Articles Posted in Antitrust for Kids

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Author: Aaron Gott

There are a lot of lessons you can learn from Wonka. It’s a story about how ingenuity, determination, selflessness, and teamwork can overcome the oppressive adversity of a system that serves entrenched interests.

But it’s also a story about a chocolate cartel. And that offers its own lessons, too. Just ask my four kids, who now understand what I do all day (though I may have overplayed the chocolate-related aspect).

In fact, the whole plot of Wonka revolves around the machinations of this market-dominating chocolate cartel. It’s almost as if the folks over at Warner Bros. Pictures took inspiration from our Antitrust for Kids series and (surely inadvertently) left us out of the credits.

For those who haven’t seen it: Wonka is essentially the origin story of the Willy Wonka from 1971’s Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. Wonka, played by Timothée Chalamet, comes to town with the intent to realize his dream of owning a chocolate shop in a ritzy plaza called the Galeries Gourmet. With little money to his name—twelve silver sovereigns that are all spent by the end of the first tune—he sets out to sell his chocolate on the street the following day. A crowd gathers, and the owners of three preeminent chocolate shops, led by Paterson Joseph’s Slugworth, at the Galeries Gourmet notice.

Spoiler Alert!: in this post, I’m talking about Wonka and there may be some spoilers. So if you haven’t seen it, go watch it, and then come back and read this post.

We learn that these three chocolatiers are, despite identifying themselves as three “fierce rivals,” in fact, the members of a chocolate cartel that has the entire market locked down. And just as soon as upstart Wonka begins trying to sell his chocolate, the cartel goes to work to prevent this competitive threat from upending its lucrative arrangement. Or as the cartel puts it, “If we don’t / get on top of this / we’ll go bust / chocopocalypse! / we’ll cease to exist.

What follows in Wonka is not only a lot of catchy numbers, but also a step-by-step guide into the workings of a successful price-fixing cartel.

  1. Control Price by Controlling Supply

Soon after the members of the chocolate cartel are introduced, we learn the strategy to which they owe their cushy, profitable position: while ostensibly fierce rivals to the outside world, each with their own shops, the chocolatiers actually pool their chocolate in a secret underground vault and strictly control the output so as to artificially depress supply, which ultimately raises prices in a market with pent-up demand.

This is a classic mechanism for a cartel to increase prices without explicitly fixing prices. Rather than attempt to set and discipline cartel members’ prices directly, which can be difficult to administer and is more easily detected by authorities, controlling supply (or production) lets the market do the work of raising prices through the hydraulic action of supply and demand. Output restrictions and price fixing are two sides of the same coin.

A classic example of output controls is the open-and-notorious oil conspiracy known as OPEC.

  1. Conceal Your Meetings and Communications

The chocolatiers’ secret underground vault isn’t just where they store their chocolate reserves; it’s also where they meet to discuss their nefarious business. The lair is underneath a Catholic church run by a frocked, chocoholic Mr. Bean on the take, and to get there, they simply go to a confessional booth, which has a secret elevator to the vault below.

Conspirators often take measures to conceal their communications and meetings, and while real-life cases do not usually involve such ostentatious means, they can still be elaborate. Some use code names and secret email addresses, while others might enlist a supplier to collect and distribute draft pricing announcements while she makes her sales rounds. Conspirators might even have a seemingly coincidental meeting at a charity golf tournament.

And while this cartel was meeting directly in its secret lair, it could have accomplished a similar scheme by integrating Father Bean as the hub of a hub-and-spoke conspiracy. Some notable recent cases have featured accusations of conspiracies facilitated through third-party data aggregators and technology service providers. That kind of conspiracy, though, isn’t quite as conducive to show-tune choreography.

  1. Keep Your Numbers Small

Another reason the chocolate cartel was so successful: it comprises only three competitors who dominate a market. It’s easier to form a cartel in a concentrated, oligopic market. And it’s easier to sustain one, too, for a few different reasons.

The more people who are in on a secret, the more likely that secret is going to get out. It’s important your cartel stays a secret, given that it’s a felony punishable by prison and often means civil liability far beyond what was made from the scheme. This is especially true because the U.S. Department of Justice Leniency Program provides incentives for cartel members to tell on their co-conspirators and cooperate with its investigations. So even if you trust your co-conspirators now, wait until one of them is acquired by a larger company with a strong antitrust compliance program or one of their employees decides to become a whistleblower if for no other reason than to protect their job.

Keeping your numbers small also means that it is less work to detect and punish “cheating” by cartel members, which is inevitable—if they’re willing to cheat the market, you can be sure they’ll cheat each other at every opportunity.

  1. Use the Law to Stop Upstart Competitors

In Wonka, local law forbids the sale of chocolate without a chocolate shop. As one of Wonka’s friends puts it, “You can’t get a shop without selling chocolate, and you can’t sell chocolate without a shop.”

This catch-22 is surely by design. The cartel instinctively calls the police on Wonka the very moment it recognizes him as a competitive threat. The cartel members even make friends with the chief of police—played by Keegan Michael Key—and bribe him with chocolate (and the promise of more) so that he dedicates himself to enforcing the law against Wonka.

Cartels often try to create and use legal barriers to prevent new competitors from gaining a foothold. In the United States, it’s a tale as old as interest group politics: lobby to create barriers to entry through either complex regulatory regimes or licensing schemes that make it harder for others to enter the market and compete against you. And then put your friends in government to enforce those laws with enthusiasm.

Something like this is what happened in North Carolina State Board of Dental Examiners v. FTC: as teeth whitening technology took off, dentists found it extraordinarily profitable. And when non-dentists started offering teeth whitening, the dentists used the state board (conveniently controlled by dentists) to reinterpret the dental scope of practice under state law and start going after non-dentists for the unlicensed practice of dentistry, even though teeth whitening is not actually dentistry.

  1. Scare Consumers Away From Non-Conspirator Rivals

The chocolate cartel also attempts to turn the market against Wonka. First, in front of a crowd comprising Wonka’s intrigued prospective customers, Slugworth declares his expert opinion: “Mr. Wonka, I have been in this business a very long time, and I can safely say, that of all the chocolate I have ever tasted, this is without doubt, the absolute 100% worst.”

Consumers still went wild for Wonka’s “hover chocolates” when Slugworth and his confederates started to float. But that victory was short-lived because of the already-in-motion cartel strategy of using the law against Wonka, which goes to show a successful cartel doesn’t usually rely on just one type of anticompetitive act to achieve its goals.

Later, after a montage of Wonka and his troupe turning to a pop-up retail strategy that allows him to both compete and successfully evade the police, Wonka finally has the financial resources to open a shop. And when he does, the chocolate cartel sabotages him by surreptitiously poisoning his confections with Yeti Sweat, which leads to rapid and uncontrollable vividly colored hair growth. With this, the cartel successfully turned the market against Wonka, and Wonka’s shop was literally destroyed.

Food tampering aside, this is classic group boycott behavior: a concerted effort by firms to persuade customers, suppliers, and other parties in the market not to do business with a rival firm whose competition imposes downward price pressure in the market.

  1. Reach an Illegal Noncompete Agreement

The chocolate cartel at one point convinces Wonka to agree not to compete in exchange for buying his and his friends’ freedom from their indentured servitude to Mrs. Scrubbit.

Paying competitors not to compete is illegal, but the important thing to note here is that it is illegal even if it is just one competitor paying off another. In fact, there is a whole class of “pay-for-delay” antitrust cases, which typically allege brand-name pharmaceutical companies suing generic makers for patent infringement, with the purpose of inducing a settlement whereby the generic makers agree not to introduce their competing products to the market for some period of time.

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Author:  Molly Donovan

For adults, it’s the worst idea imaginable for a holiday, but for second graders, Valentine’s Day is great—decorating mailboxes, making paper cards and distributing treats to all your friends.

This year the second graders had an idea for making Valentine’s Day even better: a contest to see who can make the best Valentine’s cards! The kids would vote for one winner after sorting through all the cards to judge whose was most creative and best executed. The winner would have the prestige of winning.

As with all competitions, big or small, things should be fair. One thing that is not fair: copying another friend’s idea.

But that is what happened (as these Antitrust for Kids stories tend to go).

Mikey had made valentines out of actual waffles that read in frosting “I like you a waffle lot.” OMG. Could anything be cuter?

The day before Valentine’s, his mom posted the waffle photos on Instagram.

When Nora saw the post, she knew her cards (plain old paper, largely uninspired) would never win. But Nora HAD TO win.

She whipped up a batch of pancakes as quickly as she could and wrote on each in whipped cream: “I like you a waffle lot!” (Obviously, she didn’t nail it with the pun, but since the joke was lost on most of the kids anyway, it didn’t really matter.)

Nora’s mom (naturally) posted the pancakes on Instagram later that night with a tagline suggesting that Nora invented the very idea of homemade food valentines all by herself.

The next day at school, a final tiebreaker vote would come down to Mikey v. Nora. (In third place was JoJo whose pickle-shaped cards on green paper read “You’re a Big Dill.”)

But Mikey stopped the contest before the final vote occurred: “This competition is unfair. Nora took my idea and closely duplicated it only because she can’t stand losing.” Mikey had the IG posts to prove that his idea came first, and that Nora’s pancakes and posts were deceitful.

But by the time he finished explaining all that, most of the friends had lost interest—moving on to eating the candy and applying the fake tattoos that feel impossible to wash off.

Nora went home happy that even though she didn’t win, nobody else won either.

My Muse: There has been litigation in China and the UK about competitors posting or reposting each other’s ideas and online content. Not only does this present potential IP issues, but the plaintiffs in these recent litigations are also claiming that the alleged conduct is a violation of unfair competition laws.

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Author:  Molly Donovan

At Argo Elementary, a group of kids gathers daily at lunch to buy and sell candy. The trading activity is a longtime tradition at Argo and it’s taken very seriously—more like a competitive sport than a pastime.

Candy trading doesn’t end once a 5th grader graduates from Argo. It continues across town at Chicago Middle School—but instead of lunch, candy trading happens there at the close of each school day. (The middle school had banned lunchtime trading due to several disputes that grew out of hand.)

Now here’s where it gets complicated, and nobody knows why it works this way, but the average lunchtime price at Argo determines the starting price for trades later in the day at Chicago.

For example: the average selling price for a candy bar on Monday, lunch at Argo is $2.50. Monday after-school prices at Chicago also will start at $2.50.

There are rules about what kind of candy can be traded—so that one trade can be easily compared to another (candied apples-to-candied apples) for purposes of determining who’s “winning.”

And sometimes kids—particularly the older ones at Chicago—place bets on what will happen on a particular trading day in the future, e.g., I bet prices will reach $3 or I bet no more than 50 candy bars will get sold this Friday.

That’s it by way of background. Here’s our story.

Arthur D. Midland (“ADM”) is 9. He is the link between Argo and Chicago. Each day, ADM leaves Argo Elementary when school lets out, walks to Chicago Middle, announces the “start-of-trade” Chicago price based on the lunchtime Argo price, and Chicago trading begins. (ADM’s mother allows this because ADM’s older brother (Midas) also trades at Chicago—so the two boys can watch each other.)

At the start of the school year, ADM contrived a very clever scheme. He bet Midas that, on Halloween, Chicago prices would be very low—as low as $1. Midas said, “No way! September prices are already at $2.50. If anything, prices will increase as kids go candy crazy in October. I’ll take that bet.”

So, for every candy bar sold at Chicago on Halloween for $1 or less, Midas would owe ADM $1. And for every candy bar sold at Chicago for more than $1, ADM would owe Midas $1.

With that bet front of mind, ADM became the primary candy seller at Argo, and as Halloween neared, he flooded Argo with candy and sold it intentionally at very low prices—50 cents for a Snickers! (ADM had the requisite inventory because he was an avid trick-or-treater and had saved all his Halloween candy from years past.)

Due to ADM’s scheme, Argo prices got so low that some kids packed up their candy and went home—refusing to trade there at all.

Well, Halloween finally came and, as you can imagine, ADM made a killing on the bet—100 candy bars were sold at Chicago on Halloween at less than $1, forcing Midas to pay ADM his entire savings. This more than compensated ADM for whatever losses he incurred for under-selling at Argo.

Once Midas realized ADM’s trick, he was furious. Didn’t ADM cheat? Midas assumed—as did all candy traders—that bets derived from candy sales would be based on real—not artificial—market forces.

Did ADM get away with it?

So far, no.

My Muse: For now, plaintiff Midwest Renewable Energy has survived a motion to dismiss its Section 2 monopolization claim against Archer Daniels Midland.

The claim is based on allegations of predatory pricing—basically that the defendant’s prices were below an appropriate measure of its costs and that the low prices drove competitors from the market allowing the defendant to recoup its losses. (For more on predatory pricing, read here.)

In the ADM case, Midwest alleges that ADM manipulated ethanol-trading prices at the Argo Terminal in Illinois to create “substantial gains” on short positions ADM held on ethanol futures and options contracts traded on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Because the Argo prices determined the value of the derivatives contracts, by flooding Argo with ethanol that ADM sold at too-low prices, ADM allegedly was able to win big on the derivatives exchange—recouping whatever losses it incurred on the underlying asset.

On its motion to dismiss, ADM argued that Midwest had not sufficiently alleged that ethanol producers had exited the market due to ADM’s low prices or that ADM subsequently recouped its losses in the ethanol market. (ADM classed these arguments as going to antitrust injury.)

The Court agreed that Midwest was required to allege both that rivals exited the market and that recoupment was ongoing or imminent, but the court ruled Midwest’s allegations sufficient to do so.

Specifically, Midwest had alleged that 12 ethanol producers had either stopped or decreased ethanol production—which is enough at the motion to dismiss phase. The court said whether that alleged “handful” of plant closures had a discernible effect on consumers is a fact-intensive analysis not susceptible to resolution on the pleadings.

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Author:  Molly Donovan

You may remember Gordon—in many ways, he was dominant in the 5th grade, and though his behavior was questionable at times, he was very popular.

I’m writing this story because Gordon is starting a new school year and has ascended to MIDDLE SCHOOL. Very cool, but very intimidating—even for Gordon. For one thing, there is an entirely new set of rules about how students are supposed to behave.

In elementary school, there are rules, of course, but they’re intuitive (no pushing, no yelling, please share) and all kids are encouraged to form friendships with all other kids. You can walk to lunch with any other kid you choose to. You can play at recess with any group of kids you want to. This made things easy for Gordon who was a natural at buddying-up with classmates and forming new relationships with ease.

In middle school, things aren’t the same—there’s actually a rule against the buddy system that feels contrary to everything Gordon previously knew. Basically, the rule is: you cannot run around in friendship packs—or duos even—unless they are teacher approved. Why? The principal says the school is trying to eliminate friend groups that are probably going to cause trouble—by, for example, ganging up against the weaker kids who aren’t popular and don’t like gym, or getting too powerful on the playground and pestering the younger kids. The rule is not against combinations that will cause trouble, only that probably will.

You’re likely wondering how it will be determined whether a particular friend group meets that standard. Good question. Apparently, the test is not whether the parents and students —experts on who’s who in the ever-changing social dynamics of middle schools—believe a certain combination spells trouble. The principal and teachers will decide based on dusty old textbooks with opinions written years and years ago (we’re talking 1970s) about tween society.

Query whether that’s the best way. But that’s the way the teachers want to do things.

Did it work out? The school year just started, so it’s too soon to tell and the rules are in purgatory—they’re being publicly tested but are not official yet.

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Authors:  Molly Donovan & Luke Hasskamp

You may recall Liv, age 8—the new kid. Last we heard, Liv was getting pushed around by Paul, Greg and Adam (“PGA” for short) because she dared to build a mini-golf course in an attempt to challenge PGA’s longstanding position as the best and only mini-golf in town.

PGA was not happy about the new competition and unilaterally announced that any kid who played with Liv would be banned from the PGA’s more reputable course.

As we ended things last time, the town kids spoke with an antitrust lawyer and ultimately forced PGA to end the boycott. We thought that would be this story’s end, but what happened next was a real shock.

Liv and PGA were unsatisfied with the resolution forced upon them by the players. They each lawyered up as Liv accused PGA of abusing its dominant position in the mini-golf world causing Liv tens of dollars in antitrust damages. Turns out, the lawyer fees started adding up fast, and PGA could not continue to the fight.

As Liv and PGA spoke privately about how to resolve their dispute, they came up with a surprising idea that (they believed) would end PGA’s legal fees and satisfy Liv’s desire for a meaningful seat at the mini-golf table that could end her “new kid” stigma: why not merge? Liv and PGA could join forces permanently, becoming a mini-golf behemoth that would end the rivalry and potentially increase profits for all.

Great solution! Everything is neatly wrapped up and most importantly, by all accounts, Liv and PGA are seemingly good friends.

Wrong! The town government hates the idea. Why should the only two competitors in the mini-golf market be allowed to team up? Liv and PGA—now referred to as PGA Plus*—couldn’t stop the lawyer-fee-bleed after all. They had to keep their antitrust lawyers on retainer to gear up for their next battle: this time, against the town.

But is it really plausible that Liv and PGA want to be BFFs, living hand-in-hand in perpetuity? Is some contingent secretly going behind closed doors encouraging the government to tank the deal?**

If the new alliance is legit, how will PGA Plus defend the merits of a merger that unquestionably eliminates all existing (and probably all possible) competition?

We’ll wait and see as events continue to unfold in this thrilling antitrust tale.

Moral of the Story: One antitrust problem can lead to another. A dominant company like PGA can raise the specter of antitrust scrutiny by engaging in unilateral anticompetitive conduct or by collaborating or combining with another horizontal firm.

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Author:  Molly Donovan

Olive (named for the fruit) is in eighth grade. She’s a very good inventor. For the science fair, Olive developed a simple device that allows students, each morning, to pre-select lunch items, ensuring each student’s preference is available in the lunch line later that day. It’s a simple-looking machine that the school ended up placing in the lobby for actual student use.

And the kids loved it. Everyone pre-selected lunch. Why not?

Here’s the trouble: Olive was secretly in cohoots with a lunch vendor (her aunt Clementine—also named for the fruit) so that students could only pre-select items made in Clementine’s own kitchen! The device simply did not present other vendors’ items as options! The result: Clementine’s sales soared, her prices went unchecked and kids didn’t have the pre-selection choices they should have had.

You’d think they’d notice right away, but it took some time for the kids to catch on. Once it did become clear that pizza was missing and Clementine’s calzones dominated, the kids were mad.

Everybody complained to the principal: you’ve got Olive in exclusive control of this device that everybody wants to use, and she’s allegedly abused that power to grow her family’s own catering business.

Shameful, no?

So, here’s what happened. The principal (a former antitrust lawyer from an unnamed major firm) decided to use the problem in an educational exercise. She felt there was no serious dispute that, under the circumstances, Clementine should return the ill-gotten gains as a donation to the school. The only question: what amount?

EXPERTS! The principal—and she thought this was very smart—would have parent-economists make presentations at a school assembly: one team would argue, based on fancy charts and graphs, that the amount owed is big; the other team would argue, with equally fancy visuals, that the amount owed is nothing at all, or at best, pretty small. Then the kids would vote. Good idea, but…

Was there a hiccup? Yes. The principal made the mistake of letting the lawyer-parents get involved. For the assembly, the lawyers developed Daubert-style challenges—why one expert wasn’t sufficiently qualified or didn’t do a good enough job with her analysis to be allowed to present at all. Those challenges were supposed to last 10 minutes or so, with the remaining 20 minutes reserved for judging the analyses on their merits: Who is most convincing? What number should be THE number? That’s the important part, right?

But somehow the challenges—really meant to weed out only the unverifiable stuff—got completely out of hand. I mean, could someone with a PhD in economics really be unfit to talk about the dynamics of supply and demand in a lunch line? But the lawyer-parents ran with it.

So much time and energy was spent on the challenges, the principal had to bring it to a stop: no more Daubert. Everyone’s an expert. Let’s move to the important question at hand.

Moral of the Story: It was brought to us by Judge Gonzalez Rogers in the District Court for the Northern District of California in the In re Apple iPhone Antitrust Litigation. The court admonished the lawyers there for giving into the oft felt urge to overuse Daubert:

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Author:  Molly Donovan

Gordon was recognized as dominant in the 5th grade class. He had the greatest share of friends and ran the fastest. He was the smartest and won the most academic awards at the end of each school year. He was always chosen as the lead in every school play.

But one day, Gordon’s teacher accused him of cheating. Rather than playing fair, Gordon had excluded a new student, Samuel, from the playground races at school. Samuel showed real promise in track and field and Gordon hated to admit that he felt a bit threatened. Although he knew it was wrong, Gordon wrote a number of notes to classmates telling them to exclude Samuel from all playground races. His teacher, of course, found one of those notes.

That was bad enough, but Gordon went and made everything worse. For use during an upcoming parent-teacher conference, Gordon’s teacher instructed him to collect and keep all the notes he had written to friends demanding that they refuse to race against Samuel. Instead, Gordon shredded the notes and threw away the scraps! Then—and this is the real clincher—Gordon told his teacher, falsely, that he had preserved the notes as instructed.

Obviously, this all came out at the conference. There, the teacher argued that Gordon should be punished for throwing away the notes and lying about their being preserved. Gordon argued that punishment was not necessary—his conduct was not that bad since at least half the notes were to friends who had nothing to do with the boycott of Samuel anyway.

As you might expect, Gordon’s parents agreed with the teacher. The result: Gordon had to give back a significant portion of his monthly allowance and donate it to the school, and further punishment—publicly unknown—would wait until Gordon got home.  Eeeek!

Could Gordon continue his dominance after all that? You’ll have to wait for a future Antitrust for Kids to find out.

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Author: Molly Donovan

You might recall that Max and Margie are next-door neighbors on Lemon Lane.

In a strange turn of events, after Max was found liable for an illegal hub-and-spoke conspiracy against Margie, she let bygones be bygones and hired Max to procure materials for her lemonade stand and to develop new flavors of soft drinks for kids. In that role, Margie and Max agreed that, should Max ever leave Margie’s employ, he wouldn’t compete with Margie by working to sell any kids’ beverages within the city limits for a period of 2 years.

That was all fine until the FTC announced a proposed ban on non-competes, defining “non-compete clause” as a “contractual term between an employer and a worker that prevents the worker from seeking or accepting employment with a person, or operating a business, after the conclusion of the worker’s employment with the employer.” Substance is more important than form—so that if any agreement functions as a “non-compete,” under the FTC’s definition, it would be banned, too, regardless of its label.

Now Margie’s in a bind—does she undo her noncompete with Max? Does she try to language around the proposed ban? Does she wait to see if the ban comes to fruition? Certainly, due to their history, she doesn’t fully trust Max who she has trained at length (including in antitrust compliance), is privy to top-secret recipes, and has developed key relationships with Margie’s lemon suppliers, all in the course of his employment with Margie. Given all that, can’t he be stopped from competing against her in the event he works for another beverage company someday?

Here’s what Margie should know: the FTC has recognized two carve-outs to the potential ban—one for non-solicitation agreements and one for non-disclosures. Such agreements aren’t subject to the proposed ban because they don’t “prevent” workers from competing with their former employers. Instead, a non-solicitation would prevent workers only from soliciting clients or customers with whom the former employer has a business relationship. And non-disclosures would prevent workers only from using proprietary information learned during the course of employment in a new job.

If used as an alternative to a non-compete, these types of clauses should continue to be tailored to particular customers, products and geographic areas that are relevant to the employee at issue and the pertinent procompetitive justifications. An overly broad non-solicitation or non-disclosure could be said to function the same as a non-compete and therefore, become subject to the proposed ban.

Margie could consider other options as well. Perhaps a unilateral policy that deferred compensation or other incentive payments will be clawed back should a worker choose to compete, disclose confidential information in a new position, or disparage Margie in some way. Such a policy is not a contractual agreement because it’s unilateral, and it doesn’t prevent Max from competing—it merely discourages him. (Of course, Margie should be sure a clawback is legit under other laws like ERISA).

Further, if Margie is considering a stick, she might also consider a carrot: a unilateral incentive program for workers that don’t compete within a specified time period or a specific geographic region, etc.

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Author:  Molly Donovan

Nathan is nine. His grandmother makes excellent meatballs using an age-old family recipe. Together, Nathan and grandma decide to can the meatballs and sell them to their neighbors on the north side of town—just in time for the holidays as a turkey side dish.

Things went great until Nathan’s friend from school, Nicole, also started selling meatballs with help from her grandma. What are the chances? Fortunately, Nicole targeted sales on her side of town (the south side), so that the two meatball-preneurs didn’t directly butt heads.

Wanting to keep things that way, Nathan asked Nicole to make the arrangement official by forming a “strategic partnership”—the gist of it being that Nicole keep her meatballs out of the north side and Nathan keep his out of the south. Nathan even offered to compensate Nicole for any lost business she suffered from the arrangement, and to keep up appearances, Nathan would arrange a few sham transactions to make it look as though each meatball maker had a few sales in the other’s territory.

The glitch, unforeseeable to Nathan, was that Nicole’s dad works for the DOJ’s Antitrust Division. Well versed on the Division’s leniency program since birth, Nicole naturally reported the conduct to the government promptly—before agreeing to Nathan’s proposed deal.

And that was all it took. Although there was no meeting of the minds, so that Nathan couldn’t get nabbed for a Sherman Act Section 1 violation (criminal conspiracy), he did get tagged for a Section 2 violation—attempted monopolization. Poor Nathan was the youngest defendant ever to plead guilty to an antitrust felony. His sentence remains pending.

Moral of the Story: This is based on a true story! Nathan Zito, president of a paving and asphalt business pled guilty in October to attempted monopolization of the highway crack-sealing services in Montana and Wyoming based on his proposal to a competitor that they allocate markets by geography. Although the competitor was already cooperating with the DOJ, precluding a prosecution for Section 1, Nathan did plead guilty to attempted monopolization and will be subject to fines and imprisonment at his sentencing in February.

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