The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (25 page)

Not long before, his wife had dragged him to the office of a Stanford psychologist. A preschool teacher had noted certain worrying behaviors in their four-year-old son, Nicholas, and suggested he needed testing. Nicholas didn't sleep when the other kids slept. He drifted off when the teacher talked at any length. His mind seemed "very active." Michael Burry had to resist his urge to take offense. He was, after all, a doctor, and he suspected that the teacher was trying to tell them that he had failed to diagnose attention deficit disorder in his own son. "I had worked in an ADHD clinic during my residency, and had strong feelings that this was overdiagnosed," he said. "That it was a 'savior' diagnosis for too many kids whose parents wanted a medical reason to drug their children, or to explain their kids' bad behavior." He suspected his son was a bit different from the other kids, but different in a good way. "He asked a ton of questions," said Burry. "I had encouraged that, because I always had a ton of questions as a kid, and I was frustrated when I was told to be quiet." Now he watched his son more carefully, and noted that the little boy, while smart, had problems with other people. "When he did try to interact, even though he didn't do anything mean to the other kids, he'd somehow tick them off." He came home and told his wife, "Don't worry about it! He's fine!"

His wife stared at him and asked, "How would you know?"

To which Dr. Michael Burry replied, "Because he's just like me! That's how I was."

Their son's application to several kindergartens met with quick rejections, unaccompanied by explanations. Pressed, one of the schools told Burry that his son suffered from inadequate gross and fine motor skills. "He had apparently scored very low on tests involving art and scissor use," said Burry. "Big deal, I thought. I still draw like a four-year-old, and I hate art." To silence his wife, however, he agreed to have their son tested. "It would just prove he's a smart kid, an 'absentminded genius.'"

Instead, the tests administered by a child psychologist proved that their child had Asperger's syndrome. A classic case, she said, and recommended that the child be pulled from the mainstream and sent to a special school. And Dr. Michael Burry was dumbstruck: He recalled Asperger's from med school, but vaguely. His wife now handed him the stack of books she had accumulated on autism and related disorders. On top were
The Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome,
by a clinical psychologist named Tony Attwood, and Attwood's
Asperger's Syndrome: A Guide for Parents and Professionals
.

"Marked impairment in the use of multiple non-verbal behaviors such as eye-to-eye gaze..."

Check.

"Failure to develop peer relationships..."

Check.

"A lack of spontaneous seeking to share enjoyment, interests, or achievements with other people..."

Check.

"Difficulty reading the social/emotional messages in someone's eyes..."

Check.

"A faulty emotion regulation or control mechanism for expressing anger..."

Check.

"...One of the reasons why computers are so appealing is not only that you do not have to talk or socialize with them, but that they are logical, consistent and not prone to moods. Thus they are an ideal interest for the person with Asperger's Syndrome..."

Check.

"Many people have a hobby.... The difference between the normal range and the eccentricity observed in Asperger's Syndrome is that these pursuits are often solitary, idiosyncratic and dominate the person's time and conversation."

Check...Check...Check.

After a few pages, Michael Burry realized that he was no longer reading about his son but about himself. "How many people can pick up a book and find an instruction manual for their life?" he said. "I hated reading a book telling me who I was. I thought I was different, but this was saying I was the same as other people. My wife and I were a typical Asperger's couple, and we had an Asperger's son." His glass eye no longer explained anything; the wonder is that it ever had. How did a glass eye explain, in a competitive swimmer, a pathological fear of deep water--the terror of not knowing what lurked beneath him? How did it explain a childhood passion for washing money? He'd take dollar bills and wash them, dry them off with a towel, press them between the pages of books, and then stack books on top of those books--all so he might have money that looked "new." "All of a sudden I've become this caricature," said Burry. "I've always been able to study up on something and ace something really fast. I thought it was all something special about me. Now it's like, 'Oh, a lot of Asperger's people can do that.' Now I was explained by a disorder."

He resisted the news. He had a gift for finding and analyzing information on the subjects that interested him intensely. He always had been intensely interested in himself. Now, at the age of thirty-five, he'd been handed this new piece of information about himself--and his first reaction to it was to wish he hadn't been given it. "My first thought was that a lot of people must have this and don't know it," he said. "And I wondered, Is this really a good thing for me to know at this point? Why is it good for me to know this about myself?"

He went and found his own psychologist to help him sort out the effect of his syndrome on his wife and children. His work life, however, remained uninformed by the new information. He didn't alter the way he made investment decisions, for instance, or the way he communicated with his investors. He didn't let his investors know of his disorder. "I didn't feel it was a material fact that had to be disclosed," he said. "It wasn't a change. I wasn't diagnosed with something new. It's something I'd always had." On the other hand, it explained an awful lot about what he did for a living, and how he did it: his obsessive acquisition of hard facts, his insistence on logic, his ability to plow quickly through reams of tedious financial statements. People with Asperger's couldn't control what they were interested in. It was a stroke of luck that his special interest was financial markets and not, say, collecting lawn mower catalogues. When he thought of it that way, he realized that complex modern financial markets were as good as designed to reward a person with Asperger's who took an interest in them. "Only someone who has Asperger's would read a subprime mortgage bond prospectus," he said.

By early 2007 Michael Burry found himself in a characteristically bizarre situation. He'd bought insurance on a lot of truly crappy subprime mortgage bonds, created from loans made in 2005, but they were
his
credit default swaps. They weren't traded often by others; a lot of people took the view that the loans made in 2005 were somehow sounder than the loans made in 2006; in bond market parlance, they were "off the run." That was their biggest claim: The pools of loans he had bet against were "relatively clean." To counter the assertion, he commissioned a private study, and found that the pools of loans he had shorted were nearly twice as likely to be in bankruptcy and a third more likely to have been foreclosed upon than the general run of 2005 subprime deals. The loans made in 2006 were indeed worse than those made in 2005, but the loans made in 2005 remained atrocious, and closer to the dates when their interest rates would reset. He had picked exactly the right homeowners to bet against.

All through 2006, and the first few months of 2007, Burry sent his list of credit default swaps to Goldman and Bank of America and Morgan Stanley with the idea they would show it to possible buyers, so he might get some idea of the market price. That, after all, was the dealers' stated function: middlemen. Market-makers. That is not the function they served, however. "It seemed the dealers were just sitting on my lists and bidding extremely opportunistically themselves," said Burry. The data from the mortgage servicers was worse every month--the loans underlying the bonds were going bad at faster rates--and yet the price of insuring those loans, they said, was falling. "Logic had failed me," he said. "I couldn't explain the outcomes I was seeing." At the end of each day there was meant to be a tiny reckoning: If the subprime market had fallen, they would wire money to him; if it had strengthened, he would wire money to them. The fate of Scion Capital turned on these bets, but that fate was not, in the short run, determined by an open and free market. It was determined by Goldman Sachs and Bank of America and Morgan Stanley, who decided each day whether Mike Burry's credit default swaps had made or lost money.

It was true, however, that his portfolio of credit default swaps was uncommon. They were selected by an uncommon character, with an uncommon view of the financial markets, operating alone and apart. This fact alone enabled Wall Street firms to dictate to him the market price. With no one else buying and selling exactly what Michael Burry was buying and selling, there was no hard evidence what these things were worth--so they were worth whatever Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley said they were worth. Burry detected a pattern in how they managed their market: All good news about the housing market, or the economy, was treated as an excuse to demand collateral from Scion Capital; all bad news was pooh-poohed as in some way irrelevant to the specific bets he had made. The firms always claimed that they had no position themselves--that they were running matched books--but their behavior told him otherwise. "Whatever the banks' net position was would determine the mark," he said. "I don't think they were looking to the market for their marks. I think they were looking to their needs." That is, the reason they refused to acknowledge that his bet was paying off was that they were on the other side of it. "When you talk to dealers," he wrote in March 2006 to his in-house lawyer, Steve Druskin, "you are getting the view from their book. Whatever they've got on their book will be their view. Goldman happens to be warehousing a lot of this risk. They'll talk as if nothing has been seen in the mortgage pools. No need to incite panic...and this has worked. As long as they can entice more [money] into the market, the problem is resolved. That's been the history of the last 3-4 years."

By April 2006 he'd finished buying insurance on subprime mortgage bonds. In a portfolio of $555 million, he had laid $1.9 billion of these peculiar bets--bets that should be paying off but were not. In May he adopted a new tactic: asking Wall Street traders if they would be willing to sell him even more credit default swaps at the price they claimed they were worth, knowing that they were not. "Never once has any counterparty been willing to sell me my list at my marks," he wrote in an e-mail. "Eighty to ninety per cent of the names on my list are not even available at any price." A properly functioning market would assimilate new information into the prices of securities; this multi-trillion-dollar market in subprime mortgage risk never budged. "One of the oldest adages in investing is that if you're reading about it in the paper, it's too late," he said. "Not this time." Steve Druskin was becoming more involved in the market--and couldn't believe how controlled it was. "What's amazing is that they make a market in this fantasy stuff," said Druskin. "It's not a real asset." It was as if Wall Street had decided to allow everyone to gamble on the punctuality of commercial airlines. The likelihood of United Flight 001 arriving on time obviously shifted--with the weather, mechanical issues, pilot quality, and so on. But shifting probabilities could be ignored, until the plane did or did not arrive. It didn't matter when big mortgage lenders like Ownit and ResCap failed, or some pool of subprime loans experienced higher than expected losses. All that mattered was what Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley decided should matter.

The world's single biggest capital market wasn't a market; it was something else--but what? "I am actually protesting to my counterparties that there must be fraud in the marketplace for credit default swaps to be at all-time lows," Burry wrote in an e-mail to an investor he trusted. "What if CDSs are a fraud? I am asking myself that question all the time, and never have I felt like I should be thinking that way more than now. No way we should be down 5% this year just in mortgage CDSs." To his Goldman Sachs saleswoman, he wrote, "I think I am short housing but am I not, because CDSs are criminal?" When, a few months later, Goldman Sachs announced it was setting aside $542,000 per employee for the 2006 bonus pool, he wrote again: "As a former gas station attendant, parking lot attendant, medical resident and current Goldman Sachs screwee, I am offended."

In the middle of 2006, he began to hear of other money managers who wanted to make the same bet he did. A few actually called and asked for his help. "I had all these people telling me I needed to get out of this trade," he said. "And I was looking at these other people and thinking how lucky they were to be able to get into this trade." If the market had been at all rational it would have blown up long before. "Some of the biggest funds on the planet have picked my brain and copied my strategy," he wrote in an e-mail. "So it won't just be Scion that makes money if this happens. Still, it won't be everyone."

He was now undeniably miserable. "It feels like my insides are digesting themselves," he wrote to his wife in mid-September. The source of his unhappiness was, as usual, other people. The other people who bothered him the most were his own investors. When he opened his fund, in 2000, he released only his quarterly returns, and told his investors that he planned to tell them next to nothing about what he was up to. Now they were demanding monthly and even fortnightly reports, and pestered him constantly about the wisdom of his pessimism. "I almost think the better the idea, and the more iconoclastic the investor, the more likely you will get screamed at by investors," he said. He didn't worry about how screwed-up the market for some security became because he knew that eventually it would be disciplined by logic: Businesses either thrived or failed. Loans either were paid off or were defaulted upon. But these people whose money he ran were incapable of keeping their emotional distance from the market. They were now responding to the same surface stimuli as the entire screwed-up subprime mortgage market, and trying to force him to conform to its madness. "I do my best to have patience," he wrote to one investor. "But I can only be as patient as my investors." To another griping investor he wrote, "The definition of an intelligent manager in the hedge fund world is someone who has the right idea, and sees his investors abandon him just before the idea pays off." When he was making them huge sums of money, he had barely heard from them; the moment he started actually to lose a little, they peppered him with their doubts and suspicions: