The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (33 page)

Even so, on the morning of September 18, 2008, Charlie Ledley was still capable of being surprised. He and Jamie did not normally sit in front of their Bloomberg screens and watch the news scroll by, but by Wednesday, the seventeenth, that's what they were doing. The losses announced by the big Wall Street firms on subprime mortgage bonds had started huge and kept growing. Merrill Lynch, which had begun by saying they had $7 billion in losses, now admitted the number was over $50 billion. Citigroup appeared to have about $60 billion. Morgan Stanley had its own $9-plus billion hit, and who knew what behind it. "We'd been wrong in our interpretation of what was going on," said Charlie. "We had always assumed that they sold the triple-A CDOs to, like, the Korean Farmers Corporation. The way they were all blowing up implied they hadn't. They'd kept it themselves."

The big Wall Street firms, seemingly so shrewd and self-interested, had somehow become the dumb money. The people who ran them did not understand their own businesses, and their regulators obviously knew even less. Charlie and Jamie had always sort of assumed that there was some grown-up in charge of the financial system whom they had never met; now, they saw there was not. "We were never inside the belly of the beast," said Charlie. "We saw the bodies being carried out. But we were never inside." A Bloomberg News headline that caught Jamie's eye, and stuck in his mind: "Senate Majority Leader on Crisis: No One Knows What to Do."

Early on,
long before others came around to his view of the world, Michael Burry had noted how morbid it felt to turn his investment portfolio into what amounted to a bet on the collapse of the financial system. It wasn't until after he'd made a fortune from that collapse that he began to wonder about the social dimensions of his financial strategy--and wonder if other people's view of him might one day be as distorted as their view of the financial system had been. On June 19, 2008, three months after the death of Bear Stearns, Ralph Cioffi and Matthew Tannin, the two men who had run Bear Stearns's bankrupt subprime hedge funds, were arrested by the FBI, and led away in handcuffs from their own homes.
*
Late that night, Burry dashed off an e-mail to his in-house lawyer, Steve Druskin. "Confidentially, this case is a pretty big stress for me. I'm worried that I'm volatile enough to send out e-mails that can be taken out of context in ways that could get me in trouble, even if my actions and my ultimate outcomes are entirely correct.... I can't imagine how I'd ever tolerate ending up in prison having done nothing wrong but be a bit careless with having no filter between my random thoughts during tough times and what I put in an e-mail. In fact I'm so over worried about this that tonight I started to think I should shut the funds down."

He was now looking for reasons to abandon money management. His investors were helping him to find them: He had made them a great deal of money, but they did not appear to feel compensated for the ride he had taken them on over the past three years. By June 30, 2008, any investor who had stuck with Scion Capital from its beginning, on November 1, 2000, had a gain, after fees and expenses, of 489.34 percent. (The gross gain of the fund had been 726 percent.) Over the same period, the S&P 500 returned just a bit more than 2 percent. In 2007 alone Burry had made his investors $750 million--and yet now he had only $600 million under management. His investors' requests for their money back came in hard and fast. No new investors called--not a single one. Nobody called him to solicit his views of the world, or his predictions for the future, either. So far as he could see, no one even seemed to want to know how he had done what he had done. "We have not been terribly popular," he wrote.

It outraged him that the people who got credit for higher understanding were those who spent the most time currying favor with the media. No business could be more objective than money management, and yet even in this business, facts and logic were overwhelmed by the nebulous social dimension of things. "I must say that I have been astonished by how many people now say they saw the subprime meltdown, the commodities boom, and the fading economy coming," Burry wrote, in April 2008, to his remaining investors. "And if they don't always say it in so many words, they do it by appearing on TV or extending interviews to journalists, stridently projecting their own confidence in what will happen next. And surely, these people would never have the nerve to tell you what's happening next, if they were so horribly wrong on what happened last, right? Yet I simply don't recall too many people agreeing with me back then." It was almost as if it counted against him to have been exactly right--his presence made a lot of people uncomfortable. A trade magazine published the top seventy-five hedge funds of 2007, and Scion was nowhere on it--even though its returns put it at or near the very top. "It was as if they took one swimmer in the Olympics and made him swim in a separate pool," Burry said. "His time won the gold. But he got no medal. I honestly think that's what killed it for me. I was looking for some recognition. There was none. I trained for the Olympics, and then they told me to go and swim in the retard pool." A few of his remaining investors asked why he hadn't been more aggressive on the public relations--as if that were a part of the business!

In early October 2008, after the U.S. government had stepped in to say it would, in effect, absorb all the losses in the financial system and prevent any big Wall Street firm from failing, Burry had started to buy stocks with enthusiasm, for the first time in years. The stimulus would lead inevitably to inflation, he thought, but also to a boom in stock prices. He might be early, of course, and stocks might fall some before they rose, but that didn't matter to him: The value was now there, and the bet would work out in the long run. Immediately, his biggest remaining investor, who had $150 million in the fund, questioned his judgment and threatened to pull his money out.

On October 27, Burry wrote to one of his two e-mail friends: "I'm selling off the positions tonight. I think I hit a breaking point. I haven't eaten today, I'm not sleeping, I'm not talking with my kids, not talking with my wife, I'm broken. Asperger's has given me some great gifts, but life's been too hard for too long because of it as well." On a Friday afternoon in early November, he felt chest pains and went to an emergency room. His blood pressure had spiked. "I felt like I am heading towards a short life," he wrote. A week later, on November 12, he sent his final letter to investors. "I have been pushed repeatedly to the brink by my own actions, the Fund's investors, business partners, and even former employees," he wrote. "I have always been able to pull back and carry on my often overly intense affair with this business. Now, however, I am facing personal matters that have carried me irrefutably over the threshold, and I have come to the sullen realization that I must close down the Fund." With that, he vanished, leaving a lot of people wondering what had happened.

What had happened was that he had been right, the world had been wrong, and the world hated him for it. And so Michael Burry ended where he began--alone, and comforted by his solitude. He remained inside his office in Cupertino, California, big enough for a staff of twenty-five people, but the fund was shuttered and the office was empty. The last man out was Steve Druskin, and among Druskin's last acts was to figure out what to do about Michael Burry's credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. "Mike kept a couple of them, just for fun," he said. "Just a couple. To see if we could get paid off in full." And he had, though it wasn't for fun but vindication: to prove to the world that the investment-grade bonds he had bet against were indeed entirely without value. The two bets he had saved were against subprime bonds created back in 2005 by Lehman Brothers. They'd gone to zero at roughly the same time as their creator. Burry had wagered $100,000 or so on each, and made $5 million.

The problem, from the point of view of a lawyer closing an investment fund, was that these strange contracts did not expire until 2035. The brokers had long since paid them in full: 100 cents on the dollar. No Wall Street firm even bothered to send them quotes on the things anymore. "I don't get a statement from a broker saying we have an open position with them," says Druskin. "But we do. It's like no one wants to talk about this anymore. It's like, 'All right, you've got your ten million dollars. Don't keep haranguing me about it.'"

On Wall Street, the lawyers play the same role as medics in war: They come in after the shooting is over to clean up the mess. Thirty-year contracts that had some remote technical risk of repayment--exactly what that risk was he was still trying to determine--was the last of Michael Burry's mess. "It's possible the brokers have thrown the contracts away," Druskin said. "No one three years ago expected this to happen on the brokerage side. So no one's been trained to deal with this. We've pretty much said, 'We're going out of business.' And they said, 'Okay.'"

By the
time Eisman got the call from Danny Moses saying that he might be having a heart attack, and that he and Vinny and Porter were sitting on the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral, he was in the midst of a slow, almost menopausal, change. He'd been unprepared for his first hot flash, in the late fall of 2007. By then it was clear to many that he had been right and they had been wrong and that he had gotten rich to boot. He'd gone to a conference put on by Merrill Lynch, right after they'd fired their CEO, Stan O'Neal, and disclosed $20 billion or so of their $52 billion in subprime-related losses. There he had sidled up to Merrill's chief financial officer, Jeff Edwards, the same Jeff Edwards Eisman had taunted, some months earlier, about Merrill Lynch's risk models. "You remember what I said about those risk models of yours?" Eisman now said. "I guess I was right, huh?" Instantly, and amazingly, he regretted having said it. "I felt bad about it," said Eisman. "It was obnoxious. He was a lovely guy. He was just wrong. I was no longer the underdog. And I had to conduct myself in a different way."

Valerie Feigen watched in near bewilderment as her husband acquired, haltingly, in fits and starts, a trait resembling tact. "There was a void after everything happened," she said. "Once he was proved right, all this anxiety and anger and energy went away. And it left this big void. He went on an ego thing for a while. He was really kind of full of himself." Eisman had been so vocal about the inevitable doom that all sorts of unlikely people wanted to hear what he now had to say. After the conference in Las Vegas, he had come down with a parasite. He'd told the doctor who treated him that the financial world as we knew it was about to end. A year later, he went back to the same doctor for a colonoscopy. Stretched out on the table, he hears the doctor say, "Here's the guy who predicted the crisis! Come on in and listen to this." And in the middle of Eisman's colonoscopy, a roomful of doctors and nurses retold the story of Eisman's genius.

The story of Eisman's genius quickly grew old to his wife. Long ago she had established a sort of Eisman social emergency task force with her husband's therapist. "We beat him up and said, 'You really just have to knock this shit off.' And he got it. And he started being nice. And he liked being nice! It was a new experience for him." All around, she and others found circumstantial evidence of a changed man. At the Christmas party at the building next door, for example. She wasn't planning to even let Eisman know about it, as she never knew what he might do or say. "I was just kind of trying to sneak out of our apartment," she said. "And he stops me and says, 'How will it look if I don't go?'" The sincerity of his concern shocked her into giving him a chance. "You can go, but you have to behave," she said. To which Eisman replied, "Well, I know how to behave now." And so she took him to the Christmas party, and he was as sweet as he could be. "He's become a pleasure," said Valerie. "Go figure."

That afternoon of September 18, 2008, the new and possibly improving Eisman ambled toward his partners on the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. Getting places on foot always took him too long. "Steve's such a fucking slow walker," said Danny. "He walks like an elephant would walk if an elephant could only take human-size steps." The weather was gorgeous--one of those rare days where the blue sky reaches down through the forest of tall buildings and warms the soul. "We just sat there," says Danny, "watching the people pass."

They sat together on the cathedral steps for an hour or so. "As we sat there we were weirdly calm," said Danny. "We felt insulated from the whole market reality. It was an out-of-body experience. We just sat and watched the people pass and talked about what might happen next. How many of these people were going to lose their jobs? Who was going to rent these buildings, after all the Wall Street firms had collapsed?"

Porter Collins thought that "it was like the world stopped. We're looking at all these people and saying, 'These people are either ruined or about to be ruined.'" Apart from that, there wasn't a whole lot of hand-wringing inside FrontPoint. This was what they had been waiting for: total collapse.

"The investment banking industry is fucked," Eisman had said six weeks earlier. "These guys are only beginning to understand how fucked they are. It's like being a scholastic, prior to Newton. Newton comes along and one morning you wake up: 'Holy shit, I'm wrong!'" Lehman Brothers had vanished, Merrill had surrendered, and Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley were just a week away from ceasing to be investment banks. Investment bankers were not just fucked: They were extinct. "That Wall Street has gone down because of this is
justice
," Eisman said. The only one among them who wrestled a bit with their role--as the guys who had made a fortune betting against their own society--was Vincent Daniel. "Vinny, being from Queens, needs to see the dark side of everything," said Eisman.

To which Vinny replied, "The way we thought about it, which we didn't like, was, 'By shorting this market we're creating the liquidity to keep the market going.'"

"It was like feeding the monster," said Eisman. "We fed the monster until it blew up."