The Practice: Chapter 1 — The Fall (Revised)

Chapter 1 — The Fall (Revised)

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.

Inside: a letter on university letterhead.

**NOTICE OF ADMINISTRATIVE LEAVE**

**Professor James Manning:**

**Following allegations of financial misconduct and grade tampering, 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.

Manning read it again. Then a third time.

His chest constricted. His throat went dry. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a frequency that made his skull ache.

*This should not be happening to me.*

Fourteen years. Three books published. Dozens of graduate students mentored. The Center for Applied Ethics—his center, his vision.

They were taking it.

The trembling worsened. He tried to rehearse his defense—*there are explanations, 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.

"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. Heat in his face, pressure behind his eyes, hands curling into fists.

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

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.

He stood motionless on the sidewalk. A student passed him, glanced at his face, looked away quickly.

Manning 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.

---

By nine-thirty, the news had spread.

Manning sat in his car, engine off, phone buzzing with texts 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 teaching assistants. 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.

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 yet. I need time to think.*

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

His heart was racing—pulse visible in his wrists. The constriction in his chest hadn't released. Breathing felt manual, effortful.

He sat there for twenty minutes. Not thinking. Just sitting.

Then 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. I need space to think about what this means.*

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 grade tampering. University officials confirm that Manning's office was searched this morning and multiple items were seized as evidence.*

*Students describe Manning as charismatic but demanding, with some alleging he showed favoritism toward certain teaching 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.

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 took it down. Set it on the counter. Stared at it.

*This is the wrong response. This makes it worse.*

He knew that. Clearly. The same clarity he'd had lecturing students about weakness of will, about akrasia, about the gap between knowing the good and doing it.

Last semester. Ethics 301. He'd taught Aristotle: "No one acts against what they believe to be best—unless overcome by passion or pleasure."

He'd explained to his students: the akratic person *knows* the right action but chooses otherwise because they haven't fully internalized the knowledge. It remains theoretical, not practical.

One student had asked: "But Professor Manning, how do you make it practical? How do you actually live what you know?"

He'd answered: "Practice. Repeated choice. Building the habit until the knowledge becomes second nature."

The student had seemed satisfied. Manning had seemed authoritative.

Now he stood in his kitchen looking at a vodka bottle, knowing he shouldn't drink it, about to drink it anyway.

*Practice. Repeated choice.*

He'd never practiced. He'd only performed.

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.

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

His phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:

*You ruined my career. I hope you rot.*

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. Set it face-down on the coffee table.

Everything was narrowing 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.

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

His phone was on the coffee table, screen lit with notifications.

Ninety-four unread messages.

He scrolled through them mechanically, not reading, just watching the number decrease.

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. Too busy with the semester.

Now this.

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

Another text appeared, this one from Sarah:

*I need to know the truth. Did you do what they're saying? Don't lie to me.*

He stared at it.

*Did you do what they're saying?*

The answer was complicated. Not the answer she wanted, which was a simple no. Not the answer the university wanted, which was a confession.

The truth was: he'd bent rules. Altered a grade—one grade, for one student, who'd been dealing with her mother's cancer and deserved the extension, deserved the B+ instead of the B-minus that would have cost her the scholarship. He'd signed off on expense reports without checking every line because he trusted his assistant director. He'd had drinks with graduate students after seminars because that's what mentorship looked like—informal conversation, intellectual intimacy.

None of it had felt wrong at the time. All of it looked damning now.

He typed: *It's not what it looks like. I can explain.*

Sent it.

Three minutes later, Sarah's response:

*That's not an answer. I'm staying at Kate's tonight. Don't call.*

He put the phone down.

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 for questioning regarding the investigation."

"Now?"

"Yes sir. We'd appreciate your cooperation."

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

"Can I come tomorrow? I'm not—I'm not in good shape right now."

A pause. "Mr. Manning, we can do this voluntarily tonight, or we can issue a summons for tomorrow morning. Your choice."

"I'll come now."

"Thank you, sir. We'll see you shortly."

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

Got in his car. Sat for a moment before starting the engine.

*This is happening. This is real.*

He 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, I'm going to record this conversation. Do you consent?"

"Do I need a lawyer?"

"That's your right. But we're just gathering information at this stage. If you'd like to cooperate, it might help clear things up."

Manning hesitated. "Okay. I'll answer questions."

Daniels pressed a button on a recording device. "Interview with James Manning, October 12th, 5:47 P.M. Mr. Manning, can you tell me about your relationship with graduate student Melissa Chen?"

"She was my teaching assistant. Spring semester."

"Did you alter her grade in your seminar?"

"I gave her an extension on her final paper. Her mother was dying. She needed time."

"But you changed her grade from incomplete to B-plus before the paper was submitted. Is that correct?"

"I—yes. She'd done excellent work all semester. I knew the paper would be strong."

"So you gave her a grade before evaluating her work."

"It was an exception. A compassionate exception."

"Were you romantically involved with Ms. Chen?"

"What? No."

"We have emails between you and Ms. Chen discussing meeting for drinks. Late-night messages. She refers to you as 'Jim' rather than 'Professor Manning.'"

"That's—mentorship. Informal mentorship. It wasn't romantic."

"Did you ever meet Ms. Chen alone in your office after hours?"

"Yes. For advising. For discussing her dissertation proposal."

"With the door locked?"

Manning's throat went dry. "I don't remember."

"Mr. Manning, we have security footage showing you and Ms. Chen entering your office at 9:30 P.M. on three separate occasions. The door was locked each time. You didn't leave until after midnight."

"We were working. Discussing her research."

"For three hours? With the door locked?"

"I lock my door when I'm working with students. It's quieter. Less interruption."

Daniels looked at him. Not unkindly. Just waiting.

"Mr. Manning, I'm going to be direct. We have testimony from three students alleging that you offered grade changes or preferential treatment in exchange for personal relationships. We have financial records showing unauthorized withdrawals from the Ethics Center accounts. We have emails suggesting you falsified expense reports. This isn't going away. If you cooperate now, it'll go better for you later."

Manning's hands were trembling again. He pressed them flat against the table.

"I want a lawyer."

"That's your right."

"I'm done answering questions."

Daniels nodded. Turned off the recorder. "Okay. You're free to go. But don't leave town. We'll be in touch."

Manning stood. Walked out of the interview room, down the hall, out the building.

Rain had started. The pavement was slick, reflecting streetlights.

He got in his car. Sat in the driver's seat. Hands on the wheel. Engine off.

*I ruined it. All of it. My career. My marriage. My reputation.*

*And I ruined it because I couldn't see what I was doing until it was done.*

He sat there for a long time. Rain drumming on the roof. Campus lights blurring through the wet windshield.

Then he started the car and drove home.

---

**END OF CHAPTER 1**

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