The Taxonomy of Doom: An Opco Boone Adventure

The Adventures of Opco Boone, Legal Ace™ →Go uptown Index: Click ᐅ to expand: Opco Boone Finance fiction Tell me more Sign up for our newsletter — or just get in touch: for ½ a weekly 🍺 you get to consult JC. Ask about it here.

When Opco, Algy and George filed into the Defence Against Indemnities classroom, Professor Cavalier, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a stout middle-aged management consultant sat at her desk, peering intently through a monocle at a clockwork contraption installed upon it. The machine was labelled “RISK TAXONOMISER”. The badge on her lapel announced her as Imelda Skanks, M.B.A..

As the class settled in she gleefully twiddled the dials on the machine’s fascia.

“Good Morning, Class!” she beamed. My name is Imelda Skanks. I shall be taking Defence Against Indemnities for the rest of term.

The room fell into an uncomfortable, stony silence.

Skanks forced a smile. “Any questions, or shall we get on with it?”

Slowly, a hand went up at the back. It belonged to Neville Toadstool, a slow-witted boy with cross-eyes and a big nose.

“Yes, Mr. Toadstool?”

Neville was momentarily taken aback that she should already know his name. Mrs. Skanks was correspondingly pleased about it.

“Er, Ma’am, where is Professor Cavalier?”

Skanks cleared her throat and addressed the back of the room. “Professor Cavalier has been — ah — reassigned.”

“Reassigned?” blurted Algy. “But Madhouse has been teaching Defensive Indemnification for thirty-five years! She’s the best in the business!”

Skanks pursed her lips. “A little too long, it seems, class. Her teaching style has been found to be out-dated. It no longer accords with industry best practice.”

“What are you talking about? Her methods are the foundation for industry best practice!” said Boone, curtly. “Columbina Cavalier single-handedly defeated a nest of tranched CDOs at Bretton Woods with one limited recourse trigger and misfiring ipso facto clause. Her balance sheet was barely dented. She’s a certified legend.’

“Her methods,” intoned Skanks levelly, “have been deemed unsound.”

“But —”

“There will be no buts in my class, Mr. Boone. No buts.”

The whole class murmured gloomily in response — all, that is, but Ramsay Punchface.

Ramrod sat ramrod-straight in the front row, and yelped, “Good Morning, Ma’am! I say, what have you there? It looks jolly clever!”

The Professor brimmed. “Well, Ramsay, I’m glad you asked, and yes it is jolly clever! This is the very latest in modern risk management! It calculates and monitors all risks, tabulates them, and provides an overall risk rating.”

“Cripes! How does it do that, Ma’am?”

“Well, let me show you, Ramsay.”

Professor Skanks manipulated the knobs. As she did so, the children could see drive-shafts turning interlocking gears, which drove connected flywheels, which spun tiny fan-belts, which rotated brass ratchets, which triggered a row of winking diodes and a bell that softly pinged. Her eyes betrayed an impish delight at the cleverness of the design: the elegance of the interactions; the intricacy of the machinery.

George looked at Boone. Boone shrugged. Algy had started cutting up his India rubber in preparation for a barrage against the little swot in the front row, so paid no attention.

Eventually, the Professor pressed a button marked “ANALYSE”. The machine whirred, rattled, chattered, and eventually spat out a punch-tape from a dispenser at the bottom and dropped into a stainless steel tray. Boone thought he saw a wisp of smoke drift up from the mechanism.

Algy catapulted a small nugget of rubber which caught Punchface upside the head. Punchface squawked.

Professor Skanks retrieved the punch tape and regarded the output, her eyes aglow.

“Good news! Ambient risk is contained! We are at overall risk level 2.6, which is within acceptable bounds, and can be rendered green on the Steerco RAG Indicator. But, look!” she waved the card and tutted. “Well, that won’t do, will it?”

“What’s that, Miss?”

“Well, Ramsay, measured against that ambient risk, legal operating costs are too high!”

George put her hand up. The Professor nodded to her to carry on. “How can you tell what the ambient risk is, just by looking at that machine, Professor?”

“Can anyone answer that?”

Ramsay Punchface shot his hand into the air. The Professor pretended not to see it. She cast about the rest of the room. “Anyone?”

“Miss!” squeaked Punchface.

The Professor regarded the class register. “This might give me a chance to get to know you. Let me see now ...” She ran her finger down the list. “Bailey, Algernon Bailey?”

Algy, still preoccupied with his rubber, was not paying attention and therefore reacted as if he has been shot. “Er —”

George kicked him in the shins under the table. “Side letter!” she hissed.

Algy rubbed his shin and glared at her. “Ah, a side letter, Miss?”

Professor Skanks paused, and sighed, and patiently said, “No, Bailey, side letters are not best pra —”

“DISCLAIMERS?” blurted Algy.

“Miss!” squeaked Ramsay.

Again, the Professor pretended not to hear. “Anyone?”

“Hold harmless executed under seal by deed poll?” volunteered George.

“Heavens no! What has Professor Bumblebore been teaching you?”

“Miss! Miss!!” Ramsay was hyperventilating now.

“Limited recourse?” put in Boone.

“No, no, no! Really, children: You are thinking about this all wrong. Think about the big picture. Think in terms of overall risk.”

Ramsay Punchface could bear it no longer. “KEY PERFORMANCE INDICATORS MISS!!!”

The room went quiet. Professor Skanks sparkled with delight. She wheeled on the spot and regarded unctuous little Punchface, licking his lips from the front row. “Exactly, Ramsay! Key performance indicator!