The Office of Student Conduct met in a plain brick building near the center of campus. The kind of building nobody notices until they have a reason to walk inside it. A dry cleaner on one side, a coffee shop on the other, and between them, this narrow door with a small brass plaque that had decided so many quiet fates over the years without most students ever knowing it existed.
The hearing room itself was small. A long table at the front for the committee, three professors and the dean of students. Chairs set up facing them, divided by a narrow aisle. One side for the accused, one side for the accuser. Fluorescent lights overhead that hummed faintly, the kind of sound you only notice in complete silence.
Dalton sat on his side with his father beside him. Assistant Dean Marcus Reeve, a tall man with silver hair and a courtroom voice even though he wasn’t a lawyer. He’d spent the morning rehearsing what he intended to say, the way a man does when he’s used to rooms bending around his confidence rather than the other way around. Reed sat two rows behind, phone tucked away for once, looking uncomfortable in a way Josie hadn’t seen from him before, like a boy realizing too late that a joke had grown into something with real weight behind it. Nolan wasn’t there yet.
Josie sat alone on her side of the room, her bag in her lap, her father’s napkin folded inside it. Walter arrived a few minutes later, taking the seat directly behind her, saying nothing. Simply present. Dorothy came in soon after, moving slower than usual, worry etched deep into her face. Her handbag held tightly against her side, the phone with its careful footage resting inside it.
The dean of students, a woman named Patricia Voss, called the hearing to order at nine o’clock sharp. “We are here,” she said, “to review a formal complaint filed by Dalton Reeve against Josephine Callaway, alleging harassment and public misconduct. Miss Callaway, you have received the complaint and have the opportunity to respond.”
Josie stood. Her hands were steady, though her heart was not. “I have,” she said, “and I deny it completely. I have never harassed Dalton Reeve. I have avoided him whenever possible. The video he’s presented as evidence has been edited to remove context that changes the entire meaning of what happened.” “That’s a strong accusation,” Dean Voss said. “Do you have evidence to support it?”
Josie hesitated. This was the moment she’d been dreading. “I don’t have the original footage myself,” she admitted, “but there were witnesses. And there was a second incident days later involving an elderly man named Harold Puit, who Mr. Reeve knocked to the ground outside a local diner and then laughed at instead of helping.”
Dalton’s father leaned forward immediately. “Objection to relevance,” he said smoothly. “That incident isn’t part of the complaint before this committee.” “It speaks to character and pattern of behavior,” Josie said, her voice firm despite the pressure building in her chest. “It shows exactly what kind of situation actually took place between us.” Dean Voss glanced at her fellow committee members. “We’ll allow it to be noted, though the primary matter remains the harassment complaint. Mr. Reeve, would you like to respond?”