Busted: Life Inside the Great Mortgage Meltdown

[Cees Binkhorst]

REPLY TO: D66 at nic.surfnet.nl

Een 'waar gebeurd verhaal' van iemand die een hoge hypotheek neemt en
uiteindelijk 27% rente op zijn creditcard betaalt.
Maar goed dat hij een schrijver is, en misschien met het geld dat hij aan
het boek gaat verdienen de hypotheek kan afbetalen ;)

Groet / Cees

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/17/magazine/17foreclosure-t.html?em
May 17, 2009
My Personal Credit Crisis
By EDMUND L. ANDREWS

If there was anybody who should have avoided the mortgage catastrophe, it
was I. As an economics reporter for The New York Times, I have been the
paper’s chief eyes and ears on the Federal Reserve for the past six years.
I watched Alan Greenspan and his successor, Ben S. Bernanke, at close
range. I wrote several early-warning articles in 2004 about the spike in
go-go mortgages. Before that, I had a hand in covering the Asian financial
crisis of 1997, the Russia meltdown in 1998 and the dot-com collapse in
2000. I know a lot about the curveballs that the economy can throw at us.

But in 2004, I joined millions of otherwise-sane Americans in what we now
know was a catastrophic binge on overpriced real estate and reckless
mortgages. Nobody duped or hypnotized me. Like so many others — borrowers,
lenders and the Wall Street dealmakers behind them — I just thought I
could beat the odds. We all had our reasons. The brokers and dealmakers
were scoring huge commissions. Ordinary homebuyers were stretching to get
into first houses, or bigger houses, or better neighborhoods. Some were
greedy, some were desperate and some were deceived.

As for me, I had two utterly compelling reasons for taking the plunge: the
money was there, and I was in love. It was August 2004, just as the
mortgage party was getting really good. I was 48 years old and eager to
start a new chapter in my life with Patricia Barreiro, who was then my
fiancée.

Patty was brainy, regal, sexy, fiery and eclectic. She was one of my
closest friends when we were both students at an American high school in
Argentina. Back then, we would talk together about politics and books at a
coffee shop every day after school. We were not romantic in those days and
went our separate ways after high school. But each of us would go through
bruising two-decade-long marriages, and we felt that sweet spark of
remembrance and renewal upon meeting again in middle age.

After a one-year bicoastal courtship, Patty was about to move from her
home in Los Angeles to Washington. We would need a home with enough space
for her two youngest children, as well as for my own teenage boys on the
weekends. I had assumed we would start by renting a house or an apartment,
but it quickly became clear that it was almost easier to borrow a
half-million dollars and buy something.

Patty discovered a small but stately brick home in a leafy, kid-filled
neighborhood in Silver Spring, Md. We sent in an offer of $460,000 and one
day later got our answer: the sellers accepted. I felt both amazed and
exhilarated, convinced that the stars had aligned for us. I loved the
house as soon as I saw it. It was one block from a school and a park. My
boys would be within a 15-minute drive, and it would be easy for them to
come over and stay whenever they wanted.

The only problem was money. Having separated from my wife of 21 years, who
had physical custody of our sons, I was handing over $4,000 a month in
alimony and child-support payments. That left me with take-home pay of
$2,777, barely enough to make ends meet in a one-bedroom rental apartment.
Patty had yet to even look for a job. At any other time in history, the
idea of someone like me borrowing more than $400,000 would have seemed
insane.

But this was unlike any other time in history. My real estate agent gave
me the number of Bob Andrews, a loan officer at American Home Mortgage
Corporation. Bob wasn’t related to me, and I had never heard of his
company. “Bob can be very helpful,” my agent explained. “He specializes in
unusual situations.”

Bob returned my call right away. “How big a mortgage do you think you’ll
need?” he asked.

“My situation is a little complicated,” I warned. I told him about my
child support and alimony payments and said I was banking on Patty to earn
enough money to keep us afloat. Bob cut me off. “I specialize in
challenges,” he said confidently.

As I quickly found out, American Home Mortgage had become one of the
fastest-growing mortgage lenders in the country. One of its specialties
was serving people just like me: borrowers with good credit scores who
wanted to stretch their finances far beyond what our incomes could
justify. In industry jargon, we were “Alt-A” customers, and we usually
paid slightly higher rates for the privilege of concealing our financial
weaknesses.

I thought I knew a lot about go-go mortgages. I had already written
several articles about the explosive growth of liar’s loans, no-money-down
loans, interest-only loans and other even more exotic mortgages. I had
interviewed people with very modest incomes who had taken out big loans.
Yet for all that, I was stunned at how much money people were willing to
throw at me.

Bob called back the next morning. “Your credit scores are almost perfect,”
he said happily. “Based on your income, you can qualify for a mortgage of
about $500,000.”

What about my alimony and child-support obligations? No need to mention
them. What would happen when they saw the automatic withholdings in my
paycheck? No need to show them. If I wanted to buy a house, Bob figured,
it was my job to decide whether I could afford it. His job was to make it
happen.

“I am here to enable dreams,” he explained to me long afterward. Bob’s
view was that if I’d been unemployed for seven years and didn’t have a
dime to my name but I wanted a house, he wouldn’t question my prudence.
“Who am I to tell you that you shouldn’t do what you want to do? I am here
to sell money and to help you do what you want to do. At the end of the
day, it’s your signature on the mortgage — not mine.”

You had to admire this muscular logic. My lenders weren’t assuming that I
was an angel. They were betting that a default would be more painful to me
than to them. If I wanted to take a risk, for whatever reason, they were
not going to second-guess me. What mattered more than anything, Bob
explained, was a person’s credit record. History seemed to show that the
most important predictor of whether people defaulted on their mortgages
was their “FICO” score (named after the Fair Isaac Corporation, which
developed the main rating system). If you always paid your debts on time
before, the theory went, you would probably keep paying on time in the
future.

Bob’s original plan was to write two mortgages, one for 80 percent of the
purchase price and a piggyback loan for 10 percent. I would kick in the
final 10 percent, cashing out a chunk of New York Times stock — my last.
If I had been a normal borrower, the whole deal would have sailed through
at a low interest rate. My $120,000 base salary and my assets were easy to
document. But given my actual income after alimony and child support, I
couldn’t possibly have qualified for a standard mortgage. Bob’s plan was
to write a “stated-income loan,” or “liar’s loan,” so that I wouldn’t have
to give the game away by producing paychecks or tax returns.

Unfortunately, Bob’s plan hit a snag a few days later. “Ed, the
underwriters say that your name is on another mortgage,” he told me. “That
means you’re carrying too much debt.”

The mortgage was on my old house, which I had turned over to my ex-wife.
As part of our separation agreement, she accepted full legal
responsibility for making the payments. But the separation agreement also
spelled out exactly how much I had to pay each month to my ex-wife. If we
showed it to the underwriters, they would reject me.

Bob didn’t get flustered. If Plan A didn’t work, he would simply move down
another step on the ladder of credibility. Instead of “stating” my income
without documenting it, I would take out a “no ratio” mortgage and not
state my income at all. For the price of a slightly higher interest rate,
American Home would verify my assets, but that was it. Because I wasn’t
stating my income, I couldn’t have a debt-to-income ratio, and therefore,
I couldn’t have too much debt. I could have had four other mortgages, and
it wouldn’t have mattered. American Home was practically begging me to
take the money.

Despite the obvious red flag of applying for a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell loan,
I wasn’t paying that much for the money. The rate on my primary mortgage
of $333,700 was a remarkably low 5.625 percent for the first five years,
though my monthly payments would probably jump substantially after the
fifth year. On top of that, I was paying a much higher rate of 8.5 percent
on my “piggyback” loan for $80,300. Even so, I would be paying slightly
more than $2,500 a month for the first five years. It would get expensive
eventually, but I could worry about that later.

“Don’t worry,” Bob reassured me, saying what almost everybody else in real
estate was saying at that moment. “The value of your house will be higher
in five years. You’ll be able to refinance.”

As I walked out of the settlement office with my loan papers, I couldn’t
shake the sense of having just done something bad . . . but also kind of
cool. I had just come up with almost a half-million dollars, and I had
barely lifted a finger. It had been so easy and fast. Almost fun. I
couldn’t help feeling like a high roller, a sophisticated player who could
lay his hands on big money at a moment’s notice. Despite my nagging
anxiety about the gamble that Patty and I were taking, I had whipped
through the pile of loan documents in less than 45 minutes.

***

The icy slap of reality hit me two weeks after New Year’s Day in January
2005. We had been living in our new house for five months. I walked out of
The Times’s Washington bureau, several blocks from the White House, and
crossed Farragut Square to my bank. I had a bad feeling about what the
A.T.M. would reveal about my balance, but I was shocked when I looked at
the receipt: $196. We were broke.

My stomach churning, I reached Patty on her cellphone as she was running
errands. “We are out of money,” I snapped, skipping over any warm-up chat.

“What do you mean, we’re out of money?” she asked in bewilderment.

“I mean, I just checked my bank account, and we are out of money,” I
repeated, my voice rising in panic. “We can’t buy anything!”

My next paycheck would come in about a day or so, but that was entirely
reserved for the February mortgage payment. We didn’t have enough cash to
cover more than a week’s worth of groceries and gasoline. For the last few
months we were living off the cash left over after I sold my Times stock
and we bought the house. But now it was gone.

“How the hell could we have run through so much money so quickly?” I asked
her accusingly.

Patty wasn’t sharing my shock. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she
responded. “Let’s talk about it when you get home.”

Patty had spent much of the two previous decades as a stay-at-home mother
in Los Angeles. Her last full-time job, as an editor at a political
research company, was back in the early 1980s. Not surprisingly, Patty’s
re-entry into the job market was bumpy. When Saks Fifth Avenue offered her
a full-time job selling high-end clothing on commission — something she
knew about and loved — she grabbed it. But with her take-home income
averaging only about $2,400 a month, we didn’t make enough to cover our
bills because my take-home pay was going straight to the mortgage. We were
spending way more than we were earning.

In the euphoria of moving in together, we both succumbed to magical
thinking about ourselves, as well as about money. My fantasy was that
Patty would become an ambitious go-getter. “This can really be an exciting
new chapter of your life,” I kept telling her. Patty had a very different
dream. “I feel as if I am finally at home,” she exclaimed as soon as we
moved into the house. She could settle down and do the things she had
always been best at: making a new home, nurturing her children and loving
me. One way or another, she figured, we would earn enough money to make
good on our glorious gamble.

We had very different ideas about money. Patty spent little on herself,
but she refused to scrimp on top-quality produce, Starbucks coffee,
bottled juices, fresh cheeses and clothing for the children and for me.
She regularly bought me new shirts and ties to replace the frayed and drab
ones in my closet. She thought it wasn’t worth agonizing over nickels and
dimes. I was almost exactly the opposite. My answer to any money squeeze
was to stop spending. I would skip lunch at work to save $7. If I arrived
at the Metro just before the end of rush hour, I would wait for five
minutes to save 50 cents on the fare.

We were both building up grudges. “You can’t keep second-guessing me,” she
told me angrily. “It’s small-minded and petty, and it’s not very
attractive.” I was beginning to wonder whether she had any clue about how
money worked. We were lurching from paycheck to paycheck, one big home
repair away from disaster.

Meanwhile, neither of us was paying attention to how easy our bank had
made it to build up debt. The key was the overdraft protection — more
accurately described as “bounced-check loans.” Every time I overdrew my
checking account by even a few dollars, the bank would tap my MasterCard
for $100, helpfully deposit the cash in my account and charge me $10 for
the privilege.

Patty and I were now unwittingly tapping into our credit line at a
terrifying pace: $5 overdrawn because of school supplies for Patty’s
daughter Emily — $100 from the MasterCard. Fifteen bucks over because of
gasoline? Another $100 from the MasterCard. Groceries for $305? No
problem! Uncle MasterCard would front us $400.

Our debt spiraled up faster than I had ever dreamed possible. Chase Bank
had cold-called me to offer a “platinum” card with no interest charges for
the first six months. I took them up on it and shifted $3,000 in debt from
my old card onto the new Chase card. But instead of paying down the
balance before the interest charges began, I let it balloon to $6,000.
Chase had sent us blank checks that we could use to either pay bills or
give ourselves cash advances. I dismissed them as a cheap trick to lure
dimwits into borrowing more money. In March, I grabbed one of the checks
and used it to pay down $1,000 on my more expensive credit card.

***

I felt like a crack addict calling up my dealer. It was April 2006, and I
had just reached Bob Andrews, our once and future mortgage broker, on his
cellphone.

I was surprised at how glad I was to hear his voice. In his own way, Bob
knew more about my messy life than almost anybody else. He never seemed
judgmental or condescending. Instead, he seemed to think that money
trouble and failed marriages were natural parts of life, even for good
people with decent jobs. I felt relieved to have the chance to unload my
problems and ask for his advice.

“Bob, we’re dying over here,” I wailed. “I can’t even explain how it
happened, but we’ve got these unbelievable credit-card bills, and the
minimum payments add up to almost $1,100 a month. There’s no way we can
keep that up.”

I had months and months of credit-card bills spread across the dining-room
table, and I quickly confessed the full horror of what they contained. We
were approaching $50,000 in credit-card debt alone, and it was amazing how
fast and how deeply we had dug ourselves in. It was even more amazing how
long we had avoided the screaming evidence of a train wreck in the making.

Patty had suddenly got the break that seemed to solve our problems. In
November 2005, she was hired as a full-time editor at a nonprofit
organization with a salary of $60,000 a year. The problem, I told Bob, was
that things were so bad that even Patty’s new job wouldn’t be enough to
rescue us. Chase was now charging us 13.99 percent on our platinum card,
and the rate on our SunTrust card was up to 27 percent.

Between humongous loan balances and high rates, we had hung ourselves with
the rope they gave us. In the previous December alone, we charged $2,845
on the Chase card for Christmas gifts, food, gasoline, clothing and other
expenses. The charges included almost $350 for groceries, $700 in clothes
from J. Crew, $179 at GapKids and $700 for airplane tickets for two of
Patty’s children to visit their father in Los Angeles. Our balance climbed
from $14,118 to $17,135, and in January 2006 we maxed out at our $19,000
credit limit. And there were other expenses on other cards: $1,200 in
dental work for Patty’s son Ben; $1,600 to rent a beach house the previous
year for us and all the children. Granted, the beach house was an
embarrassing mistake. But given that Patty had landed a solid job, it
seemed like an indulgence we could work off later.

I felt foolish, ashamed and angry as I confessed to Bob. Why had I been
trying to live a lifestyle that I couldn’t afford? Why had I tried to keep
up the image of a conventional suburban family man, when nothing about my
situation was conventional? How could I have glossed over the fact that we
had been spending about $3,000 more than we were earning, month after
month after month? How could a person who wrote about economics for a
living fall into the kind of credit-card trap that consumer groups had
warned about for years?

“My inclination is to just raid my 401(k) account to pay off the cards,” I
told Bob. “I know we’d be paying huge taxes and penalties for withdrawing
money before retirement, but it’s not as bad as paying all that interest
to the banks.”

“No!” Bob interrupted fiercely. “You don’t want to do that. You’ll be
paying a basic tax rate of 28 percent, and they’ll hit you with another 10
percent penalty. You’d be giving up 40 percent in taxes. There’s got to be
a better way.”

I gave Bob permission to pull a credit report on us, and by the next day,
he had come up with a scheme that was either wickedly smart or proof that
the big-money people had gone mad. Or both.

“What we’re going to do is a two-step plan,” he announced. “The bad news
is that your credit scores are down, so we can’t just do a simple
refinance. But the good news is that you’ve owned your house for a year
and a half, and it’s gone up in value. So you can borrow against the
equity. So in the first step of the plan, we’re going to get you a really
ugly mortgage that is big enough to pay off all your credit cards.”

“O.K., I’m with you so far,” I said uncertainly.

“Now, because this mortgage is really ugly, your monthly payments will
jump to about $3,700. But don’t worry about it, because you’re only going
to stay in it for about three months. Once we pay off your credit cards,
your credit scores will go up and we can get you a cheaper loan.”

The way Bob figured it, my monthly payment would be down to about $3,200
by the fall. The new mortgage would be nearly $700 more than my current
mortgage because it would include all my credit-card debt, but it would be
at least $500 a month less than the combined total of what I was paying on
everything right then. And mortgage interest, unlike interest on
credit-card debt, is entirely tax-deductible.

The whole plan worked exactly as Bob had predicted. Within a few weeks, an
appraiser valued our house at $505,000, almost 10 percent above the
original purchase price two years earlier. On June 12, Patty and I signed
a new mortgage for $472,000 with Fremont Investment and Loan in Santa
Monica, Calif.

Fremont gave us a classic subprime loan. Our monthly payment jumped to
$3,700 from $2,500. If we kept the mortgage for two years, the interest
rate would jump as high as 11.5 percent, and the monthly payments would
ratchet up to as high as $4,500.

The paperwork was so confusing that I was never exactly sure who was
paying what. I hazily understood that I was paying most of the fees, one
way or another, but I couldn’t figure out how, and I couldn’t see any
better alternatives. After it was all over, I figured we had paid about
$5,800 in fees to Bob’s mortgage company and the settlement company, on
top of the sales commission that came out in higher interest rates every
month. But Patty and I paid off our credit cards, and my credit scores
jumped. In October 2006, Bob refinanced us once again, and our payments
dropped just as he had predicted.

***

We were still loaded with debt, but we weren’t paying 27 percent interest
rates on our credit cards. Patty was earning a solid salary, and I was
earning extra money working overtime at The Times. If we were careful, we
could meet our monthly expenses, chip away at our debt and even go out to
dinner once in a while.

Our brief interlude of optimism and peace ended on Oct. 10, 2006, when
Patty lost her job. “Don’t worry,” she said bravely. “This will not be
like the first time I was looking for a job. I’ve learned so much since
then, and I am going to find another job quickly.” In the meantime, she
said, she could collect unemployment for six months. She would also cash
out her retirement account, which had about $7,000 in it.

By any measure, the loss of Patty’s job was a financial catastrophe. We
hadn’t yet gone more than 30 days delinquent on the mortgage, thanks, in
part, to $15,000 I had borrowed shamefacedly from my mother after Patty
stopped working. But we were behind on everything else. Bill collectors
were calling six days a week, starting promptly at 8 a.m. “Telemarketers,”
I would mumble when my son Matthew asked why we got so many robocalls from
800 numbers. Our stately little house looked increasingly trashy: peeling
paint and broken screens on the front windows, crumbling concrete on the
front stoop, a lawn that was mostly crabgrass. The furniture that Patty
salvaged from her first marriage was falling apart. The cotton slipcovers
on the sofa and armchair were in shreds. The frosted-crystal shade on a
beloved Italian floor lamp was cracked. The dog had gnawed the leg on her
Biedermeier chair.

The panic attack hit me around 2 a.m. on Patty’s birthday. It was Oct. 17,
2007, and I was lying in bed obsessing over bills that couldn’t be
postponed and the money we didn’t have to pay them. Like many of my
predawn fear cascades, this one had its start with a specific unpaid bill:
$240 in traffic tickets — $140 for speeding, $50 each for expired tags and
inspection. The fines would double if we didn’t pay them in less than a
week. The tickets had uncorked the bottle on all the other “must pays”:
the $400 electric bill with the cutoff date printed in red; the $220
cable/telephone/Internet bill for the past two months; the MasterCard and
American Express bills — at least one of which had to be brought current
or I wouldn’t even be able to travel for work. And of course, there was
the $3,271 mortgage payment.

My panic circuitry was in fine form, connecting small debts to big ones,
short-term problems to the bottomless abyss, private calamity to public
shame. Once Patty was asleep and I was alone in the dark, the bottled-up
fear reached the surface. I tossed from side to side, trying to figure out
at least a triage plan for our bills. I was too fidgety to lie still in
bed, but I was in no mood to actually sit down with the bills themselves.
I climbed out of bed for a moment, then jumped back in. I couldn’t decide
if I would rather feel confined or all alone.

Patty woke up, irritated by all my movement and my occasional moans of
despair. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I can’t sleep,” I answered. “I’m panicking about money, because I don’t
know how we’re going to pay all the bills that need to be paid right now.”
I wanted her to take me in her arms and reassure me that everything would
be O.K. But that wasn’t happening.

“There’s nothing you can do about it right now,” she answered sleepily.

“If this keeps on, we’re going to lose the house,” I persisted, sounding
less panicked than petulant. If Patty wouldn’t give me comfort, then I
wanted her to suffer alongside me. “I don’t know how we’re going to make
it. We can’t go on like this.”

Patty had begged me to grant her a birthday reprieve from my nagging and
kvetching over money issues. What I saw as an uncontrollable moment of
panic, she saw as another deliberate attempt to browbeat her.

“I can’t believe you are doing this to me on my birthday,” she hissed in
fury. “All I asked for was one day of peace — one day when you weren’t
beating me over the head. And here it is, not even daylight yet, and
you’re waking me up to berate me about money.”

“Son of a bitch, what did I do to you?” I asked, punching my pillow in the
dark. “Do you think I enjoy having a panic attack? I can’t help what I’m
feeling. I’m just scared out of my mind.”

“That’s it!” Patty snapped, getting out of bed and pulling on her robe.
“I’m not going to listen to any more of this. I’m going to sleep
downstairs.”

In the morning, she let me have it.

“You lied to me,” she told me as I got coffee. “You said that what I saw
on the outside was pretty much what you were. But you’re completely
different. If I had known what you were really like, I would never have
come out here.”

Patty and I were hurtling toward bottom. We had been under so much strain
for so long that we were often at each other’s throats, jeopardizing the
love that brought us together in the first place. In November, four years
after buying the house, we finally crossed our personal Rubicon and fell
30 days behind on our mortgage.

“The last thing Chase wants is to foreclose on your home,” JPMorgan Chase
wrote us. It assured us that it wanted to “help” and was willing to
evaluate us for a number of “alternatives.” If we didn’t “resolve” our
payment delinquency, it politely warned, “you will lose your home.”

***

I took a certain pride that I outlasted two of my three mortgage lenders.
American Home, my original lender, collapsed overnight when the financial
markets first froze up in August 2007. Fremont, my second lender, was
forced out of the mortgage business by federal regulators. That left me
with JPMorgan Chase, one of the few big banks smart enough to sell off
most of the subprime loans it financed. It still serviced my loan, but it
wasn’t on the hook if I defaulted.

By the time that Patty and I fell behind, the rest of the world was
falling apart so fast that Chase barely had time for us. Bear Stearns and
Lehman Brothers were gone. American International Group, one of the
world’s biggest insurance conglomerates, received the biggest
taxpayer-financed bailout in history. Citigroup was a zombie bank. All of
them were brought down by the same mortgage madness that infected me.

When I first called Chase in October, a representative named Sarah said I
didn’t qualify for a loan modification because I wasn’t yet 90 days past
due. The only “loan modification” she could offer me was a “repayment
plan” under which I paid $400 more per month for six months until I was
current again.

“It sounds as if I would be better off waiting to fall 90 days behind,” I
said. “I think I’ll wait for that.”

It took a while, but Patty and I found we could get past blaming each
other. We had seen each other’s worst sides, but we were still together,
and that helped us to get closer. We started listening to each other.
Patty began to find her way in the work world, and I was learning that I
didn’t have all the answers. And we saw how our children were thriving. My
three sons transferred to schools in our neighborhood and made scores of
friends. Emily, Patty’s daughter, was a sparkling 10-year-old who loved
her home and her school as well as all her brothers. Even if we lost the
house, we had gained in other ways.

I called Chase back in January, when I was 90 days past due. Another
representative told me that I would automatically be evaluated for a loan
modification.

“You should just wait until you hear from one of our negotiators,” he told
me politely.

Another two months passed without anyone calling, so I tried again in late
March.

“I’m sorry, but our analysts have been backed up,” yet another Chase rep
told me, even more politely than the previous one. She said each analyst
had about 500 distressed borrowers to deal with, and it had been taking
about five weeks for customers to get a direct response. The delays seemed
to be getting longer.

I was actually beginning to feel sorry for Chase. It seemed to be so
flooded with defaulting borrowers that it didn’t have time to foreclose on
my house. Eight months after my last payment to the bank, I am still
waiting for the ax to fall.

Edmund L. Andrews is an economics reporter for The Times and the author of
“Busted: Life Inside the Great Mortgage Meltdown,” which will be published
next month by W.W. Norton and from which this article is adapted.

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