The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (16 page)

Both were viewed by contemporaries as sweet-natured, disorganized, inquisitive, bright but lacking obvious direction--the kind of guys who might turn up at their fifteenth high school reunions with surprising facial hair and a complicated life story. Charlie left Amherst College after his freshman year to volunteer for Bill Clinton's first presidential campaign, and, though he eventually returned, he remained far more interested in his own idealism than in making money. Jamie's first job out of Duke University had been delivering sailboats to rich people up and down the East Coast. ("That's when it became clear to me that--uh, uh, uh--I was going to have to adopt some profession.") At the age of twenty-eight, he'd taken an eighteen-month "sabbatical," traveling around the world with his girlfriend. He'd come to Berkeley not looking for fertile soil in which to grow money but because the girlfriend wanted to move there. Charlie didn't even really want to be in Berkeley; he'd grown up in Manhattan and turned into a pumpkin when he got to the other side of a bridge or tunnel. He'd moved to Berkeley because the idea of running money together, and the $110,000, had been Jamie's. The garage in which Charlie now slept was Jamie's, too.

Instead of money or plausibility, what they had was an idea about financial markets. Or, rather, a pair of related ideas. Their stint in the private equity business--in which firms buy and sell entire companies over the counter--led them to believe that private stock markets might be more efficient than public ones. "In private transactions," said Charlie, "you usually have an advisor on both sides that's sophisticated. You don't have people who just fundamentally don't know what something's worth. In public markets you have people focused on quarterly earnings rather than the business franchise. You have people doing things for all sorts of insane reasons." They believed, further, that public financial markets lacked investors with an interest in the big picture. U.S. stock market guys made decisions within the U.S. stock market; Japanese bond market guys made decisions within the Japanese bond market; and so on. "There are actually people who do nothing but invest in European mid-cap health care debt," said Charlie. "I don't think the problem is specific to finance. I think that parochialism is common to modern intellectual life. There is no attempt to integrate." The financial markets paid a lot of people extremely well for narrow expertise and a few people, poorly, for the big, global views you needed to have if you were to allocate capital across markets.

In early 2003 Cornwall Capital had just opened for business, which meant Jamie and Charlie spent even more hours of their day than before sitting in the Berkeley garage--Charlie's bedroom--shooting the shit about the market. Cornwall Capital, they decided, would not merely search for market inefficiency but search for it globally, in every market: stocks, bonds, currencies, commodities. To these two not so simple ambitions they soon added a third, even less simple, one, when they stumbled upon their first big opportunity, a credit card company called Capital One Financial.

Capital One was a rare example of a company that seemed to have found a smart way to lend money to Americans with weak credit scores. Its business was credit cards, not home loans, but it dealt with the same socioeconomic class of people whose home loan borrowing would end in catastrophe just a few years later. Through the 1990s and into the 2000s, the company claimed, and the market believed, that it possessed better tools than other companies for analyzing the creditworthiness of subprime credit card users and for pricing the risk of lending to them. It had weathered a bad stretch for its industry, in the late 1990s, during which several of its competitors collapsed. Then, in July 2002, its stock crashed--falling 60 percent in two days, after Capital One's management voluntarily disclosed that they were in a dispute about how much capital they needed to reserve against potential subprime losses with their two government regulators, the Office of Thrift Supervision and the Federal Reserve.

Suddenly the market feared that Capital One wasn't actually smarter than everyone else in their industry about making loans but simply better at hiding their losses. The regulators had discovered fraud, the market suspected, and were about to punish Capital One. Circumstantial evidence organized itself into what seemed like a damning case. For instance, the SEC announced that it was investigating the company's CFO, who had just resigned, for selling his shares in the company two months before the company announced its dispute with regulators and its share price collapsed.

Over the next six months, the company continued to make money at impressive rates. It claimed that it had done nothing wrong, that the regulators were being capricious, and announced no special losses on its $20 billion portfolio of subprime loans. Its stock price remained depressed. Charlie and Jamie studied the matter, which is to say they went to industry conferences, and called up all sorts of people they didn't know and bugged them for information: short sellers, former Capital One employees, management consultants who had advised the company, competitors, and even government regulators. "What became clear," said Charlie, "was that there was a limited amount of information out there and we had the same information as everyone else." They decided that Capital One probably did have better tools for making subprime loans. That left only one question: Was it run by crooks?

It wasn't a question two thirty-something would-be professional investors in Berkeley, California, with $110,000 in a Schwab account should feel it was their business to answer. But they did. They went hunting for people who had gone to college with Capital One's CEO, Richard Fairbank, and collected character references. Jamie paged through the Capital One 10-K filing in search of someone inside the company he might plausibly ask to meet. "If we had asked to meet with the CEO, we wouldn't have gotten to see him," explained Charlie. Finally they came upon a lower-ranking guy named Peter Schnall, who happened to be the vice-president in charge of the subprime portfolio. "I got the impression they were like, 'Who calls and asks for Peter Schnall?'" said Charlie. "Because when we asked to talk to him they were like, 'Why not?'" They introduced themselves gravely as Cornwall Capital Management but refrained from mentioning what, exactly, Cornwall Capital Management was. "It's funny," says Jamie. "People don't feel comfortable asking how much money you have, and so you don't have to tell them."

They asked Schnall if they might visit him, to ask a few questions before they made an investment. "All we really wanted to do," said Charlie, "was to see if he seemed like a crook." They found him totally persuasive. Interestingly, he was buying stock in his own company. They left thinking that Capital One's dispute with its regulators was trivial and that the company was basically honest. "We concluded that maybe they were crooks," said Jamie, "but probably not."

What happened next led them, almost by accident, to the unusual approach to financial markets that would soon make them rich. In the six months following the news of its troubles with the Federal Reserve and the Office of Thrift Supervision, Capital One's stock traded in a narrow band around $30 a share. That stability obviously masked a deep uncertainty. Thirty dollars a share was clearly not the "right" price for Capital One. The company was either a fraud, in which case the stock was probably worth zero, or the company was as honest as it appeared to Charlie and Jamie, in which case the stock was worth around $60 a share. Jamie Mai had just read
You Can Be a Stock Market Genius
, the book by Joel Greenblatt, the same fellow who had staked Mike Burry to his hedge fund. Toward the end of his book Greenblatt described how he'd made a lot of money using a derivative security, called a LEAP (for Long-term Equity AnticiPation Security), which conveyed to its buyer the right to buy a stock at a fixed price for a certain amount of time. There were times, Greenblatt explained, when it made more sense to buy options on a stock than the stock itself. This, in Greenblatt's world of value investors, counted as heresy. Old-fashioned value investors shunned options because options presumed an ability to time price movements in undervalued stocks. Greenblatt's simple point: When the value of a stock so obviously turned on some upcoming event whose date was known (a merger date, for instance, or a court date), the value investor could in good conscience employ options to express his views. It gave Jamie an idea: Buy a long-term option to buy the stock of Capital One. "It was kind of like, Wow, we have a view: This common stock looks interesting. But, Holy shit, look at the prices of these options!"

The right to buy Capital One's shares for $40 at any time in the next two and a half years cost a bit more than $3. That made no sense. Capital One's problems with regulators would be resolved, or not, in the next few months. When they were, the stock would either collapse to zero or jump to $60. Looking into it a bit, Jamie found that the model used by Wall Street to price LEAPs, the Black-Scholes option pricing model, made some strange assumptions. For instance, it assumed a normal, bell-shaped distribution for future stock prices. If Capital One was trading at $30 a share, the model assumed that, over the next two years, the stock was more likely to get to $35 a share than to $40, and more likely to get to $40 a share than to $45, and so on. This assumption made sense only to those who knew nothing about the company. In this case the model was totally missing the point: When Capital One stock moved, as it surely would, it was more likely to move by a lot than by a little.

Cornwall Capital Management quickly bought 8,000 LEAPs. Their potential losses were limited to the $26,000 they paid for their option to buy the stock. Their potential gains were theoretically unlimited. Soon after Cornwall Capital laid their chips on the table, Capital One was vindicated by its regulators, its stock price shot up, and Cornwall Capital's $26,000 option position was worth $526,000. "We were pretty fired up," says Charlie.

"We couldn't believe people would sell us these long-term options so cheaply," said Jamie. "We went looking for more long-dated options."

It instantly became a fantastically profitable strategy: Start with what appeared to be a cheap option to buy or sell some Korean stock, or pork belly, or third-world currency--really anything with a price that seemed poised for some dramatic change--and then work backward to the thing the option allowed you to buy or sell. The options suited the two men's personalities: They never had to be sure of anything. Both were predisposed to feel that people, and by extension markets, were too certain about inherently uncertain things. Both sensed that people, and by extension markets, had difficulty attaching the appropriate probabilities to highly improbable events. Both had trouble generating conviction of their own but no trouble at all reacting to what they viewed as the false conviction of others. Each time they came upon a tantalizing long shot, one of them set to work on making the case for it, in an elaborate presentation, complete with PowerPoint slides. They didn't actually have anyone to whom they might give a presentation. They created them only to hear how plausible they sounded when pitched to each other. They entered markets only because they thought something dramatic might be about to happen in them, on which they could make a small bet with long odds that might pay off in a big way. They didn't know the first thing about Korean stocks or third world currencies, but they didn't really need to. If they found what appeared to be a cheap bet on the price movements of any security, they could then hire an expert to help them sort out the details. "That has been a pattern of ours," said Jamie Mai. "To rely on the work of smart people who know more than we do."

They followed their success with Capital One with a similar success, in a distressed European cable television company called United Pan-European Cable. This time, since they had more money, they bought $500,000 in call options, struck at a price far from the market. When UPC rallied, they turned a quick $5 million profit. "We're now getting really, really excited," says Jamie. Next they bet on a company that delivered oxygen tanks directly to sick people in their homes. That $200,000 bet quickly turned into $3 million. "We're now three for three," said Charlie. "We think it's hilarious. For the first time I could see myself doing this for a really long time."

They had stumbled either upon a serious flaw in modern financial markets or into a great gambling run. Characteristically, they were not sure which it was. As Charlie pointed out, "It's really hard to know when you're lucky and when you're smart." They reckoned that by the time they had a statistically valid track record they'd be dead, or close to it, and so they didn't spend a lot of time worrying about whether they'd been lucky, or smart. Either way, they knew they didn't know as much as they should, especially about financial options. They hired a PhD student from the statistics department at the University of California at Berkeley to help them, but he quit after they asked him to study the market for pork belly futures. "It turned out that he was a vegetarian," said Jamie. "He had a problem with capitalism in general, but the pork bellies pushed him over the edge." They were left to grapple on their own with a lot of complicated financial theory. "We spent a lot of time building Black-Scholes models ourselves, and seeing what happened when you changed various assumptions in them," said Jamie. What struck them powerfully was how cheaply the models allowed a person to speculate on situations that were likely to end in one of two dramatic ways. If, in the next year, a stock was going to be worth nothing or $100 a share, it was silly for anyone to sell a year-long option to buy the stock at $50 a share for $3. Yet the market often did something just like that. The model used by Wall Street to price trillions of dollars' worth of derivatives thought of the financial world as an orderly, continuous process. But the world was not continuous; it changed discontinuously, and often by accident.

Event-driven investing
: That was the name they either coined or stole for what they were doing. That made it sound a lot less fun than it was. One day Charlie found himself intrigued by the market for ethanol futures. He didn't know much about ethanol, but he could see that it enjoyed a U.S. government subsidy of 50 cents a gallon, and so was supposed to trade at a 50-cent-a-gallon premium to gasoline, and always had. In early 2005, when he became interested, it traded, briefly, at a 50-cent
discount
to gas. He didn't know why and never found out; instead, Charlie bought two rail cars' worth of ethanol futures, and made headlines in
Ethanol Today
, a magazine of whose existence he was previously unaware. To the intense irritation of Cornwall's broker, they wound up having to accept rail cars filled with ethanol in some stockyard in Chicago--to make a sum of money that struck the broker as absurdly small. "The administrative complexity of what we were doing was out of proportion to our assets," said Charlie. "People who were our size didn't trade across asset classes."