Alibi by Sydney Bauer Page B

then, right in the middle of the main building front doors, to turn to his all-too-sensible friend. Right now he was simply wishing he had chosen the “Regulation of Financial Institutions” elective like his other law school friend James Matheson, rather than stupidly corralling himself in Heffer’s stable and being forced to listen to the likes of some big assed, miniature brained professorial impostor.
    “How the hell can you be so calm about this?” he said at last. “Heffer is not just slandering us, but our parents.”
    H. Edgar said nothing, just paused for a moment as if trying to decide the best way to explain things to his obviously frustrated friend. Then he took Heath’s arm, guiding him beyond the door and out of earshot of the river of students flowing in and out of the building on their way to their next class.
    “Don’t you see, Westinghouse?” he said at last. “Heffer is ripe for the picking. These sorts of Epsilons can’t be told the truth of things, they need to be shown .” H. Edgar loved calling those he considered inferior “Epsilons,” after the lowest of the intellectual low in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World .
    “What do you mean shown ?” asked Heath.
    “He insinuates we have no entrepreneurial skills because we are from families of privilege. He thinks we lack the ability to do anything inspirational simply because our parents are successful. It is a case of blatant ‘wealthism.’ ” H. Edgar had once assured him this was a valid term coined by some dude with a PhD in social justice.
    “So what do you suggest we do?” asked Westinghouse.
    “We use his ludicrous assignment,” said H. Edgar, his pale blue eyes now shining with the glow of what had to be a brilliant idea taking form in the recesses of his highly inventive brain. “And show him just how entrepreneurial we are.”
    Heffer had just given them a project whereby they had to work in pairs to come up with new and unusual ways to make money independent of a typical law firm’s usual means of income. While just hypothetical, the students had to outline their ideas in detail—showing concept, aims, execution and results, listing all outlays and incomings as if their schemes actually existed.
    The pair realizing the highest profit at the end of their imaginary strategy would gain a distinction and course credits as well as a sign-off from the professor to “make” law review. Becoming a law review member was the be-all and end-all at Deane, and most other prestigious law schools around the country. More important, it was a huge asset on your applications to blue-chip law firms, and a must-have for the hallowed Top Ten. James Matheson had already scored himself a front-page article on the Montgomery case and the entire student body had been talking about it for weeks.
    “You want to come up with something spectacular for his banal assignment?” asked Westinghouse. “Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna change his mind about us being spoiled little . . .”
    “It will if we come up with the money for real.”
    “What?” said Westinghouse with a half-smile, wondering what the hell was the scheme his conniving friend had come up with now. “You want us to work in imaginary law firms and realize an actual profit.”
    “If you remember, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, now pulling his friend farther down the walkway toward Building C and their next lecture on corporate finance and taxation, “the professor’s hypothesis did not specify that we had to work in an existing firm, just that we operated within the legal fraternity to make legitimately acquired funds.”
    “And how do you suppose we . . . ?”
    “Jesus, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, looking at his watch, quickening his step and urging his friend to speed up alongside him. “I’m not a fucking computer. I need a little time to think about it.”
    “Well,” said Heath, his sour mood now eased by his friend’s uncanny ability to whip