Chapter 6 - The Paper Guillotine
Lauren was the first to touch the papers. Curiosity overcame decorum; she reached out with manicured hands, pulling the top letter from the folder. It was printed on the official letterhead of the Westbridge University Office of the Registrar, complete with a raised corporate seal and the direct signature of the Dean of Academic Records.
“To Whom It May Concern,” Lauren read aloud, her voice wavering slightly as the words hit the silent room. “This document serves as formal confirmation that after an exhaustive search of institutional archives, Westbridge University has never enrolled, matriculated, or conferred any degree upon Nathan James Bennett, Date of Birth: October 14, 1985. Furthermore, the doctorate credential bearing certificate number 884-B is confirmed to be an unauthorized forgery.”
The dining room went completely motionless. The clatter of silver spoons stopped. Dad sat frozen, the corkscrew still embedded in the neck of the wine bottle. Mom’s hand flew to her throat, her eyes darting between Lauren’s trembling hands and Nathan, who stood frozen in the doorway like a condemned prisoner waiting for the trapdoor to drop.
“What is this garbage?” Dad snapped, slamming his fist onto the table so hard that the crystal glasses rang. He snatched the second paper from the pile. “This is a smear campaign! Who gave you this, Rachel? Did some disgruntled colleague fabricate this to ruin your brother? Nathan, tell your sister to get this trash out of our house!”
Nathan didn't move. He didn't yell. He didn't speak. He leaned against the doorway frame, his knuckles white, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.
“Nathan?” Lauren turned toward him, her eyes wide with mounting horror. She picked up the third document, which was the certified transcript investigation from the state health board. “Nathan, what does this mean? It says... it says your medical provider license belongs to a sixty-two-year-old psychiatrist in Portland named Dr. Nathan E. Bennett. It says you’re practicing under an assumed professional license.”
“Lauren, let me explain,” Nathan choked out, his voice a pathetic squeak. “It’s complicated... the licensing board had administrative delays, and I had to—”
“Did you go to graduate school?” Lauren interrupted, her voice rising an octave, shattering the polished veneer she had maintained for years. “Nathan! Answer me! Did you ever graduate from Westbridge?”
Nathan closed his eyes and slowly slid down the doorframe, sinking onto his knees on the hardwood floor. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. It wasn't the dignified breakdown of a tragic hero; it was the pathetic, sniffling collapse of a child caught stealing out of the cookie jar.
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Mom gasped, knocking over her water glass as she rushed to his side. “Nathan, stop this! Stand up! Arthur, do something! What is happening to our son?”
“What’s happening, Mom,” I said, standing tall at the opposite end of the table, “is that the golden boy you’ve spent forty years worshiping has been committing state and federal felonies while looking down his nose at people who actually work for an honest living. He isn't a doctor. He never was.”
