Mr. Fiancé(135)

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," I mutter to myself, but the old Monty Python joke doesn't help lift my spirits. I go to the table and set my bag on top of it, taking out the notes that I'd written up yesterday to help me. Not that there was much I could do. I couldn't figure out anything that could explain away the information that they had.

I take a deep breath and sit down, looking around as I see Professor Vladisova come in, dressed for class. She comes over and puts her hand on my table. “I’m sad that we have to do this . . . because you are a brilliant student, and having you in class, even after this, has been enjoyable. I hope you can grow and learn from it.”

I look up at her, and she has an almost kind expression on her face. "I didn't do it. I hope after today, you will believe me."

"Miss Mittel, I grew up in the Soviet union  —the one thing the Soviet people came to know after so many years under the Communists was that lies can be told with a very straight face."

"You should also have learned that innocent people are often unjustly accused," I reply, feeling my inner fire heat up. Good, get angry. Harness it. It's better than being afraid. "Or were Stalin's purges not taught when you went to school?"

Vladisova looks at me, then nods. "Good luck, Miss Mittel."

She takes her seat in the rear half of the room, which is reserved for witnesses and visitors. Honor Board hearings are open to any member of the University, student and instructor alike, although I don't know anyone who's ever come to watch one of these things for entertainment.

At precisely ten o'clock, as the big grandfather clock in the corner strikes the hour, the door of the hearing room opens up again, and the Honor Board walks in. The Hearing Officer is Kent Prescott, a pre-law student, from the little I found out about him. He and I had a single meeting, where he confirmed what I'd told the Dean, but that was about it.

Once everyone is inside, the Hearing President, an old man that I didn't recognize, raps the Hearing to order.

Kent stands up from his little side desk and approaches the middle of the circle. He's dressed in a charcoal gray suit, and I bet he practiced his opening statement quite a few times. He's in pre-law, after all, and wants to be a lawyer. For him, this isn't my life. It's just practice. He doesn't even care if I'm a cheater or not.

"Members of the Board, the accusations against the Concerned are quite serious. On the morning of October twelfth, Carrie Mittel sat down, along with the other forty-two members of her class, for an Organic Chemistry mid-term examination. Except, she had an advantage over the other students. She had her smart phone with her, and she used it to access class notes. She was even so blatant about it as to get up and leave the room for a minute, for purposes that I will show to you. She then completed her test and turned it in as if she'd done nothing untoward. In fact, if it weren't for the observations of another student, she would have gotten away with it. Today, I intend to show how the Concerned blatantly cheated on her exam, and how she did it. Thank you."

Prescott sits down, and the Hearing President looks to me. "Miss Mittel, as the Concerned, you have the opportunity to speak. Do you have a statement?"

I nod, stand up, and say my peace. It’s not as eloquent as Mr. Prescott. I’m not a pre-law student who's practiced this many times, after all. But I get my point across—that I’m no cheater, and I have no idea how this evidence came to be.

I sit down, and Prescott starts his case. The first person up is Professor Vladisova, who tells about what she saw, and how she was approached by Chelsea Brown after the mid-term. "At that point, I remembered Miss Mittel leaving the room with her phone at one point, and staying outside the room for about five minutes."

Next up is Chelsea Brown, and I'm shocked at the fairy tale she spins. By the time she finishes, I know I’m screwed. I literally have nothing in my defense other than my word and the fact that I already had an almost 4.0 GPA. The rest of the proceeding is merely a formality, at this point. I would need a miracle.

And in my miracle walked. Duncan strolls in, wearing a suit of his own, something custom-tailored, charcoal gray, with a white shirt and a silver-gray tie that is knotted perfectly in what Dad calls a double Windsor. He walks up to my table and sets a briefcase down, and I wonder if he bought the whole get-up just for this. "Excuse me for being late."

"Excuse me?" Prescott asks. "What is Mr. Hart doing here?"

"Hi," Duncan whispers. "Sorry I'm a little late. How’s it going?”

“Can’t get any worse,” I reply. "Nice suit, though.”