The Socialist

by Calvin Wolf

  The Plaintiff

  1.0

  Educorp’s chief counsel is a pompous blowhard from back East, with enough lacquer on his hair and face to preserve him for decades. The Internet has told me that he went to Harvard Law and clerked for a federal judge before going into corporate law. His bench full of co-counsels have similar resumes, with only a handful having slummed it at state schools. Someone went to Michigan, another to UT Austin. The company’s resident counsel is a local boy who went away to Notre Dame before coming back home to work as an oil company lawyer, only later being scooped up by Educorp.

  The opposing counsel is a veritable football team compared to my basketball team of five attorneys. None of my lawyers have Ivy League pedigrees, but my chief counsel has held his own against the big boys before. The judge is a cranky old geezer who has seen most of the booms and busts experienced by this oil city. Rumor has it that he drinks excessively and is kept on the bench by a complete pharmacy.

  My navy suit has been dry cleaned, which immediately wiped out the last of my petty cash. I have been too proud to ask my parents for money, but soon I will have no choice. “Wear a good suit, but not your best,” my lawyer cautioned last night. “You’re middle class now, not an executive anymore.”

  My wife has gone back to work as a public defender, putting her law degree to use. She wanted to join my legal team, but the family needs to eat. The city pay is low, but at least the family has health insurance through her job.

  The judge reads the charges leveled against Educorp. My case has been joined by four other former teachers and administrators, though the case has been consolidated under my name alone. Intellicorp and MindWeb are watching the case carefully, I’m told, and we might even see some national media. I glance over my shoulder and see that the galley is full of reporters, most of them local.

  Then I see a CNN camera and feel my testicles clench.

  “Educorp stands accused of malicious fraud, negligence, and violations of state and federal labor laws and antitrust statutes,” the judge drones, reading from his adjustable computer screen. I see a list of implicated laws, though the only name I recognize is the Sherman Antitrust Act from high school economics. Maybe the AP and IB students would recognize a few of the others, I hope.

  The legal theater commences and the chief counsel for Educorp, whose voice sounds like a mix of molasses and smooth whiskey, eloquently argues that the charges are merely the agitated fumblings of disgruntled former employees.

  I feel like dirt. I am disgruntled. Is that so wrong?

  When my lawyer speaks, I am heartened that he also has a dynamic courtroom delivery. Like Eugene Debs, he rips into Educorp and its hidden crimes. Behind me, I can hear reporters typing and scribbling. The jurors seem genuinely interested, and I see a few of them writing on their own, court-provided notepads. There are seven men and five women in the jury box. Three appear Hispanic, two black, two Asian, and five white.

  I know both legal teams are busy doing jury analysis, trying to determine which approaches will work better to convince the well-mixed group of citizens. My own lawyer is investing many thousands of dollars on a professional jury consultant from Houston, who has two assistants and a bevy of expensive computers. Undoubtedly, Educorp has thrice the jury analysis capabilities, probably from as far away as New York and Los Angeles.

  When I hear my name mentioned loudly, by Educorp’s lugubrious lawyer, I sink lower in my leather-backed chair.

  2.0

  The opening day of the trial makes the headline of the front page. It is the sixth front-page headline I’ve gleaned since July, when my lawsuit was filed. My life has been put through a fine-toothed comb, and I have stopped reading the news as a result. You swipe a credit card

  through one coed’s butt crack at a frat party and it becomes news twenty-six years later.

  Max and Madison are getting ready for school and rain is drumming at the windows, courtesy of an unexpected El Nino autumn. Though the summer was ungodly hot, the fall has ushered in weather more reminiscent of Portland, Oregon than the Permian Basin. The news says that weather patterns are permanently shifting, with some sort of atmospheric stream now operating further south. California is toast, but West Texas is actually getting more moisture.

  “I hate the rain!” Madison announces, zipping up her pink jacket. Max has fallen into a depression because football season is not turning out the way he wants. He’s a freshman now, where things start to really matter. He worries that he won’t make varsity next year. If you’re a sophomore and not on varsity, you can practically kiss a college scholarship goodbye.

  “You ready for school, champ?” I ask, and he glares at me. Thunder rumbles in the distance. As Madison goes to get her lunch box, I decide to take the plunge and as Max if kids are talking about the trial at school.

  “It’s no big deal,” he insists. My heart breaks a little, because I know how teenagers are. They’re talking mad shit. Being the kid of a fallen ex-principal has to be social poison. At least we’ve kept him in private school, thank God. I try to grin at him, a sign of solidarity, but he ignores me and trudges into the kitchen.

  We don’t have as many groceries as we used to.

  “When is Mom coming home tonight?” he asks, rooting through the pantry.

  “I don’t know, champ.”

  “She works too late,” he replies, his voice accusatory. I know it’s true - the Office of the Public Defender has a reputation for being an exhausting grind. I feel guilty and angry, and I bite my lip to keep from snapping at my son. He seems to want to push my buttons, and I’m at the end of my rope.

  It’s been so damn hard to insulate them from this trial.

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll get us dinner.”

  Madison returns with her backpack and we head out into the rain, the front door locking behind us with an electronic beep. Raindrops slash down hard, almost like they are trying to cut. Fate’s judgment. We pile into the Ridgeline, which has been running rough recently, and I make for their schools.

  Max gets dropped off first, his Educorp campus immaculate and impeccably well-staffed during drop-off and pick-up times. I squeak and squeal into the line of parents, my pickup’s brakes apparently needing some new pads. A polished Escalade hulks in front of me, raindrops beading on well-waxed body panels. The school’s administration hasn’t made any overtures about Max being better off elsewhere, but every day I nervously expect an Armani-wearing principal to flag me down and approach my vehicle with a guilty smile.

  We think Max might be better suited at another campus, the principal would say once I had parked and gotten out of the car. Have you ever considered public school?

  Because of the rain, the head principal and his phalanx of APs are safely ensconced in their offices. A few veteran teachers hang out under overhangs, avoiding waterspouts from the roof, while rookie teachers smile in raincoats and galoshes, assisting students and parents. Putting in their time, gonna rise up the ranks. The American dream.

  The cars move up some more and I tell Max goodbye. He doesn’t wait for me to finish and instead bursts forth from the vehicle like a wild animal, eager to be away from me. I watch him bound toward the front doors, backpack jostling from side to side against his broad back. He makes it under the overhang with little water damage and darts inside, glass doors hissing open and shut around him.

  “Why is Max so mad?” Madison asks from the back seat.

  I tell her that he’s a teenager, and that’s just how teenager are. “Well, I’ll never be like that!” she insists, and I smile.

  The drive to Madison’s school, a public school, takes a long time. The campuses kept by the ISD are on the outskirts of town, across the railroad tracks. Long ago, the city built campuses out there to try and stimulate some economic turnaround, but it never really worked. When I pull into this line of parents, my vehicle is actually one of the nicer models. An old minivan, its body p
anels somehow saggy, spurts exhaust in front of me.

  “How do you like school?” I ask, hoping she still does. Madison says it’s okay, but that she misses her old school.

  I am too afraid to press the issue, afraid that she will reveal that things are bad for her. Then my guilt will be overwhelming. I will cave. She undoes her seatbelt and grabs her things. I tell her I love her, and then she is running through the rain toward the front doors of the school, a lone teacher monitoring the scene.

  She makes it inside and I hit the gas, heading for the courthouse.

  3.0

  “Educorp has a policy of adhering strictly to the laws, regulations, and policies concerning recruiting, hiring, promoting, demoting, and terminating personnel,” the lawyer says, holding up the latest version of the Educorp Employee Handbook. On a long evidence table are posters of various sections of the handbook, the letters blown up so that everyone can clearly read the sentences and paragraphs. On paper, Educorp is a model corporate citizen.

  “This employer, which has a history of generosity and philanthropy, has broken no laws. The only laws that were broken were broken by the plaintiffs themselves, who are now trying to blame their generous employer for their own wrongdoing. Frankly, this is an affront to the principles of capitalism and private property rights. The entrepreneurs and employers graciously hire job-seekers, only to have those job-seekers turn around and blame them for their own shortcomings.”

  This hits me like a sledgehammer.

  A book is in his hands now, a leather-bound tome. It is a more deluxe version of the book the old Congressman gave me about the pillars of capitalism.

  “Private enterprise. Competition. Private property. Profit motive. Consumer sovereignty.” He points fingers toward the sky, apparently pretending he is Adam Smith himself. “Educorp has helped return the United States of America to the economic ideals of its founders. The reckless attempt to blame it for the shortcomings of its employees is nothing less than the creeping fungus of socialism!”

  The jury seems less bored, and a few even sit up straighter in their cushioned chairs.

  The lacquered lawyer strides over to a table and grabs a poster made from the text of the employee handbook. “The first rule of Educorp is that no employee shall violate the rules and expectations codified in the employee handbook, and that any employee who is witnessed to be in violation of said rules and expectations be reported immediately to his or her supervisor.” The poster is shown around, and it is damning.

  Of course it was in the handbook. I feel a flash of anger. Of course it was in the handbook!

  Who reads the handbook? The reams of fine print don’t mean anything when your boss’s word is law. If you complain, they’ll find an excuse to let you go. ‘Not an optimal fit,’ they’ll say. I know this because I have done it before. Sometimes, teachers could be too idealistic for their own good.

  I feel the jury and galley eating up the posters as he reads them one at a time, revealing how I violated company policy. The lawyers for Educorp had certainly written quite a literary noose for any wayward employees. I never thought I would be the one hanging from the gallows.

  4.0

  “Adam Smith and Tea Party Republicans would be proud of that last speech,” my attorney says, grinning charmingly. “Fortunately, we figured out that laissez-faire capitalism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He begins holding up his own posters, which are emblazoned with passages of text from various anti-trust statutes.

  “It didn’t take long for the public to realize that what corporations say and how they behave are not one and the same. The same entrepreneurs who gave speeches at philanthropic dinners on the merits of competition were trying to rig the game from behind the scenes.”

  He holds up American Tobacco. He holds up Standard Oil. He holds up American Telephone & Telegraph Company. Then, he holds up Educorp.

  “Educorp is one of a handful of other private education corporations that have proliferated since the Education Privatization Act of 2018: Intellicorp, HumanCapital, Neuron, MindWeb. Collectively, they control eighty-three percent of the K-12 education market and fifty-nine percent of the post-secondary market. I have no doubt that each of these oligopolists has an impeccably well-written employee handbook. I also have no doubt each of these oligopolists violates their own respective handbooks when they see fit.”

  I am pleasantly surprised by my lawyer and his team - the Educorp team looks aghast and the jury seems somewhat interested!

  My lawyer holds up employee handbooks from all of the aforementioned corporations and displays them to the jury. Their covers are impressive and glossy.

  “You know, I did notice something, though. These manuals do an excellent job of outlining expectations when it comes to interactions with students and parents...but not much when it comes to interactions between administrators and executives. Aside from, you know, the stuff where it comes to hanky-panky.” A few chuckles spring forth, and Educorp’s chief counsel bellows various objections.

  I smile when the judge overrules them, declaring that talking about the employee handbooks’ lack of executive expectations is fair game.

  “If it’s part of your case, then make it,” the judge warns my lawyer, who responds soothingly and insists that all will be made plain.

  It is suddenly lunchtime, and we are dismissed from the courtroom. The respondents leave first, with several Educorp executives surrounded by a legion of attorneys. Cameras click and flash, and a bailiff angry exhorts the crowd to clear the galley. Surrounded by my own attorneys, I try to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

  5.0

  “Consumer sovereignty. Competition.” My lawyer has eaten a hearty lunch and is back on the attack, hoping to make his opening day count. He and his team have evidently decided to take the fight to the opposing side’s statements.

  “Educorp follows neither of these pillars of capitalism. They have created a false market.” One of the other attorneys wheels out a rolling white board, stationing it in front of the judge so that jury and galley can see it. With a flourish, my lawyer pulls out a dry erase marker and goes to work, drawing a horizontal line and a vertical line that meet and form a backwards ‘L.’ He proudly announces that this is a supply and demand graph, the basic illustrator of ‘classical economics.’

  “The respondents would have you believe that everything is very simple, very cut-and-dried. The corporate officers in headquarters, good conservatives all, would have you believe that it’s all about basic supply and demand. That everything is proportional, that everything is adjustable. That for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Unfortunately, they know that’s all a lie. They know that our client had no choice but to follow orders.” He goes to the board and begins to draw lines and curves, masterfully recreating last night’s practice session.

  “Supply and demand have been artificially altered to benefit Educorp and its fellow education providers. The government requires children to be in school, which artificially increases demand. The government also arbitrarily enforces regulations, creating insurmountable barriers to entry that restrict supply. Instead of competition and consumer sovereignty, Educorp has been granted guaranteed power and profit by the state and federal governments.”

  My lawyer draws a second supply and demand graph and labels it labor market. “Not only are consumers being gouged on price, but employees of Educorp are being forced into indentured servitude.” He moves the supply curve inward and writes collusion and noncompete clauses off to the side.

  “We will explain how Educorp illegally punishes teachers and administrators who attempt to leave and seek other employment within the education sector. Educorp has a track record of manipulating regulations and the market to inflate the available supply of its own potential labor while drastically cutting the supply of labor available to competitors.”

  Too boring, we’re losing the jury
a lawyer next to me writes on his legal pad.

  6.0

  The next day, we get a Midland University economist to testify.

  Hank Hummel is sworn in and explains his background to the jury, courtesy of my lawyer’s skilled guidance. Hummel was a high school economics teacher for years before earning a Master’s of Science in Finance and Economics degree from West Texas A&M. Today, he teaches at the local U and has published two books on economics and government. His second book was about regulation capture and was reportedly well-received.

  “Explain this theory, if you would please,” my lawyer says.

  “Regulatory capture theory says that the government agencies which are supposed to regulate various industries end up, basically, being controlled by those industries,” Hummel replies.

  “Is this happening in the education sector today?”

  “It certainly is. When the government decided to privatize K-12 and post-secondary education, it established various guidelines in terms of academic rigor, finance, student services, and school infrastructure and safety. Very quickly, all of those guidelines were adjusted based on appeals and suggestions from the private sector education providers. Educorp being first and foremost among them.”

  A murmur can be heard around the courtroom, and my heart soars.

  “And you have written about this?”

  “Yes, I have. Many articles, most of them editorial, but two were part of peer-reviewed studies. So far, to my knowledge, nobody has been able to successfully argue that regulatory capture is not occurring in most regulated industries.”

  “How does this happen? Shouldn’t there be government safeguards to avoid conflicts of interest, fraternization, and the like?”

  “There are safeguards, of course, but they are quickly overridden by powerful social forces. There is a lot of social clout wielded by industry leaders. Inevitably, interactions between regulators and industry leaders become less antagonistic and more informal over time. These individuals tend to have similar backgrounds and lifestyles, so there’s a lot of common ground.”

  “Have you uncovered specific examples in your research?”

  “Oh, yes. With some industries, the CEOs and regulatory heads practically graduated within the same Ivy League classes. There’s also a strong revolving door effect between industry and government, meaning that many regulators were once business executives themselves. Often, they end up regulating their friends. And when you add lobbyists into the mix, things can get quite chummy.”

  6.1

  “You do not have a doctorate degree, do you, Mr. Hummel?” Educorp’s lawyer asks immediately upon cross.

  “No, I do not.”

  “Then how are you an expert on the economic ramifications of Educorp and its competitors?” sneers the questioning attorney.

  “I read a lot of stuff,” Hummel replies with a smirk, and wins a few laughs from the spectators. “Who’s your economist?”

  The judge admonishes Hummel to only answer questions posed to him, but Educorp’s legal division looks upset. I immediately wonder if they do not have an economist as an expert witness. Suddenly, lawyers are on their feet and objecting and arguing. It has something to do with the definition of an objective witness, or maybe an expert witness. The judge appears bewildered and jurors are excited.

  As I begin to develop a stress headache, the judge orders all the attorneys and Hank Hummel to his chambers. The jury is dismissed and led back to the jury room. Impassively, I sit at the table with a pair of nervous paralegals. Eventually, I start to doodle on my own legal pad. After a few minutes, the judge returns and announces that court with adjourn for the day and begin promptly at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.