The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine

by Michael Lewis

  In further violation of the code, Lippmann was quick to let people know that whatever he'd been paid by his employer was not anything like what he'd been worth. "Senior management's job is to pay people," he'd say. "If they fuck a hundred guys out of a hundred grand each, that's ten million more for them. They have four categories: happy, satisfied, dissatisfied, disgusted. If they hit happy, they've screwed up: They never want you happy. On the other hand, they don't want you so disgusted you quit. The sweet spot is somewhere between dissatisfied and disgusted." At some point in between 1986 and 2006 a memo had gone out on Wall Street, saying that if you wanted to keep on getting rich shuffling bits of paper around to no obvious social purpose, you had better camouflage your true nature. Greg Lippmann was incapable of disguising himself or his motives. "I don't have any particular allegiance to Deutsche Bank," he'd say. "I just work there." This was not an unusual attitude. What was unusual was that Lippmann said it.

  The least controversial thing to be said about Lippmann was that he was controversial. He wasn't just a good bond trader, he was a great bond trader. He wasn't cruel. He wasn't even rude, at least not intentionally. He simply evoked extreme feelings in others. A trader who worked near him for years referred to him as "the asshole known as Greg Lippmann." When asked why, he said, "He took everything too far."

  "I love Greg," said one of his bosses at Deutsche Bank. "I have nothing bad to say about him except that he's a fucking whack job." But when you cleared away the controversy around Lippmann's persona you could see it was rooted in two simple complaints. The first was that he was transparently self-interested and self-promotional. The second was that he was excessively alert to the self-interest and self-promotion of others. He had an almost freakish ability to identify shadowy motives. If you had just donated $20 million to your alma mater, say, and were feeling the glow of selfless devotion to a cause greater than yourself, Lippmann would be the first to ask, "So you gave twenty million because that's the minimum to get your name on a building, right?"

  Now this character turns up out of nowhere to sell Steve Eisman on what he claims is his own original brilliant idea for betting against the subprime mortgage bond market. He made his case with a long and involved forty-two-page presentation: Over the past three years housing prices had risen far more rapidly than they had over the previous thirty; housing prices had not yet fallen but they had ceased to rise; even so, the loans against them were now going sour in their first year at amazing rates--up from 1 percent to 4 percent. Who borrowed money to buy a house and defaulted inside of twelve months? He went on for a bit, then showed Eisman this little chart that he'd created, and which he claimed was the reason he had become interested in the trade. It illustrated an astonishing fact: Since 2000, people whose homes had risen in value between 1 and 5 percent were nearly four times more likely to default on their home loans than people whose homes had risen in value more than 10 percent. Millions of Americans had no ability to repay their mortgages unless their houses rose dramatically in value, which enabled them to borrow even more.

  That was the pitch in a nutshell: Home prices didn't even need to fall. They merely needed to stop rising at the unprecedented rates they had the previous few years for vast numbers of Americans to default on their home loans.

  "Shorting Home Equity Mezzanine Tranches," Lippmann called his presentation. "Shorting Home Equity Mezzanine Tranches" was just a fancy way to describe Mike Burry's idea of betting against U.S. home loans: buying credit default swaps on the crappiest triple-B slices of subprime mortgage bonds. Lippmann himself described it more bluntly to a Deutsche Bank colleague who had seen the presentation and dubbed him "Chicken Little." "Fuck you," Lippmann had said. "I'm short your house."

  The beauty of the credit default swap, or CDS, was that it solved the timing problem. Eisman no longer needed to guess exactly when the subprime mortgage market would crash. It also allowed him to make the bet without laying down cash up front, and put him in a position to win many times the sums he could possibly lose. Worst case: Insolvent Americans somehow paid off their subprime mortgage loans, and you were stuck paying an insurance premium of roughly 2 percent a year for as long as six years--the longest expected life span of the putatively thirty-year loans.

  The alacrity with which subprime borrowers paid off their loans was yet another strange aspect of this booming market. It had to do with the structure of the loans, which were fixed for two or three years at an artificially low teaser rate before shooting up to the "go-to" floating rate. "They were making loans to lower-income people at a teaser rate when they knew they couldn't afford to pay the go-to rate," said Eisman. "They were doing it so that when the borrowers get to the end of the teaser rate period, they'd have to refinance, so the lenders can make more money off them." Thirty-year loans were thus designed to be repaid in a few years. At worst, if you bought credit default swaps on $100 million in subprime mortgage bonds you might wind up shelling out premium for six years--call it $12 million. At best: Losses on the loans rose from the current 4 percent to 8 percent, and you made $100 million. The bookies were offering you odds of somewhere between 6:1 and 10:1 when the odds of it working out felt more like 2:1. Anyone in the business of making smart bets couldn't not do it.

  The argument stopper was Lippmann's one-man quantitative support team. His name was Eugene Xu, but to those who'd heard Lippmann's pitch, he was generally spoken of as "Lippmann's Chinese quant." Xu was an analyst employed by Deutsche Bank, but Lippmann gave everyone the idea he kept him tied up to his Bloomberg terminal like a pet. A real Chinese guy--not even Chinese American--who apparently spoke no English, just numbers. China had this national math competition, Lippmann told people, in which Eugene had finished second. In all of China. Eugene Xu was responsible for every piece of hard data in Lippmann's presentation. Once Eugene was introduced into the equation, no one bothered Lippmann about his math or his data. As Lippmann put it, "How can a guy who can't speak English lie?"

  There was a lot more to it than that. Lippmann brimmed with fascinating details: the historical behavior of the American homeowner; the idiocy and corruption of the rating agencies, Moody's and S&P, who stuck a triple-B rating on subprime bonds that went bad when losses in the underlying pools of home loans reached just 8 percent;* the widespread fraud in the mortgage market; the folly of subprime mortgage investors, some large number of whom seemed to live in Dusseldorf, Germany. "Whenever we'd ask him who was buying this crap," said Vinny, "he always just said, 'Dusseldorf.'" It didn't matter whether Dusseldorf was buying actual cash subprime mortgage bonds or selling credit default swaps on those same mortgage bonds, as they amounted to one and the same thing: the long side of the bet.

  Lippmann brimmed, also, with Lippmann. He hinted Eisman might get so rich from the trade he could buy the Los Angeles Dodgers. ("I'm not saying you're going to be able to buy the Dodgers.") Eisman might become so rich that movie stars would crave his body. ("I'm not saying you're going to date Jessica Simpson.") With one hand Lippmann presented the facts of the trade; with the other he tap-tap-tapped away, like a dowser probing for a well hidden deep in Eisman's character.

  Keeping one eye on Greg Lippmann and the other on Steve Eisman, Vincent Daniel half expected the room to explode. Instead Steve Eisman found nothing even faintly objectionable about Greg Lippmann. Great guy! Eisman really only had a couple of questions. The first: Tell me again how the hell a credit default swap works? The second: Why are you asking me to bet against bonds your own firm is creating, and arranging for the rating agencies to mis-rate? "In my entire life I never saw a sell-side guy come in and say, 'Short my market,'" said Eisman. Lippmann wasn't even a bond salesman; he was a bond trader who might be expected to be long these very same subprime mortgage bonds. "I didn't mistrust him," says Eisman. "I didn't understand him. Vinny was the one who was sure he was going to fuck us in some way."

  Eisman had no trouble betting against subprime mortgages. Indeed, he could imagine very little that would give him
so much pleasure as the thought of going to bed each night, possibly for the next six years, knowing he was short a financial market he had come to know and despise and was certain would one day explode. "When he walked in and said you can make money shorting subprime paper, it was like putting a naked supermodel in front of me," said Eisman. "What I couldn't understand was why he wanted me to do it." That question, as it turned out, was more interesting than even Eisman suspected.

  The subprime mortgage market was generating half a trillion dollars' worth of new loans a year, but the circle of people redistributing the risk that the entire market would collapse was tiny. When the Goldman Sachs saleswoman called Mike Burry and told him that her firm would be happy to sell him credit default swaps in $100 million chunks, Burry guessed, rightly, that Goldman wasn't ultimately on the other side of his bets. Goldman would never be so stupid as to make huge naked bets that millions of insolvent Americans would repay their home loans. He didn't know who, or why, or how much, but he knew that some giant corporate entity with a triple-A rating was out there selling credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. Only a triple-A-rated corporation could assume such risk, no money down, and no questions asked. Burry was right about this, too, but it would be three years before he knew it. The party on the other side of his bet against subprime mortgage bonds was the triple-A-rated insurance company AIG--American International Group, Inc. Or, rather, a unit of AIG called AIG FP.

  AIG Financial Products was created in 1987 by refugees from Michael Milken's bond department at Drexel Burnham, led by a trader named Howard Sosin, who claimed to have a better model to trade and value interest rate swaps. Nineteen eighties financial innovation had all sorts of consequences, but one of them was a boom in the number of deals between big financial firms that required them to take each other's credit risks. Interest rate swaps--in which one party swaps a floating rate of interest for another party's fixed rate of interest--was one such innovation. Once upon a time, Chrysler issued a bond through Morgan Stanley, and the only people who wound up with credit risk were the investors who bought the Chrysler bond. Chrysler might sell its bonds and simultaneously enter into a ten-year interest rate swap transaction with Morgan Stanley--and just like that, Chrysler and Morgan Stanley were exposed to each other. If Chrysler went bankrupt, its bondholders obviously lost; depending on the nature of the swap, and the movement of interest rates, Morgan Stanley might lose, too. If Morgan Stanley went bust, Chrysler, along with anyone else who had done interest rate swaps with Morgan Stanley, stood to suffer. Financial risk had been created out of thin air, and it begged to be either honestly accounted for or disguised.

  Enter Sosin, with his supposedly new and improved interest rate swap model--even though Drexel Burnham was not at the time a market leader in interest rate swaps. There was a natural role for a blue-chip corporation with the highest credit rating to stand in the middle of swaps and long-term options and the other risk-spawning innovations. The traits required of this corporation were that it not be a bank--and thus subject to bank regulation, and the need to reserve capital against risky assets--and that it be willing and able to bury exotic risks on its balance sheet. It needed to be able to insure $100 billion in subprime mortgage loans, for instance, without having to disclose to anyone what it had done. There was no real reason that company had to be AIG; it could have been any triple-A-rated entity with a huge balance sheet. Berkshire Hathaway, for instance, or General Electric. AIG just got there first.

  In a financial system that was rapidly generating complicated risks, AIG FP became a huge swallower of those risks. In the early days it must have seemed as if it was being paid to insure events extremely unlikely to occur, as it was. Its success bred imitators: Zurich Re FP, Swiss Re FP, Credit Suisse FP, Gen Re FP. ("Re" stands for Reinsurance.) All of these places were central to what happened in the last two decades; without them, the new risks being created would have had no place to hide and would have remained in full view of bank regulators. All of these places, when the crisis came, would be washed away by the general nausea felt in the presence of complicated financial risks, but there was a moment when their existence seemed cartographically necessary to the financial world. AIG FP was the model for them all.

  The division's first fifteen years were consistently, amazingly profitable--there wasn't the first hint that it might be running risks that would cause it to lose money, much less cripple its giant parent. In 1993, when Howard Sosin left, he took with him nearly $200 million, his share of what appeared to be a fantastic money machine. In 1998, AIG FP entered the new market for corporate credit default swaps: It sold insurance to banks against the risk of defaults by huge numbers of investment-grade public corporations. The credit default swap had just been invented by bankers at J.P. Morgan, who then went looking for a triple-A-rated company willing to sell them--and found AIG FP.* The market began innocently enough, by Wall Street standards.

  Large numbers of investment-grade companies in different countries and different industries were indeed unlikely to default on their debt at the same time. The credit default swaps sold by AIG FP that insured pools of such loans proved to be a good business. By 2001, AIG FP, now being run by a fellow named Joe Cassano, could be counted on to generate $300 million a year, or 15 percent of AIG's profits.

  But then, in the early 2000s, the financial markets performed this fantastic bait and switch, in two stages. Stage One was to apply a formula that had been dreamed up to cope with corporate credit risk to consumer credit risk. The banks that used AIG FP to insure piles of loans to IBM and GE now came to it to insure much messier piles, which included credit card debt, student loans, auto loans, prime mortgages, aircraft leases, and just about anything else that generated a cash flow. As there were many different sorts of loans, to different sorts of people, the logic that had applied to corporate loans seemed to apply to them, too: They were sufficiently diverse that they were unlikely all to go bad at once.

  Stage Two, beginning at the end of 2004, was to replace the student loans and the auto loans and the rest with bigger piles consisting of nothing but U.S. subprime mortgage loans. "The problem," as one AIG FP trader put it, "is that something else came along that we thought was the same thing as what we'd been doing." The "consumer loan" piles that Wall Street firms, led by Goldman Sachs, asked AIG FP to insure went from being 2 percent subprime mortgages to being 95 percent subprime mortgages. In a matter of months, AIG FP, in effect, bought $50 billion in triple-B-rated subprime mortgage bonds by insuring them against default. And yet no one said anything about it--not AIG CEO Martin Sullivan, not the head of AIG FP, Joe Cassano, not the guy in AIG FP's Connecticut office in charge of selling his firm's credit default swap services to the big Wall Street firms, Al Frost. The deals, by all accounts, were simply rubber-stamped inside AIG FP, and then again by AIG brass. Everyone concerned apparently assumed they were being paid insurance premiums to take basically the same sort of risk they had been taking for nearly a decade. They weren't. They were now, in effect, the world's biggest owners of subprime mortgage bonds.

  Greg Lippmann watched his counterparts at Goldman Sachs find and exploit someone else's willingness to sell huge amounts of cheap insurance on subprime mortgage bonds and pretty much instantly guessed the seller's identity. Word spread quickly in the small world of subprime mortgage bond creators and traders: AIG FP was now selling credit default swaps on triple-A-rated subprime bonds for a mere 0.12 percent a year. Twelve basis points! Lippmann didn't know exactly how Goldman Sachs had persuaded AIG FP to provide the same service to the booming market in subprime mortgage loans that it provided to the market for corporate loans. All he knew was that, in rapid succession, Goldman created a bunch of multibillion-dollar deals that transferred to AIG the responsibility for all future losses from $20 billion in triple-B-rated subprime mortgage bonds. It was incredible: In exchange for a few million bucks a year, this insurance company was taking the very real risk that $20 billion would simply go poof. The dea
ls with Goldman had gone down in a matter of months and required the efforts of just a few geeks on a Goldman bond trading desk and a Goldman salesman named Andrew Davilman, who, for his services, soon would be promoted to managing director. The Goldman traders had booked profits of somewhere between $1.5 billion and $3 billion--even by bond market standards, a breathtaking sum.

  In the process, Goldman Sachs created a security so opaque and complex that it would remain forever misunderstood by investors and rating agencies: the synthetic subprime mortgage bond-backed CDO, or collateralized debt obligation. Like the credit default swap, the CDO had been invented to redistribute the risk of corporate and government bond defaults and was now being rejiggered to disguise the risk of subprime mortgage loans. Its logic was exactly that of the original mortgage bonds. In a mortgage bond, you gathered thousands of loans and, assuming that it was extremely unlikely that they would all go bad together, created a tower of bonds, in which both risk and return diminished as you rose. In a CDO you gathered one hundred different mortgage bonds--usually, the riskiest, lower floors of the original tower--and used them to erect an entirely new tower of bonds. The innocent observer might reasonably ask, What's the point of using floors from one tower of debt simply to create another tower of debt? The short answer is, They are too near to the ground. More prone to flooding--the first to take losses--they bear a lower credit rating: triple-B. Triple-B-rated bonds were harder to sell than the triple-A-rated ones, on the safe, upper floors of the building.