What things? Not over the phone. Come home. Please. The line went dead.
Isaiah sat in his apartment, his father's notebooks surrounding him, the handwriting he'd memorized, the equations he'd studied for 6 years. He opened the oldest one. The first page. Faded pencil. Whitmore University, fall 1994.
And his father had studied here, at this university, in this department, 24 years ago. He flipped through the pages, searching. Near the back, a page torn out. Only fragments remained, but one word was visible. Hartwell.
Whatever happened between them, it destroyed his father's life. And now it was threatening to destroy his. Isaiah drove home that weekend, 4 hours through rain and empty highways. His mother was waiting at the kitchen table. A cardboard box in front of her.
The box Isaiah had never been allowed to open. I kept this hidden. Linda Parker's voice was barely a whisper. I thought if you never knew, you'd be safe. Safe from what, Mom?
She opened the box. Inside, letters, documents, photographs. A young man with Isaiah's eyes, Isaiah's smile. A face he barely remembered. Your father was a student at Whitmore, 24 years ago.
Linda's hands trembled. He was the most brilliant mathematician in his program. Everyone said he'd change the world. What happened to him? His advisor happened.
She pulled out a letter, yellow with age, dated February 1995. Dear Mr. Parker, following the investigation into academic misconduct, your enrollment at Whitmore University is hereby terminated. Isaiah read the signature at the bottom. Richard Hartwell, department chair.
His blood ran cold. Hartwell was Dad's advisor? More than that. His mother wiped her eyes. Your father developed a solution, a breakthrough, the same equation you solved in that classroom.
He was going to publish it, make his name, change everything. And Hartwell stole it. Yes. Linda's voice broke. He took James's work, published it under his own name in 1995, built his entire career on it.
And when your father tried to fight back, he was accused of plagiarism. His own work, Isaiah. Hartwell said your father copied from him. The university believed the tenured professor over the young black graduate student. No real investigation, no fair hearing, just destruction.
Isaiah felt the room spinning, but there was one more question he had to ask. How did Dad die, Mom? Linda couldn't look at him. Please, I need to know. You were 6 years old.
Her voice cracked. He tried to move on, got a job, married me, had you. But the injustice ate at him. The knowledge that his life's work had someone else's name on it. She finally met his eyes.
He left a note, said he couldn't fight anymore, said the system had won. And then he She couldn't finish. Isaiah understood. His father hadn't just died, he'd been killed, slowly, deliberately, by a man who stole his work, destroyed his reputation, and walked away clean. And that man was still teaching, still powerful, still destroying students, now trying to destroy Isaiah.
I'm not going to let him win again, Mom. Isaiah, please, just transfer. Walk away. Don't let him do to you what he did to your father. Isaiah shook his head.