You Pay for What You Get

If I could ask the infamous Suzanne M. Pomey ‘02 and the enigmatic Randy J. Gomes ‘02 just one question, I’d want to know how, exactly, they allegedly hatched their super-secret, super-safe, super-smart master plan. Did they consider laundering the dirty money? Was it taxing to plot against their own organization? Did they set their sights low, and then only expand to the tens of thousands of dollars later? And just what were they smoking when they thought they could get away with it?

It’s astonishing to consider the audacity required to pull off their alleged feat. The stolen $100,000 breaks down to about $2000 a week, every month, for a year. It supposedly underwrote his addiction to drugs, her predilection for Diesel, and their dangerous penchant for social climbing. And it was all for naught: the Pudding has disowned them both, Theta girls whisper about kicking Pomey out of their sorority and Gomes’ close friends and roommates claim they “did not know him well.”

They still, at least, have each other. Although no one with an iota of street-smarts or a more decent set of priorities would have signed on to their supposed scam, they were keen enough to follow at least one mantra of the underworld: stick by your story, and stick together.

It’s difficult to believe that Pomey and Gomes would have done what they supposedly did if they knew what awaited them after the purchases and the parties—namely, if they are found guilty, a decade behind cold steel bars. After all, $100,000 doesn’t just disappear, and they seem to have made little effort to disguise the theft. Clearly then, something must have convinced them to throw ethics to the wind and embezzle the $100,000 or so into their personal bank accounts. No doubt they got off on their glittering social calendars and their circle of tender, affectionate friends but it’s still unconvincing that social status alone made it worth ten long years of uniforms, lock-downs and cement walls.

The more obvious explanation is an audacious cockiness that they wouldn’t go to jail, that Harvard (or at least the Harvard name) would bail them out, and that it would all make for an interesting chapter in their soon-to-be-written tell-all. Most of that arrogance probably has to do with the mind-boggling breaks we get at this school. If we don’t study for a class, the professor punishes us with a Gentleman’s C. If we are caught drinking underage, the Ad Board disciplines us with a firmly-stated, flimsily-followed admonishment. If we rape another student, we are penalized with a one or two-year vacation from school, subject to review.

Harvard is completely without serious consequences and its students can do no wrong, or so it seems. Regardless how much students slack, shirk or steal, the University eventually tosses a diploma in their direction and they stride into the real world having been coddled by academics and protected from the harsh realities of the real world. Sheltered by brick, ivy and egos, we are taught to feel impervious to everyone else’s rules, according to which people go to jail and ruin their lives for mistakes they made when they were, yes, just 22.

This isn’t the first time that Harvard students have tried to beat more than just the grading system, and it’s unlikely that it will be the last—especially if the powers that be again play the role of the pansy and let Pomey and Gomes off the hook. Community service, highway-side pick up, and a suspension from school is not enough; if they are indeed guilty, Pomey and Gomes should serve time behind bars.

Or was getting caught just part of the plan? What better way to distinguish themselves from all the other reckless, enterprising socialites than to propel themselves into the national spotlight? Maybe this was why they didn’t pause to launder their money, or to explain the origins of the spike in their spending cash. (Those wealthy enough to throw the parties and support the habits that they did usually do not dally their time working at Abercrombie.)

Like in Hollywood, notoriety is often synonymous with popularity in our skewed social scene. We love to despise, and the despised revel in the glory of their infamy. And, so, Pomey and Gomes may have triumphed after all: they tainted our noble institution, a la Monica Lewinsky, they skirted the law, a la Heidi Fleiss, and they arrogantly believed that they could get away with it, a la O.J. Simpson, to become genuine household—or at least dormitory—names. They’re not just “almost famous” anymore, and the trial hasn’t even started yet.

But was it actually worth it? Perhaps. If heads weren’t turning before, they certainly are now. And with the proper marketing and media strategy, they might even transform their fall from social grace into quite a cushy book deal. For just as Harvard protects its students from the harsh consequences of the real world, the real world shields its high-profile criminals from their punishment with publicity and money.

We have all gotten quite a kick out of seeing one of our own fall, but the rest of the country is going to eat this up even quicker than we have. America will always love the underdog and when there’s isn’t one to be found, there’s nothing better than to watch pampered preppies stumble down from a place like the Pudding to the glory of a prison cell.

Let’s hope, then, that both parties provide only what can be expected of them: a good show from Pomey and Gomes, and a swift, just and pitiless verdict from the system.

Jordana R. Lewis ’02 is a history and literature concentrator in Eliot House. Her column appears on alternate Thursdays.