When we hired our attorney in January 2024, we were already exhausted. We had been fighting an uphill battle against Penn State University—a case involving academic dismissal, retaliation, and what we believed were clear violations of school policy and federal civil rights protections. We knew it would be tough. But we never expected the greatest obstacle would come from the very person we hired to help us.
The signs were there from the start, but they were subtle. We paid the retainer, though we did not submit the documents yet, as were not sure of the attorney's intent.
We explained the complex nature of our case. We trusted that our attorney, having worked in education law, understood the urgency and the stakes. But when a crucial moment arrived—when the university issued a strategic ultimatum designed to trap us into either accepting a biased review or forfeiting our right to challenge a failing grade—our attorney told us not to engage with the university without his approval. And then he disappeared.
We were left alone to respond to an institutional power play, in silence. No advice. No defense. No strategy.
The university had positioned itself to win by procedure. It offered a grade adjudication process but insisted that the very administrator who had authorized the dismissal would review the appeal.
When we objected, they said: take it or leave it. If we agreed, they’d uphold the dismissal under the guise of review. If we declined, they’d say we refused the process. It was a classic no-win scenario. And our attorney did nothing to intervene.
Fortunately, we didn’t stay silent. We pushed back. We sent emails to faculty. We exposed the conflict of interest. The university backed off and proposed another official, the dean, to take over the review. But our attorney still didn’t return our calls. Not until we insisted—and then we received a bill for over a thousand dollars for a conversation we had to fight to schedule.
We realized the truth. We were paying for nothing tangible. The fees reflected phone calls and internal office meetings, not action. Not advocacy. When we finally terminated the agreement, it wasn’t out of frustration. It was survival.
In hindsight, the situation was even worse. We believe our attorney wasn’t just ineffective—he was compromised. His silence served the university’s interests. His warnings discouraged our independent action. And when we tested his sincerity later by asking for help, he responded with veiled threats. That’s when his true allegiance became clear.
The lesson is this: when you're fighting an institution, pay attention to the subtleties. Every delay, every silence, every shrug matters. Not every person who claims to be your advocate is actually working for you. Some are simply there to manage your expectations—to slow you down, to silence your instincts, to make the system’s betrayal seem like an unfortunate inevitability.
But the truth is never lost. Every move we made was documented. Every trap we escaped was recorded. Every bad actor—whether wearing a university badge or a legal title—revealed themselves over time. And now we are telling our story, not just to demand justice, but to protect others from the same betrayal.
You don’t have to be an attorney to understand the law. You just need to understand your rights, follow the evidence, and trust your instincts. We did. And we’re still standing.