Sports Illustrated - USA (2022-02)

(Maropa) #1

38 SPORTS ILLUSTRATED | SI.COM


After spending most of the day in detention, Center
met with a lawyer, appeared before a local judge and
was released on a $5,000 bond. Little did he know that
by then Varsity Blues was already riveting the country.
A media swarm had gathered outside the courthouse in
Austin; when Center emerged, he told them to go watch
his team play that night, because that would be far more
interesting than anything he had done. At that point
Texas had sent Center an email informing him he was
being fired from a job that paid him $232,000 annually.
Center soon learned that when Singer had called him
that past October to rehash the details of their 2015
arrangement, he was acting as a cooperating witness
and the FBI was recording the call. Singer was the central
player, funneling kids into college by all means, including
hiring instructors to take their SATs. But the use of venal
college coaches to ease the admissions process became
an effective side door as well. Especially when parents
like Schaepe—who was let go by his venture capital firm
amid the scandal—could follow up with hefty donations.
“I knew I had to answer for my guilt,” says Center.
“But I was like, Man, schools are going to get hammered.”

B


ECAUSE THIS WAS a federal case brought by the
U. S. At tor ney ’s Of f ice in t he Dist r ic t of Massachuset t s,
Center hired local Boston counsel. When he and his lawyers

met with U.S. attorneys, Center explained that, yes, he had
played a role, but it was as part of a widespread scheme. 
He produced the text exchanges with UT’s compli-
ance official. Center also mentioned Plonsky, the long-
time executive in the athletic department. In 2015 her
duties included overseeing men’s tennis, compliance,
academic support (which generates letters of intent) and
the Longhorn Foundation. How, asked Center, was it
remotely plausible that she was unaware that the son of a
major donor had been falsely admitted as a tennis player? 
“I was no rogue actor,” Center says, “and this wasn’t
my word against their word. There were signatures that
went along with it. That’s the system....There wasn’t
one point in the process where I thought people wanted
to learn the whole truth.”
Center was told that his recommended sentence would be
15 to 21 months, provided he pleaded guilty to all charges

within 24 hours. Low on both options and funds, he says,
Center pleaded guilty to a single count of conspiracy to
commit mail fraud and honest services mail fraud. His
sentence consisted of six months in federal prison, one
year of supervised release and repayment of $60,000.
At sentencing, U.S. District Judge Richard Stearns said
that Center’s actions “impugn the entire integrity in
something that this country is so proud of—and that’s
the education system in this country.” Stearns made no
reference to UT or other complicit administrators or a
corrosive system. 
Why would the U.S. attorneys settle for the indictments
of parents and coaches of nonrevenue sports when they
could take down bigger fish? The answer might lie in
the nature of the charges filed. In a federal fraud case,
the government must show a “deprivation of money or
property”—for there to be fraud, by definition, someone
or some entity must have been defrauded.
Who, specifically, was defrauded by the Varsity Blues
scandal? “The [prosecutors] made noise,” says former
federal prosecutor Randall Eliason, now a professor at
George Washington University Law School, that “this is
an affront to all the good, hardworking students who
couldn’t get into college because of shenanigans like this.
But that wasn’t how they [made] their case.”
He’s right. As in the 2018 NCA A basketball corruption

probe, the Varsity Blues prosecutors asserted that the
schools themselves were the aggrieved, defrauded party.
The government’s theory in ’18: When shoe companies
and middlemen pay recruits, the schools are deprived of
eligible athletes. Likewise, when coaches took bribes from
Singer, they deprived schools of their honest services.
This theory holds if renegade coaches enrich themselves
at the expense of the school. It unravels, however, if the
schools are part of the scheme. “If [prosecutors] go after
the head of the athletic department, at some point they’re
undermining their own case,” says Eliason. “If the senior
people are in on it, the schools aren’t being defrauded.
They’re just playing the game like everyone else.” 
Eric Rosen, a former federal prosecutor who led the
Varsity Blues case and is now in private practice, pushes
back on this idea: “Even if the entire athletic department is
in on it, it’s still a crime. If they’re deceiving the admissions

VA R SI T Y BLU E S

“I was no rogue actor,” says Center,


“and this wasn’t my


word against their word.”

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