The more Wall Street firms jumped into the new business, the easier it became for him to place his bets. For the first few months he was able to short, at most, $10 million at a time. Then, in late June 2005, he had a call from someone at Goldman Sachs asking him if he'd like to increase his trade size to $100 million a pop. "What needs to be remembered here," he wrote the next day, after he'd done it, "is that this is $100 million. That's an insane amount of money. And it just gets thrown around like it's three digits instead of nine."
By the end of July he owned credit default swaps on $750 million in subprime mortgage bonds and was privately bragging about it. "I believe no other hedge fund on the planet has this sort of investment, nowhere near to this degree, relative to the size of the portfolio," he wrote to one of his investors, who had caught wind that his hedge fund manager had some newfangled strategy. Now he couldn't help but wonder who exactly was on the other side of his trades--what madman would be selling him so much insurance on bonds he had handpicked to explode? The credit default swap was a zero-sum game. If Mike Burry made $100 million when the subprime mortgage bonds he had handpicked defaulted, someone else must have lost $100 million. Goldman Sachs made it clear that the ultimate seller wasn't Goldman Sachs. Goldman Sachs was simply standing between insurance buyer and insurance seller and taking a cut.
The willingness of whoever this person was to sell him such vast amounts of cheap insurance gave Mike Burry another idea: to start a fund that did nothing but buy insurance on subprime mortgage bonds. In a $600 million fund that was meant to be picking stocks, his bet was already gargantuan; but if he could raise the money explicitly for this new purpose, he could do many billions more. In August he wrote a proposal for a fund he called Milton's Opus and sent it out to his investors. ("The first question was always, 'What's Milton's Opus?'" He'd say, "Paradise Lost," but that usually just raised another question.) Most of them still had no idea that their champion stock picker had become so diverted by these esoteric insurance contracts called credit default swaps. Many wanted nothing to do with it; a few wondered if this meant that he was already doing this sort of thing with their money.
Instead of raising more money to buy credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds, he wound up making it more difficult to keep the ones he already owned. His investors were happy to let him pick stocks on their behalf, but they almost universally doubted his ability to foresee big macroeconomic trends. And they certainly didn't see why he should have any special insight into the multi-trillion-dollar subprime mortgage bond market. Milton's Opus died a quick death.
In October 2005, in his letter to investors, Burry finally came completely clean and let them know that they owned at least a billion dollars in credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. "Sometimes markets err big time," he wrote.
Markets erred when they gave America Online the currency to buy Time Warner. They erred when they bet against George Soros and for the British pound. And they are erring right now by continuing to float along as if the most significant credit bubble history has ever seen does not exist. Opportunities are rare, and large opportunities on which one can put nearly unlimited capital to work at tremendous potential returns are even more rare. Selectively shorting the most problematic mortgage-backed securities in history today amounts to just such an opportunity.
In the second quarter of 2005, credit card delinquencies hit an all-time high--even though house prices had boomed. That is, even with this asset to borrow against, Americans were struggling more than ever to meet their obligations. The Federal Reserve had raised interest rates, but mortgage rates were still effectively falling--because Wall Street was finding ever more clever ways to enable people to borrow money. Burry now had more than a billion-dollar bet on the table and couldn't grow it much more unless he attracted a lot more money. So he just laid it out for his investors: The U.S. mortgage bond market was huge, bigger than the market for U.S. Treasury notes and bonds. The entire economy was premised on its stability, and its stability in turn depended on house prices continuing to rise. "It is ludicrous to believe that asset bubbles can only be recognized in hindsight," he wrote. "There are specific identifiers that are entirely recognizable during the bubble's inflation. One hallmark of mania is the rapid rise in the incidence and complexity of fraud.... The FBI reports mortgage-related fraud is up fivefold since 2000." Bad behavior was no longer on the fringes of an otherwise sound economy; it was its central feature. "The salient point about the modern vintage of housing-related fraud is its integral place within our nation's institutions," he added.
This wasn't all that different from what he'd been saying in his quarterly letters to his investors for the past two years. Back in July 2003, he'd written them a long essay on the causes and consequences of what he took to be a likely housing crash: "Alan Greenspan assures us that home prices are not prone to bubbles--or major deflations--on any national scale," he'd said. "This is ridiculous, of course.... In 1933, during the fourth year of the Great Depression, the United States found itself in the midst of a housing crisis that put housing starts at 10% of the level of 1925. Roughly half of all mortgage debt was in default. During the 1930s, housing prices collapsed nationwide by roughly 80%." He harped on the same theme again in January 2004, then again in January 2005: "Want to borrow $1,000,000 for just $25 a month? Quicken Loans has now introduced an interest only adjustable rate mortgage that gives borrowers six months with both zero payments and a 0.03% interest rate, no doubt in support of that wholesome slice of Americana--the home buyer with the short term cash flow problem."
When his investors learned that their money manager had actually put their money directly where his mouth had long been, they were not exactly pleased. As one investor put it, "Mike's the best stock picker anyone knows. And he's doing...what?" Some were upset that a guy they had hired to pick stocks had gone off to pick rotten mortgage bonds instead; some wondered, if credit default swaps were such a great deal, why Goldman Sachs would be selling them; some questioned the wisdom of trying to call the top of a seventy-year housing cycle; some didn't really understand exactly what a credit default swap was, or how it worked. "It has been my experience that apocalyptic forecasts on the U.S. financial markets are rarely realized within limited horizons," one investor wrote to Burry. "There have been legitimate apocalyptic cases to be made on U.S. financial markets during most of my career. They usually have not been realized." Burry replied that while it was true that he foresaw Armageddon, he wasn't betting on it. That was the beauty of credit default swaps: They enabled him to make a fortune if just a tiny fraction of these dubious pools of mortgages went bad.
Inadvertently, he'd opened up a debate with his own investors, which he counted among his least favorite activities. "I hated discussing ideas with investors," he said, "because I then become a Defender of the Idea, and that influences your thought process." Once you became an idea's defender you had a harder time changing your mind about it. He had no choice: Among the people who gave him money there was pretty obviously a built-in skepticism of so-called macro thinking. They could understand why this very bright guy rooting around in financial statements might stumble across a small company no one else was paying attention to. They couldn't see why he should have a deeper understanding of trends and global forces apparent to any American who flipped on a cable news program. "I have heard that White Mountain would rather I stick to my knitting," he wrote, testily, to his original backer, "though it is not clear to me that White Mountain has historically understood what my knitting really is." No one seemed able to see what was so plain to him: These credit default swaps were all part of his global search for value. "I don't take breaks in my search for value," he wrote to White Mountains. "There is no golf or other hobby to distract me. Seeing value is what I do."
When he'd started Scion, he'd told potential investors that, because he was in the business of making unfashionable bets, they should evaluate him over the long term--say, five years. Now he was being evalu
ated moment to moment. "Early on, people invested in me because of my letters," he said. "And then somehow after they invested, they stopped reading them." His fantastic success attracted lots of new investors, but they were less interested in the spirit of his enterprise than in how much money he could make them quickly. Every quarter, he told them how much he'd made or lost from his stock picks. Now he had to explain that they had to subtract from that number these...subprime mortgage bond insurance premiums. One of his New York investors called and said ominously, "You know a lot of people are talking about withdrawing funds from you."
As their funds were contractually stuck inside Scion Capital for some time, the investors' only recourse was to send him disturbed-sounding e-mails asking him to justify his new strategy. "People get hung up on the difference between +5% and -5% for a couple of years," Burry replied to one investor who had protested the new strategy. "When the real issue is: over 10 years who does 10% basis points better annually? And I firmly believe that to achieve that advantage on an annual basis, I have to be able to look out past the next couple of years.... I have to be steadfast in the face of popular discontent if that's what the fundamentals tell me." In the five years since he had started, the S&P 500, against which he was measured, was down 6.84 percent. In the same period, he reminded his investors, Scion Capital was up 242 percent. He assumed he'd earned the rope to hang himself. He assumed wrong. "I'm building breathtaking sand castles," he wrote, "but nothing stops the tide from coming and coming and coming."
Oddly, as Mike Burry's investors grew restive, his Wall Street counterparties took a new and envious interest in what he was up to. In late October 2005, a subprime trader at Goldman Sachs called to ask him why he was buying credit default swaps on such very specific tranches of subprime mortgage bonds. The trader let it slip that a number of hedge funds had been calling Goldman to ask "how to do the short housing trade that Scion is doing." Among those asking about it were people Burry had solicited for Milton's Opus--people who had initially expressed great interest. "These people by and large did not know anything about how to do the trade and expected Goldman to help them replicate it," Burry wrote in an e-mail to his CFO. "My suspicion is Goldman helped them, though they deny it." If nothing else, he now understood why he couldn't raise money for Milton's Opus. "If I describe it enough it sounds compelling, and people think they can do it for themselves," he wrote to an e-mail confidant. "If I don't describe it enough, it sounds scary and binary and I can't raise the capital." He had no talent for selling.
Now the subprime mortgage bond market appeared to be unraveling. Out of the blue, on November 4, Burry had an e-mail from the head subprime guy at Deutsche Bank, a fellow named Greg Lippmann. As it happened, Deutsche Bank had broken off relations with Mike Burry back in June, after Burry had been, in Deutsche Bank's view, overly aggressive in his demands for collateral. Now this guy calls and says he'd like to buy back the original six credit default swaps Scion had bought in May. As the $60 million represented a tiny slice of Burry's portfolio, and as he didn't want any more to do with Deutsche Bank than Deutsche Bank wanted to do with him, he sold them back, at a profit. Greg Lippmann wrote back hastily and ungrammatically, "Would you like to give us some other bonds that we can tell you what we will pay you."
Greg Lippmann of Deutsche Bank wanted to buy his billion dollars in credit default swaps! "Thank you for the look Greg," Burry replied. "We're good for now." He signed off, thinking, How strange. I haven't dealt with Deutsche Bank in five months. How does Greg Lippmann even know I own this giant pile of credit default swaps?
Three days later he heard from Goldman Sachs. His saleswoman, Veronica Grinstein, called him on her cell phone, which is what she did when she wanted to talk without being recorded. (Wall Street firms now recorded all calls made from their trading desks.) "I'd like a special favor," she asked. She, too, wanted to buy some of his credit default swaps. "Management is concerned," she said. They thought the traders had sold all this insurance without having any place they could go to buy it back. Could Mike Burry sell them $25 million of the stuff, at really generous prices, on the subprime mortgage bonds of his choosing? Just to placate Goldman management, you understand. Hanging up, he pinged Bank of America, on a hunch, to see if they would sell him more. They wouldn't. They, too, were looking to buy. Next came Morgan Stanley--again out of the blue. He hadn't done much business with Morgan Stanley, but evidently Morgan Stanley, too, wanted to buy whatever he had. He didn't know exactly why all these banks were suddenly so keen to buy insurance on subprime mortgage bonds, but there was one obvious reason: The loans suddenly were going bad at an alarming rate. Back in May, Mike Burry was betting on his theory of human behavior: The loans were structured to go bad. Now, in November, they were actually going bad.
The next morning, Burry opened the Wall Street Journal to find an article explaining how the new wave of adjustable-rate mortgages were defaulting, in their first nine months, at rates never before seen. Lower-middle-class America was tapped out. There was even a little chart to show readers who didn't have time to read the article. He thought, The cat's out of the bag. The world's about to change. Lenders will raise their standards; rating agencies will take a closer look; and no dealers in their right mind will sell insurance on subprime mortgage bonds at anything like the prices they've been selling it. "I'm thinking the lightbulb is going to pop on and some smart credit officer is going to say, 'Get out of these trades,'" he said. Most Wall Street traders were about to lose a lot of money--with perhaps one exception. Mike Burry had just received another e-mail, from one of his own investors, that suggested that Deutsche Bank might have been influenced by his one-eyed view of the financial markets: "Greg Lippmann, the head [subprime mortgage] trader at Deutsche Bank[,] was in here the other day," it read. "He told us that he was short 1 billion dollars of this stuff and was going to make 'oceans' of money (or something to that effect.) His exuberance was a little scary."
CHAPTER THREE
"How Can a Guy Who Can't Speak English Lie?"
By the time Greg Lippmann turned up in the FrontPoint conference room, in February 2006, Steve Eisman knew enough about the bond market to be wary, and Vincent Daniel knew enough to have decided that no one in it could ever be trusted. An investor who went from the stock market to the bond market was like a small, furry creature raised on an island without predators removed to a pit full of pythons. It was possible to get ripped off by the big Wall Street firms in the stock market, but you really had to work at it. The entire market traded on screens, so you always had a clear view of the price of the stock of any given company. The stock market was not only transparent but heavily policed. You couldn't expect a Wall Street trader to share with you his every negative thought about public companies, but you could expect he wouldn't work very hard to sucker you with outright lies, or blatantly use inside information to trade against you, mainly because there was at least a chance he'd be caught if he did. The presence of millions of small investors had politicized the stock market. It had been legislated and regulated to at least seem fair.
The bond market, because it consisted mainly of big institutional investors, experienced no similarly populist political pressure. Even as it came to dwarf the stock market, the bond market eluded serious regulation. Bond salesmen could say and do anything without fear that they'd be reported to some authority. Bond traders could exploit inside information without worrying that they would be caught. Bond technicians could dream up ever more complicated securities without worrying too much about government regulation--one reason why so many derivatives had been derived, one way or another, from bonds. The bigger, more liquid end of the bond market--the market for U.S. Treasury bonds, for example--traded on screens, but in many cases the only way to determine if the price some bond trader had given you was even close to fair was to call around and hope to find some other bond trader making a market in that particular obscure security. The opacity and complexity of the bond market was, for big Wall Street
firms, a huge advantage. The bond market customer lived in perpetual fear of what he didn't know. If Wall Street bond departments were increasingly the source of Wall Street profits, it was in part because of this: In the bond market it was still possible to make huge sums of money from the fear, and the ignorance, of customers.
And so it was no particular reflection on Greg Lippmann that, upon entering Steve Eisman's office, he collided with a wall of suspicion. "Moses could have walked in the door, and if he said he came from fixed income, Vinny wouldn't have trusted him," said Eisman.
Still, if a team of experts had set out to create a human being to maximize the likelihood that he would terrify a Wall Street customer, they might have designed something like Lippmann. He traded bonds for Deutsche Bank, but, like most people who traded bonds for Deutsche Bank--or for Credit Suisse or UBS or one of the other big foreign banks that had purchased a toehold in the U.S. financial markets--he was an American. Thin and tightly wound, he spoke too quickly for anyone to follow exactly what he was saying. He wore his hair slicked back, in the manner of Gordon Gekko, and the sideburns long, in the fashion of an 1820s Romantic composer or a 1970s porn star. He wore loud ties, and said outrageous things without the slightest apparent awareness of how they might sound if repeated unsympathetically. He peppered his conversation with cryptic references to how much money he made, for instance. People on Wall Street had long ago learned that their bonuses were the last thing they should talk about with people off Wall Street. "Let's say they paid me six million last year," Lippmann would say. "I'm not saying they did. It was less than that. I'm not saying how much less." Before you could protest--But I never asked!--he'd say, "The kind of year I had, no way they pay me less than four million." Now he had you thinking about it: So the number is between $4 million and $6 million. You could have started out talking about New York City Ballet, and you wound up playing Battleship. Lippmann kept giving you these coordinates, until you were almost forced to identify the location of the ship--exactly what just about everyone else on Wall Street hoped you'd never do.
The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine Page 7