13. Foul Play

Following September 11th, our makeshift offices for Cramer Berkowitz were located next to a small airport in Westchester. Every time a private jet took off, we collectively flinched as the roar of the engine shook our trading desk. We were riddled with anxiety, but there was no quit in us, despite the freefall that occurred in the market and by extension our portfolio.

I wrote all day, every day, while at the same time, trying to steady our fund and lead our staff. Jeff never said a word about my double duty. He knew that Jim, who was no longer with the fund, wanted me to write, and perhaps that had something to do with his patience.

When I wasn’t trading, I wrote, and when I wasn’t writing, I thought about what to trade or what I should write. I was emotionally terrorized, although at the time I had no idea how damaged I was. I told my readers that we would get through it together, and I carried both roles for a few weeks before it became obvious that it was more than I could bear. I was sleeping three or four hours each night, if that, but given my persistent nightmares, I wasn’t sure that was a bad thing.

I had a fiduciary responsibility to my investors and that, more than anything else, prompted me to pick up the phone. I called TheStreet.com editor-in-chief, Dave Morrow and told him we needed to talk. I desperately needed to make a change. “This is difficult for me to admit,” I said, “but I can’t write ten to twelve daily columns anymore. I give you my word that I’ll do whatever I can, but that probably means no more than four to five columns each day.”

“Not a problem,” he assured me. “We understand and appreciate whatever you can do.”

I hung up the phone and felt relieved, yet guilty, since I sensed that my readers might be upset. I went home that night and wrote a heartfelt, honest column called “The Passing of the Torch.”

I had written hundreds of articles for TheStreet.com, but that column carried a particularly tender message. I spent hours manicuring the vernacular, combing through each word so that the message would come through loud and clear: I’m here for you, but I will ask for patience as I get my life, my firm, and myself to a place of relative balance and stability. I sent it to the editors and prepared for the influx of e-mails that would arrive the next day. But the article never posted, which was the first time that ever happened.

I called Dave, and he told me that the audience couldn’t handle another loss. “They already lost Bill Meehan,” he said, referring to my friend and co-columnist who had died in the North tower at the point of impact. “They can’t afford to lose you as well.”

Fish or Cut Bait

Jim wrote in his first book, Confessions of a Street Addict, that I was wildly emotional except when there was money on the line, at which point I was as cold as Saturn. That same mindset applied to my dealings with TheStreet.com when, despite valid reasons for incoherence, I was as lucid as I’ve ever been. I had given everything I had to that platform and expected some latitude in return. I explained to the editors “This is life. This is the world we live in, and my column should post as it was written.” It wasn’t simply a matter of respect; it was the right thing to do. I hadn’t gone to the bathroom in over a year and a half without communicating to my readership. We had a bond, and they deserved to know the truth.

Morrow wouldn’t budge and repeatedly told me that the column wouldn’t post. I eventually told him that he had two choices: Publish the column as it was written and I would continue to write whenever I could, or he could axe the column and I would tender my resignation immediately. Dave would not relent, and I weighed his words as I watched the crimson array of flickering ticks on my screens.

“Dave, this isn’t about my ego or page views. This is about trust. If I leave, I’m not coming back.” I didn’t want to resign and secretly hoped he would back down. I could tell the pressure was beginning to get to him. As the editor-in-chief, he was responsible for content and was measured by the traffic it generated. For me—in the midst of multimillion dollar swings, nervous employees, stressed partners, and lost friends—bartering with an editor, who had no leverage because I never signed a contract, wasn’t a source of stress.

“You won’t resign,” he said confidently. “You want to be the next Jim Cramer!”

“No, Dave,” I said matter-of-factly, “I just want to be Todd Harrison.”

There was silence as he weighed his options. “Listen,” he said, “don’t make an emotional decision. This has been a rough couple of weeks for you.” He was right, but I didn’t respond, opting instead to wait for his next move. “We’re not going to run the column. I’m the editor-in-chief; it’s my decision and this is what I’ve decided.”

“I quit,” I said. “I wish you guys the best of luck.”

His response was one that I’ll never forget. “Congratulations, Todd, you’ll never write in this town again.”

I hung up the phone, and Jeff and I locked eyes. I was a pure trader again, and a part of me was considerably relieved by the lesser load.

Somewhere in the back of Jeff’s mind, I’m certain he was glad as well.

The Jedi Mind Trick

I had only written for a year and a half, but the process was ingrained as part of my daily routine. No matter my mood, regardless of circumstance, and without interruption, I shared my stream of consciousness every session that the market was open. Some days were easier than others, but there was steady consistency; every move that I made and every shift in my outlook was communicated with the world.

My image remained on the Web site above the words “Todd Harrison’s Trading Diary” for weeks after my resignation. That bothered me. I wanted a clean break, but I had bigger fish to fry in the form of a bleeding book that suddenly gave back the better part of our hard fought year.

I missed the daily catharsis, but there was plenty to keep me occupied. White powder found in a post office, fresh threats of imminent attacks, those damn planes shaking our office every 15 minutes. It was a freaky sequence of events during a dark time for the world.

My inbox filled with e-mails from concerned readers. I had an unwritten rule that if someone took the time to write, I would respond as a function of respect. As it turned out, those exchanges were the only remaining connection to my audience, a microcosm of the subscribers that had read me daily. I was silenced without so much as an opportunity to say good-bye.

Readers of mine forwarded the exchanges they had with TheStreet.com editors, who had told them I was on sabbatical and would soon return, despite my very clear and definitive departure. I understood why they did what they did. They made decisions they believed to be in their own best interest. It’s not what I would have done, but it wasn’t my business, and I normally wouldn’t get involved. But that was different. While it was their platform, it was my name, and they were my words. I no longer wanted to be associated with TheStreet.com.

True Colors

I called Dave Morrow to vent my frustration and found a new attitude on the other end of the line. “You just need some time to relax,” he told me. “Take some time and come back when you’re ready.” I assumed that he was catching heat for the rift, or perhaps he didn’t think I would call his bluff, but it was a moot point. I told him that I don’t work with people I don’t trust and left it at that, despite the nagging realization that my readers were getting the short end of the stick.

Jim still had influence in our fund, which continued to struggle in the wake of 9/11. Not once during that period did he and I connect—our perceived kinship no longer existed. While our performance was still positive for the year, the slow, steady grind of the fourth quarter took its toll, both on the fund and its stewards.

I didn’t discuss TheStreet.com with my partners—they, like I, had more pressing responsibilities. I tried to let the situation settle despite my growing unease with the way it was being handled. Each time I saw an advertisement that promoted “Todd Harrison’s Trading Diary,” I looked the other way. With every e-mail I got from a concerned reader who asked for the date of my promised return, I internalized the aggravation. I actually convinced myself that I had put the entire experience behind me until I dialed into TheStreet.com conference call when they reported earnings.

After discussing top-line results, CEO Tom Clarke, fielded questions from the audience. Marc Cohodes, a well-known hedge fund manager and a large holder of TSCM stock, finally asked the question that I wanted to hear.

“What happened to Todd Harrison and is he ever coming back?” Tom paused before answering as I sat up in my seat and pressed the phone to my ear. “Todd went through a lot and is experiencing emotional difficulties. We hope to have him back soon.”

Trading Places

I was managing a $400 million dollar portfolio through a terrorist attack. The last thing I needed was the CEO of a publicly traded company telling the world that I was emotionally unstable. I tried to focus on trading, but the frustration was palpable as we clung to single-digit returns. After 11 months, we had little to show for our efforts. I still had a base salary to fall back on, but that was supposed to be a buffer. That’s the fatal flaw of the Wall Street mindset—the personal high water mark. Once you make five million dollars, anything less feels like a failure. It seems silly now, but when you’re thick in the middle of it, it’s easy to get caught up in it.

Insiders at TheStreet.com whispered to me that subscriptions were considerably lower after September 11th, and I couldn’t help wonder if some of them were the same people who had written letters to my grandfather when he was sick. I felt guilty—not happy, not validated, not vindicated—but guilty. The welfare of those around me—my traders, my former readers, and my family—weighed heavily on my psyche. And there was the other guilt, the one that constantly questioned how I could feel so bad when others had lost so much more.

I missed my column and the release it provided but didn’t admit that to anyone. Instead, I set out to explore alternatives and hoped to find another venue that would take the place of my once stable stage. I craved a new beginning—something, anything, to stop the intense pain that had suddenly consumed me. I needed an escape. Drugs weren’t the answer, marriage wasn’t feasible, as I had yet to find the “one,” and I wasn’t about to follow in the footsteps of my father and run away.

I sat awake in bed until 3:00 or 4:00 each morning, sifting through potential solutions in my still frazzled psyched. It was out there, and I was determined to find it.