Coastal Ashes Chapter 20

My throat was dry. I had no counsel. There was no one to speak for me but the girl from the junkyard. I took a slow breath, the stale, book-scented air filling my lungs. It tasted like an accusation.

“I have a response,” I said. My voice was low, but it didn't tremble. I met Dean Whitman’s gaze, then let my eyes drift over the other two professors before landing, finally, on Victoria Croft.

“Ms. Croft is right about some things,” I began, my hands still locked together in my lap. “I signed a contract. I worked on a yacht in a world I didn’t belong to. And while I was there, I saw things. Not corporate secrets laid out on a desk, but… waste. Indifference. A level of wealth so profound that a whole town, my town, could be poisoned and die, and it wouldn't even register as a rounding error in their accounts.”

Victoria Croft’s expression didn't flicker. She was a statue carved from expensive granite.

“She calls it a personal agenda. What is the law if not personal? Is it just a collection of rules for the rich to protect their assets? Or is it for people like Sarah Miller, who lost her daughter to water that glowed in the dark? Is it for the Taylor brothers, who can’t draw a full breath because the air in their lungs is the same as the air in the mines that killed their father?”

I leaned forward slightly, my voice gaining an edge I’d honed in scrapyard arguments, not debate clubs. “She calls me a spy. I call myself a witness. And yes, I used the access they gave me. They showed me their world, and I saw the rot beneath the gilding. The true violation of ethics isn't what I did. It's what her client has done for thirty years.”

A muscle twitched in Dean Whitman’s jaw. He was about to speak, to cut me off, when the heavy oak door to the hearing room creaked open.

We all turned. Standing there, looking utterly out of place in her tailored blazer and with a flush on her cheeks, was Amanda Zheng.

“I apologize for the interruption, Dean Whitman,” she said, her voice clear and surprisingly steady. “But I request permission to speak as a character witness for Ms. Jones.”

Whitman looked flustered, a rare sight. “Ms. Zheng, this is a closed disciplinary hearing, not a trial. Your presence is…”

“Necessary,” Amanda finished for him, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind her. She didn't look at me, but at the panel. “I’ve known Lyla—or, rather, I’ve been her classmate—for the better part of a year. And I will be the first to admit, I misjudged her. We all did.”

Victoria Croft let out a quiet, dismissive sigh. “The sentimental outpourings of a fellow student are hardly relevant to a breach of contract.”

“It’s about character,” Amanda shot back, her gaze finally meeting Victoria’s. There was a fire there I’d never seen before. “This board is judging Lyla’s character, her fitness to be a lawyer. So let me speak to that. I come from a world where the law is a tool—for mergers, for tax shelters, for advantage. We learn the rules, the statutes, the loopholes. We learn how to win.”

She took a step closer to the table. “Lyla came here with nothing but the clothes on her back and a dog-eared copy of a constitutional law textbook she found in a scrap heap. She’s not here to learn how to win. She’s here because she believes the law is a shield. For the people who can’t afford one.”

Her eyes found mine, and in them, I saw an apology and a declaration. “I confess, I used to see her as an anomaly, something unpolished. I was wrong. Her 'personal agenda' is the reason institutions like this were founded in the first place. Lyla Jones makes us uncomfortable. She should. Because Lyla Jones makes us remember that the law is supposed to have a pulse. She reminds those of us in the ivory tower,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “that the law is supposed to have warmth.”

Silence. A profound, echoing silence that Amanda’s words had carved into the air. Dean Whitman stared at her, then at me. For a moment, a flicker of something unreadable—respect?

regret?

—crossed his face.

“Thank you, Ms. Zheng,” he said, his tone formal once more. “Your testimony is noted. The board will now recess to deliberate.”

***

The wait was an eternity distilled into fifteen minutes. I stayed in my chair. Amanda had been ushered out, giving my shoulder a quick, firm squeeze as she left. Victoria Croft had remained, checking messages on her phone with an air of supreme confidence. She knew how this worked. The system wasn't built to accommodate warmth. It was built to protect its own.

Finally, the Dean and the other two professors returned. They took their seats with a funereal gravity. Dean Whitman shuffled a single sheet of paper, avoiding my eyes.

“The board has reached a decision,” he said, his voice heavy with institutional authority. “First, we acknowledge the testimony of Mr. Wentworth, who has taken full responsibility for providing Ms. Jones with the ledger and other key information.”

My heart leaped. Caleb. He’d done everything he could.

“However,” the Dean continued, and my hope withered, “that does not absolve Ms. Jones of her own actions. The central issue remains the contract she signed for her summer employment with the Wentworth family. That contract contained an unambiguous and legally binding non-disclosure agreement.”

He looked directly at me now, and his expression was one of weary finality. “This institution is under immense pressure, Ms. Jones. From the Wentworth family, from our donors, from alumni who believe you have tarnished our reputation. But my decision is not based on pressure. It is based on the bylaws that govern this school and the profession you seek to enter.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“The committee finds that your initial investigation was predicated on observations and information gleaned while under the protection and employ of the Wentworth family. You used your position of trust to acquire information. The argument that this was done for the public good is, in a legal sense, immaterial. The code of conduct is absolute. It is a firewall we cannot allow to be breached, for any reason. We cannot set a precedent that a Harvard lawyer’s personal moral compass can override their contractual and fiduciary duties.’ Even a crusade for justice is, in the eyes of this code, a form of personal gain. It is a fatal clause.”

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp. *A fatal clause*. They had taken my entire life, my reason for being there, and reduced it to a technicality. They had twisted the very concept of justice into a selfish pursuit. Victoria Croft allowed herself the smallest, faintest smile. She had won. The system had held.

Dean Whitman cleared his throat. He looked down at the paper as if he couldn’t bear to look at me while delivering the final blow.

“Therefore, it is the decision of the Board of Professional Responsibility that Lyla Jones, for severe violation of professional and ethical standards, is hereby expelled from Harvard Law School.”

Expelled.

The word didn’t thunder. It didn't crash. It landed silently, a single snowflake of ash on a vast, frozen landscape. I felt nothing. No shock, no rage, no tears. It was just… a fact. Like the sky being blue or the water back home being poison. It was the price. And I had known, somewhere deep in my bones, that there would be a price.

I stood up slowly, my chair making a soft scraping sound on the polished floor. I nodded once to the panel, a gesture of acknowledgment, not deference.

“Thank you for your time, Dean Whitman,” I said, my voice even.

I turned and walked toward the door, feeling Victoria Croft’s triumphant gaze on my back. I didn't look at her. She didn't matter. The room, the table, the titles—none of it mattered anymore. They were part of a world I was no longer trying to join.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the hallway. The sudden flood of natural light from the towering windows made me blink. And there, leaning against the far wall, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, was Caleb.

He pushed himself off the wall as I approached, his eyes searching mine, already knowing the answer. I gave a small, tired shake of my head.

He didn't say “I’m sorry.” He didn't offer platitudes. He just held my gaze, his own filled with a fierce, shared purpose.

“So,” he said, his voice quiet but raw with a new kind of strength. “Now it begins.”

I looked past him, out the window at the world beyond the manicured lawns and brick facades. He was right. I had lost a degree. I had lost a future I once thought I wanted.

But my war, our war, had just begun.