What Happened to Goldman Sachs: An Insider's Story of Organizational Drift and Its Unintended Consequences (8 page)

Nostalgia

I do not want to wax nostalgically about the good old days. I did on occasion observe vice presidents and partners acting in a way that might not be considered in the best interests of clients, though those were exceptions to the rule. For example, I remember working with an associate on a project advising a company that was buying a small subsidiary of another company. The partner was extremely busy and traveling, and although we sent him our analysis and kept scheduling calls to speak to him, he always canceled our discussions. He showed up less than a few hours before our client meeting, and, based on his questions, it appeared as if he had not read anything we sent him and was not prepared. This surprised me, because usually partners were highly detail oriented and well prepared.

He asked us for our valuation analysis, the value of the synergies, and the price the seller wanted. The asking price was higher than our valuation analysis (a breakdown that is more art than science). Moreover, our estimates of the potential synergies (the cost savings and revenue enhancement resulting from the deal), which meaningfully impacted the value, were highly subjective. When we met with the client CEO, the Goldman partner claimed that he had “been poring over the numbers all day and night” and he thought that if the company could buy the business at X price (coincidentally, the asking price we’d told the partner), then it was a good deal for strategic reasons.

When he said this, the associate and I looked at each other and then looked down. I reasoned that he might have been poring over the numbers without my knowledge, or maybe he meant “the team” had been. The deal ultimately got done; Goldman was paid a fee; and the partner was right—it was a strategic success, and the synergies justified the price. But it was one of the few times when I was junior that I privately questioned the approach. As for the other junior associate, we never really discussed what the partner had said.
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A few times I questioned coworkers directly when I felt it was appropriate. For example, I was tangentially helping a team led by a vice president in selling a company, and when the final bids and contracts were due from all the potential buyers at the same time in a sort of sealed auction process, only one buyer submitted a bid, and the bid price was less than the amount our client was willing to sell for. It seemed to be a delicate situation, because we had little negotiating leverage to persuade the only potential buyer to pay more. Also, the bidder was a good client of Goldman’s. However, the vice president called the sole bidder and said, “We had a number of bids” and told the bidder that to win the auction, he would have to raise his bid.

I questioned him, and based on his facial expression and the tone of his response, I don’t think he appreciated my inquisitiveness. He pointed out to me that he had said “a number of bids,” and “in this instance, the number is one.”

Ultimately, the bidder raised his price and ended up buying the company. When the vice president told the client exactly what he had done and said, the client chuckled approvingly.
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Then there are things I was uncomfortable with that I never raised through the proper channels—by speaking with vice presidents, partners, my big buddy, or my mentor, or by writing about the issues in “confidential and anonymous” reviews and surveys. Maybe it was because I didn’t trust the system or didn’t know how people would react. Maybe I was worried about developing a reputation as a tattletale or, worse, losing my job—something I couldn’t afford. Stories were quietly discussed and passed down—stories of people having challenged behavior or things said in confidence that got back to the wrong people, and then slowly and subtly those people would be “transitioned out.” Ironically, sometimes the guilty parties were characterized as not being team players or not embodying the culture when he or she left or was demoted. I was trying to figure out what was right and what was wrong—what was acceptable and what wasn’t—which, it seemed, wasn’t always black and white. In the story just related, the client seemed happy and the vice president didn’t “technically lie.” Technically, one could rationalize, we did put our client’s interests first.

But, as said, these examples were exceptions. The vast majority of the time that I worked in banking, the people with whom I worked did not rely on technicalities to determine what was right or wrong. I once joked to a friend that if someone found a nickel on the floor of the Goldman M&A department in 1992, he or she would go so far above and beyond what was required as to put up a “found” poster with a nickel taped to it, something that seems crazy anywhere, let alone on Wall Street. But in retrospect, “a number of bids” should have alerted me to the fact that there were multiple moralities or interpretations and that sometimes people might be obeying the letter of the law while violating its spirit, and rationalizing their behavior.
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Old School

At its best, Goldman enjoyed a reputation for honesty, integrity, and unquestioned commitment to serving the best interests of its clients, and at the same time enjoyed superior financial results. Critical to the firm’s success were the principles and values, both codified and uncodified, intended to guide behavior, communicate the essence of the firm, and aid in the socialization of new employees, and a partnership culture that emphasized social cohesion and teamwork. Recruitment sought to bring in people perceived to share the values, and the meaning of “long-term greedy” was taught and practiced. Sharing information and getting input from others were important, as was the socialization that the firm was a part of you and your success.

In
chapter 3
, I discuss the importance of the partnership structure and explain how it supported financial interdependence and provided opportunities for productive debate and discussion—all of which also supported the Goldman culture.

The Goldman Career Path

When I started in investment banking in 1992, Goldman typically hired new college graduates as financial analysts. Financial analysts, who made a two-year commitment to the firm, did very junior work, usually supporting more-senior people. In their third year, excellent performers were sometimes offered an opportunity to stay for a year, and top performers might be invited to work in another group or geographic region of interest. However, to become an associate, the next step on the typical career path at Goldman, one had to leave, attend business school or law school, and then apply to return as an associate. Occasionally, financial analysts were directly promoted to associate, meaning that no graduate school or reapplication was necessary (that’s the path I was invited to take).

Associates were typically hired right out of top business schools or law schools, and most of them spent their summer vacations working at Goldman, thereby allowing the firm to make sure there was a cultural as well as a performance fit. Associates did financial analysis but also spent time with clients and thinking more broadly about what was required for the client. After four years (if they hadn’t been transitioned out of the firm or to another group), most associates were automatically promoted to the title of vice president (“executive director” outside the United States). Vice presidents spent most of their time with clients and reviewed work done by analysts and associates. Typically, VPs worked with partners on larger deals or with larger clients. One way Goldman maintained its culture was through an elaborate employee review process begun in the early 1990s.
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The anonymous 360-degree reviews were so extensive, even for analysts completing their first year, that they sometimes filled a binder the size of a phone book. As many as twenty people (managers and peers) contributed to the meticulous preparation, which included quantitative rankings, areas for comments, and also a self-review and statement of goals. The review meeting, conducted annually, was scheduled far enough in advance of decisions about compensation that it was not a discussion about compensation, but rather about performance and improvement.

When I gave reviews as a business unit manager, people typically asked where they ranked in their class. By sitting in on reviews and in training sessions about giving reviews, I had learned to maneuver the discussion to methods for improvement and not relative class rankings or compensation. My understanding was that employees were supposed to leave the review feeling positive but, at the same time, with some degree of insecurity, knowing that they had things to work on, though no one ever formally discussed with me the rationale for (and the consequences of) delivering this mix of positive and negative messages. In my experience, most people heard only the negative message, thus socializing the idea that they needed the firm more than the firm needed them. We also had less-formal six-month reviews, especially with more junior employees, to give timely feedback for improvement.

Reviews became more sophisticated, quantitative, and professionalized during my years at Goldman. When I started in 1992, I never heard of a policy or ritual to cull the bottom 5 to 10 percent of a class. The classes were very small, and there seemed to be little differentiation among the members. However, as classes became larger and some people were viewed as stronger than others, Goldman seemed to informally adopt the 5 to 10 percent policy (a policy often credited to Jack Welch, then CEO of General Electric). People who did not perform well enough were told in the annual review that they were in “the bottom quartile,” which at Goldman was interpreted as a professional way of saying one should start looking for a job elsewhere. At the time, Goldman tried not to fire people outright but instead to give messages tactfully through reviews and compensation so that people could find another job. The trick in many ways was to convince the people not in the bottom quartile, but in the middle of their class, that they were on track for partner so that they were motivated, stayed focused, and did not leave. Though nearly all professionals at Goldman thought they were on the partnership track, in the back of their minds, typically they knew the chances were slim. Nonetheless they stayed.
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Typically, it took four to six years as a vice president in investment banking to be considered seriously for partnership election. The election process served as a sort of “up or out” mechanism, because being up for partnership a few times and not making it was essentially a public message about one’s future with the firm. Being denied partnership too many times could damage one’s external market value, so getting turned down for partnership the first time presented a difficult decision. One rejection could be rationalized, but failure to make partner two or three times was far more difficult to explain away to a potential employer, and by then one’s compensation and responsibilities probably reflected diminished prospects at Goldman.

After 1986, when Goldman’s primary competitor, Morgan Stanley, went public, Goldman was the only comparable firm that was a partnership and still used the title “partner.” Partnership election happened every two years. Until 1996, when the firm changed to a limited liability corporation (LLC) and adopted the title managing director, the progression was from analyst to associate to vice president to partner. Unlike now—when titles have proliferated at Goldman and on the rest of Wall Street—the head of a department or specialty area in the early 1990s typically was a partner. That was it—only four titles (analyst, associate, vice president, and partner)—making Goldman a very flat organization.
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The cubicles where analysts and associates sat were right next to the partners’ offices, and they worked directly with the partners and shared assistants. In fact, some partners tried to sit in cubicles to make themselves more accessible and approachable. They abandoned this approach because the partners had so many meetings with so many people it distracted the junior people around them. Also, the junior people who sat next to the partners felt their personal lives and comings and goings were becoming too transparent. One banking partner instituted trading desks instead of cubicles in his department to facilitate communication. This approach didn’t work, either, for much the same reasons.

Being a partner at Goldman was one of the most sought-after positions on Wall Street in part because of partners’ prestige and because Goldman partners generally were the highest-paid people on Wall Street. A Goldman partnership was “about as close to a sure thing as there is anywhere in the business world—a ticket to wealth and prestige.”
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Partners tended to manage departments or work with the most important clients and had responsibilities other than working on deals. For example, in the M&A department several partners would have to agree to sign something called a
fairness opinion
, a document issued by Goldman to a public company’s board of directors stating that the M&A transaction in question was “fair from a financial point of view” to shareholders. This “opinion” gave the board members confidence in the deal and was thought to protect them if they were to be sued or their judgment was questioned by shareholders.

Issuing an opinion was risky, because it could be challenged in court and Goldman could be subjected to legal and financial liability. In fact, Goldman’s IPO prospectus stated, “Our exposure to legal liability is significant,” citing “potential liability for the ‘fairness opinions’ and other advice we provide to participants in corporate transactions.” Before the IPO, the partners personally shared this liability. (After converting to a LLC and the IPO, partners did not have personal liability in the event of a successful lawsuit; any financial consequences would be borne by the firm and not the private partnership.) So partners in the trading business had to trust that the M&A partners were being very careful and thoughtful in issuing fairness opinions.

The Partnership Prize

Compensation can certainly send a message, but typically it is a private message to the employee from the company. Partnership, however, is a public recognition of the value of one’s contribution and ability to uphold the principles. It worked together with the culture to motivate people to accept lower compensation and work grueling hours. In addition, it served as a mechanism related to financial interdependence.

In a 2009 op-ed letter about the debate over bonuses and Wall Street pay, Peter Weinberg, son of Jimmy Weinberg and nephew of John L. Weinberg, described Goldman partnership and financial interdependence this way:

The only private partnership I can talk about authoritatively is the one in which I was a partner from 1992 to 1999, when the firm went public: Goldman Sachs. Partners there owned the equity of the firm. When elected a partner, you were required to make a cash investment into the firm that was large enough to be material to your net worth. Each partner had a percentage ownership of the earnings every year, but the earnings would remain in the firm. A partner’s annual cash compensation amounted only to a small salary and a modest cash return on his or her capital account. A partner was not allowed to withdraw any capital from the firm until retirement, at which time typically 75%–80% of one’s net worth was still in the firm. Even then, a retired (“limited”) partner could only withdraw his or her capital over a three-year period. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, all partners had personal liability for the exposure of the firm, right down to their homes and cars. The focus on risk was intense, and wealth creation was more like a career bonus rather than a series of annual bonuses
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The partners knew an elected partner’s actions and performance would reflect on them, and if they made an unwise choice, that could have serious financial and reputational consequences for them all. Partners also had to believe that transferring a percentage of profits from themselves to incoming partners would be advantageous—that the potential dilution of their own wealth and the added risk were worth the potential gain.

Consequently, the Goldman partnership process was carried out in painstaking detail, and that was generally understood throughout the firm. Partnership election was taken seriously, as shown by the personal involvement of senior executives. The partners judging a candidate’s merit and suitability were the very people with whom the candidate would be financially interdependent if granted partnership. Written nominations were solicited from the partners; from those nominations, the partnership committee created a preliminary list of potential candidates.
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During the months preceding partnership elections, it was difficult to get time with the partners because they had so many phone calls and meetings about candidates. Goldman held its partnership elections every two years rather than annually, in part because the process was so arduous and time-consuming.

Although the process was shrouded in secrecy outside Goldman and discussed in hushed voices or behind closed doors, some people knew what was going on from off-the-record conversations with partners with whom they were close. The conversations were supposed to be confidential, but rumors were quietly passed on. People knew who was a “lay-up” (a basketball term for an easy score), who was “on the bubble” (not sure to be elected), and who did not have “a prayer.”

Written nominations were solicited from Goldman’s partners, and from those nominations the partnership committee created a preliminary list of potential candidates, kicking off a paper chase. Endorsement letters were filed, and internal former FBI and CIA employees conducted background checks on all serious contenders. An internal investigation (called “cross-ruffing,” a term borrowed from the card game bridge) took place, led by a partner not in the candidate’s division. Then the list was narrowed during the meetings to discuss the would-be partners, a photo of the candidate was displayed on a screen, and from this list, a committee selected names to be placed before the partnership for a vote. The partners generally wanted to keep the percentage of partners to total employees about the same, so the number elected would be carefully chosen depending on retirements and growth.

The process might seem coldhearted, but it was viewed as essential to maintaining the culture, and everyone knew it.
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The behavior you needed to exhibit to make partner was clear: make money for the firm while embodying its principles. Everyone knew that becoming a partner required the support of people outside your division and region. Someone in banking needed support from asset management or trading. Someone in North America needed support from people in Asia. This was a key tenet of teamwork; to make partner, you had better help people across the firm. This meant that if you were asked to be on a 4:00 a.m. call with a Japanese client, even if it had nothing to do with your clients, you would set the alarm and do it without question, knowing that if you did not rise to the occasion, it could hurt your chances of becoming a partner (or staying a partner). If you were asked to bring someone from another area into a project because it could help improve the firm’s advice, then of course he or she was invited. And the new person participated even though the revenues of the project might not be attributed to you or your group. Candidates’ behavior was being vetted as much as their ability to contribute financially to the partnership.
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I was surprised when very senior partners asked—in a roundabout, casual way—my opinion of vice presidents who were widely known as being considered for partnership, and as I got more senior they privately told me why someone had or had not been elected—with the implied messages such information carried. Once a partner showed me the standard form used to evaluate candidates. The blank form included numerical rankings of listed qualities related to the Goldman principles.

Former Goldman vice chairman Rob Kaplan says that many of his most stressful and difficult moments at Goldman occurred during partner promotions, particularly when he had to deliver the news to a highly qualified person that he or she would have to wait another two years for reconsideration. It was little wonder that Kaplan writes in
What to Ask the Person in the Mirror
that this message of failure to make partner was often met with “expressions of betrayal.”
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One person I interviewed—a managing director (now at another firm) who was passed over for partnership at Goldman in the 1990s before the IPO—said that of course he was furious. He had done everything he could—he had given up weekends, birthdays, anniversaries, and vacation time with his family—and then had not been elected in spite of what he thought were positive indications (assurances that he felt were essentially promises) that he would be. Not making partner was devastating to him, he said. He told me that, for people at Goldman, who you are, and what you think about yourself, was ultimately decided at that moment. The thing he feared most was the public embarrassment and humiliation, even more so than the loss of potential riches. When he failed to receive the customary, congratulatory expected call from the senior partner of the firm on the appointed morning, he explained, he felt betrayed. He did not want to hear that he might very well become a partner the next time, in two years. He felt that people wanted him to stick around so that they could get two more years of relatively cheap labor from him and that they would say anything, just as they had assured him before, to keep him. But he was determined not to stick around while his peers from business school were called managing directors at other firms and he was called a vice president for another two years. His staying would be “a cheap option” for Goldman, so he swallowed his pride and successfully cashed in his pedigree by leaping to another firm.

In a 1993 interview, Steve Friedman, then a senior partner, explained that the partnership election process was used as a way to convey that people would be rewarded for doing what was best for Goldman and would be denied the ultimate reward—partnership—if they paid more attention to their own agenda than to the firm’s. Friedman described delivering that message to one disappointed banker: “I have looked people in the eyes and said, ‘You did not become a partner this time despite your basic abilities, your candle power, your energy. You had all the goods to have achieved it, but you did not become a partner because you were perceived as having too damned much of your own agenda, and you were ignoring what we were telling you was in the broader interests of the firm.’”
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The flip side of the partner election was that, to add partners, Goldman had to discreetly ask others to retire, for the simple reason that maintaining a greater number of partners would mean each would own a smaller percentage of the firm.
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If someone was
departnered
, it was only after careful deliberation by the most senior partners and usually resulted from making too small a contribution relative to ownership (Goldman could get someone else to do it for less) or from doing something that jeopardized the firm’s reputation and put the partners at financial risk. Thus, the pressure was on for performance and proper behavior, even for partners, and the pressure was intense.

Generally, there have consistently been more partner additions than departures, but the ratio of partners to the total number of employees has stayed relatively constant because of continued growth. For example, the total number of partners noticeably increased from 1984 to 2011, which corresponded to the increase of total employees: both nearly doubled from 1998 to 2011. However, the percentage of partners to employees (the partner ratio) remained steady at 1.5 percent to 2.0 percent. Growth was important to provide more opportunities for partnership and for the partnership to be financially attractive.

A retired partner I interviewed said that he never worked harder at Goldman than when he was a partner. He had partner responsibilities and obligations on top of his regular job. He explained that he had done everything by the book and was relieved when he made partner.

“Why were you relieved—was it the money?” I asked.

He explained, when he got to that point, it was less about the money than it was because everyone knew he was being considered for partnership—his wife, his clients, his business school classmates, everyone at the firm. He retired after the IPO, despite having been a partner for only a short time, because he was burned out, even though he knew that each year he could “hold on” represented millions of dollars. The pressure was taking a toll on his health and his family, he told me. Today he still values the social status of having been a partner, and that is how he is usually introduced in social contexts: “a retired pre-IPO partner of Goldman Sachs.”

No one was exempt from performing or from upholding the firm’s values. The departnering conversations were held discreetly and privately with the senior partner of the firm, but when the internal memo came out, there were almost always rumors, typically related to performance. The former partner hadn’t pulled his weight or wasn’t doing the expected culture-carrying tasks, such as recruiting. Or the outcast had done something harmful to the Goldman image, such as having an extramarital affair with someone at the firm or saying something inappropriate, or had subjected the partnership to unnecessary financial risk. Even if a partner left voluntarily for primarily personal reasons, there was almost always speculation about the “real” reasons.

A current partner told me that the organization looks for an explanation beyond the desire to leave because he or she may simply feel he or she has made enough money. That’s not acceptable, because it might send a message that money is the primary driver. If the reason for leaving is that the partner no longer enjoys the work, then people would wonder what there is about Goldman not to like, this partner told me. The firm convinces people that being a Goldman partner is something one would never want to surrender; it gives one social identification, prestige, money, and access, and it is perceived as serving a higher good. That is what is sold to potential and current employees. So if a partner leaves, something has to be wrong with him, and the firm perpetuates that belief through whispers. The partner explained that the only acceptable answer is that the partner is retiring to serve a higher purpose, which is to go into community and public service—and many do. He said it wasn’t the money, it was that their work ultimately needed a higher meaning.

Historically, Goldman’s process of partner election and departnering are exemplary of what sociologists term closure, the tight coordination within a group, which ensures that people comply with the organization’s norms.
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According to sociologist Ronald Burt, “closure increases the odds of a person being caught and punished for displaying belief or behavior inconsistent with the preferences in the closed network.”
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In his view, closure strengthens organizations by ensuring that people not adhering to expected norms can be removed.
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Making partner was so lucrative and the identity meant so much to people that they modified their behavior to enhance their chances of being elected, and, once they were partners, it became an integral part of their social identity.
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Rewarded behavior helped the firm as a whole. Partners worked hard to make more money but also were pressured to promote teamwork, the culture and the principles, and to stay within the firm’s rules and values.

Meanwhile, the close scrutiny of each partner’s contributions and adherence to the mandate during the partnership election provided closure by removing partners whose continued tenure was not to the advantage of the firm, thus ensuring trust among those who remained. In this way, partnership election and departnering reinforced the distinction between insiders and outsiders. The effectiveness of this practice is best seen, according to Charles Ellis, the author of
The Partnership—The Making of Goldman Sachs
, in the “speed and clarity with which long-serving partners who left went from being insiders to outsiders and were soon forgotten.”
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