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April 25 - May 18, 2020
Size, we are told, is not a crime. But size may, at least, become noxious by reason of the means through which it was attained or the uses to which it is put. — Louis Brandeis,
Galileo Galilei said, “All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”
Dimon, the chief executive of JP Morgan Chase, the nation’s third-largest bank, had spent part of the prior evening at an emergency, all-hands-on-deck meeting at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York with a dozen of his rival Wall Street CEOs. Their assignment was to come up with a plan to save Lehman Brothers, the nation’s fourth-largest investment bank—or risk the collateral damage that might ensue in the markets.
Dimon knew that Lehman Brothers might not make it through the weekend.
Dimon was concerned about more than just Lehman Brothers. He was aware that Merrill Lynch, another icon of Wall Street, was in trouble, too, and he had just asked his staff to make sure JP Morgan had enough collateral from that firm as well. And he was also acutely aware of new dangers developing at the global insurance giant American International Group (AIG) that so far had gone relatively unnoticed by the public—it was his firm’s client, and they were scrambling to raise additional capital to save it. By his estimation AIG had only about a week to find a solution, or it, too, could falter.
Dimon was in an especially unusual position. He had the closest thing to perfect, real-time information.
“You are about to experience the most unbelievable week in America ever, and we have to prepare for the absolutely worst case,” Dimon told his staff. “We have to protect the firm. This is about our survival.”
“That’s wishful thinking. There is no way, in my opinion, that Washington is going to bail out an investment bank. Nor should they,” he said decisively. “I want you all to know that this is a matter of life and death. I’m serious.”
“Here’s the drill,” he continued. “We need to prepare right now for Lehman Brothers filing.” Then he paused. “And for Merrill Lynch filing.” He paused again. “And for AIG filing.” Another pause. “And for Morgan Stanley filing.” And after a final, even longer pause he added: “And potentially for Goldman Sachs filing.” There was a collective gasp on the phone.
In 2007, at the peak of the economic bubble, the financial services sector had become a wealth-creation machine, ballooning to more than 40 percent of total corporate profits in the United States.
Financial titans believed they were creating more than mere profits, however. They were confident that they had invented a new financial model that could be exported successfully around the globe. “The whole world is moving to the American model of free enterprise and capital markets,” Sandy Weill, the architect of Citigroup,
But while they were busy evangelizing their financial values and producing these dizzying sums, the big brokerage firms had been bolstering their bets with enormous quantities of debt. Wall Street firms had debt to capital ratios of 32 to 1.
The Wall Street juggernaut that emerged from the collapse of the dot-com bubble and the post-9/11 downturn was in large part the product of cheap money. The savings glut in Asia, combined with unusually low U.S. interest rates under former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan (which had been intended to stimulate growth following the 2001 recession), began to flood the world with money.
At the time, Wall Street believed fervently that its new financial products—mortgages that had been sliced and diced, or “securitized”—had diluted, if not removed, the risk. Instead of holding on to a loan on their own, the banks split it up into individual pieces and sold those pieces to investors, collecting enormous fees in the process.
As a result of the banks owning various slices of these newfangled financial instruments, every firm was now dependent on the others—and many didn’t even know it. If one fell, it could become a series of falling dominoes.
Until that autumn in 2008, they had only experienced contained crises. Firms and investors took their lumps and moved on. In fact, the ones who maintained their equilibrium and bet that things would soon improve were those who generally profited the most.
In retrospect, this bubble, like all bubbles, was an example of what, in his classic 1841 book, Scottish author Charles Mackay called “Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.” Instead of giving birth to a brave new world of riskless investments, the banks actually created a risk to the entire financial system.
In the end, this drama is a human one, a tale about the fallibility of people who thought they themselves were too big to fail.
Fuld replayed the events of the past weekend over and over again in his mind: Bear Stearns, the smallest but scrappiest of Wall Street’s Big Five investment houses, had agreed to be sold—for $2 a fucking share! And to no less than Jamie Dimon of JP Morgan Chase. On top of that, the Federal Reserve had agreed to take on up to $30 billion of losses from Bear’s worst assets to make the deal palatable to Dimon.
Lehman shares were down 21 percent. Fuld reflexively did the calculations: He had just personally lost $89.5 million on paper, and the market hadn’t even opened.
As Lehman’s stock continued to plummet, Fuld was second-guessing not only this decision but countless others. He had known for years that Lehman Brothers’ day of reckoning could come—and worse, that it might sneak up on him. Intellectually, he understood the risks associated with cheap credit and borrowing money to increase the wallop of your bet—what is known on the Street as “leverage.” But, like everyone else on Wall Street, he couldn’t pass up the opportunities.
the latest rumor swirling around the trading floor: A bunch of “hedgies,” Wall Street’s disparaging nickname for hedge fund managers, had systematically taken down Bear Stearns by pulling their brokerage accounts, buying insurance against the bank—an instrument called a credit default swap, or CDS—and then shorting its stock.
Despite his recent infatuation with leverage, Fuld believed in liquidity. He always had. You always needed a lot of cash on hand to ride out the storm, he would say. He liked to tell the story about how he once sat at a blackjack table and watched a “whale” of a gambler in Vegas lose $4.5 million, doubling every lost bet in hopes his luck would change. Fuld took notes on a cocktail napkin, recording the lesson he learned: “I don’t care who you are. You don’t have enough capital.” You can never have enough.
That was another takeaway from the Long-Term Capital fiasco: You had to kill rumors. Let them live, and they became self-fulfilling prophecies.
Lehman Brothers, and secured his grandson a part-time summer position in its tiny Denver trading outpost in the summer of 1966. It was a three-person office, and Fuld did the chores—he spent most of his day copying documents (and this was the pre–copy machine era) and running errands. But the job was a revelation. Fuld loved what he saw. On the trading floor men yelled and worked with an intensity that he had never experienced before. This is where I belong, he thought. Dick Fuld had found himself.
When Fuld appeared in his office the following day, Glucksman told him that it was ridiculous that he was doing “all this menial bullshit. Why don’t you just come work for me?” “Do I get a raise?” asked Fuld. The two became fast friends, and Fuld began his ascension at the firm.
In Fuld, Glucksman saw himself as a young trader: “He didn’t let his emotions get the best of his judgment,” said Glucksman, who died in 2006. “Dick understood buys when they were buys and sells when they were sells. He was a natural.” Every morning, as he walked onto the cramped trading floor, Fuld could feel his heart pounding with excitement. The noise. The swearing. Surviving by your wits alone. Trusting only your gut. He loved it all. As it happened, he had arrived at Lehman just as the firm was undergoing a major transformation that would benefit him enormously.
He quickly introduced himself—a gesture Fuld appreciated—sticking out his hand in a manner that suggested a person comfortable in his own skin:
Like Fuld, Gregory, a non–Ivy Leaguer who graduated from Hofstra University, had come to Lehman in the 1960s almost by accident. He had planned to become a high school history teacher, but after working a summer at Lehman as a messenger, he decided on a career in finance.
Glucksman’s unkemptness, they had come to realize, was a political badge of sorts, for Glucksman seethed with resentment at what he regarded as the privileges and pretenses of the Ivy League investment bankers at the firm. The battle between bankers and traders is the closest thing to class warfare on Wall Street. Investment banking was esteemed as an art, while trading was more like a sport, something that required skill, but not necessarily brains or creativity. Or so the thinking went.
Lehman shares were increasingly doled out to employees; eventually the workforce owned a third of the firm. “I want my employees to act like owners,” Fuld told his managers.
Everyone was calling it a “bailout”—a word Paulson hated. As far as he was concerned, he had just helped save the American economy. It was a bailout in the literal sense of bailing water out of a sinking boat, not a handout. He didn’t understand why no one in Washington could see that distinction.
“Don’t say that,” Paulson insisted, looking over the draft. “Why?” Bush asked. “We’re not going to have a bailout.” Paulson broke the bad news to him: “You may need a bailout, as bad as that sounds.” All in all, the situation had become Paulson’s worst nightmare: The economy had turned into a political football, his reputation was on the line, and he was stuck playing by Washington rules.
He agonized for months before making his decision. As far as he was concerned, he already had the best job in the world: CEO of Goldman Sachs, the most revered institution on Wall Street. As its chief executive, Paulson traveled around the world, focusing much of his attention on China, where he had become something of an unofficial U.S. Ambassador of Capitalism, arguably forging deeper relationships with Chinese leaders than had anyone in Washington, including the secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice.
Paulson was something of a baffling outlier, a titan who had little interest in living a Carnegie Hill multimillionaire’s life. A straight-shooting Midwesterner, he had grown up on a farm outside Chicago and had been an Eagle Scout.
One day, Paulson came home with a new cashmere coat from Bergdorf Goodman, to replace one that he had had for ten years. “Why did you buy a new coat?” Wendy asked. The next day, Paulson returned it.
Paulson graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Dartmouth in 1968 with a major in English literature. Paulson had first come to Washington in 1970, after graduating from Harvard Business School,
The bank itself was the preferred choice as adviser on the biggest mergers and acquisitions and was a leading trader of commodities and bonds. It was paid handsomely by hedge funds using its services, and it was emerging as a power in its own right in private equity. Goldman had become the money machine that every other firm on Wall Street wanted to emulate.
“One: Hank’s really smart. Really smart. He’s got a photographic memory. Two: He’s an incredibly hard worker, incredibly hard. The hardest you’ll ever meet. And he’ll expect you to work just as hard. Three: Hank has no social EQ [emotional quotient], zero, none. Don’t take it personally. He has no clue. He’ll go to the restroom and he’ll only halfway close the door.”
Paulson was serious about physical fitness and often biked around the capital, whenever Wendy could get him off the phone.
Paulson made it clear that the administration would have to confront at least one serious problem: the subprime mortgage mess, which had already begun to have repercussions.
Traditional banks had the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, or FDIC, and the Federal Reserve effectively protecting them from going bankrupt; these agencies had a built-in transition plan that allowed them to take failing banks safely into receivership and auction them off. But the FDIC had no authority over investment banks like Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Merrill Lynch, Bear Stearns, and Lehman Brothers, and unless Paulson was given comparable power over these institutions, he said during the meeting, there could be chaos in the market.
Bear had taught them how quickly a bank could crumble; in an industry whose lifeblood was simply the confidence of other investors, it could wane quickly at the hint of a problem.
“They may be insolvent, too,” he calmly told the room. He was worried not only about how they were valuing their assets, which struck him as wildly optimistic, but about their failure to raise any capital—not a cent. Paulson suspected that Fuld had been foolishly resisting doing so because he was hesitant to dilute the firm’s shares, including the more than 2 million shares he personally held.
there was something about Fuld that made him nervous. He was a risk taker—recklessly so, in Paulson’s view.
But as secretary of the Treasury, he was obliged to be a diplomat, and as such, needed to maintain good relationships with all the Wall Street CEOs. They would be huge assets, his eyes and ears on the markets.
“I’d like to be able to call you from time to time,” Paulson continued, “to talk markets, deals, competition; to find out what your concerns are.” Fuld was pleased by the gesture and told him as much.
Paulson was not unsympathetic to Fuld’s position, but he wanted an update on Lehman’s plans to raise capital. Fuld had already been hearing from some of his top investors that this would be a wise course of action, especially while things were still relatively positive for the firm in the press. “It would be a real show of strength,” Paulson said, hoping to persuade him.
“We’re thinking about reaching out to Warren Buffett,” Fuld replied.
An investment by Buffett was the financial world’s equivalent of a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. The markets would love it.
