Essay: The Soprano Foolproof Method of College Admissions

[Carmela Soprano has decided to raise the chances of her daughter’s admission to Georgetown by going to the law office of the twin sister of her next-door neighbor.]

Carmela Soprano [played by Edie Falco]: “Joan, hi. Is this a bad time?”

Joan Cusamano [played by Saundra Santiago]: “Always. C'mon in.”

Carmela: “Ricotta pie with pineapples. I was in the neighborhood. My mother's foot surgeon is over here.”

Joan: “Oh, thank you. Listen, Carmela, I think I know why you're here. My sister told me you wanted me to write a letter to Georgetown for ‘Fielder,’ is it?” 

Carmela: “Meadow.”

Joan: “Sorry. But I just can't do it.”

Carmela: “Well, I thought you would at least want to take a look at her grades and her SAT scores and some teacher comments before you made up your mind. I think she would be a wonderful addition to the Georgetown campus.”

Joan: “Then I'm sure the admissions offices will see that.”

Carmela: “Well, I'm not sure that's true. The sad fact is that's just not enough these days.”

Joan: “I’m sorry, Carmela, but I can't do it.”

Carmela: “I don't think you understand. I want you to write that letter.”

Joan: “Excuse me?” 

Carmela: “I said I want you to write the letter.”

Joan: “Are you threatening me?” 

Carmela: “Threat, what threatening? I brought you a ricotta pie and high school transcripts so you could write a letter of recommendation for my little daughter to Georgetown.”

Joan: “I'm an officer of the court. A lawyer.”

Carmela: “Don't make me beg here.”

Joan: “I've already written my last letter of support for this academic year.”

Carmela: “How about this: I thought you could write a letter to Georgetown, tell them you discovered that Georgetown was not that person's first choice, and that in fact he was using Georgetown as a backup—I'm not gonna tell you what to write.”— The Sopranos, Season 2, Episode 8, "Full Letter Jacket,” original air date March 5, 2000, teleplay by Robin Green and Mitchell Burgess, directed by Allen Coulter

It was only a few weeks ago that I watched this scene from The Sopranos. I had no idea then how suddenly relevant it was going to become in the last week or so, following the news of a major college admissions bribery scandal ensnaring a number of high-powered people, but perhaps none more high-profile than actresses Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman, whose next long-term engagements might have to be called “Not, Not Full House--The Big House” and “Desperate High-School Kid’s Mom.”

I couldn’t help shaking my head at the whole thing. About 30 years ago, an English professor in a New Jersey college regaled me with a story of how an early 20th-century captain of industry had smoothed his son’s muddy path through a major East Coast university by donating a sum generous enough to have an entire library named in his honor.

Cynic that I am, I have always assumed that colleges and universities have made room for a certain amount of what are called “legacies” to ensure that they have enough money to fund scholarships for the less financially fortunate and to run the schools on a 24/7 basis. It turns out that my instinct is correct: Princeton sociologist Thomas Espenshade has determined, through a study of 10 highly selective colleges, that being a legacy can be the functional equivalent of an additional 160 points on the SATs.

Believe it or not, I’m even cynical enough to think that Donald Trump made it into and through Wharton not because he was a "stable genius" but because, according to Gwenda Blair's The Trumps, a "friendly" admissions officer did it as a favorite to Donald's late older brother Freddy, and the school’s admissions committee looked with favor upon his rich developer father, Fred Trump Sr. How terrible to think that, isn't it?

So yes, rich kids getting into big schools with a little help from Daddy Warbucks—what, exactly, is news about that? Except maybe that there's now a nickname for it: "affirmative action for the rich."

Well, William Singer, the consultant at the heart of the current scandal, called the method that this English prof told me about so long ago “the back door” into the school of one’s choice. Evidently, in Singer’s estimation, the “back door” was pretty effective—and perfectly legal!—but not exactly foolproof.

The second method outlined by Singer was “the front door.” That, too, was legal, even ethical, and less costly than “the back door.”  But the whole process—hoping your kid somehow musters good grades, high standardized scores, participation in sports/other extracurricular activities into an irresistible package—was, given the competitive nature of colleges, akin to taking your chances. The unspoken message: Go ahead, be a fool if you want to.

The approach that Singer advocated was “the side door.” The various methods described—having someone else take your kid’s standardized test, sending in fake photos simulating athletic achievement—were certainly unethical and, a few parents guessed, illegal. But nobody had been arrested yet, had they?

Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?

Now, nearly two dozen people are talking seriously to their attorneys about the possibility of doing significant jail time and/or hefty fines, all because nobody had thought of Carmela Soprano’s method of getting Meadow into Georgetown.

In keeping with Singer’s door metaphor, and with an activity that Tony Soprano and his associates may well have resorted to at one time or another, let’s call Carmela’s approach “jimmying the locks.” Unlike with “the front door,” Carmela was leaving nothing to chance. Sure, there are those who might argue it was unethical.

On the other hand, it was cheap. Carmela didn’t have to endow a library, secure a high-flying consultant, or arrange a half-dozen test-preparation activities for Meadow. Heck, all she had to spend was car- or airfare to get to the DC area, or the ingredients for that pie.

Carmela merely had to rely on gossip—including that passed along by her neighbor, Jeannie Cusamano, to her twin sister, the superlawyer Joan—about Tony Soprano’s—er, livelihood. And so, Joan’s question--“Are you threatening me?”—had an immediate answer: Threat? What threat? Whatever you perceive is all between the lines.

Sharp lawyer that she is, Joan soon realized she would not have a leg to stand on in court. That’s assuming Joan even took it to court. Many other lawyers, made of far weaker stuff, wouldn’t have even bridled at the thought of giving in, since Tony’s reputation is that formidable. 

No paper trail, no money. Simple and brilliant.