PEN-L message, [Pen-l] "the biggest financial crime ever perpetuated"

The fall of Bear Stearns wasn't just another financial collapse. There has never been anything on Wall Street to compare to it: a "run" on a major investment bank, caused in large part not by a criminal indictment or some mammoth quarterly loss but by rumor and innuendo that, as best one can tell, had little basis in fact. Bear had endured more than its share of self-inflicted wounds in the previous year, but there was no reason it had to die that week in March.

What happened? Was it death by natural causes, or was it, as some suspect, murder? More than a few veteran Wall Streeters believe an investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission will uncover evidence that Bear was the victim of a gigantic "bear raid"—that is, a malicious attack brought by so-called short-sellers, the vultures of Wall Street, who make bets that a firm's stock will go down. It's a surprisingly difficult theory to prove, and nothing short of government subpoenas is likely to do it. Faced with a thicket of lawsuits and federal investigations, not a soul in Bear's boardroom will speak for the record, but on background, a few are finally ready to name names.

"I don't know of any firm, no matter the capital, that could have withstood that kind of bombardment by the shorts," says a vice-chairman of another major investment bank. "This was not about capital. It was about people losing confidence, spurred on by rumors fueled by people who had an interest in the fall of Bear Stearns."

He pauses to let the idea sink in. "If I had to pick the biggest financial crime ever perpetuated," he concludes, "I would say, 'Bear Stearns."'

At Phi Kappa Wall Street, most of the frat boys are instantly recognizable. There's the big, backslapping Irishman, Merrill Lynch, the humorless grind, Goldman Sachs, and the straitlaced rich kid, Morgan Stanley. And then, off in the corner, wearing its beat-up leather jacket and nursing a cigarette, was the tough-guy loner, scrawny Bear Stearns, who disdained secret handshakes and towel snapping in favor of an extended middle finger toward pretty much everyone. Bear was bridge-and-tunnel and proud of it. Since the days when the Goldmans and Morgans cared mostly about hiring young men from the best families and schools, "the Bear," as old-timers still call it, cared about one thing and one thing only: making money. Brooklyn, Queens, or Poughkeepsie; City College, Hofstra, or Ohio State; Jew or Gentile—it didn't matter where you came from; if you could make money on the trading floor, Bear Stearns was the place for you. Its longtime chairman Alan "Ace" Greenberg even coined a name for his motley hires: P.S.D.'s, for poor, smart, and a deep desire to get rich.

The first team of Morgan executives reached Bear's sixth-floor executive suite around 11 that night. It didn't take long for them to realize the danger in what they were being asked to do. If Dimon lent Bear $15 billion or so and the firm imploded the next day, they could lose it all. A little after midnight Dimon told Schwartz in a phone call, "We've got to get the Fed in on this."

Downtown, Tim Geithner was waiting when Dimon telephoned. Any bailout, Dimon reiterated, was too big, too risky, for Morgan to handle alone. Both men knew that meant only one thing: somehow Bear had to be given access to the Fed "window," that is, the spigot of cash that was available to the nation's commercial banks, but not its investment banks. The only way for the Fed to help, to give Bear access to the "window," was to lend Morgan the money, allowing the bank to act as a bridge across which the Fed cash could stream into Bear's vaults.

Geithner, quickly grasping the wisdom of the move, got on the phone with Washington, going through the details with the Fed's chairman, Ben Bernanke, and the Treasury secretary, Hank Paulson, and his counterparts at the S.E.C. If they could just get Bear through the next day, perhaps a bigger and better deal could be forged over the weekend. By two a.m. teams from the Fed and the S.E.C. had joined the Morgan bankers at Bear, poring over the numbers. In Molinaro's conference room, Schwartz and Molinaro paced, occasionally taking bites of cold pizza; their fate, they now realized, was largely out of their hands.

By four a.m. the outlines of a deal were taking shape. Morgan would give Bear a credit line; the money would come from the Fed. It took three more hours for the details to be pounded out. At the last minute Morgan's general counsel, Stephen Cutler, inserted a line into the press release stating the credit line would be good for up to 28 days.

At Bear, Schwartz and Molinaro allowed themselves a few nervous smiles. They were saved—for 28 days. "We all thought this was a huge win," remembers one Bear executive. "We were all pretty pleased, thinking we had averted our potential deaths."