Chapter 8 #3
I got in. The seat was cold. The door closed. Through the window I could see the boathouse. The fading burgundy paint, the dock , the river beyond. And in the doorway, a figure in a Riverside crew sweatshirt watching me go.
Don't embarrass me, Alexander.
My father's voice. On schedule.
I closed my eyes.
The Kingswell Dean of Students office was in Whitaker Hall — a stone building from the 1890s with arched windows and oak doors that weighed more than I did. The kind of building designed to make you feel small. It was working.
They walked me through the lobby, past the reception desk where a woman with reading glasses looked at my bruise and my bandaged hand and my Riverside crew shirt and said nothing. Down a hallway lined with class photos going back a century.
Dean Patterson's office was on the second floor. Dark wood paneling. Bookshelves floor to ceiling. A desk the size of a rowing shell. Two leather chairs positioned across from it.
Patterson was already seated. Mid-fifties. Silver hair. Wire glasses.
A second man sat to his left. Younger but still old, he had a fancy pen and a legal pad.
"Mr. Harrington. Please sit."
I sat. The leather chair groaned under me.
"I'll be straightforward," Patterson said. "We received an incident report last night from Marcus Caldwell. He alleges that you physically assaulted him in the Bancroft Library at approximately eight PM."
"I did."
Patterson blinked. The counsel made a note.
"You're admitting to the assault?"
"I hit him. Yes."
A pause. Patterson adjusted his glasses.
"Mr. Caldwell required medical treatment. Split lip. Contusions to his face and jaw. A possible hairline fracture." He said it evenly. Like a list. "A student who was present in the library corroborates his account."
My hand throbbed. The knuckles pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
"Mr. Harrington, I want to be clear about where we are. The university has a zero-tolerance policy for physical violence. Under normal circumstances, an assault of this severity would result in immediate expulsion proceedings."
Expulsion. The word hit the back of my throat like acid.
"However." Patterson folded his hands. "Given the circumstances and the fact that Mr. Caldwell's report was, shall we say, incomplete regarding the events leading up to the altercation. I'm placing you on interim suspension pending a formal disciplinary hearing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you are suspended from all classes, athletic activities, and campus organizations effective immediately.
You will retain access to your dormitory and dining facilities.
You may not attend practice, compete in any events, or participate in the joint rowing program until the hearing is concluded. "
The quad. The lineup that had clicked yesterday morning — four bodies and a cox and a boat that moved like it was breathing. Liam at stroke. Me at bow. It was a whole new world we barely got to explore.
Gone.
"When is the hearing?"
"We'll schedule it within five business days. You'll receive formal notice with the specific charges and your rights under the student conduct code. You're entitled to an advisor, not an attorney, but a faculty member or staff advocate."
"And if I'm found responsible?"
Patterson looked at me over his glasses. The counsel's pen was still.
"Suspension. Potentially expulsion. It depends on the findings."
I sat in the leather chair in the building my grandfather had probably donated money to build, wearing a fading Riverside t-shirt. I really was becoming a disgrace to the Harrington name.
"Is there anything you'd like to add to the record at this time?" Patterson asked.
I thought about Marcus. The texts. The video. The photo. Calling my father. The manipulation and the word sick.
"Not at this time," I said.
Patterson nodded. "You're free to return to your dormitory. We'll be in touch regarding the hearing date."
I stood. The leather chair exhaled behind me.
"Mr. Harrington."
I stopped at the door.
"I've been at this university for twenty-two years.
I've known three generations of Harringtons.
" His voice had shifted. Not warmer — but something underneath the administrative mask.
"Whatever happened in that library, I'd encourage you to think carefully about how you want to present it at the hearing.
The full picture tends to serve people better than the partial one. "
I looked at him. At the bookshelves and the class photos and the oak desk that had been here since before my grandfather enrolled.
"Thank you, Dean Patterson."
I walked out. Down the hallway of class photos. Past my grandfather's face. Past my father's face.
Through the oak doors into the November cold.
The campus was waking up. Students with backpacks and coffee cups, heading to morning classes, living their normal Wednesday. None of them looked at me. I was just another person crossing the quad.
I pulled out my phone. Three missed calls from a number my father.
I didn't call back.
I texted Liam instead.
Alex
Suspended pending hearing. No practice. No classes.