Cover image for The fortune tellers : inside Wall Street's game of money, media, and manipulation
Title:
The fortune tellers : inside Wall Street's game of money, media, and manipulation
Author:
Kurtz, Howard, 1953-
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Free Press, [2000]

©2000
Physical Description:
xxiii, 326 pages ; 24 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780684868790
Format :
Book

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Call Number
Material Type
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Status
Central Library PN4784.C7 K87 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area
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Summary

Summary

Just as "spin" has taken over politics in America, so too has it come to define the long bull market on Wall Street. The booming trade in stocks, which has become a national obsession, has produced an insatiable demand for financial intelligence--and plenty of new, highly paid players eager to supply it. On television and the Internet, commentators and analysts are not merely reporting the news, they are making news in ways that provide huge windfalls for some investors and crushing losses for others. And they often traffic in rumor, speculation, and misinformation that hit the market at warp speed.

Howard Kurtz, widely recognized as America's best media reporter, and the man who revealed the inner workings of the Clinton administration's press operation in the national bestseller "Spin Cycle," here turns his skeptical eye on the business-media revolution that has transformed the American economy. He uncovers the backstage pressures at television shows like CNBC's "Squawk Box" and CNN's "Moneyline; "at old-media bastions like "The Wall Street Journal" and "Business Week," which are racing to keep up with the twenty-four-hour news


Author Notes

Howard Kurtz is the author of three previous books, including the national bestseller Spin Cycle. The media reporter for The Washington Post and host of the weekly CNN program Reliable Sources, he was named the nation's best media reporter by the American Journalism Review. He lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Kurtz is the Washington Post's media reporter and hosts CNN's Reliable Sources. His three previous books have all looked at various aspects of the way news is reported. He has offered examples of how newspapers have mishandled major stories in Media Circus (1993), lamented the proliferation of talk shows in Hot Air: All Talk, All the Time (1996), and investigated the relationship between reporters and President Clinton's press office in Spin Cycle: Inside the Clinton Propaganda Machine (1998). Now he looks at the explosive growth of financial journalism and questions the reliability of some financial information, wonders about the timing of certain news stories and releases, and raises ethical concerns about conflicts of interest. Kurtz especially sees problems when brokerage house analysts are called on as commentators. He offers up a brief history of financial news reporting, and he profiles some of the more colorful and controversial figures in the field. Much of what Kurtz exposes should serve as a warning to information-hungry investors who are often too quick to follow publicity bandwagons. --David Rouse


Publisher's Weekly Review

The growing accessibility of the Internet and of cable television have made financial information more available to more people than ever before. As Americans increasingly invest in the stock market, journalists who cover Wall Street have gained a celebrity status once reserved for network anchormen. As Washington Post media reporter Kurtz deftly shows in this incisive expos‚, the hosts of financial shows on such networks as CNN and CNBC, as well as certain online and print reporters, can "move markets" the way only analysts were able to do in years past. This trend has led to a growing interdependence between journalists, brokers and analysts. Kurtz (Spin Cycle) makes good on his unparalleled access to many of the major players, who come across as professional and thoughtful, though they sometimes get carried away by events they can't control and often find themselves caught in conflicts of interest. Jim Cramer is one of Kurtz's prime examples: founder of the financial Web site TheStreet.com as well as the manager of a $300-million hedge fund, he frequently writes about companies whose stocks he owns. But Cramer is far from the only one on Wall Street touting companies in which he has an interest. While Kurtz concludes with the predictable observation that Wall Street is a crazy, greedy, morally ambiguous place, his first-rate analysis of the interplay between the media and American financial institutions more than justifies the point. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

In this well-written, detailed, and thought-provoking analysis of business news, Kurtz, Washington Post media reporter and the author of Spin Cycle: Inside the Clinton Propaganda Machine, discusses how business journalists in all media report their stories and how this reporting moves financial markets. He details the relationships between technical analysts from brokerage houses and the various corporations they do business with, the corporations themselves, the traders on the floors of the stock exchanges, and business journalists. As Kurtz demonstrates, the activities of individuals in these groups, including their conflicts of interest and "spin" tactics, influence what information is reported. Kurtz portrays his fellow media professionals as "fortune tellers" because they convey not only factual material such as earnings reports and well-documented corporate activity but the opinions of pundits, corporate CEOs, and business forecasters. Readers will enjoy Kurtz's well-documented portraits of such celebrated personalities as James Cramer, Maria Bartiromo, Ron Insana, and Mark Haines. This timely and intriguing work is a good choice for public and academic libraries.DSteven J. Mayover, formerly with Free Lib. of Philadelphia (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Introduction At 2:15 P.M. on Friday, March 17, 2000, a little-known reporter blew a sizable hole in the stock of a high-flying, high-tech outfit called the Xybernaut Corporation. The company, which makes miniature computers that can be worn as accessories, had been on an incredible tear, the likes of which had somehow become breathtakingly routine in the dizzying atmosphere of Wall Street. Its stock, which had been selling for $1.31 a share the previous October, had hit nearly $30 two weeks earlier -- a more than twenty-fold increase for a firm with just eighty full-time employees?before settling back to $23 a share. But the situation changed dramatically when David Evans, a reporter in the Los Angeles bureau of the Bloomberg News service, got online to examine Xybernaut's filing that morning with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Evans found some troubling language that he quickly filed in a terse report for the Bloomberg financial wire. "Xybernaut Corp.'s auditor warned there's 'substantial doubt' about the maker of wearable computer systems' ability to continue as a going concern, citing its continuing losses and need for more capital," the story began. Xybernaut stock dropped precipitously until the market's 4:00 P.M. closing bell, and again in after-hours trading, to 14 15?16. In the space of a few short hours, the company, based in Fairfax, Virginia, had lost more than a third of its market value. The power of a single journalist to puncture the helium balloon of soaring stock prices had never been greater. But the lightning speed of modern technology also gave corporate executives the tools to fight back. John Moynahan, Xybernaut's chief financial officer, was on vacation in Florida and had turned off his cell phone about fifteen minutes before the Bloomberg report hit. He was extremely upset when he belatedly learned of the story. The warning by the company's accounting firm was, in Moynahan's view, mere legal boilerplate. The company had included it in every one of its SEC statements since going public in 1996, and raising the needed cash had never been a problem. The reporter had simply put the most alarmist spin on the story, describing Xybernaut as though it were in dire financial straits. Moynahan also thought the timing of the article, late on a Friday, was suspicious, and wondered whether investors who had shorted the stock -- betting that its price would decline -- had something to do with the story. At 9:40 on Saturday morning, Moynahan opened his laptop and signed onto a message board on Yahoo!'s Website that was devoted entirely to Xybernaut. Moynahan had founded the club, which had nine hundred members and drew as many as eleven thousand "page views" a day, and served as the site's moderator. He quickly planted his flag in that stretch of cyberspace, declaring that "in my six years with Xybernaut, the future for the company and its shareholders has never been brighter than it is today." Many club members, who actively traded the stock, were sympathetic. "The Bloomberg piece was a hit job, more or less," one person said. "The article and the timing smelled very fishy!" said another. Moynahan spent the rest of the day helping the company draft a press release assailing the Bloomberg piece. A company attorney had already complained to Bloomberg executives, who stood by the story. On Monday morning, Xybernaut said in its statement that the plunge in the stock price "was based on reaction to an article released late Friday afternoon and was not based on any fundamental change in our operations....The article did not accurately nor fairly describe our current position...or our future opportunities." David Evans was unperturbed by the conspiracy theories, since no one had prompted him to check the SEC filing. This was what he did for a living, digging out the fine print that companies declined to put in their press releases. Evans was accustomed to being deluged with angry e-mail from investors who blamed him when their stocks tanked, who viewed him as the evil messenger. But he was simply using government documents to tell the full story. On Tuesday morning, March 21, company executives issued another release that would prove even more important. Xybernaut said that the company and its products would be featured that evening on CNBC, the business network that carried immense clout with investors. The mere announcement of the upcoming segment helped boost Xybernaut's stock 24 percent, to just over $21 a share, or slightly below where it had been when the Bloomberg piece hit the wires. At 5:39 P.M., Evans moved another damaging story on the Bloomberg wire. Weeks earlier, Xybernaut had trumpeted a "buy" rating on its stock from a research firm called Access 1 Financial, which had predicted that the price would double within six months. Indeed, the price doubled within a month. What the company did not disclose, Evans had found, was that Mark Bergman, the president and founder of Access 1 Financial, was a former Xybernaut executive who still owned options to buy shares in the company. But Evans's report was immediately overshadowed. At 6:21, CNBC anchor Bill Griffeth introduced the segment on Xybernaut by saying: "You can wear just about everything else, why not your computer? It turns out that you can....A small company called Xybernaut has already made big strides in the hands-off computer sector." The story was punctuated by upbeat comments from Moynahan, and reporter Mike Hegedus posed in the studio with a computer attached to his belt and a futuristic-looking headset that enabled him to see the monitor by peering into a small mirror dangling before his right eye. Shortly after 7:00 P.M., CNBC's Business Center reported that Xybernaut stock had gained another dollar in after-hours trading. In the space of five days, the company's stock had been decimated and then magically revived, thanks to the media power-brokers who wielded such enormous influence on Wall Street. When journalists cover politics, their outsider role is clearly defined. No single reporter can affect White House policies or a candidate's campaign through mere analysis or commentary. True, if several news organizations pound away in unison, they can put an issue on the national agenda or throw a politician on the defensive. But such efforts can be measured only roughly, through the fleeting snapshot of opinion polls. Much of the public distrusts the press, muting the impact of a concerted editorial attack on the president or other national figures. In this realm, journalists are scorekeepers and second-guessers and naysayers, and their influence is ephemeral and diffuse. In the business arena, however, financial journalists are players. They make things happen instantaneously, and their impact is gauged not by subjective polls but by the starker standard of stock prices. A single negative story, true or not, can send a company's share price tumbling in a matter of minutes. A report about a possible takeover attempt can immediately pump up a stock, adding billions of dollars to a company's net worth. The clout of financial journalists affects not just the corporate bottom line but the hard-earned cash of millions of average investors. In business, unlike politics, the reporting of rumors is deemed fair game, since rumors, even bogus ones, move markets. And in an age of lightning-quick Internet reports, saturation cable coverage, and jittery day traders, moving the market is a remarkably easy thing to do. Journalists, of course, don't spew out information and speculation in a vacuum. They are used every day by CEOs, by Wall Street analysts, by brokerage firms, by fund managers who own the stocks they are touting or are betting against the stocks they are trashing. These money men are as practiced in the art of spin as the most slippery office-seeker, measuring their success not in votes but in dollars, not in campaign seasons but in minute-by-minute prices. Amid this daily deluge, there's one inescapable problem: Nobody knows anything. These are savvy folks, to be sure, but all of them -- the journalists, the commentators, the brokers, the traders, the analysts -- are feeling their way in a blizzard, squinting through the snow, straining amid the white noise to make out the next trend or market movement or sizzling stock. They traffic in a strange souplike mixture of facts and gossip and rumor, and while their guidance can be useful, they are just as often taken by surprise, faked out by the market's twists and turns, their piles of research and lifetime of learning suddenly rendered irrelevant. They talk to each other, milk each other, belittle each other, desperately searching for someone who knows just a little bit more about the stock that everyone will be buzzing about tomorrow. They are modern-day fortune tellers, promising untold riches as they peer into perpetually hazy crystal balls. Still, they wield great influence. In a confused world where everyone is jockeying for advance intelligence on what to buy or sell, information is power. The ability of a single analyst to drive investors in or out of a particular stock, once his views are amplified by the media echo chamber, is nothing short of awesome. Some reporters, to be sure, manage to ferret out useful stories amid the blurry landscape. But there is no real penalty for being wrong; the journalists, the commentators, and the analysts blithely chalk up their mistakes to the market's unpredictability and quickly turn to the next day's haul of hot information. It is a mutual manipulation society that affects anyone with a direct or indirect stake in the market, which is to say nearly everyone in America. Ever since the southern tip of Manhattan became a fledgling financial center in the 1790s, much has hinged on the speed of information. The original brokerage houses had to be near each other so that messengers could race back and forth with the latest prices. Before long, men with telescopes and flags stood on hills and buildings so they could relay information by semaphore code between New York and Philadelphia. The launch of Samuel Morse's telegraph in 1844, followed by the invention of the stock ticker twenty-three years later, proved ideal for rapidly transmitting data around the country. The New York Stock Exchange installed its first telephone in 1878. Over the next century, radio, television, fax machines, and computers each kicked the financial markets into new and ever-faster territory. Over the past generation these changes, and the evolving culture of financial news, have been nothing short of startling. In the first weeks of 1971, Irving R. Levine, returning from two decades of overseas reporting, had lunch with NBC's Washington bureau chief to figure out what he should do next. Levine wanted to cover the State Department, but only two backwater beats -- business and science -- were available. He chose business news, a subject deemed so specialized that no other network had bothered to assign a full-time correspondent. The bow-tied Levine would offer pieces to NBC Nightly News when the monthly figures on unemployment or inflation were released, but the producers were rarely interested. "It's not a story," they would say. In those days, when most American households considered the stock market foreign terrain, the business world was covered largely for insiders. The Wall Street Journal was a single-section newspaper. Business Week, Fortune, and Forbes were generally considered trade publications. There were no computers in the office, no cable television, no programs devoted to business. It was, Levine realized, a third-tier assignment. Things began to change on August 15, 1971, when Richard Nixon stunned the nation by imposing wage and price controls. Now the Today show wanted a weekly spot from Levine. The Arab oil embargo of 1973 and the federal bailout of Chrysler in 1979 also boosted the visibility of business news. Louis Rukeyser launched his PBS program Wall Street Week, and the birth of CNN in 1980 produced the first nightly business report on national television, Lou Dobbs's Moneyline. Levine began getting invitations from business groups for paid speeches. He was summoned back from Denver, where he was giving a speech, when the stock market plunged by 22 percent in October 1987. Financial news was now indelibly part of the media mainstream. By 1989, Levine was such a recognizable figure that the network begged him to become a contributor to its new cable business channel, CNBC. There was no money in CNBC's meager budget to pay him, but Levine reluctantly agreed to do a weekly commentary. Several years later, as CNBC became more glitzy, the straight-arrow Levine found himself abruptly disinvited. Soon afterward, he retired from television. The business world of the twenty-first century moves with a lightning quickness that would have been unimaginable when Irving R. Levine entered the fray: online investing, global trading, an increasingly volatile stock market. And the media play a vastly more important role in pumping and publicizing the money machine. In the 1980s, an entrepreneur named Michael Bloomberg made a fortune by sending out streams of complex financial data and news reports through leased computer terminals that became mandatory on trading floors and in newsrooms. Online news operations like TheStreet.com and CBS Marketwatch.com, and investor chat rooms on such Websites as Yahoo! and Silicon Investor, exploded in the late 1990s. In fact, the money and media cultures have reached a grand convergence in which corporate executives boost their companies by trying to steer the nonstop coverage, while news outlets move stocks with an endless cascade of predictions, analysis, and inside dope. Nearly everyone, it seemed, was paying attention. A decade ago, those chronicling the ups and downs of Wall Street spoke to a narrow audience comprised mainly of well-heeled investors and hyperactive traders. But a communications revolution soon transformed the landscape, giving real-time television coverage and up-to-the-second Internet reports immense power to move jittery markets. This mighty media apparatus had the ability to confer instant stardom on the correspondents, the once-obscure market gurus, and the new breed of telegenic chief executives. CNBC was now as important to the financial world as CNN was to politicians and diplomats, and like Ted Turner's network, it had the power to change events even while reporting on them. This was America's new national pastime, pursued by high-powered players and coaches whose pronouncements offered the tantalizing possibility that the average fan could share in the wealth. Like the fortune tellers of old, they gazed into the future where unimaginable riches awaited those who could divine the right secrets. The fortune tellers began 1999 bursting with confidence. The bulls had been running strong for four years, the Dow improbably surging from 4,500 to over 9,000, and that doubling of investor wealth tended to obscure the mistakes of the media and market gurus. Everyone was making money and feeling good. Of course, any other business with such an erratic track record would have felt a bit humbled. The Dow's nearly 2,000-point decline the previous August and September had sent much of the media into growling bear mode. "The Crash of '98: Can the U.S. Economy Hold Up?" asked Fortune magazine. "Is the Boom Over?" wondered Time. Walter Russell Mead wrote in Esquire that if the world's economic ills reached the United States, "stock prices could easily fall by two-thirds -- that's 6000 points on the Dow -- and it could take stocks a decade or more to recover." In the same issue, writer Ken Kurson declared: "This market will crash hard and stay crashed." Only it didn't. In an extraordinary turnaround, the Dow was back above 9,300 before Christmas. The warnings of a few weeks earlier quickly faded. Optimism was again all the rage. The commentators and the Wall Street analysts were back on the bandwagon. Yesterday's blown predictions were fish wrap. Back in the summer of 1997, Money had used big red letters on its cover to scream: "Sell Stocks Now!" The Dow was then at 7,700; anyone who had taken Money's advice would have missed another year and a half of a spectacular bull market. All that counted in this hyperventilating atmosphere was: What's the stock market gonna do tomorrow? And how can I get in on the action? Everyone, it seemed, was playing the market, from the New York hairstylist who kept a twelve-hundred-dollar quote machine next to his barber's chair to the day traders at the computer-equipped Wall Street Pub in Delray Beach, Florida, to the retired bureaucrat buying on his home computer through E*Trade. Some folks were becoming millionaires, others losing their student loans and second mortgages. There were 37,129 investment clubs in the country, compared to 7,085 in 1990. More than $230 billion a year was being invested in stock mutual funds, compared to less than $13 billion in 1990. Nearly half of American households had some stake in the Wall Street boom, either through 401(k) plans or fund shares or hastily acquired stocks. Some eleven million people were trading online, a phenomenon that was less than three years old. But more than mere money was at stake. The market was now an integral part of American pop culture. All the cable news channels now displayed little boxes at the bottom of the screen showing the latest score of the Dow and the S & P 500 and the Nasdaq Composite, whether the president was being impeached or bombs were falling on Baghdad or Belgrade. In New York, the 11:00 P.M. newscast on WCBS-TV provided updates on the Hang Seng, the Hong Kong stock market, right after the murders and fires and rapes. Mobile phones on airline seat-backs flashed liquid-crystal updates on the Dow and the Nasdaq. Vanity Fair featured stock guru Abby Joseph Cohen in a spread on hot commodities, along with the Lexus LX 50 and thong underwear. Sam Donaldson kept CNBC on in his office. Don Rickles and Lily Tomlin did TV ads for Fidelity Investments with superstar strategist Peter Lynch. Basketball coach Phil Jackson pitched the online brokerage T. D. Waterhouse, while Star Trek's William Shatner hawked the discount services of priceline.com. Barbra Streisand and the "Fonz," Henry Winkler, searched for promising Internet firms, and found that their celebrity helped them to obtain stock at an insider's price. Mike Doonesbury, the comic-strip character, launched an Internet IPO that soared and crashed. Time asked porn star Jenna Jameson for her stock tips. The New York Observer found a woman who listened to stock reports on her radio headset while making love to her husband. Howard Stern mused about buying a stock, touting it on the air, waiting for the price to surge, and flipping it for a quick profit. Wall Street was hotter than sex in the sixties, disco in the seventies, or real estate in the eighties. And that meant the market soothsayers were reaching a wider audience, a voracious audience, each day. No matter that some of these prophets had been spectacularly wrong. Barton Biggs, a veteran sage at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter, had warned in the early days of the Clinton presidency, back in 1993: "We want to get our clients' money as far away from Bill and Hillary as we can. The president is negative for the market." The Dow had risen nearly 8,000 points since Biggs uttered those words. But he remained one of the most quoted strategists around. Every so often, some trader whispered the truth. Ted Aronson, a Philadelphia broker who managed more than $2 billion, admitted to Money magazine that he invested his own family's money in Vanguard index funds because, with their automatic-pilot approach and rock-bottom costs, they almost always beat the managed funds. But few others publicly acknowledged that most mutual funds were laggards, and the media outlets peddling financial wisdom had little reason to encourage them. The endless swirl of market advice was built upon the notion that a get-rich-quick scheme was always just around the corner. An exploding number of mutual funds -- from 2,599 in 1993 to 5,183 in 1998?beckoned from every stall in the media marketplace. The magazine covers of early 1999 fervently hawked such wares. "The Best Mutual Funds," said Business Week. "Best Buys," said Forbes. "The Best and Worst Mutual Funds," said SmartMoney. "Secrets of the Stock Stars," said New York magazine. "Hot Picks from America's Best Analysts," said Money. But the advice proved ephemeral. Money magazine had run its annual cover story on a dozen hot stocks in 1992. A year later, only one of the previous year's dozen had made the list. And by '95, not one of Money's previous forty recommendations had made the cut. Each month, each week, the media needed something new to sell, and Wall Street operators were only too happy to comply. The thriving casino in the narrow streets of lower Manhattan created a hunger for information and a growing belief that amateurs could gain access to sensitive data as quickly and as thoroughly as big-time institutional traders. The explosion of financial intelligence itself became a growth market for the media, and for professionals determined to influence the media. One result was the spectacular rise and huge cult following of CNBC, whose programming consisted mainly of middle-aged white guys in suits talking about market trends. A network such as CNBC, or a magazine like Fortune, or a newspaper like The Wall Street Journal, needed a steady parade of experts, analysts, and wise men to fill air time or column inches and convey the appearance of authority. It needed a nonstop flow of tips, touts, picks, and pans to lure consumers with the idea that they just might get in on the Next Big Thing. But the whole contraption resembled a house of cards, a sustained illusion that both sides had a vested interest in perpetuating. Much of the media hype surrounding the stock market was essentially an orgy of pontification and speculation that pretends it is possible to know the unknowable. A single Wall Street analyst, his voice amplified by the media megaphone, could send a stock soaring or sinking with opinions that might well turn out to be wrong. A columnist could goose a company's stock with takeover talk that often proved to be nothing but gossip. While vast sums were riding on the latest pronouncement from the fortune tellers, they often had blurry tarot cards and cloudy crystal balls. Nearly nine out of ten fund managers failed to beat the Standard & Poor's 500 in 1998, the culmination of a five-year trend; 542 even managed to lose money. Yet they were still trotted out by the press as the purveyors of financial wisdom. A boring, buy-and-hold strategy generally yielded greater profits over the long run than trying to time an unpredictable market. But admitting that fact would hurt the industry's quest for new investors and the media's quest for new readers and viewers. So everyone played The Game. Few paused to notice that those dishing out the advice often had a vested interest in the outcome. Outright corruption was rare; the most notorious case involved R. Foster Winans of The Wall Street Journal , who had been sentenced to prison in 1985 for selling advance information from the influential Heard on the Street column he helped write in exchange for his share of $30,000 in payoffs. Yet the web of incestuous relationships was in some ways just as troubling. Market gurus touted stocks in which their firms were heavily invested. Brokerage analysts were under internal pressure to be upbeat about corporations that might hire their houses for investment-banking services; a few had even been fired for their pessimism. Fortune, Forbes, Money, SmartMoney, Business Week, Barron's, CNBC, and CNNfn made media stars of brokers whose investment companies they courted for lucrative advertising. "PETER LYNCH & friends uncover the BEST STOCKS to buy now," blared the cover of Worth magazine; inside was a full-page ad for Lynch and Fidelity. This was hardly surprising, since Fidelity owned the magazine. "Mexican Stocks May Finally Look Appealing," said the Journal's Heard on the Street column. Who said so? Eduardo Cepeda, managing director of J. P. Morgan in Mexico City, who declared that "it's time to buy at least a few top names in Mexico." And his firm would be happy to sell them. In Business Week's Inside Wall Street column, Gene Marcial was bullish on Inktomi, a software provider whose stock had just dropped 20 points because Microsoft was phasing out its Internet search engine service. "Is it downhill from here?" Marcial wrote. "No way, say some pros." One of the "pros" was John Leo, head of Northern Technology Fund, which, the column noted, owned Inktomi stock and was buying more. Seth Tobias, head of Circle-T Partners, used his slot as guest host of CNBC's popular morning show Squawk Box to talk up AT&T and MCI WorldCom as companies that were well positioned to benefit from the Internet boom. They are, he added, "our largest holdings." Conflicts seemed to be lurking everywhere. When mutual fund manager Garrett Van Wagoner appeared on CNBC's Street Signs in January 1999, he touted an online company called OnHealth Network. Its stock, which had opened at 8 1?4, surged as high as 21 7?8 before closing at 18 1?2. Anchor Ron Insana had prodded Van Wagoner into admitting that his company owned more than 10 percent of the shares, but that didn't seem to matter to those bidding up the stock. Insana was furious when The Wall Street Journal discovered weeks later that OnHealth had sold Van Wagoner Capital Management a big chunk of stock in a so-called "private placement" for just $5.50 a share, a fraction of its market price. Van Wagoner, who now owned 16 percent of the company, insisted that there was nothing wrong with telling CNBC's viewers what he liked. The financial media, with CNBC at the forefront, seemed to specialize in stoking the flames surrounding white-hot Internet stocks, which increasingly were driving the rest of the market even higher. After all, Net companies were sexy and fascinating to journalists, compared to, say, the Exxon-Mobil merger, which was important but dull. Even the ever-cautious Alan Greenspan, chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, said he understood that buying Net stocks was like playing the lottery. And millions of people wanted to know which tickets were most likely to hit the jackpot. "Could Yahoo! merge with CBS? How about America Online with Disney?" asked the Journal's Heard on the Street column in February 1999. But the writers quickly acknowledged that "the chatter hasn't yielded much" and "it's all speculation at this point." Such speculation, of course, invariably moved the market. And the market for tech stocks was already so overheated that it was starting to resemble the Dutch tulip craze of the 1600s. Some investors even called themselves Tulipheads. The tulips, of course, wound up nearly worthless. USA Today ran a remarkably upbeat cover story the same day on eBay, the Net auction site that was trafficking in everything from Beanie Babies to Elvis signatures, reporting that the company's "volcanic success looks unstoppable...nothing, it seems, can slow eBay." Recent "embarrassments" -- system crashes and a consumer fraud investigation -- were dismissed as minor. The fact that the stock had dropped more than 39 points the day before, to 239, was brushed off as "almost humdrum." The day the piece appeared, eBay's stock dropped another 18 points. But who cared? The dramatic swings simply made for better copy. Fifty key Web-related stocks had jumped 187 percent in 1998, and another 55 percent in the first days of 1999, before dropping by 20 percent. This, then, was the dilemma facing the fortune tellers as the turn of the century approached. The old rules didn't seem to apply. The old valuations didn't seem to matter. Investors were tripling and quadrupling their wealth in weeks or months, despite the cautionary warnings of the more traditional experts, and the media were breathlessly trumpeting the bull market as one of history's great events. It was, in short, one heckuva roller coaster. But the ride down could be rather scary. Copyright © 2000 by Howard Kurtz Chapter One: The King of all Media It was the worst day of Jim Cramer's life. For fourteen long years, the flamboyant Wall Street trader had worked insane hours, getting to the office by 5:00 each morning, shouting orders, playing each hiccup in the market to make money for himself and his small coterie of investors. He had become fabulously wealthy, grabbed a bit of fame as a magazine writer and television commentator, even launched a thriving Internet news service. He had also gotten into a couple of ethical scrapes, juggling his roles as both media hotshot and market guru, but there was no question he was at the top of his hard-fought game. And now, on the morning of October 8, 1998, Cramer was watching it all unravel. The once-soaring stock market had been in a stomach-churning decline since July, slicing nearly 2,000 points off the Dow and making fools of those who had so confidently placed their bets on the exhilarating ride up. Suddenly, inexplicably, one investor after another had been calling Cramer and demanding his cash. Before long, half the one hundred investors in the hedge fund, Cramer, Berkowitz & Company, were bailing out. There was talk that Cramer was losing his focus, that he was spread too thin with his various media ventures. Cramer's confidence was badly shaken. No one, not a single investor, had ever bolted on him before. What had he done wrong? True, he was having a bad year; the fund had earned just 2 percent since January, compared to a 30 percent rise in the Standard & Poor's 500 index. But these mass defections were his worst nightmare. All of the fund's money was invested in the ailing market, yet Cramer was required to wire the cash to his disgruntled clients by 1:00 p.m. He had six hours to come up with more than $50 million. Most of the time, Cramer was cool in a crisis. Sitting at the trading desk in his eighth-floor office at 100 Wall Street, surrounded by four computers and a Bloomberg terminal flashing the fate of stocks in green and red, he would bark directions to his staff, scan the papers, listen to CNBC on the television set behind him, write his online columns, and scroll through his e-mail, sometimes all at once. He would pick up the black phone with the open line to Max Levine, his broker, and buy "five AOL" or sell "ten Sun Micro" as easily as a couple of lottery tickets, when he was actually betting hundreds of thousands of dollars on companies with amazingly volatile stocks. But today was different. Cramer had triggered the crisis himself, by trying to help out Eliot Spitzer, an old pal and law school classmate. Spitzer was the Democratic candidate for New York state attorney general, and he badly needed money to finance his campaign. Spitzer's cash was tied up in the hedge fund, and Cramer agreed to let him withdraw it. Under federal rules, however, hedge funds had to treat all investors equally, and so Cramer had to announce a day on which all his clients would be eligible to pull their cash. The due date fell on October 8, which happened to come during a near-panic on Wall Street. The Dow had dropped from more than 9,300 to less than 7,500 in just 10 weeks. Cramer had persuaded a few of the defectors to stand by him, but most were determined to pull the plug. He had $20 million in cash on hand, but he needed to sell enough stocks to pay out $70 million?and he had to sell them in a frenzied environment in which prices were dropping like a rock. In the worst blow of all, one of those abandoning ship was Martin Peretz, the owner of The New Republic magazine and one of Cramer's closest friends. Cramer thought of himself as having been like a son to Peretz. They had been tight since his days at Harvard Law School in the early 1980s, when he took one of Peretz's classes. Even then Cramer had a feel for the market; Peretz had found himself making money from the weekly stock tips that Cramer would leave for callers on his answering machine. Peretz was so impressed that he had given the headstrong young man $500,000 to invest, and Cramer had tripled his money. The friendship blossomed -- Peretz was the best man at Cramer's wedding -- and in 1996 they had teamed up in launching TheStreet.com, a financial news Website that was attracting a loyal following. For Peretz's fiftieth birthday, Cramer had raised $50,000 for the Jerusalem Foundation, a favorite cause for the fiercely pro-Israel publisher. But their relationship had grown increasingly strained. Cramer was tired of the mentor-student paradigm; he was forty-three now, and he wanted Peretz to regard him as an equal. And he felt that Peretz had reneged on his word by putting up less than the full share he had promised for financing TheStreet.com, an accusation that Peretz strongly disputed. Cramer felt he was busting his butt on the new company and that Peretz was doing little or nothing. Yet he needed Peretz because the Securities and Exchange Commission had insisted that, as a trader, Cramer had to be aligned with a legitimate publisher in a Web operation covering the very market in which Cramer was so heavily invested. Frustrated, Cramer told Peretz that their fifty-fifty split in TheStreet.com had to change, and demanded a million more shares in the company. Peretz balked, viewing this as a rather piggish move by his one-time pupil, but reluctantly went along. At a Street.com Christmas party in 1997, Cramer gave a teary-eyed speech, praising the staff for having gotten the fledgling company off the ground. He invoked Henry Luce, the legendary founder of Time magazine. When it was Peretz's turn to speak, he said: "One thing's for sure. Like Luce, Cramer's a bastard." Cramer was stunned and walked out of the party. His wife, Karen, told him never to speak to Peretz again. Now, at Cramer's most vulnerable moment, Peretz was striking back. A couple of other investors told Cramer that Peretz had urged them to pull out of the hedge fund, saying that he knew Cramer better than anyone, that Cramer didn't care about the business anymore and was spending all his time on TheStreet.com. Peretz would later say he had told only one person to leave the fund, but Cramer was convinced that his longtime friend was responsible for this terrifying run on his bank. It was, in Cramer's eyes, the ultimate betrayal. He had not cried since his mother's funeral, but at night he had found himself bawling over this massive vote of no confidence. It was, for the moment, a matter of survival. If Cramer could not come up with the money in time and the market crashed, he would be personally liable for the losses suffered by his disaffected investors. The biggest potential defector was financier Max Palevsky, whom Cramer believed had bought Peretz's argument that he had lost his focus. That was nearly impossible for Cramer to refute, since Peretz was presumed to know him so well. Palevsky's stake in the fund was so large that if he bailed, Cramer would have to close his doors. It was as simple as that. After furious negotations, Cramer worked out a settlement that persuaded Palevsky to stay. For the first time in four years, Cramer called his wife Karen, a former trader with whom he had cofounded the hedge fund, and asked her to leave their home in Summit, New Jersey, and come to work. Get a sitter for the kids, he said, find a way to get down here. When Karen Cramer showed up, her husband's shirt was soaked through with sweat. The computer screens were all flashing red. Declining stocks outnumbered the winners nine to one. Was this a good buying opportunity -- or another 1987 crash? Cramer had little time for such speculation; he had to sell if he was to raise the cash he needed. By lunchtime the Dow was down another 264 points. On CNBC's Power Lunch program, host Bill Griffeth was talking about how all the bulls had turned bearish. Cramer thought the stock market would definitely crash. Karen said their only hope for saving the firm was for Alan Greenspan to somehow rescue the sinking market. But Greenspan had been saying that business was doing just fine and had made no move to halt the market's fall. Ralph Acampora, the superstar analyst at Prudential Securities, was fanning the flames, telling his sales force that the Dow, which he had thought could drop to 7,000, could now go as low as 6,735. This forecast was crucial because Acampora was one of Wall Street's greatest bulls; if he was losing confidence, then the downturn had to be for real. Abby Joseph Cohen, the fiercely bullish analyst at Goldman Sachs, stayed upbeat about the invincibility of the American economy, but even she made a downward adjustment in her 1999 projections for the S & P 500. Trading desks everywhere echoed the message: "Cohen's getting off." From his cluttered desk, Cramer was taking his cues from Ron Insana, a veteran anchor at CNBC whom Cramer had been watching since his Harvard days. Insana had incredible contacts and always seemed to have a sixth sense about what was happening. But despite his relaxed on-air persona, Insana, too, was nervous. Days earlier, he had called his father-in-law and told him to take his money out of the bank. He was considering putting some of his own savings into gold. No one was sure how low this market could go. Early that morning, Insana had reason to call one of his best sources, Lyle Gramley, a former Federal Reserve governor who was still plugged into monetary policy. Someone told Insana that Gramley had heard the Fed was planning some kind of conference call, a highly unusual event between scheduled meetings. The call would be to discuss a possible easing of interest rates. The Fed had already cut rates at the end of September with no response from the market, so a second rate cut would be a major surprise. Gramley hedged a bit when Insana reached him, saying only that such a call was possible. But Insana believed this was probably spin, for his source was insisting that Gramley had it solid. The Fed had to do something, Insana thought. Too many people believed that the wheels were coming off the market. Cramer was selling stocks all morning -- many of his best stocks, the ones he hated to lose -- to come up with the cash he desperately needed. Karen manned the desk while he frantically tried to talk the last few defectors out of leaving him. But even as he liquidated much of his fund and wired the money he owed, he agonized over whether to seize the opportunity to buy other stocks at bargain prices. He would have to do so on margin, with borrowed money, and if the market kept sinking he could be wiped out, as so many of his friends had been during the '87 debacle. Weeks earlier, the massive hedge fund Long Term Capital Management had collapsed. Who knew where the bottom was? Cramer was scared. Traders were never supposed to admit that, but this was a truly frightening moment. At 1:15, Ron Insana came on the air with some breaking news. Cramer, watching the set on the file cabinet behind him, thought the mere sight of Insana would cause further losses, since he had been delivering consistently bearish news in recent days. But wait! Insana was talking about his conversation with Lyle Gramley. "Shut up," Cramer shouted, hitting the volume button. Insana reported that Gramley believed that the Fed members were arranging a conference call. The Dow moved up 30, 40, 45 points as Insana delivered the news. Now the day's loss was less than 200. Cramer had just filed a bearish column for TheStreet.com. "What if Insana is right?" Karen asked him. "You will never live this piece down." Still, Cramer remained reluctant to buy. That, he soon realized, was a colossal mistake. Insana had been right about the conference call, and the Fed would lower interest rates days later. Cramer felt he should have moved the minute he had an inkling of possible Fed action. Prices were moving up; the long slide was over. The Dow began what would be a steady climb back over 9,000. It was remarkable, Cramer thought, the first time a market bottom had been created by a TV reporter's scoop. The carnage was over. Cramer had saved the company, but he had lost millions of dollars in the process. He had lost Marty Peretz, who had humiliated him and brought him low. This was an ugly way to make a living, Cramer thought, an utterly soulless business. It had made him rich, but at a breathtaking price. From his first days as a rookie trader, James J. Cramer had craved respect. He had grown up in the Philadelphia suburb of Wyndmoor, the son of a man who sold gift wrap for a living, and had attended public schools there. He had sold ice cream and sodas at Veterans Stadium during Phillies baseball games. When Cramer got to Harvard in 1973, thanks to a scholarship and financial aid, he was conscious of his modest background among the bluebloods of Cambridge, and determined to make it through sheer hard work. Cramer was immediately drawn to journalism and began churning out dozens of stories for the Harvard Crimson. He even added a middle initial, though he had no middle name, because an editor at the Crimson, Nicholas Lemann, thought it sounded more distinguished. When he ran for president of the Crimson in 1975, Cramer felt very much like an outsider. He was challenging a student from a more elite background, Eric Breindel, a Manhattan private-school graduate, and was convinced there was a stop-Cramer movement aligned against him. But he won the job by one vote and set about trying to make the paper profitable. Faced for the first time with questions about payrolls and revenues, Cramer launched a weekend magazine and used the advertising proceeds to stem the paper's losses. When it came to his own finances, though, Cramer was something of a loser. After college, he found himself back in Wyndmoor watching Phillies games. He called his college pal Michael Kinsley, who was then editing The New Republic. Cramer was introduced to Marty Peretz and became a contributor to the magazine. He soon realized, though, that he couldn't support himself on $150 an article. Cramer worked briefly for Congressional Quarterly, living with his aunt in Washington, and then took a reporting job at the Tallahassee Democrat for $155 a week. He was toiling away at the usual mix of local stories when serial killer Ted Bundy struck at a sorority house down the block from where Cramer lived. Cramer's manic work on that story brought him an offer from a bigger paper, the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. But the move west did nothing to change Cramer's irresponsible ways with money, and he ran up plenty of debts. At one point he had just one thousand dollars to his name, went to Las Vegas, and gambled away half of it. He was living in a bad neighborhood, and when his apartment was burglarized he lost everything, including his checks. Cramer spent months sleeping on a friend's floor, or in his car with a gun beside him. He came down with mononucleosis and a jaundiced liver. He had hit bottom. Desperate for a break, Cramer got a call from Steven Brill, who was launching a magazine called The American Lawyer and had been given Cramer's name by a mutual friend. Cramer moved to the floor of his sister's Greenwich Village apartment, and Brill doubled his salary to a princely $25,000 a year. Back on his feet, Cramer began investing in the stock market. While in California he had made some forays to National Semiconductor and other firms in what would later be called Silicon Valley, and he put some cash into these fast-growing companies. Brill was such a tenacious boss that when Cramer decided in 1980 to go to Harvard Law School, Brill called the dean and told him that Cramer would have to defer his acceptance for a year because he was involved in some important investigations for The American Lawyer. Back at Harvard, Cramer started watching Ron Insana on the Financial News Network, studying the intricacies of the market. In 1982, as a first-year law student, Cramer crashed a Goldman Sachs cocktail party and tried to talk himself into a summer job. "I can sell anything," he told a Goldman executive. After receiving a rejection letter from the firm, he refused to give up -- there must be some mistake, he insisted -- and kept calling. Finally, two years later, he got into the summer program. His dad, Ken Cramer, thought he needed his head examined. Nobody was making money in the stock market in the early 1980s. After law school, when he finally wormed his way into a permanent job at Goldman Sachs, Cramer continued to dabble in journalism. Robert Rubin, the high-ranking Goldman executive and future Treasury secretary, vetted his pieces. In 1985, Marty Peretz asked Cramer to write a New Republic review of a book by Peretz's pal Ivan Boesky, the most celebrated trader of the high-flying eighties. Rubin didn't trust Boesky and wouldn't let anyone at Goldman Sachs trade with him. He worked over Cramer's review, insisting that he make clear that Boesky's methods were murky. Peretz told Cramer that he wasn't happy with the review, which mildly criticized Boesky, because he considered Boesky a genius. Two years later, Boesky pleaded guilty to filing false documents and was sentenced to three years in prison. As a newly minted stock salesman, Cramer would "cold call" investors he'd read about in the paper. Having convinced himself from his visits to Foot Locker that Reebok was the next hot sneaker, he called investor Michael Steinhardt unannounced, and told him that he was wrong to be shorting Reebok stock. Steinhardt granted him a fifteen-minute audience, then told Cramer he didn't know what he was talking about. Reebok's stock soon soared in value. In 1987, when he was ready to leave Goldman to start his own hedge fund, Cramer called Steinhardt again. "You're the guy who could have saved me millions of dollars," Steinhardt said. He agreed to give Cramer some money to invest and some office space while he got started. Cramer found himself sitting next to Karen Backfisch, a former secretary who was being given a chance to work as a Steinhardt trader. They soon began dating, and after Karen left for another firm and Cramer got his own office space, she proposed that they work together. But there was a catch: She had to own half the new company. Karen was making more money than Cramer at the time and agreed to put up her own capital. It was Karen who insisted that they sell many of their stocks a week before the stock market crashed in 1987. A year later they were married. Karen tutored her new husband in the psychology of Wall Street. On Fridays, when the market would often mount a short-lived rally, she would urge Cramer to take a walk -- down to the South Street Seaport or to the Staten Island Ferry to buy a hot pretzel -- rather than snatch up stocks he was sure to regret. Cramer began calling her the Trading Goddess. They became millionaires, bought a house in Summit, were written up in Fortune. "Are These the New Warren Buffetts?" the headline asked. The Cramers were hailed as "the quintessential Eighties couple," having earned a 23 percent return on their $19-million fund. They had just celebrated their first wedding anniversary. Cramer once again gravitated toward journalism for a simple reason: cash flow. He belatedly realized that hedge fund managers were paid only once a year. He wrote for Manhattan Inc., for Peretz's New Republic, for Brill's Manhattan Lawyer. As he juggled his duties, Cramer's addiction to the high-pressure life brought him increasingly into conflict with his wife. The couple's first daughter was born in 1991; when the second one was born three years later, Cramer got a call on his cell phone in the delivery room. The Fed had just raised interest rates, and the firm had lost $1 million within minutes. Cramer said he was busy. Ten minutes later, the cell phone rang again. The hedge fund had now dropped another couple of million. Cramer turned off his phone -- and agonized over the decision when the firm's losses mounted throughout the day. It was not the last time that he would feel torn between his family and his high-stakes work. Karen soon resented her husband for forcing her to come to Manhattan each day to help run the fund. The Trading Goddess finally decided to stay home with the kids, but she remained a major influence on her husband. She demanded that he cut his trading in half to avoid dumb investments, and made him bring home his trading sheets to prove it. As the bull market took off in the mid-1990s, Cramer reaped the rewards. The hedge fund now required a minimum investment of $2.5 million, and Cramer took 20 percent of the profits. There were years when he personally pocketed as much as $10 million. But Cramer craved recognition as much as money, which is why he poured so much emotional energy into his magazine work. Cramer's double identity was at once the source of his journalistic strength and his greatest weakness. His writing had a you-are-there quality because he was in the financial trenches, risking real money, making mistakes, and learning painful lessons. But since his most fascinating subject was himself, that also meant his writing could have an impact on the stocks he was buying and selling. Cramer tried to protect himself by always disclosing his holdings, but it was a shaky tightrope act at best. In 1995, he was writing a financial advice column for SmartMoney magazine, which he had helped Hearst and The Wall Street Journal create. In one column, Cramer praised four small, rather obscure companies, and their stock took off like a rocket. Trading in one firm, UFP Technologies, went from 800 shares in the previous four days to 703,828 shares in the following five days. And the stock price doubled, from $2 to $4 a share. All told, three of the stocks -- UFP, Rexon, and Canonie Environmental Services -- surged by as much as 66 percent in a couple of weeks on the strength of Cramer's upbeat words. But Cramer had more than words at stake; he owned stock in each of the companies. The firms were sufficiently tiny that Cramer's hedge fund owned 6 to 9 percent of each one. In fact, he had picked up more than 200,000 additional shares in the weeks before the column appeared. Within days, the value of Cramer's holdings had increased by more than $2.5 million. This embarrassing sequence of events turned into the worst crisis of Cramer's career when it was reported by The Washington Post. Cramer passionately insisted that he had done nothing wrong. This was what he was supposed to do, he explained -- recommend stocks that he believed in. He had been buying these stocks for two years. He had not sold them after the SmartMoney column appeared and had made no attempt to cash in. He had disclosed his holdings at the end of the column -- a disclaimer that unfortunately had been dropped by the magazine. He was so upset by the story that when he came home and found that his wife had thrown him a surprise fortieth birthday party, he threw up on the guests. The SEC launched a lengthy investigation and began contacting the investors in Cramer's hedge fund. "Maybe I should call Gore," Marty Peretz told Cramer. Peretz had been close to the vice president for three decades. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Cramer said. He didn't want to do anything that carried even a whiff of trying to influence the investigation. Cramer had to produce boxes and boxes of records and shelled out $400,000 in legal bills. He was finally cleared, but the damage had been done. SmartMoney announced that it was tightening its ethics rules. No investor would be allowed to write about small, thinly traded companies whose stock was worth less than $500 million, or about any stock in which the investor owned more than 1 percent of the company. Traders would also be barred from selling any stock they wrote about for a specified period of time. Cramer was not faulted for his behavior, but he had clearly become a lightning rod for criticism by financial writers, who were not players in the market. Cramer left SmartMoney soon afterward. For all his bravado, Cramer could be hypersensitive to criticism. He called up some of his detractors after the SmartMoney fiasco and yelled at them. When he felt himself under assault, his rapid-fire cadence turned faster, his high-pitched voice a little squeakier. Cramer had no ability to hide his constant swirl of emotions. Once, after Lisa Napoli of The New York Times wrote a mixed profile about his activities and potential conflicts, Cramer declared: "I wish I had been a vicious spinmeister and just beaten the shit out of her and gotten her exactly where I wanted her...Give me a fucking break. Come on, I'm not this huge manipulator of stocks." By 1996, Cramer was fixated on the idea of starting a financial Website, one in which he would have a major ownership stake. He wanted to launch the venture with SmartMoney, and he showed the blueprint to Paul Steiger, the Journal's managing editor, over lunch at the Hudson River Club. But the idea didn't fly. Cramer envisioned an opinion-filled Internet site that would have the inside-dope equivalent of ten Heard on the Street columns each day, and message boards where subscribers could chat. It would be a cheap wire service for what Cramer saw as the coming era of the individual investor. While on vacation in Cape Cod, he and Marty Peretz decided to plunge ahead on their own with the venture, which they christened TheStreet.com. Each kicked in $1.5 million of his own money. Cramer's attorney suggested that he show the plan to the SEC, which insisted that the operation have complete editorial independence from Cramer to guard against any attempt to influence his stock holdings. Now all they needed were some journalists. During a weekend at Cramer's country house in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, they tried to get Michael Lewis, the former Salomon Brothers trainee who had written the best-selling book Liar's Poker, to become their star columnist. Cramer was miffed when Lewis turned down a deal that would have given him a 5 percent stake in the new venture. But Lewis, convinced that the thing would bleed red ink until it went bust, believed that 5 percent of nothing was nothing. Dave Kansas, a Wall Street Journal reporter, signed on as editor, but the Website struggled from the start and was soon in danger of folding. Cramer and Peretz had to arrange a $10-million cash infusion from a group of venture capitalists. Yet Cramer couldn't really run the thing. He was so concerned that critics would view the Web operation as a conflict of interest that he had set up the reporters and editors in another lower Manhattan building and made sure that he had no control, other than the pieces he submitted, over the contents. He couldn't talk to the staff, couldn't so much as e-mail a reporter, saying "Nice piece." And Kansas allowed his writers to criticize Cramer. "This is ludicrous," Karen said. "You gave these guys a blank check to savage you?" With just 37,000 subscribers paying $99 a year, TheStreet.com lost a staggering $16 million in 1998. Finally, Cramer and his wife visited the office to check on the finances. They discovered the place had a $50,000 walnut desk in the reception area. "You've got to shut it down," Karen said. "These people are killing us." Jim Cramer knew he was tiptoeing through a minefield by trading stocks and constantly commenting on the market. In fact, he was becoming the most controversial financial journalist in the country. Ever since the SmartMoney debacle, critics had been questioning whether his writing was tainted by his trading in a $300-million hedge fund. At times, though, his journalistic efforts boomeranged on his business. And he had so many entanglements it was downright difficult to keep them all straight. In early June of 1998, Cramer was troubled by the events surrounding a Heard on the Street column in The Wall Street Journal. The subject of the column, America Online, was of more than passing interest to Cramer, because his fund owned millions of dollars in AOL stock. What's more, TheStreet.com had a distribution deal with AOL. What Cramer found strange was that the Journal column had been negative, raising questions about AOL's accounting methods, and yet the stock shot up after the piece appeared, beginning a steady rise that would carry it from $77 to more than $100 a share. Cramer the journalist decided to investigate what had happened to the stock of Cramer the investor. And he had a strong hunch where to start digging. In the days before the piece appeared, plenty of brokers seemed to know what Journal reporter Linda Sandler was working on. They knew the details of the alleged accounting difficulties, which AOL maintained had been approved by top auditors. Hedge funds began shorting AOL stock, betting millions of dollars that it would go down when the column was published. But Cramer and his partner, Jeff Berkowitz, reached the opposite conclusion. "We've got to buy this stock the moment the article appears," Berkowitz said. "The heck with that," Cramer said. They had to buy the stock right now. "We already know what the article is going to say, and the Journal has nothing," he said. Cramer was so sure he was right that he wrote a piece for TheStreet.com explaining what was about to happen. But Dave Kansas killed it, saying that Cramer appeared to be touting one of his largest holdings. Kansas was the first to conclude that Cramer had a conflict of interest. The morning that the Heard on the Street column appeared, Maria Bartiromo, CNBC's stock market reporter, said on the air that America Online stock appeared to be headed south. Instead, the stock soon began its spectacular climb. Cramer was determined to tell the world about this Journal column, because he felt that the reporter must have tipped her hand during interviews that the piece would be negative. Having been rejected by his own Website, he turned to his old friend Steve Brill, who had started a media magazine called Brill's Content. He liked Cramer's idea for a piece about the Journal incident. But Cramer not only owned a huge batch of AOL stock, he had repeatedly butted heads with The Wall Street Journal and its owner, Dow Jones & Company. Some of the conflicts were trivial; the Journal had rejected Cramer for a reporting job back in 1977. And some were not. After Cramer got himself in hot water over the 1995 SmartMoney column on the small stocks he owned, he began fighting with Dow Jones, part owner of the magazine, over who was responsible. Cramer contended that Dow Jones had put him in jeopardy by dropping the disclosure line from his article -- the sort of disclosure he had been guaranteed under a contract signed by a top Dow Jones executive. But Richard Tofel, Dow Jones's communications director, believed that both sides had forgotten about the disclaimer for months. And the magazine's initial failure to locate its copy of the contract forced Cramer to scramble while the feds unleashed their investigators. In the end, Dow Jones agreed to reimburse Cramer for most of his legal fees, although Tofel believed that Cramer was still upset that the company hadn't paid all the bills. Then came the battle over TheStreet.com. In 1997, Steve Swartz, the editor of SmartMoney, told Cramer that the magazine Excerpted from The Fortune Tellers: Inside Wall Street's Game of Money, Media and Manipulation by Howard Kurtz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Introductionp. xi
1 The King of All Mediap. 1
2 Squawkingp. 22
3 The Young Turksp. 38
4 10K Runp. 56
5 Bad Bloodp. 74
6 Nonstop Newsp. 94
7 The Cult of the CEOp. 109
8 IPO Feverp. 127
9 Popping the Bubblep. 141
10 Star Warsp. 158
11 Secrets and Liesp. 177
12 Morning Mutinyp. 197
13 Raging Bullp. 216
14 Tulip Timep. 231
15 Nothing but Netp. 250
16 Crash Landingp. 269
Afterwordp. 303
Sourcesp. 310
Indexp. 316

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