The cafeteria glass turned the snow outside into a lightbox. Trays clattered. Dr. Brenner brought coffee and a sandwich he wouldn't remember tasting. Professor Williams was already there with her eternal soup. Professor Kingle arrived with a folded napkin and that look—half-teacher, half-judge—like he was about to map out the week.
"Five big moves in five days," he said, settling into his chair. "Let's walk through them one at a time."
Professor Kingle smoothed his napkin flat. "Monday, the OPM issues implementation guidance for Schedule F—" He glanced at Dr. Brenner. "—the reinstated classification. Agencies now have to identify which positions involve 'policy decisions' and convert them to at-will employment. No protection. Fire them anytime."
Dr. Brenner nodded. He'd read the guidance twice, feeling the tightness in his chest each time.
"Then Tuesday, the 'Fork in the Road' email lands. Two million federal employees wake up and find out they can resign right now, keep their paychecks through September 30, take administrative leave immediately. Or they can stay and wonder if they're next."
He tapped the table. "Here's the legal question: does the executive branch have authority to offer this kind of mass buyout? There's no statute saying 'the president can email two million people and offer them money to quit.' So where does the power come from? Is it within normal personnel management, or is it effectively a reduction in force without following the procedures Congress wrote for that?"
"Wednesday, Congress passes the Laken Riley Act—the president signs it same day." Professor Kingle moved his napkin. "It mandates detention of undocumented immigrants arrested for certain crimes and gives states the right to sue the federal government over immigration enforcement. That's law now. But same day, the administration announces they're preparing Guantanamo Bay—Guantanamo—as a large-scale migrant detention facility. "
He let that sit.
"Also Wednesday, three education executive orders drop at once. Title VI enforcement for antisemitism on campuses. Funding threats over K-12 curricula the administration says is 'critical race theory' or 'gender ideology.' School choice and charter expansion."
He looked at Dr. Brenner. "The funding threat is the tricky one legally."
Dr. Brenner kept his hands still on the table.
"Friday, OMB and NIH announce they're capping indirect costs on federal research grants at 15%—down from what universities negotiate now, which is often 50, 60, sometimes higher. Same day, the White House announces a 10-to-1 deregulation policy: kill ten rules for every new one. "
"Then Saturday. Tariffs. 25% on Canada, 25% on Mexico, another 10% on top of whatever China's already facing. Effective immediately."
He tapped the table. "That's five days. Five major policy moves, some requiring new law, some purely executive. The machinery is running at full speed."
Professor Kingle smoothed the napkin again. "Imagine you're a federal employee. You've been at EPA for ten years. Monday you hear about Schedule F. Tuesday, the buyout email. You wonder: do I trust they want me here? Do I think I'll be reclassified? Your job just became unstable in a way you can't calculate. That's not a legal question yet. That's a psychological one."
Professor Williams leaned forward. "Psychologically, think about what that does. Imagine sitting at your desk. An email lands. Suddenly: do I trust my job is safe if I stay? Does this administration want me here? Your brain enters threat mode." She tapped her temple. "For some people, the offer looks like a lifeboat. For others, it's being told you're not wanted. Either way, the workplace just became unsafe."
"Exactly." Kingle nodded. "Even if courts eventually say 'this wasn't legal,' that's months or years away. The fear and the departures are immediate."
Dr. Brenner set down his coffee. "Germany, 1933. April seventh, the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service. It wasn't presented as a purge initially—it was 'retirement' for certain categories. Voluntary on paper. But the message was clear: leave now with dignity, or be removed later with shame. Thousands left in the first month. The bureaucracy was being remade while everyone debated whether it was technically legal."
Professor Williams nodded. "Those who stayed watched colleagues leave. That creates survivor psychology. Am I next? Should I keep my head down? Should I stop questioning decisions? The culture changes before any formal rule changes."
Professor Kingle tapped the table. "The Schedule F guidance on Monday. This is the follow-through on the January 20 order. Agencies now have to identify which positions involve 'policy' and convert them to at-will employment. Let's say you're a senior analyst at OMB who reviews budget proposals. Is that 'policy'? Probably. Can you be fired without cause now? That's the question."
He drew a line on his napkin. "The legal issue is the same as before: did Congress create civil service protections that the president can't undo by reclassification? Or is this within the president's power to organize the executive branch? Courts will look at the statutes—what did Congress actually say, and did they intend to protect these specific jobs?"
"But here's the practical effect." Williams stirred her soup slowly. "Even if your job isn't reclassified, you know it could be. You know your colleague's job was. So now every decision carries risk. Do I write the honest memo that says this policy won't work? Do I flag the legal problem? Or do I just approve what I'm asked to approve and keep my job? That's not paranoia. That's your brain making rational calculations about survival."
Dr. Brenner thought of a student in class, the way he asked questions that don't flinch. "Hungary under Orbán, starting 2010. He didn't fire everyone at once. He reclassified positions, changed reporting lines, merged agencies. Each move was technically legal—passed by parliament, signed properly. But the cumulative effect was that within two years, the civil service had been transformed from independent to loyal. The mechanism wasn't drama. It was administrative procedure turned into a coordination tool."
"The Laken Riley Act," Professor Kingle said. "This one's different—it's not an executive order, it's a law. Congress passed it, the president signed it. It requires detention of undocumented immigrants charged with certain crimes and allows states to sue the federal government over immigration enforcement decisions."
He folded the napkin. "Legally, this expands detention dramatically and opens a new avenue for states to challenge federal policy in court. The constitutional questions will be about due process—how long can people be detained, with what kind of hearing—and about the balance between federal and state power over immigration, which has traditionally been federal."
Professor Williams set down her spoon. "Guantanamo. Using a military detention facility for civil immigration detention is… I mean, just think about what that communicates. Guantanamo is where we sent terrorism suspects after 9/11. People were held there for years without trial. Now we're preparing it for migrants?"
She paused. "That's not just policy. That's symbolism. It tells immigrants and their communities: you're not just undocumented, you're a threat. It tells the public: this is a military-level emergency. Once you frame a group as dangerous enough to need military detention, you've changed how people think about them. Fear becomes the default response."
Dr. Brenner looked at his hands. "Turkey, 2016, after the coup attempt. Erdoğan declared a state of emergency. He used existing detention facilities but also set up new ones. He called it temporary and necessary. It lasted two years. During that time, he detained tens of thousands—teachers, journalists, judges, military officers. The detention itself became a tool. It didn't matter if you were eventually released. The message was: we can do this to anyone, anytime."
The three of them sat in the noise of the cafeteria—forks on plates, conversations overlapping, someone's phone ringing.
Professor Kingle cleared his throat. "The education orders. Three at once on Wednesday. One directs enforcement of Title VI for antisemitism on campuses. One threatens to pull federal funding from schools teaching what they label as critical race theory or 'gender ideology.' One promotes school choice and charter schools."
"The funding threat is the interesting one legally," he continued. "Congress gives money to schools with conditions—you have to follow civil rights laws, maintain certain standards. The question becomes: can the executive branch add new conditions that Congress didn't write? Can they define 'critical race theory' and make that a funding condition, when Congress never used that term in the statute?"
He tapped the table. "Courts have said before that conditions on federal funds have to be clear, have to be related to the federal interest, and can't be coercive—you can't threaten to pull so much money that states have no real choice but to comply. These orders will test all three of those limits."
Professor Williams nodded. "For teachers and school boards, the immediate effect is self-censorship. You don't wait for the court case. You think: what am I teaching that could be labeled CRT? What book could someone complain about? Should I just avoid the topic entirely?" She paused. "It's faster than any formal policy. The chilling happens in real time."
Dr. Brenner thought of his syllabus, the way he was already second-guessing every reading. "Poland under PiS, 2015-2023. They didn't ban teaching certain topics outright. They changed textbook standards, threatened school funding, encouraged parent complaints. Teachers started avoiding Holocaust education, LGBTQ content, anything controversial. The curriculum narrowed not because of direct censorship, but because teachers were scared. By the time courts struck some policies down, the culture had already changed."
Professor Kingle moved to his napkin's next section. "Research funding. The 15% indirect cost cap is immediate and brutal for universities. Right now, institutions negotiate their indirect cost rates—sometimes 50%, 60% of the grant amount. That money pays for lab space, utilities, admin staff who process grants, compliance officers. Overnight, that drops to 15%. Can OMB and NIH do that unilaterally? Or do existing agreements and statutes protect negotiated rates? Universities will argue they have contractual rights and that agencies can't just rewrite deals by memo. The government will argue they control the purse."
Professor Williams wrapped her hands around her bowl. "For graduate students and postdocs, this is existential. Labs won't be able to afford as many positions. Professors won't be able to hire. Projects get canceled. These are people who've spent years training for this work—they can't just switch careers overnight. Some will leave science entirely."
She looked up. "Institutions respond like organisms under stress. They cut the newest, most vulnerable parts first. Diversity programs, pilot projects, interdisciplinary centers. The innovation spaces close. The conservative, established programs survive. The whole ecosystem shifts."
Dr. Brenner thought of his graduate school friends who became scientists, the ones who already left for Canada or Germany years ago. "Brazil under Bolsonaro, 2019-2022. He didn't outlaw research, but he froze funding, cut budgets, made universities prove they weren't teaching 'Marxism' to get grants. The effect was the same as a ban. Brain drain. Labs closing. The best people left. By the time Lula reversed the policies in 2023, the damage was structural."
"The tariffs," Professor Kingle said, "are Saturday's news. 25% on Canada and Mexico, an extra 10% on China. Legally, presidents have some tariff authority under trade statutes—national security grounds, unfair trade practices. The question is whether these specific tariffs fit within those statutory hooks, and whether the process was followed."
He drew boxes on his napkin. "Canada and Mexico will challenge them. China will retaliate. Courts will review whether the findings required by statute—national security threat, unfair trade determination—were actually made with adequate record support, or whether this is just policy preference dressed up as legal authority."
Professor Williams tilted her head. "For regular people, tariffs show up as price increases. Your groceries cost more because produce comes from Mexico. Your car parts cost more because of Canada. But you don't see 'tariff' on the receipt. You just see the number going up. When people are squeezed economically, they look for someone to blame. Leadership tells them: blame immigrants, blame China, blame the other party. Anxiety converts to anger, and anger looks for a target."
Dr. Brenner flipped his phone face-down. "Weimar Germany, the early 1930s. Economic crisis, hyperinflation earlier, now deflation and unemployment. People were desperate. When the Nazis said 'blame the Jews, blame the communists, blame the Versailles Treaty,' people were ready to believe it. Not because they were stupid, but because they were suffering and someone was offering an explanation and a villain. Economic pressure accelerates authoritarian movements. It makes people willing to trade freedom for stability—or the promise of it."
The cafeteria noise pressed in. Dr. Brenner could hear someone laughing three tables over, could see steam rising from Professor Williams's soup, could feel the cold coffee in his cup.
Professor Williams looked toward the windows. "Saturday in Atlanta, about a thousand people blocked a highway. Protesters in the cold with signs. State police moved them eventually."
She turned back. "People taking action when normal channels seem closed. When you can't change the policy, you take to the street. It's psychological first aid—it makes you feel less helpless. But it's also a signal. When people stop writing their representatives and start blocking highways, they don't think the system is listening."
Professor Kingle folded his napkin into precise thirds. "Courts are still open. Lawsuits will be filed. Some of these policies will be blocked or limited. But the question is: how fast, and what happens in the meantime?"
He looked at Dr. Brenner. "Your discipline is studying the meantime. The space between action and consequence. That's where change happens."
Dr. Brenner thought of his grandmother's hands on a tea glass, the way she'd pause before hard stories. "The mechanism is speed," he said. "When you move faster than institutions can respond, you change what's normal before anyone can object. By the time courts rule, people have already adjusted. They've left jobs, changed curricula, canceled research. The legal victory might come later, but the ground has shifted."
Professor Williams looked at Dr. Brenner's untouched sandwich. "Two bites," she said gently. "Your system needs fuel."
He took two bites, tasted cardboard and mustard, and let the sandwich rest on the tray. The light bounced off the snow outside in hard, white angles. Around them, the cafeteria hummed—forks on plates, overlapping voices, someone's phone vibrating against a table. He was already someplace else, watching mechanisms turn, watching ground shift.
Mechanisms, not labels. For now, that was the only ground he trusted.
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