A Fighting Chance (27 page)

He held both my hands in his and scrutinized my face. I had the sense that he didn’t really know what I would say back here behind closed doors. Would I praise the new agency or would I find fault?

“It’s really good, Mr. President. It can do the job.” I meant it.

The president visibly relaxed. Then he flashed his ten-thousand-kilowatt smile and maneuvered me over to the seating area—two couches facing each other, with a couple of upright chairs at the end. He took one of the chairs and motioned for me to sit on the couch nearest him. Valerie sat on the other couch.

The president started telling a story about getting a car some years earlier. I didn’t catch the specifics, but he made fun of himself for not knowing all the details of the terms of the agreement he’d signed. And it seemed that even now, he was pretty irritated about how he had been treated. The story’s punch line: As great as the new agency was, the president was still worried about the auto-dealer carve-out in the law and the people who might get hurt.

I was a little surprised; I figured this was the moment for a well-deserved victory lap. The president had every reason to feel good about what he’d achieved—getting the agency signed into law was a big win for him. Instead, he was lamenting the part he couldn’t accomplish. I had to respect a man whose eyes were not on the political victory, but on the regular people whose lives would be touched by what he did.

Still, I knew what we’d been up against, and I knew that this agency was strong. “Mr. President, we got ninety-five percent of what we needed, and the agency will do a huge amount of good.” I told him I thought this was a really, truly genuine victory.

He laughed and then turned to the business at hand. He opened with: “This isn’t a job interview. You should head up the agency.”

I could feel the “but” coming and so wasn’t surprised when he said: But we have a real problem with the Republicans and the bankers. “You make them very nervous.”

The bankers didn’t want me, and since the Republicans now had forty-one seats in the Senate, they would likely filibuster my nomination so that I couldn’t be confirmed as director. And that was that. Nominating me to head the agency was off the table.

But the president didn’t talk about nominating anyone else, either. Instead, he suggested that I could serve in an unspecified interim position to help launch the agency, reporting to Secretary Geithner. But he didn’t offer specifics on what my duties would be and what I’d be able to do.

I was uneasy with his proposal. I didn’t know Secretary Geithner very well, and I figured he would do his best to set up a good agency. But he and I just didn’t see banking the same way. I was worried that the secretary would pull one way and I would pull the other, and the agency would get caught in some no-man’s-land in between, a sitting target for the big banks that still wanted to kill it.

The president and I went back and forth for a while but didn’t come to any agreement. We stood up, and after a perfunctory hug, I was back in the hallway.

What’s at Stake

Summer ended, and Bruce and I made our way home to Massachusetts for the start of classes. Amelia had another setback and returned to the hospital. In their continuing attempt to stop early labor, the doctors tried one medication after another. At one point, Amelia turned beet red from head to toe. As the days ticked by, the baby was still holding on, but just barely.

Meanwhile, the CFPB was just beginning to stir. A handful of employees inside the Department of the Treasury had begun to map out some of the agency’s early infrastructure. It was good, thoughtful work, but only the beginning. The real shape and scope of the agency remained anyone’s guess.

The struggle over who would launch the agency was at its core a debate about the agency’s future. Would the agency be relatively passive and soon sink below the radar screen, a hopeful idea that faded away? Or would it be a vigorous example of how government
can
work? This was a rare opportunity to build a new agency from the ground up, one that wouldn’t have a hidebound bureaucracy or an entrenched “serve the banks” culture. Those who launched the CFPB would have a chance to build a twenty-first-century watchdog—a watchdog that was lean and tough, knew exactly what its mission was, and used powerful new tools to make itself effective. But the agency couldn’t simply promise to be and do all these things. The agency had to deliver.

Deliver.
That meant cracking down on the scams that target poor neighborhoods. Stopping the little tricks—bank fees that nibble $5 here and $20 there. Stopping the big tricks—mortgages that zoom from unbelievably low monthly payments to unbelievably high monthly payments. Making sure that families going through foreclosure are treated fairly and honestly. Making credit agreements simpler, so comparison shopping would be possible. The list was long.

One thing about the agency’s future was clear: It would be under attack from the get-go. The big banks had lost the fight over the CFPB, but they still had plenty of friends on Capitol Hill. If the agency was successful, it would put an end to tricks and traps that had produced some very fat profits. No one doubted that the big banks would try to cripple the agency if they could.

So the question was: What’s the right way to set up an agency that will be under constant attack? The usual answer in Washington: Go slowly. Tread carefully. Don’t offend anyone.

Not me. I thought the agency should go fast and fight hard right from the beginning. (Surprise, right?) The banks wouldn’t hesitate to attack us aggressively in the battles to come, and I figured that nobody wins this sort of fight by worrying too much about stepping on toes. I believed that if people saw what the CFPB could do—if millions of consumers were actually helped—then people would keep fighting for it.

Trust the President

In early September, I was invited back to Washington for a second meeting with the president.

While he finished up a long call, I sat in the tiny waiting area. This time he walked me through the Oval Office and suggested we sit outside. He said there wouldn’t be many more summer days, so we should enjoy the weather while it lasted.

“Enjoy” was a relative term, because it was hot—really hot—and humid. The president wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and he looked relaxed and cool. I had dressed for air-conditioning, and after two minutes outside, I probably looked as if I were going to burst into flames. I wore a blazer with a shell underneath, but the shell was skimpy enough that I didn’t feel right about shedding my jacket in front of the leader of the free world. Everything I was wearing felt glued to my body.

It was just the two of us, sitting at a little outdoor table. Once again, I didn’t have much chance to look around, but the space was tightly enclosed by dense hedges and felt small—and there was no breeze at all. The president described it as a hidden retreat. I thought it felt like a green version of hell.

The president dived straight in. He still wanted me to help set up the agency. I would work directly for Tim Geithner, and he wouldn’t offer any guarantees about what my specific role would be or how long I’d be around to do it. And he gave no indication that he’d be willing to nominate me for permanent director in the future.

I said no.

We talked about the need for a strong agency and the inevitable opposition to it, and we talked about what the agency’s first initiatives might be. But we always circled back to the same question. Would he offer me a job that was all show, or would he give me a job that would allow me to really get something done?

The president was frustrated. I was hot. We pushed back and forth for an hour. Twice his assistant came out to remind him about his next meeting.

Finally he said: “You’re jamming me, Elizabeth.” He urged me not to overplay my hand.

Got it.

Our conversation was going nowhere—this just wasn’t going to work. Then he said: “Sometimes you have to trust the president. Let me work this out.” He pronounced each word separately: “Let—me—work—this—out.”

Leaning toward me across the little table, he promised that I would have all the tools I needed to get the job done and get this agency off the ground. He reminded me that he wanted the agency to be successful, that it was an important part of his legacy. Then he said, “Trust me.”

And there it was. He hadn’t said he would nominate me for the directorship, and he’d made no specific commitments about the responsibility I’d have.

But he was the man who had stood behind the agency throughout the Dodd–Frank negotiations when others wanted to kill it. He was the man who had signed the agency into law. He was the man who worried about what family might get cheated next.

I thought about what he said: all the tools I needed. That wasn’t very specific, but “all the tools” was in the right direction. Besides, with the Republicans and the big banks on the attack, the president was the best hope the American people had.

“All right,” I replied. “I’ll trust you on this.”

Put Your Seatbelt On

In the end, the president actually offered me two jobs. I was named special advisor to the secretary of the Treasury on the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau
and
assistant to the president. The title was a mouthful, but the “assistant to the president” designation was also held by some very senior people who sat nearest the Oval Office, and it was an important signal to the world that the president would back the new agency’s work.

I understood that this was only a temporary role, although I didn’t know when it would end—or how it would end. But right now, it didn’t matter. I would get to help launch the agency.

After we reached a deal, I resigned from my position on the COP. I also requested a leave of absence from Harvard. Since I wanted to be at the new agency 24/7, Bruce said he would (once again) be a commuter. (Thank you, sweetie.) Washington would now be home base for Otis and me, while Bruce would fly back and forth each week.

We needed a place to live in Washington, immediately. There was no time for house hunting—heck, things were moving so fast that I felt like there was no time to brush my teeth. Someone told us about a vacant apartment that was within walking distance of the Treasury Building, and the landlord would allow us to bring Otis. Thankfully, my old friend from the bankruptcy wars, Brady Williamson, happened to be in Washington that week, so he took a look and called with a report. “Um, the living room is nice, but the stove looks weird.…”

Weird stove and all, we rented the apartment sight unseen.

I flew to Washington, and on Thursday, September 16, 2010, Bruce loaded up the car with our things, and he and Otis made the eight-hour drive down to D.C. (I suspect they made it in seven hours. I’m pretty sure Bruce drives a lot faster when I’m not in the car, but that’s one of those “don’t ask, don’t tell” things in our marriage.)

On Friday, Bruce and I went to the White House for the public announcement of my new role. Amelia was still confined to bed, and Sushil couldn’t leave her. Alex was in the middle of a work crisis, and he wanted to stay in Los Angeles in case Amelia needed extra help, so there were no children or grandchildren to turn it into an occasion.

Right after lunchtime, there we were in the Oval Office, just the president, Tim Geithner, and me. The president said he was sure we’d all get along fine. Secretary Geithner and I both smiled uncertainly. Gesturing to the door that opened onto the Rose Garden, where a medium-size throng of reporters and photographers waited, the president explained that the three of us would step outside together. Then he paused and said, “Well, not all at once. This isn’t a Three Stooges routine.” We laughed and then started into a round of Three Stooges gags. By any objective measure, I’m sure we were all pretty lame, but I was impressed. The president and the secretary knew a lot of Moe, Larry, and Curly routines. Surely the country was in good hands.

The announcement went smoothly, followed by a quick swearing in.

Saturday was another whirlwind day. No more policy discussions and welcome meetings; it was time to go shopping. Off to Target, Staples, and a couple of furniture stores for bar stools, a reading lamp, dishes—I can’t remember everything we bought, but I think Bruce and I clocked fourteen straight hours of shopping. At ten that night, just after snagging a desk and chair, we celebrated over pancakes at an IHOP somewhere in Maryland.

I spent a lot of time on administrative duties during my first days on the job. I got fingerprinted—electronically and in ink, twice each way on each finger of both hands. I was also photographed, briefed on security, lectured about dozens of forms I needed to fill out, issued a badge, and given a flu shot.

During my days at COP, I’d attended a couple of meetings in the Treasury Building, but now I had my own office, and I had a chance to wander around a bit. My office was beautiful, unlike anything I’d ever worked in before. Like the other Treasury officials, I had an office with a high ceiling, a fireplace, antique furniture, and giant windows that faced a statue of Alexander Hamilton. It felt a little like a movie set. If there hadn’t been so much work to do, it would have been a great place for a tea party with my granddaughters.

Like the offices in many other monumental old buildings, these offices weren’t built for the modern era. My assistant, Alyssa Martin, sat in a tiny carved-out space at the front of my office. Alyssa was just twenty-two, and though she had been slated to start her first year at Harvard Law School that fall, she postponed school for a year when I asked her to come with me to Washington.

The skeletal staff that Treasury had already begun assembling for the agency was scattered in offices that had been chopped out of other spaces. Many of these people would go back to their regular Treasury jobs in the coming weeks, but not all. As we got under way, Eric Stein, who had poured zillions of hours into negotiating the line-by-line drafting of the statute creating the consumer agency, made the shift from Treasury to help launch the new agency. Wally Adeyemo, who had an amazing talent for getting things done at Treasury, now took on the role of chief of staff for the baby agency. I quickly figured out that he was indispensable.