The Hellhound of Wall Street: How Ferdinand Pecora's Investigation of the Great Crash Forever Changed American Finance

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In The Hellhound of Wall Street, Michael Perino recounts in riveting detail the 1933 hearings that put Wall Street on trial for the Great Crash. Never before in American history had so many financial titans been called to account before the public, and they had come within a few weeks of emerging unscathed. By the time Ferdinand Pecora, a Sicilian immigrant and former New York prosecutor, took over as chief counsel, the investigation had dragged on ineffectively for nearly a ...
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The Hellhound of Wall Street: How Ferdinand Pecora's Investigation of the Great Crash Forever Changed American Finance

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In The Hellhound of Wall Street, Michael Perino recounts in riveting detail the 1933 hearings that put Wall Street on trial for the Great Crash. Never before in American history had so many financial titans been called to account before the public, and they had come within a few weeks of emerging unscathed. By the time Ferdinand Pecora, a Sicilian immigrant and former New York prosecutor, took over as chief counsel, the investigation had dragged on ineffectively for nearly a year and was universally written off as dead.

The Hellhound of Wall Street provides a minute-by-minute account of the ten dramatic days when Pecora turned the hearings around, cross-examining the officers of National City Bank (today's Citigroup), particularly its chairman, Charles Mitchell, one of the best known bankers of his day. Mitchell strode into the hearing room in obvious disdain for the proceedings, but he left utterly disgraced. Pecora's rigorous questioning revealed that City Bank was guilty of shocking financial abuses, from selling worthless bonds to manipulating its stock price. Most offensive of all was the excessive compensation and bonuses awarded to its executives for peddling shoddy securities to the American public.

Pecora became an unlikely hero to a beleaguered nation. The man whom the press called "the hellhound of Wall Street" was the son of a struggling factory worker. Precocious and determined, he became one of New York's few Italian American lawyers at a time when Italians were frequently stereotyped as anarchic criminals. The image of an immigrant lawyer challenging a blue-blooded Wall Street tycoon was just one more sign that a fundamental shift was taking place in America.

By creating the sensational headlines needed to galvanize public opinion for reform, the Pecora hearings spurred Congress to take unprecedented steps to rein in the freewheeling banking industry and led directly to the New Deal's landmark economic reforms. A gripping courtroom drama with remarkable contemporary relevance, The Hellhound of Wall Street brings to life a crucial turning point in American financial history.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble

After the sudden onslaught of the Great Depression, Americans searched for the roots of this ever-deepening economic debacle. No one pursued them more tenaciously than Ferdinand Pecora, the cigar-smoking chief counsel and lead investigator of the U.S. Senate Committee on Banking and Currency. For two years, from 1932 to 1934, Pecora conducted intensive public interrogations of formerly sacrosanct commodities speculators, investment bankers, and financiers. Exposing widespread economic chicanery, tax evasion, and manipulative practices among "big money men," the Pecora Commission hearings attracted national media coverage. The Hellhound of Wall Street describes this forgotten episode in our history and the aftereffects it left on American business practices and perceptions.

Publishers Weekly
Perino, law professor at St. John's University, recounts the 1933 investigation into Wall Street abuses by the Senate Committee on Banking and Currency, focusing on the 10-day interrogation by chief counsel Ferdinand Pecora of executives of National City Bank (precursor to Citigroup). A morass of tawdry scams surfaced in the hearings: the bank's in-house stock pools artificially inflated its own stock; bank officers gave themselves no-interest (and apparently no-repayment) loans; mom-and-pop investors relying on National City's supposedly impartial advice were sold dubious securities in which the bank had a hidden financial interest. The author argues that Pecora's revelations, coming amid the 1933 bank collapse, stoked public outrage and paved the way for unprecedented government regulation of the financial system. Perino's narrative is a lucid account of period banking and stock-market swindles and a crackerjack legal drama, as Pecora's cunning, relentless questioning demolished the bankers' evasions. (The Sicilian immigrant's triumph over the WASP financial elite also heralded a social revolution, the author contends.) Perino's book is a trenchant, entertaining study of the New Deal's heroic beginnings, one with obvious relevance to latter-day efforts to rein in Wall Street's excesses. (Oct.)
From the Publisher
"Perino's book is a trenchant, entertaining study of the New Deal's heroic beginnings, one with obvious relevance to latter-day efforts to rein in Wall Street's excesses." —-Publishers Weekly
Library Journal
Amid the Great Depression, a largely forgotten hearing led to the ten days that would fundamentally change Wall Street. This look at the 1933 Senate hearings to determine the cause of the financial crisis of the 1920s and 1930s is divided into two parts. First, Perino (Dean George W. Matheson Professor of Law, St. John's Univ. Sch. of Law) sets the stage for this drama, examining the situation and the players, particularly the background of Ferdinand Pecora, the lead counsel for the hearing, and his main adversary, Charles Mitchell, chairman of National City Bank. In the second half, Perino details the testimony from each over the ten days, adds his interpretation of the importance of what Pecora revealed about Wall Street practices, and links these revelations to their place in history. VERDICT Perino's narrative style and reliance on primary sources make this a great selection for fans of history and economics and for those wanting more background on the tenuous relationship between Washington and Wall Street.—Elizabeth Nelson, UOP Lib., Des Plaines, IL
The Barnes & Noble Review

The Great Recession has thrown up many villains, from the brazenly criminal (Bernie Madoff) to the simply brazen (Citigroup's Robert Rubin, AIG's Joe Cassano, Countrywide's Angelo Mozilo). It has also occasioned innumerable references to the Great Depression. The main thing that the Great Recession lacks, however, is a hero -- someone like Ferdinand Pecora, the "Hellhound of Wall Street," whose life story is told in Michael Perino's new book.

Pecora is largely forgotten today (one hopes that Perino's fascinating biographical history will rectify that). But over the course of ten world-shaping days at the tail end of the Hoover administration in 1933, he changed history and helped to midwife the new financial markets the Depression spawned.

The Wall Street of the 1920s and early 30s was in many ways a far cry from the one we know today. It was a culture in which speculators could bribe the leading financial journalists in New York -- to the tune of $300,000 over ten years -- to publish inaccurate articles about certain companies so that their share price would go up. When the payoffs were revealed, few eyebrows were raised: "It was all quite unseemly," writes Perino, "but it is hard to say that anyone was all that surprised."

In that kind of an atmosphere, any would-be reformer would have to uncover something truly explosive. Wall Street was doing a very good job of blaming the victims of the stock market crash, saying that it was their own fault that they had decided to gamble their savings in the market. In a letter to a widow from San Francisco who had been persuaded by the sales force of the prestigious National City Bank to swap out her government bonds for the bank's stock, for instance, the bank's chairman Charles Mitchell simply said that she "shouldn't have gambled."

The nemesis of Mitchell and his colleagues proved to be a Sicilian immigrant who had started life in poverty, eventually working his way up to becoming a distinguished judge on the New York State Supreme Court. Ferdinand Pecora spent pretty much his entire life in New York, but the high point of his career took place on Capitol Hill in Washington, where he systematically dismantled a series of the richest and most powerful plutocrats in America.

Pecora's performance -- for, like most trial lawyers, he was in large part a showman -- caught the imagination not only of the American public but also of president-elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The combination was unstoppable and revolutionary; within months a slew of new regulations had been signed into law, bringing transparency into the financial markets and creating such crucial institutions as the SEC and federal deposit insurance.

Without Pecora, it's doubtful that many if any of these revolutionary ideas would ever have been pushed by Roosevelt, let alone passed by Congress. It was the last time for 75 years that, in the words of SEC historian Joel Seligman, "money talked and nobody listened."

Perino plots Pecora's improbable rise to stardom like a Hollywood screenwriter. Pecora himself overcame enormous obstacles on his way to success, and in no conceivable world was ever going to be offered the job of chief counsel to the Senate Committee on Banking and Currency -- a doomed committee, run by a financial illiterate, with only a few weeks of life left in it, which was in any case never going to achieve anything of note.

Yet somehow Pecora was offered the job, and took it, and persuaded the committee's chairman that in the tiny space of time he had left, he could and should take on the mighty National City Bank and its chairman, Charles Mitchell.

The task was an impossible one, and Pecora triumphed at it. Within a couple of days Mitchell was toast; within months, the entire regulatory structure of Wall Street had been changed forever.

Throughout the proceedings, Pecora was determined to demolish the myth Mitchell and the banks relied on: that the victims were to blame. Rather, he showed how millions of dollars of small investors' losses had simply been transferred straight into the pockets of fat-cat bank executives like Mitchell.

There are echoes of the present day all through this book. There's the painfully drawn-out interregnum between the presidential election and the inauguration, for instance, in which nothing useful ever happens, as well as the perverse incentives created by the bonus structure at banks.

Percora's exposé of excess pay at National City Bank persuaded FDR himself -- who had both a highly-developed sense of noblesse oblige and a personal banking relationship at National City -- that "Charlie took my money." Roosevelt also said, in words which echo down the decades, that "these New York bankers haven't any more notion of public psychology than a chicken."

At the same time, there are many occasions in this book when the reader is almost wistful for the simpler era of the 1930s, when wrongdoing was so much more obvious and when a single determined lawyer could sit down with a pile of minute books and memorize a very large part of the internal goings-on of the largest bank in the country. Charles Mitchell's personal tax evasion, for instance, was much more blatant, and on a much larger scale, than anything we've seen this time around.

Or consider National City's adventures in South America: it sold Peruvian bonds despite its own bankers considering the country unlikely to pay them back, and it sold bonds from the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais without informing investors that a large chunk of the proceeds would go straight to National City itself. (And without passing on its own banker's opinion that the state's officials were ignorant, careless, negligent, inefficient, and inept.) Once uncovered by Pecora, such disclosure failures were easy to ban, going forwards, with the introduction of America's first securities laws.

Pecora took down more than just National City's Charlie Mitchell. Later on in the hearings -- which were extended once Pecora started working his magic -- he showed that during the 1929 stock market crash, the chairman of Chase National Bank had borrowed money from the bank itself so that he could use the proceeds to short Chase's stock. And eventually Richard Whitney, the president of the New York Stock Exchange, was sentenced to ten years in Sing Sing for embezzlement. (He ended up serving just over three years.)

There is no Ferdinand Pecora today, and nothing in the Dodd-Frank bill comes close to the revolutionary overhaul of Wall Street that Pecora initiated. And the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission, led by the smart and competent Phil Angelides, will struggle just to put together a coherent narrative of the crisis.

But to a large degree the way in which this crisis pales in relation to that of the 1930s is a testament to the lasting strength of the laws that were put in place by Roosevelt. In 1933, a spate of bank runs forced the president to close every bank in the country; this time around, the presence of deposit insurance meant that only a manageable handful of commercial banks suffered serious runs.

So it's right and proper that Perino is giving Pecora his due. But for the legacy of his fierce attention to an earlier economic calamity, the crisis of 2008 might have been much, much worse.

--Felix Salmon

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780143120032
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 9/27/2011
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 630,986
  • Product dimensions: 5.40 (w) x 8.30 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Michael Perino is the Dean George W. Matheson Professor of Law at St. John’s University School of Law. A former Wall Street litigator, Perino has testified in the U.S. Senate and the House of Representatives and has consulted with the Securities and Exchange Commission. He is frequently quoted in the media on securities and corporate matters. He has appeared on NPR’s All Things Considered, Morning Edition, and Marketplace, on Bill Moyers’ Journal on PBS, and on CNBC.

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Read an Excerpt


Saturday, March 4, 1933—Inauguration Day—was one of those raw March days when it seems that spring will never come. The thick layer of steel gray clouds sheathing the sky threatened rain, and a northwest wind whipped across Capitol Hill. Sunshine broke through on occasion, but it was dull and fleeting and did little to relieve the dreariness of that damp, chilly day.

Historians would later pinpoint that winter as the nadir of the Great Depression, but Americans hardly needed to be seers to realize that the economy could not get much worse. Thirty-eight states had closed their banks entirely, and everywhere else withdrawals were sharply curtailed. Outright bank failures numbered in the thousands annually. In those days before deposit insurance, one in four families lost their life savings. The economy was in full retreat, industrial production was half what it had been just four years earlier, and unemployment was an appalling 25 percent. Farmers were decimated after a decade of plummeting crop prices. Shantytowns of the dispossessed, sarcastically dubbed Hoovervilles, dotted the landscape, and breadlines stretched around many blocks. Homes were foreclosed, renters evicted, and signs of malnutrition among schoolchildren were increasingly evident. On Friday, March 3, the Dow Jones Industrial Average had been 86 percent off its wildly inflated pre-crash peak in September 1929. At the end of trading that day, the New York Stock Exchange announced that it would be closed indefinitely.

In the midst of the economic chaos, a shivering crowd of at least 100,000 gathered near the east portico of the Capitol to hear Franklin Roosevelt's plan of attack, some perched in the icy bare trees, others crammed in bleachers or crowded atop adjacent buildings. Pundits from all points of the political spectrum were openly calling for Roosevelt to assume dictatorial powers to address the crisis. In some parts of the country the possibility of revolution was openly discussed, and Lloyds of London was doing a booming business in riot and civil disturbance insurance.

The previous spring, tens of thousands of unemployed World War I veterans and their families marched on Washington, demanding early payment of a promised bonus for wartime service, many protesting on the very spot where the inaugural crowd now gathered. The bonus never came, and in late July, the Army chief of staff, General Douglas MacArthur, let loose his cavalry, sabers and bayonets drawn, on the thousands still milling in the capital. Through clouds of tear gas, the tanks and soldiers drove the bonus army from the city and burned their encampment along the Anacostia River to the ground. Seven months later, Washington still had an ominous, wartime feel. Government buildings were heavily guarded, police patrols ringed the White House, and machine gun nests were strategically placed along the inaugural parade route.

The new president made his way across the crowded platform, gripping his son Jimmy's arm with one hand and leaning on a cane with the other, giving the crowd the illusion that he was walking. After being sworn in by Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes, Roosevelt turned to address the gathered crowd. Despite the chill March air, he shed his hat and overcoat. Grim-faced, his usual broad smile absent on this solemn occasion, he told the assembled crowd and radio listeners that the only thing they had to fear was fear itself—"nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." Roosevelt's address is rightly remembered for that hopeful phrase and for his call for the government to launch a war on the Great Depression. Positioning himself in stark contrast with Herbert Hoover, who sat stonily just a few feet away, Roosevelt pledged "action, and action now."

The Inaugural Address, however, did more than just announce a vision for fixing the economy; Roosevelt used it to assign blame. Along with most everyone else at the time, Roosevelt pointed his finger at Wall Street, but his goal was not demagoguery. He wasn't trying to accrete power, but to stoke reform. The largely silent crowd stirred when Roosevelt told them that the "rulers of the exchange of mankind's goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men." Applause erupted for the first time when Roosevelt proclaimed that the "money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths."

Somewhere in Manhattan, perhaps sitting by the radio in his Upper West Side apartment, Ferdinand Pecora must have been smiling. It was Pecora, more than anyone else, who deserved credit for those lines. Though Roosevelt claimed that the lines came to him a week earlier while he was sitting in a service at St. James Episcopal Church, it was Pecora—the man reporters called the Hellhound of Wall Street—and the Senate hearings he'd wrapped up just two days earlier that had made those lines true.

Few Americans today know who Ferdinand Pecora was, although he was once a media superstar, a nearly daily fixture in newspapers and radio broadcasts across the country. With the onset of our current economic woes his name has slowly begun to crop up again. In April 2009, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi called for a new "Pecora Commission" to investigate "what happened on Wall Street." The next week, the Senate invoked Pecora's name in voting to create an independent committee to investigate the financial crisis, and in January 2010 the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission held its first hearings.

Pecora, a diminutive Sicilian immigrant and a former assistant district attorney from New York City, was chief counsel for the Senate Committee on Banking and Currency charged with investigating the causes of the 1929 stock market crash. As he recounted in his own memoirs of the hearings, Wall Street under Oath: "Before [the committee] came, in imposing succession, the demi-gods of Wall Street, men whose names were household words, but whose personalities and affairs were frequently shrouded in deep, aristocratic mystery…; Never before in the history of the United States had so much wealth and power been required to render a public accounting." In terms of rapt public attention, economic impact, and long-lasting legislative accomplishments, Pecora's investigation must rank as the most successful inquiry in the more than two-hundred-year history of congressional probes.

Those hearings are largely forgotten now. Even Speaker Pelosi in her call for new hearings got the basic facts wrong. And, of course, even at the time not everyone applauded Pecora's efforts. Raymond Moley, a key member of Roosevelt's Brain Trust, said that "Pecora was like a police chief who rounds up all the suspicious characters in town to solve a jewel robbery." Pecora was accused of grandstanding, with one writer calling him "three-quarters righteous tribune of the people [and] one-quarter demagogic inquisitor." Critics charged that his reckless unveiling of Wall Street's sins only exacerbated the banking crisis gripping the country.

Pecora was ambitious, and he certainly loved the limelight, but he was no more a demagogue than Roosevelt. He was avowedly liberal and reform minded, an idealist with "an inveterate passion for justice." No Wall Street expert, his conclusions about the impropriety of certain stock market practices were sometimes off base. In the end, though, those missteps didn't matter. His success lay not in his talent for inciting passions and inflaming prejudices nor in the intellectual purity of his arguments, but in his ability to crystallize the zeitgeist of the early Depression years—the politicians' vague and vitriolic denunciations of Wall Street and the bitter grousing of a broken-down populace—into hard facts and concrete evidence.

Ultimately, the acclaim Pecora garnered was justified because the hearings he led fundamentally changed the relationship between Washington and Wall Street. Before 1933 the federal government had taken a hands-off approach to the stock market. But the hearings, and the public clamor they created, changed all that. In his Inaugural Address, Roosevelt declared, "There must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing," and he called for "strict supervision of all banking and credits and investments." Many would argue that the former is still all too true, but Roosevelt at least delivered on the latter. Over the course of Roosevelt's famous first hundred days in office and then in the year following, Congress passed and Roosevelt signed a flurry of banking and securities legislation, most of which still governs our financial markets today. The first federal securities laws, federal deposit insurance, and the creation of the Securities and Exchange Commission all trace their roots back to that fertile political soil.

Pecora made it all possible because his investigation created the sensational headlines necessary to galvanize public opinion for reform. As Benjamin Cohen, one of the primary drafters of those laws, put it, bankers were "so discredited in the public eye that Congress was ready to pass anything." The Securities and Exchange Commission historian Joel Seligman argues that "effective securities legislation might not have been enacted had Pecora's revelations not galvanized broad public support for direct federal regulation of stock markets." Even Roosevelt drew a direct link between the wrongdoing Pecora uncovered and his ability to push through reform legislation. The legislative changes flowed right out of the hearings. "We built completely on his work," James M. Landis, another drafter, observed. Most famous congressional hearings take the name of the committee chairman, but Pecora's stellar performance was so dominating, his questioning so riveting, and his investigations so thorough that the Banking and Currency hearings eventually became known simply as the Pecora hearings.

In short, the hearings played a critical role in our financial history. And they almost didn't happen.

Almost, that is, but for Pecora's prodigious legal skills mixed with a healthy dose of luck and what can only be described as impeccable timing. In fact, most of the Pecora hearings would never have occurred without a single, decisive turning point, a key moment that made the rest of the hearings and reform legislation possible. Before Pecora's appointment as chief counsel to the committee, the hearings had dragged on for nearly a year. Despite a great deal of early effort and promise, they had made little discernible headway and the resolution authorizing the investigation was about to expire. Nearly everyone believed the probe would limp quietly offstage, accomplishing nothing and leaving Wall Street untouched. The turning point—and the primary inspiration for Roosevelt's line about the money changers fleeing the temple—came in late February 1933, just a few short weeks after Pecora was first appointed counsel. It was just ten days, the ten days in which Pecora examined the officers from National City Bank (now, a few name changes later, Citigroup), particularly its chairman, Charles E. Mitchell. Pecora too recognized the key role that one moment played, writing that in those few days "a whole era of American financial life passed away."

Although he too has faded from memory, Mitchell was one of the best-known bankers of his day. Edmund Wilson, writing for the New Republic in 1933, said that "Sunshine Charley" was "the banker of bankers, the salesman of salesmen, the genius of the New Economic Era." The son of a produce dealer and the onetime mayor of gritty Chelsea, Massachusetts, Mitchell started off as a $10-a-week clerk for Western Electric, moved to Wall Street, and made a fortune by fundamentally changing how it operated. He almost single-handedly pioneered the sale of stocks and bonds to middle-class investors. At the height of the bubble, he proclaimed that the market had nowhere to go but up, and he was constantly on top of his salesmen, hectoring, berating, bullying, and cajoling them to sell more and more of the securities City Bank "manufactured."

At first glance, the confrontation between Pecora and Mitchell hardly seemed like a fair fight, though the two men were not completely dissimilar. Both were smart, hardworking, and shared a burning ambition—Mitchell for wealth and Pecora for acclamation. But that's where the similarities ended. Mitchell had testified in congressional hearings before and had emerged unscathed. Pecora had been committee counsel for just a few weeks and had almost no time to investigate the bank's complex and far-flung operations. Mitchell was a world-renowned banker and an adviser to Presidents Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover on economic matters. Outside New York, almost no one had ever heard of Ferdinand Pecora. Mitchell was a member of New York's social elite, with all the trapping of Wall Street success—a Fifth Avenue mansion, houses in Tuxedo Park and the Hamptons, country club memberships, and a garage full of big, fast cars. Pecora was an Italian immigrant who was still struggling to overcome the bigotry and stereotypes of the day. After years of government service, he had managed to save just a few hundred dollars. Mitchell had the wealth and resources of City Bank at his disposal, and he strode into the hearing room surrounded by the most expensive legal talent in the country. Pecora had just cobbled together a tiny staff of first-generation immigrants, all earning the same meager salary he did. Nobody was expecting very much from Pecora.

Just ten days after the City Bank hearings began, Mitchell would walk out alone, discredited and disgraced. The bank quickly accepted his resignation. Pecora had shown that the bank and its securities-trading arm had engaged in all sorts of unsavory behavior. It sold worthless bonds to investors without fully disclosing their risks, manipulated its own stock price and the stock prices of other companies, and lavishly compensated its executives as the country plunged into Depression. It's almost impossible not to hear in today's financial problems the echoes of those hearings held more than seventy-five years ago. Most Americans then blamed Wall Street and the banking sector for the ills facing the country. There was populist outrage over excessive executive compensation. The markets seemed to be awash in manipulative short selling, in favorable deals for the fortunate few, and in dodgy loans that were foisted on unwary investors. Against the backdrop of the then exploding banking crisis, the disclosures were riveting and, ultimately, revolutionary.

While the investigation continued to produce stunning revelations for months—including a dramatic confrontation between Pecora and J. P. Morgan later that spring—it was those ten days that set the tone for everything that followed. It was then, when banks across the country were shuttering, when City Bank's executives were in the dock, and when Pecora led America through its financial machinations, that the federal government crossed its regulatory Rubicon. This was the turning point in which the relationship between Wall Street and Washington was forever altered.

Even more than that, it seemed to be a visible turning point in American society. In an ornate hearing room in Washington, one of the new Americans, so long dispossessed and marginalized, was firmly in control of the machinery of federal government. An Italian American, a member of a group almost universally regarded as crime-prone and lawless, was exposing the lawlessness of the Anglo-Saxons who ruled Wall Street. Those ten days were a vivid sign that something fundamental had changed in the power structure of the country.

This is the story of those ten days.

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Table of Contents

Introduction 1


Chapter 1 The Well-Driller and Wall Street 11

Chapter 2 The Best Cross-Examiner in New York 24

Chapter 3 Sitting on the Lid 45

Chapter 4 A Short-Term Job 60

Chapter 5 Sunshine Charlie 71

Chapter 6 A Mine of Information 95

Chapter 7 Junior 112


Chapter 8 Day One: Unimpeachable Integrity 131

Chapter 9 Day Two: Morale 158

Chapter 10 Day Three: Manipulation 177

Chapter 11 Day Four: Legal Legerdemain 192

Chapter 12 Days Five and Six: Intermission 212

Chapter 13 Day Seven: South of the Border 229

Chapter 14 Day Eight: Shorn Lamb 245

Chapter 15 Day Nine: A Free and Open Market 259

Chapter 16 Day Ten: The End of an Era 271

Epilogue 280

Acknowledgments 305

Notes 309

Index 329

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Customer Reviews

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  • Posted October 14, 2010

    The Past is Prologue

    An excellent read and well researched. A must for the home library. Michael Perino's account of the Pecora hearings is riveting. Where was our Pecora in 2009?

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 31, 2011

    Highly recommended

    Not only does this book give a perceptive insight into the Great Depression and the effects of it on the American people but also it gives an interesting comparison of the 1933 Wall Street arrogance and mis-deeds to the greed, arrogance and mis-deeds on Wall Street in 2008 and after. History does repeat itself.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    Posted October 21, 2010

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