CHAPTER NINETEENPROPTRADER
Monday, September 15, 2008.
We should have been celebrating. This was, after all, our first house. Instead, we sat at a kitchen table in our attorney's home, papers spread out, both of us glued to our BlackBerrys as the crisis deepened in real time.
The headlines after Lehman kept breaking like aftershocks: Bank of America was scrambling to buy Merrill Lynch. AIG was on the brink. Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs were fighting for survival.
“You two should be happier,” our attorney said gently. “You're closing on your first home.”
Sue didn't look up. A photo on her screen stopped her cold—a man carrying a cardboard box out of Lehman's headquarters.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Masood.”
Her former colleague—someone she'd spent late nights with, celebrating deals, navigating chaos—was suddenly the face of Wall Street's implosion. More photos scrolled past: stunned employees filing out, clutching their personal items, staring into cameras like survivors of a sinking ship.
The attorney slid the last set of papers toward us. “Just need your signatures here.”
We signed almost mechanically, our minds still elsewhere—on the headlines, on the collapse, on the quiet dread neither of us could name.
Meanwhile, even as the financial world crumbled, some in the hedge fund industry were thriving. On September 23, Goldman Sachs secured a $5 billion infusion from Warren Buffett—a lifeline that, if known in advance, could make someone a fortune. And someone did know. ...
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