Quick-witted and handsome, Steel was actually a much better communicator than Paulson and would often upstage his boss, who couldn’t help stammering even at routine Treasury meetings. The two men had known each other since 1976, when Steel went to work at the Chicago office of Goldman Sachs after graduating from Duke University. Like Paulson, Steel came from a modest background, growing up near the campus of Duke University. His father serviced jukeboxes and later sold life insurance; his mother worked part-time at a Duke psychiatry lab. At Goldman, Steel was an ambitious banker and rising star; he moved to London in 1986 to start the equity capital markets group there and help the firm gain a foothold in Europe.
But four years earlier, Steel—now worth more than $100 million as a result of being a partner during Goldman’s IPO—had decided to retire, having worked in various senior positions but not being next in line to lead the firm. Though he always planned a triumphant return to the private sector, he wanted time to pursue public service, like many other Goldman alums. After establishing his public-sector bona fides, including a position as a senior fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, he accepted Paulson’s invitation to join him at Treasury as under secretary for domestic finance on October 10, 2006.
Now, as he entered the conference room with Scogin for one last round of Murder Board, he knew he had to be on his game. Treasury colleagues David Nason, chief of staff Jim Wilkinson, and Michele Davis, assistant secretary for public affairs and director of policy planning, were already seated with a small group across the table.
The burning question they all knew would be asked: What role had the government played in the negotiations that had led to the original $2-a-share price for Bear Stearns? None of the Treasury staffers had a clue as to what the other witnesses—JP Morgan’s Jamie Dimon and Bear’s Alan Schwartz—were going to say about what had actually occurred when they testified later in the day.
Steel knew that Paulson had pushed for a lower price to send the powerful message that shareholders should not profit from a government rescue. But no one at Treasury had ever confirmed that, and for Paulson’s and everyone else’s sakes, it would be best not to acknowledge what had really happened: On Sunday afternoon, March 16, Paulson had called Dimon and told him, “I think this should be done at a very low price.”
Steel knew he had to dodge that issue at the hearing. It was imperative, as Davis and others had stressed during Murder Board sessions and at other meetings, that he avoid getting drawn into a debate over whether $2 was the right price—or $10, for that matter. The key idea he had to focus on was Paulson’s overall concern that, because taxpayer money was involved, shareholders should not be rewarded. And more important, they encouraged Steel to remain adamant that Treasury had not negotiated the deal for Bear. If anything, he should deflect the question onto the Fed, which was the only government agency that legally could be party to such a transaction.
Before the role playing began, Nason briefed Steel on a key development. He recounted some recent conversations he had had with the staff of Senator Richard Shelby, the ranking Republican on the Senate Banking Committee. “Shelby’s going to be difficult,” Nason warned.
That was an understatement. Shelby was deeply unhappy with Paulson’s performance, not only because of the Bear Stearns bailout, but in response to another recent Paulson project: a provision in Bush’s economic stimulus package, introduced just days after the bailout, that raised the ceiling on the amount of mortgages that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac could buy. For days Shelby had not returned the secretary’s phone calls, until Paulson finally barked at his staff, “Doesn’t he know I am the secretary of the Treasury?”
They also knew they had to be wary of Senator Jim Bunning, well known as a “markets know best” purist. “Senator Jim Bunning, Republican. Kentucky,” Steel replied jokingly when a picture of Bunning was held up during Murder Board. “Everything we’re doing? Yes, it’s all bullshit. We’re socialists. Thank you, Senator.”
The Murder Board preparations continued until minutes before Steel left for the hearing. The key objective now was to protect Steel, and the Treasury Department, from any last-minute surprises. Staffers carefully checked that morning’s newspapers to make certain there was no new revelation about Bear Stearns or some harsh opinion from a columnist that a senator might quote that morning. Happily, there was nothing.
Steel made the short trip from Treasury to Capitol Hill in a Treasury car with his aides. The hearing room in the Dirksen Senate Office Building was already buzzing with activity, as camera crews set up their equipment and photographers tested the light. As Steel took his seat, he noticed that Alan Schwartz of Bear Stearns had already arrived, even though he was not scheduled to testify until that afternoon, and greeted him. To Steel’s immediate left was Geithner; to his right, Cox; and next to Cox, Bernanke. Seated in a single row were a group of men who, more than anyone else in the world, were being entrusted with solving its financial problems.
“Was this a justified rescue to prevent a systemic collapse of financial markets,” asked Senator Christopher Dodd, the Connecticut Democrat and chairman of the committee, “or a $30 billion taxpayer bailout, as some have called it, for a Wall Street firm while people on Main Street struggle to pay their mortgages?”
The fireworks started almost immediately. Committee members were sharply critical of the regulators’ oversight of financial firms. More importantly, they questioned whether funding a takeover of Bear Stearns had created a dangerous precedent that would only encourage other firms to make risky bets, secure in the knowledge that the downside would be borne by the taxpayer.
Bernanke hastened to explain the government’s position: “What we had in mind here was the protection of the American financial system and the protection of the American economy. I believe that if the American people understand that we were trying to protect the economy and not to protect anybody on Wall Street, they would better appreciate why we took the action we did.”
Then came the question Steel had prepped for: Had it been the Treasury secretary who determined the $2-a-share price?
“Well, sir, the secretary of the Treasury and other members of Treasury were active participants during this ninety-six hours, as you describe,” he replied. “There were lots of discussions back and forth.
“Also, in any combination of this type, there are multiple terms and conditions. I think the perspective of Treasury was really twofold. One was the idea that Chairman Bernanke suggested: that a combination into safe hands would be constructive for the overall marketplace; and, number two, since there were federal funds or the government’s money involved, that that be taken into account. And Secretary Paulson offered perspective on that.
“There was a view that the pricve should not be very high or should be toward the low end and that it should be—given the government’s involvement, that that was the perspective. But with regard to the specifics, the actual deal was negotiated—transaction was negotiated between the Federal Reserve Bank of New York and the two parties.”
For the most part, the Fed, the Treasury, and the SEC held their own against the Banking Committee’s interrogation. But they did so largely by defending the Bear bailout as a once-in-a-lifetime act of extreme desperation, not as the expression of a nascent policy. Under the circumstances, it was a reasonable response to a run on a very large bank whose demise would disrupt the entire financial system.
Those circumstances, Geithner told the committee, were not unlike those of 1907, or the Great Depression, and he went on to draw a straight line between panic on Wall Street and the economic health of the country: “Absent a forceful policy response, the consequences would be lower incomes for working families; higher borrowing costs for housing, education, and the expenses of everyday life; lower value of retirement savings; and rising unemployment.”
So they’d done what they had to do for the good of the entire country, if not the world, as Steel explained. And thanks to their ef
forts, he confidently told the lawmakers, the hole in the dike had been plugged.
Jamie Dimon was searching for a metaphor.
As he sat in a conference room down the hall from Senator Charles Schumer’s office watching the morning’s proceedings on C-SPAN, he strategized with his communications chief and trusted confidant, Joseph Evangelisti. How could he best account for the low price he had paid for Bear without looking as if he had been given a gift, courtesy of taxpayers?
“The average person has to understand that we took a huge risk,” Evangelisti instructed him as they reviewed various approaches. “We’ve got to explain it in plain English.”
Unlike Steel, Dimon had not engaged in any Murder Board role playing in his own Park Avenue office. Instead, he chose to do some last-minute preparation in the conference room, which had been lent to him by a Senate staffer so he wouldn’t have to wait in the gallery.
Dimon came up with a simple, clear line that he thought explained the acquisition of Bear Stearns succinctly: “Buying a house is not the same as buying a house on fire.” That would do it; everyone would understand that.
The message he sought to convey was straightforward: Although Fed and Treasury officials may have deserved scrutiny for their actions, he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t his job to protect the interests of the U.S. taxpayer, but only those of his shareholders. If anything, he was a little concerned that the Bear deal presented more problems for them than it was worth.
Despite his public show of humility, Dimon was well aware of what a coup the deal had been for him. From the perspective of the financial media, at least, the Bear acquisition was viewed as a home run. They had always had a bit of an obsession with him and tended to paint him as a glorified penny pincher, an executive who would cancel the office’s newspaper subscriptions to cut costs—not a real financial visionary. Now, with JP Morgan leapfrogging to the very top of the banking business, Dimon was being regarded as something akin to the reincarnation of John Pierpont Morgan, the nineteenth-century financier who helped ease the Panic of 1907.
Dimon, the New York Times said, “has suddenly become the most talked about—and arguably the most powerful—banker in the world today.” For the Wall Street Journal he was “quickly becoming Wall Street’s banker of last resort. “Barron’s opted for a simple: “All hail Jamie Dimon!”
With all the adulation he had been receiving, Dimon had become almost giddy at the prospect of speaking at today’s hearing. While most CEOs dread being hauled in front of Congress—Alan D. Schwartz of Bear Stearns had spent days reviewing his testimony with his high-powered Washington lawyer, Robert S. Bennett—Dimon considered his first chance to testify in front of Congress to be a signal honor.
The night before the hearing, he called his parents to make sure they would watch it on TV.
Jamie Dimon’s success is not an enormous surprise, as he is a third-generation banker. His grandfather had immigrated to New York from Smyrna, Greece, changed his name from Papademetriou to Dimon, and found work as a stockbroker, which at the time was hardly considered a glamorous job. Jamie’s father, Theodore—who met his mother, Themis, playing spin-the-bottle when they were twelve years old—was also a broker, and a very successful one. Theodore had done so well that he was able to move his family from Queens to an apartment on Park Avenue, where he raised Jamie and his brothers, Peter and Ted. One day, when Jamie was nine years old, his father asked his sons what they wanted to be when they grew up. Peter, the eldest, said he hoped to become a doctor. Ted, Jamie’s twin, said he didn’t know. But Jamie knew and announced self-assuredly, “I want to be rich.”
After attending the Browning School on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Jamie studied psychology and economics at Tufts University; later, at Harvard Business School, he developed a reputation—as much for his arrogance as for his intelligence. Just a few weeks into the fall semester of his first year there, the professor in an introductory class on operations was going through a case study on supply chain management at a cranberry cooperative. Midway through Dimon stood up and interrupted him with, “I think you’re wrong!” As the startled professor looked on, Dimon walked to the front of the class and wrote the solution to the supply problem on the blackboard. Dimon was right, the professor sheepishly acknowledged.
After a summer working at Goldman Sachs, Dimon sought career advice from the portly, cigar-chomping, serial deal maker named Sandy Weill. Jamie’s family had become close to the Weills in the mid-1970s, after Sandy’s brokerage firm acquired Shearson Hammill, where Dimon’s father was a top broker. While at Tufts, Dimon had even written a paper on the Hayden Stone takeover of Shearson, which his mother showed to Weill, who was impressed with its analysis.
“Can I show it to people here” Weill asked Dimon.
“Absolutely,” Dimon replied. “Can I have a summer job?” Weill was happy to oblige.
After graduating from Harvard Business School, Dimon received offers from Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, and Lehman Brothers. Weill invited Dimon to his Upper East Side apartment and made his own offer: a position as his assistant at American Express, where Weill was now a top executive after having sold Shearson for nearly $1 billion. “I won’t pay you as much,” Weill told the twenty-five-year-old, “but you’re going to learn a lot and we’re going to have a lot of fun.” Dimon was sold.
Weill and Dimon’s tenure at the company turned out to be brief. Although he once boasted that “the Jews are going to take over American Express!” Weill still found himself thwarted by the WASP hierarchy, unable to cut deals on his own. Increasingly frozen out by his colleagues and the board, he quit as president of American Express in 1985; Dimon, whose talents had been noticed by CEO James Robinson, was asked to stay. Dimon was at a point of in his life where many in the same position might have opted for security; his wife had just given birth to their first child. But he decided to stick with Weill, even though Weill hadn’t yet settled on his next project and had taken space in a small office. As the months wore on and Dimon found himself watching Weill sleep off his martini lunches on their office couch, he wondered if he had made a bad bet. Weill couldn’t seem to get anything off the ground, and Dimon had asked himself whether his mentor had played his last hand.
Then, in the wake of Weill’s failed takeover of Bank of America, two executives at Commercial Credit, a subprime lender based in Baltimore, pitched him and Dimon on buying the company from its parent. Weill put up $6 million of his money to do the deal (Dimon invested $425,000), and the company was spun off, with Weill in charge. Dimon set himself up as the operations man, obsessively cutting costs. A lean-and-mean Commercial Credit became the cornerstone of a new financial empire, one that Weill and Dimon built through more than one hundred acquisitions. In 1988 the pair got their return ticket to Wall Street with the $1.65 billion acquisition of Primerica, the parent of the brokerage firm Smith Barney. A $1.2 billion purchase of Shearson from American Express followed in 1993.
Dimon’s reputation rose alongside Weill’s. They were a team: Weill, the strategist and deal maker; Dimon, more than twenty years his junior, the numbers cruncher and operations whiz. They had moved beyond mentor and protégé to something more like a long-married combative couple. In the Midtown Manhattan offices of Primerica, the chairman and the chief financial officer would argue ferociously, their voices booming down the corridors. In meetings Dimon would roll his eyes whenever he thought Sandy had said something foolish.
“You’re a fucking asshole!” Weill would yell at him.
“No, you’re the fucking asshole!” Dimon shouted back.
By 1996, after a $4 billion deal for Travelers, the company needed someone to run the combined asset-management operations. Weill was quietly pushing Dimon to promote his daughter, Jessica Bibliowicz, then thirty-seven, who was running Smith Barney’s mutual fund business. Dimon and Bibliowicz had known each other since they were teenagers, but she wasn’t considered a top-flight manager, and he had reservat
ions about entrusting her with so powerful a job. A top executive took Dimon aside. “Promote her,” he warned Dimon. “You’re killing yourself if you don’t.” Dimon, however, was not persuaded and told Weill and others that she wasn’t ready for the job; they had better, more experienced executives in line.
The following year Bibliowicz announced that she was leaving the company. She didn’t blame Dimon for her decision but tried to emphasize the positive aspects of her departure, telling her father: “Now we can be father and daughter again.” But Weill was furious, and the relationship between him and Dimon would never be repaired, with tensions flaring with increasing frequency as the company continued its rapid expansion. Travelers acquired Salomon in 1997, and Weill made Deryck Maughan, a Briton who had helped steer Salomon Brothers through a Treasury bond scandal, the co-chief executive of Salomon Smith Barney, along with Dimon. This new power-sharing arrangement, although logical, greatly displeased Dimon.
A more injurious slight came after the $83 billion merger with Citicorp, the deal that rewrote the rules of the U.S. financial system as the last Depression-era barriers between commercial and investment banking—passed as the Glass-Steagall Act of 1933—were removed by a bill introduced by Republican senator Phil Gramm of Texas and Republican congressman Jim Leach of Iowa. Dimon had worked tirelessly to bring the deal to completion, yet when the time came to split the eighteen board seats of the merged company between Travelers and Citicorp, he found himself left out. He was made president of the company, but had only one direct report, the chief financial officer, Heidi Miller.
The untenable situation finally came to a head a few days after the new Citigroup reported a disappointing third quarter, the result of a summer of turmoil as Russia defaulted and the hedge fund Long-Term Capital Management nearly collapsed. That weekend had been set aside for a four-day conference for executives at the West Virginia resort of Greenbrier, capped by a black-tie dinner and dance. Around midnight a number of couples were trading partners on the dance floor. Steve Black, one of Dimon’s closest allies at Smith Barney, approached the Maughans and offered to dance with Maughan’s wife, a gesture that was intended as something of an olive branch, given the clashing factions within the company. But Deryck Maughan did not reciprocate, leaving Black’s wife standing alone on the dance floor. A furious Black stomped off to confront Maughan.
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