The Practice, Chapter One — The Arrest of Desire

1

The campus security office smelled like burnt coffee and bleach. Manning stood in the hallway at 6:47 A.M., twenty minutes before his Kant seminar, staring at the yellow police tape across his office door.

The door was ajar. Inside: file drawers sealed with evidence stickers. His desk cleared. Computer tower gone. Framed degrees still on the wall—Northwestern Ph.D., summa cum laude—but everything beneath them confiscated.

On the floor lay a manila envelope with his name typed across it.

He picked it up. His hands trembled. Not cold. Not caffeine. Something deeper—the body registering threat before the mind could name it.

Inside: a letter on university letterhead.

NOTICE OF ADMINISTRATIVE LEAVE

 Professor James Manning:

Following allegations of financial misconduct, grade tampering, and inappropriate relationships with graduate students, you are hereby placed on immediate administrative leave pending investigation.

Your access to campus facilities is suspended.

 Your classes will be reassigned.

 You are required to attend a disciplinary hearing on October 15 at 2 P.M.

All inquiries should be directed through university counsel.

The paper was laser-printed, clinical, impersonal. The words didn’t feel real.

Manning read it again. Then a third time.

His chest constricted—physically constricted, like someone pulling a belt tight around his ribs. His throat went dry. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed too bright, buzzing with a frequency that made his skull ache.

This should not be happening to me.

The thought arrived complete, automatic, unexamined. A judgment presenting itself as fact.

He’d built this department. Fourteen years. Published three books. Mentored dozens of graduate students. Brought in grant money. Secured tenure. Established the Center for Applied Ethics—his center, his vision.

They were taking it. All of it.

The trembling worsened. He tried to rehearse his defense—there are explanations, misunderstandings, contexts they don’t have—but the words felt hollow even in his mind.

The security guard appeared at the end of the hall. Fifty, thick-necked, radio on his belt.

“Sir, you need to leave the building.”

“This is my office.”

“Not anymore.”

Manning looked at the guard’s face. No malice there. Just policy. Just procedure. The guard didn’t care about Manning’s publications or tenure or the fact that he’d given seventeen years to this institution.

The guard cared about following orders.

“I need to get my files. My research.”

“Evidence, sir. You’ll get a list of what’s been seized. Through counsel.”

Manning’s jaw tightened. His molars ground together. The anger was physical—heat in his face, pressure behind his eyes, hands curling into fists without his choosing.

They can’t do this. This is illegal. I have rights.

More judgments. More impressions presenting themselves as unquestionable reality.

But the guard was still standing there. Waiting.

Manning turned. Walked toward the exit. The guard followed at a distance—not threatening, just ensuring compliance.

Outside: October morning, cool air, leaves turning rust-colored on the quad. Students crossing to early classes. No one looking at him.

His car was in faculty parking. He walked toward it, then stopped.

Where am I going? I’m supposed to be teaching in twelve minutes.

Nowhere to go. Nothing to teach. No students waiting.

The thought hit like physical impact. He actually stopped walking, stood still on the sidewalk.

A student passed him, glanced at his face, looked away quickly.

Manning realized: he was standing motionless in the middle of campus, holding a termination letter, probably looking unhinged.

He forced himself to walk. Got to his car. Sat in the driver’s seat. Closed the door.

Silence.

The campus continued around him—students walking, bells ringing, maintenance trucks moving between buildings. The world proceeding as though nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

His reputation. His position. His identity.

Gone.

By ten o’clock, the news had spread.

Manning sat in his car, engine off, phone buzzing with texts and calls he didn’t answer. Through the windshield he watched students cluster in groups, looking at their phones, whispering. One pointed toward his car.

A woman in a blazer appeared at the edge of the parking lot—reporter’s posture, sharp eyes scanning. She had a microphone clipped to her collar and a man with a camera following her.

Manning slid lower in his seat. Locked the doors.

The reporter approached anyway. Knocked on the window.

“Professor Manning? Sarah Keller, Channel 7 News. Can I ask you a few questions about the allegations?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Professor Manning, students are saying you altered grades for graduate assistants you were romantically involved with. Do you have a response?”

He started the engine. Put the car in reverse.

The reporter stepped back. The cameraman filmed Manning driving away.

He drove two blocks, pulled into a side street, stopped again.

His phone: forty-seven unread texts. He scrolled through them.

From colleagues:

Jim, what’s going on? Call me.

 Heard about the suspension. Do you need a lawyer?

 Jim, please tell me this isn’t true.

From students:

Professor Manning, did you really do those things?

 I can’t believe you’d do this. I trusted you.

From Sarah (his wife):

The university called me. What the hell did you do?

 Don’t come home. I need time to think.

 I’m calling a lawyer.

He put the phone face-down on the passenger seat.

His heart was racing—actual tachycardia, pulse visible in his wrists. The constriction in his chest hadn’t released. If anything, it had intensified. Breathing felt manual, effortful.

The body always obeys belief.

He believed—had assented without examining—that his reputation was himself. That the university’s judgment was reality. That being fired meant being destroyed.

And so his body responded: fight-or-flight, cortisol flooding, muscles tensing for a threat that had no physical form.

He drove home.

The house was empty. Sarah’s car gone. A note on the kitchen table:

I’m staying at my sister’s. Don’t call me. Don’t text. I need to think about what this means for us.

The handwriting was neat, controlled. Sarah was always controlled.

Manning walked through the house. Living room: his books on the shelves. Dining room: his articles framed on the wall. Office: his desk, his files, his life’s work.

All of it suddenly felt foreign. Like artifacts from someone else’s biography.

He sat at his desk. Opened his laptop. Typed his own name into Google.

The first result: Local Professor Suspended Amid Scandal.

He clicked.

Philosophy professor James Manning, 45, has been placed on administrative leave following allegations of financial misconduct and inappropriate relationships with graduate students. University officials confirm that Manning’s office was searched this morning and multiple items were seized as evidence.

Students describe Manning as charismatic but erratic, with some alleging he showed favoritism toward certain graduate assistants. “He made us feel special,” one former student said, “but looking back, it feels manipulative.”

Manning has not responded to requests for comment.

He read it twice. Then scrolled to the comments section.

Another professor abusing his power. Disgusting.

 I had him for Ethics 201. Total hypocrite.

 Hope they throw the book at him.

 These academics preach morality then do this. Typical.

Manning closed the laptop. Pushed it away.

His chest was still tight. His hands still trembling.

He stood. Walked to the kitchen. Opened the cabinet above the refrigerator.

Vodka bottle. Three-quarters full. Crystal Head—expensive, smooth, the kind he saved for celebrations.

He poured four fingers into a glass. Drank it in two swallows.

The burn was immediate, familiar. The warmth spreading through his chest, loosening the constriction slightly.

He poured another glass. Drank that too.

Then a third.

By noon he was drunk. Not pleasantly buzzed. Drunk—slurring, unsteady, thoughts fragmenting.

He sat on the couch with the bottle. Turned on the TV. Cable news. Some political scandal. He couldn’t follow it. Didn’t care.

His phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:

You ruined my career. I hope you rot in prison.

Another buzz:

Professor Manning, this is Dean Peterson. You need to respond to the disciplinary committee by 5 P.M. today or we will proceed without your input.

He silenced the phone. Threw it across the room. It hit the wall, didn’t break.

Everything was narrowing. The world collapsing to the immediate sensation: the vodka’s burn, the couch’s pressure, the TV’s noise.

He drank until the bottle was empty.

Then he passed out.

Manning woke at 4:47 P.M.—he knew because the cable-box clock was blinking.

His head throbbed. Mouth tasted like acetone. The room spun slightly when he tried to sit up.

His phone was on the floor across the room, screen cracked now. Must have stepped on it.

He crawled to it. Unlocked it.

Ninety-four unread messages.

He scrolled through them mechanically, not reading, just watching the number decrease as he marked them seen.

Near the bottom: a text from Rebecca, his daughter.

Dad, I saw the news. What did you do? Mom won’t talk to me. I’m scared.

Rebecca was nineteen. Sophomore at Northwestern. Smart, serious, studying pre-law.

He hadn’t spoken to her in three weeks. Busy with the semester. Too busy.

Now this.

He tried to type a response. His fingers wouldn’t coordinate. He gave up.

Another text appeared, this one from Sarah:

I’m filing for divorce. My lawyer will contact you.

He stared at it.

Thirteen years of marriage. Over in a text message.

Something in him broke. Not metaphorically—physically broke, like a bone snapping under load.

He made a sound—half-sob, half-retch. Bent forward. Dry-heaved into his hands.

Nothing came up. Just bile, burning.

He stayed there, hunched over, hands pressed to his face, for several minutes.

Then he stood. Walked to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Stood under cold water fully clothed until he stopped shaking.

When he got out, his phone was ringing.

Unknown number. He answered.

“Mr. Manning?”

“Yes.”

“This is Officer Daniels with campus police. We need you to come to the station. There are additional questions regarding the investigation.”

“Now?”

“Yes sir. Now.”

Manning looked at himself in the mirror. Wet, disheveled, eyes bloodshot.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He hung up. Changed clothes. Drank three glasses of water. Chewed gum to mask the alcohol smell.

Drove to campus.

The police station was a small brick building on the east edge of campus. Manning parked, walked to the entrance, went inside.

Officer Daniels was waiting—young, maybe thirty, serious expression.

“Mr. Manning. Thank you for coming. Please follow me.”

They walked down a hallway to an interview room. Small, windowless, table bolted to the floor.

“Have a seat.”

Manning sat. Daniels sat across from him.

“Mr. Manning, are you aware that the university’s investigation has uncovered evidence of financial irregularities in the Applied Ethics Center accounts?”

“What kind of irregularities?”

“Unauthorized withdrawals. Expense reports with falsified receipts. Grant money diverted to personal accounts.”

“That’s not true.”

“We have documentation. Bank records. Emails.”

Manning’s hands started trembling again. He pressed them flat against the table.

“I want a lawyer.”

“That’s your right. But I need to inform you: we also have testimony from three graduate students alleging that you offered grade changes in exchange for sexual favors. And we have security footage from your office showing you with at least one of those students after hours, door locked.”

“That’s—I never—”

“Mr. Manning, I’m placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

The words became noise. Manning heard them but couldn’t process them.

Handcuffs. Cold metal. Tight around his wrists.

They walked him out the back entrance—avoiding the main doors, avoiding witnesses.

A police car waited. Rain had started. The pavement was slick, reflecting red and blue lights.

Daniels opened the back door. Manning got in.

The door closed. Locked.

Through the window: campus lights. Buildings where he’d taught. Paths where he’d walked. All of it receding as the car pulled away.

In his mind, one thought repeated:

They’ve taken everything.

—