Wednesday arrived with the weight of a guillotine blade.
The University Senate Hearing Room was designed to intimidate. High ceilings, mahogany tables arranged in a semicircle, and portraits of dead men staring down in judgment.
I sat at the witness table, a single microphone in front of me. To my right sat Dean Elena Vance, looking like a statue carved from ice and ambition.
Across from us sat the Provost, flanked by two junior administrators who looked like they hadn't slept in a week.
"Mr. Hart," the Provost began, adjusting his glasses. "Let's be frank. The Sterling Grant is a significant sum. Five million dollars. And Dean Vance proposes that a... student... oversee the allocation strategy?"
He smiled, a condescending twitch of the lips.
"No offense, son, but your resume is... thin. A few months ago, you were on academic probation. Now you're advising on endowment strategy? It reeks of... impropriety."
