conferred in whispers. Isaiah sat motionless, his fate in their hands. Dr.
Sullivan studied the pages longest. His expression troubled. Not suspicious. Something else. Something that looked almost like guilt.
Finally, Dr. Crawford spoke. "We'll need 30 minutes to review. Wait outside." Isaiah walked into the hallway. Dr.
Moore was waiting. "How did it go?" "I don't know." His voice was hollow. "I did my best." "That's all you can do." They waited. 30 Minutes became 45, then an hour. Every second felt like a verdict.
Then the door opened, and Dr. Sullivan stood there, alone, with something to say. "Mr. Parker, can I speak with you privately?" Dr. Moore tensed.
"Whatever you have to say, please." Sullivan's voice cracked. "This is personal." Isaiah followed him to a corner of the hallway, away from the door, away from ears. Sullivan couldn't meet his eyes. "I knew your father." Isaiah's heart stopped. "We were in the same program, 1994.
He was Sullivan swallowed. He was the best of us. The most brilliant mathematician I'd ever met. Everyone knew he was going to do something extraordinary." "What happened?" "Hartwell happened." Sullivan's hands were shaking. "Your father developed a solution, revolutionary work, and Hartwell stole it, claimed it as his own.
"You knew?" "Everyone knew." Sullivan finally looked up. His eyes were wet. "When Hartwell accused your father of plagiarism, we all knew it was a lie. But Hartwell had power, tenure, connections, and we were scared." Isaiah felt rage building. "You let him destroy my father." "Yes." Sullivan's voice broke.
"I've carried that guilt for 24 years. I told myself it wasn't my business. That your father must have done something wrong. But I knew. I always knew." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope.
"This is my written statement. Everything I witnessed. Everything I should have said in 1994." Isaiah took the envelope, his hands trembling. "Why now?" "Because I saw you in that room. I saw you solve those problems.
And I realized Sullivan wiped his eyes. You're not just fighting for yourself. You're fighting for him. For a man who deserved better. A man we all failed.
He straightened up. I'm not failing him again. I'm changing my assessment and I'm testifying against Hartwell. Isaiah held the envelope. A confession 24 years in the making.