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In the old economy, real estate professionals used to boast about how well they were able to help buyers find the right home, make the right offer, get the right loan. In those days, when there were multiple offers for every two-bit shack in the hood, homes "sold themselves." Selling wasn't a challenge, it was facilitating the buying process that required serious mojo. Now in most markets, the tables have turned and the real estate agents who can get a house sold seem like sorcerers casting magical spells over an inert marketplace. What follows is the tale of one such real estate alchemist, an agent who went to extraordinary lengths to get a deal closed.
"When I did a market analysis in June of 2007, the house priced out at $719,000," he recalls. "That was the price that would have gotten it sold quickly.
But by the time the 1,400-square-foot bungalow was primped to perfection with gleaming refinished hardwood floors and fresh new landscaping, the market had begun to absorb the effects of the subprime meltdown.
"A nearly identical house around the corner came on the market at $699,000 on a better street, so I recommended that we price the house at $649,000 to make sure it was competitive," he says.
Unfortunately, there was almost no way to keep up with a market that was falling down the rabbit hole. When the sale of the nearby home finally closed, McGinnis learned that the house had sold for a mere $650,000. "Then I knew we had to lower the price again."
At $599,000 the home immediately began generating more interest. Two nurses offered to buy the house for close to the asking price. The only problem? No lender would give them a loan.
"They had good jobs and impeccable credit and no debt, but they needed 100 percent financing," he explains. "The lenders all said you've got to have some skin in the game." When the buyers couldn't come up with 3 percent down payment, the deal fell apart and the house was back on the market.
By then, the many months of chasing the price into the gutter had taken its toll on the owner's finances.
"She'd spent her money fixing the place up and now she couldn't afford to make payments on it," says McGinnis.
The home went into default. On February 6, the lender posted a notice of trustee sale on the front door, announcing that the home would be sold on the steps of San Rafael City Hall three weeks later. In the meantime, another agent had approached McGinnis, explaining that he had a first time buyer that wanted to buy the home for $570,000. This was a far cry from the original theoretical value of $719,000, but it wasn't a short sale — a sale that would have cost the lender money. So McGinnis did what any other real estate agent worth his commission would do: He called the 800 number of the lender to find out how to forestall foreclosure.
At this point McGinnis did what few other desperate real estate representatives would do — if only because it seemed so completely futile. He went to the Countrywide Web site and found the names of all members of the board of directors and executive management.
"They don't publish their e-mail addresses," he explains. "So I just guessed and guessed."
He spent hours devising every possible e-mail address for Countrywide executives. "Everything bounced," he says. Then he began spamming his invented e-mails for Chief Executive Angelo Mozilo. "Five minutes later I got an e-mail from him telling me that he'd forwarded my e-mail to the senior manager in charge of our region."
In the old economy, real estate professionals used to boast about how well they were able to help buyers find the right home, make the right offer, get the right loan. In those days, when there were multiple offers for every two-bit shack in the hood, homes "sold themselves." Selling wasn't a challenge, it was facilitating the buying process that required serious mojo. Now in most markets, the tables have turned and the real estate agents who can get a house sold seem like sorcerers casting magical spells over an inert marketplace. What follows is the tale of one such real estate alchemist, an agent who went to extraordinary lengths to get a deal closed.
The modest tract home in an old Novato neighborhood had been rented to tenants for years, and every month the owner was losing money. Eventually, she decided to give the tenants notice and prepare the home for sale. That's when McGinnis was brought in for an appraisal.
"When I did a market analysis in June of 2007, the house priced out at $719,000," he recalls. "That was the price that would have gotten it sold quickly.
But by the time the 1,400-square-foot bungalow was primped to perfection with gleaming refinished hardwood floors and fresh new landscaping, the market had begun to absorb the effects of the subprime meltdown.
"A nearly identical house around the corner came on the market at $699,000 on a better street, so I recommended that we price the house at $649,000 to make sure it was competitive," he says.
Unfortunately, there was almost no way to keep up with a market that was falling down the rabbit hole. When the sale of the nearby home finally closed, McGinnis learned that the house had sold for a mere $650,000. "Then I knew we had to lower the price again."
At $599,000 the home immediately began generating more interest. Two nurses offered to buy the house for close to the asking price. The only problem? No lender would give them a loan.
"They had good jobs and impeccable credit and no debt, but they needed 100 percent financing," he explains. "The lenders all said you've got to have some skin in the game." When the buyers couldn't come up with 3 percent down payment, the deal fell apart and the house was back on the market.
By then, the many months of chasing the price into the gutter had taken its toll on the owner's finances.
"She'd spent her money fixing the place up and now she couldn't afford to make payments on it," says McGinnis.
The home went into default. On February 6, the lender posted a notice of trustee sale on the front door, announcing that the home would be sold on the steps of San Rafael City Hall three weeks later. In the meantime, another agent had approached McGinnis, explaining that he had a first time buyer that wanted to buy the home for $570,000. This was a far cry from the original theoretical value of $719,000, but it wasn't a short sale — a sale that would have cost the lender money. So McGinnis did what any other real estate agent worth his commission would do: He called the 800 number of the lender to find out how to forestall foreclosure.
At this point McGinnis did what few other desperate real estate representatives would do — if only because it seemed so completely futile. He went to the Countrywide Web site and found the names of all members of the board of directors and executive management.
"They don't publish their e-mail addresses," he explains. "So I just guessed and guessed."
He spent hours devising every possible e-mail address for Countrywide executives. "Everything bounced," he says. Then he began spamming his invented e-mails for Chief Executive Angelo Mozilo. "Five minutes later I got an e-mail from him telling me that he'd forwarded my e-mail to the senior manager in charge of our region."
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