Dad walked away. He gave up, and it killed him. He stood. I'm going to finish what he started, and I'm going to make Richard Hartwell pay for every life he destroyed. The next 2 weeks were the worst of Isaiah's life.
He filed his appeal. The university required new evidence, evidence that Hartwell had spent 24 years burying. The academic integrity office gave him 14 days, 2 weeks to prove he wasn't a cheater. 2 Weeks to expose a crime older than he was. It was never going to be enough.
The whispers started immediately. That's the kid who cheated in Hartwell's class. Heard he stole the solution from somewhere online. Typical affirmative action fraud. They always get caught eventually.
Students who'd never spoken to Isaiah suddenly had opinions about him. His study group stopped responding to messages. His lab partner requested a transfer. Professors who'd smiled at him before now looked through him like glass. The warehouse where he worked gave him extra shifts.
"Since you'll have more time soon," his manager said with a knowing smirk. "Heard you're having some trouble at school." Isaiah didn't ask how he'd heard. Bad news traveled fast, especially when someone powerful was spreading it. He stopped going to class. What was the point?
Every lecture felt like a trial. Every professor a potential witness against him. He spent his nights alone, surrounded by his father's notebooks, searching for something that could save him. T The notebooks that had taught him everything. The notebooks that had raised him.
The notebooks that nobody believed were real. How do you prove a dead man's work is authentic? How do you fight a system designed to protect the powerful? Isaiah didn't know. And every day his hearing got closer.
Then came the letter that nearly broke him completely. Dear Mr. Parker, your appeal hearing has been scheduled for November 28th at 9:00 a.m. November 28th, the day after Thanksgiving. Please note this date falls during academic break.
Faculty advocates and student representatives may have limited availability. Isaiah read it five times. Each time the message got clearer. They'd scheduled his hearing during a holiday, when the campus was empty, when witnesses wouldn't be around, when no one would be watching. This wasn't justice.
This was an execution. Isaiah tried to fight back. He called everyone he could think of. J The Academic Integrity Office closed for the holiday. The Student Advocacy Center voicemail.
Legal Aid We'll call you back after the break. The Dean's Office The schedule is non-negotiable due to the serious nature of the allegations. Every door closed. Every avenue blocked. Every hope crushed.
Isaiah sat in his apartment. The walls closing in. His father's notebooks spread around him like tombstones. For the first time, he understood why his father gave up. Why he couldn't fight anymore.
Why he'd written that final note. The system wasn't broken. It was designed this way. Built to protect people like Hartwell. Built to crush people like James Parker, like Isaiah.
Maybe Mom was right. He whispered to the empty room. Maybe I should just walk away. That's when he found the envelope. At the bottom of his father's box, underneath everything else, a sealed envelope yellowed with age.
To Isaiah, when he's old enough. His father's handwriting. The same handwriting from the notebooks. Isaiah's hands shook as he opened it. Son, if you're reading this, I'm gone.