bonds itself contained an even smaller world: people for whom the trade became an obsession. A tiny handful of investors perceived what was happening not just to the financial system but to the larger society it was meant to serve, and made investments against that system that were so large, in relation to their capital, that they effectively gave up being conventional money managers and became something else. John Paulson had by far the most money to play with, and so was the most obvious example. Nine months after Mike Burry failed to raise a fund to do nothing but buy credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds, Paulson succeeded, by presenting it to investors not as a catastrophe almost certain to happen but as a cheap hedge against the remote possibility of catastrophe. Paulson was fifteen years older than Burry, and far better known on Wall Street, but he was still, in some ways, a Wall Street outsider. "I called Goldman Sachs to ask them about Paulson," said one rich man whom Paulson had solicited for funds in mid-2006. "They told me he was a third-rate hedge fund guy who didn't know what he was talking about." Paulson raised several billion dollars from investors who regarded his fund as an insurance policy on their portfolios of real estate-related stocks and bonds. What prepared him to see what was happening in the mortgage bond market, Paulson said, was a career of searching for overvalued bonds to bet against. "I loved the concept of shorting a bond because your downside was limited," he told me. "It's an asymmetrical bet." He was shocked how much easier and cheaper it was to buy a credit default swap than it was to sell short an actual cash bond--even though they represented exactly the same bet. "I did half a billion. They said, 'Would you like to do a billion?' And I said, 'Why am I pussyfooting around?' It took two or three days to place twenty-five billion." Paulson had never encountered a market in which an investor could sell short 25 billion dollars' worth of a stock or bond without causing its price to move, even crash. "And we could have done fifty billion, if we'd wanted to."
Even as late as the summer of 2006, as home prices began to fall, it took a certain kind of person to see the ugly facts and react to them--to discern, in the profile of the beautiful young lady, the face of an old witch. Each of these people told you something about the state of the financial system, in the same way that people who survive a plane crash told you something about the accident, and also about the nature of people who survive accidents. All of them were, almost by definition, odd. But they were not all odd in the same way. John Paulson was oddly interested in betting against dodgy loans, and oddly persuasive in talking others into doing it with him. Mike Burry was odd in his desire to remain insulated from public opinion, and even direct human contact, and to focus instead on hard data and the incentives that guide future human financial behavior. Steve Eisman was odd in his conviction that the leveraging of middle-class America was a corrupt and corrupting event, and that the subprime mortgage market in particular was an engine of exploitation and, ultimately, destruction. Each filled a hole; each supplied a missing insight, an attitude to risk which, if more prevalent, might have prevented the catastrophe. But there was at least one gaping hole no big-time professional investor filled. It was filled, instead, by Charlie Ledley.
Charlie Ledley--curiously uncertain Charlie Ledley--was odd in his belief that the best way to make money on Wall Street was to seek out whatever it was that Wall Street believed was least likely to happen, and bet on its happening. Charlie and his partners had done this often enough, and had had enough success, to know that the markets were predisposed to underestimating the likelihood of dramatic change. Even so, in September 2006, as he paged through the document sent to him by a friend, a presentation about shorting subprime mortgage bonds by some guy at Deutsche Bank named Greg