The Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

  A doughy, balding man was sitting at the table. He stood as soon as the agents walked in.

  “This is my personal attorney, James Shafter,’’Andreas said. “I don’t know if this is appropriate for him to be here, but he’s a lawyer and he’s a friend.’’

  Stukey raised a hand. “Mr. Andreas,’’ he said, “it’s fine with us if Mr. Shafter stays here.’’

  The men took their seats at the dining table. Shafter brought out a pen and notepad. Shepard pulled out a leather case, which held the pad he used to take notes. As case agent, he would dictate the notes for later transcription onto a form 302.

  Andreas started speaking before the first question was asked. “A lot of what I’m about to say is only known by a few people at the company. It’s been restricted to me, my father, Dwayne, my cousin Allen, Mr. Shafter here, and Mark Whitacre, one of our employees.’’

  Speaking in a cool tone, Andreas explained the recent history of the lysine market. He told how the Japanese had controlled the business until ADM’s entry a few years back. That had led the Japanese to drastically cut the price of lysine and close some plants. Eventually, ADM started experiencing contamination in the lysine fermenters. About that same time, ADM and some of the Japanese competitors had visited each other’s plants.

  Within days, Andreas said, Whitacre received a strange call from Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 37

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  one of those visitors. Andreas no longer remembered Fujiwara’s name but recalled every detail of the sabotage by Ajinomoto and the demand for $10 million. In the weeks since receiving that first call, he said, Whitacre had spoken to the Japanese executive just about every other day.

  Andreas clasped his hands on the table. “Mark’s got him talked down to six million.’’ Three million would be paid to identify the saboteur; the rest would be for the superbug. Still, the company was concerned. If ADM paid the money and took the bugs, Andreas said, the Japanese might take legal action or go to the newspapers, saying the microbes had been stolen. This whole thing, he suggested, might be just a sting designed to cripple ADM as a competitor by luring them into something illegal.

  “Mr. Andreas, don’t worry about that,’’ Stukey said. “I’m granting you international immunity.’’

  Shafter wasn’t sure if Stukey was joking, but he didn’t want Mick getting any wrong ideas. He scribbled something onto his notepad and slid it toward Andreas. Mick glanced at the paper. He saw a single word.

  Bullshit!

  Andreas said nothing. Shafter took back the note.

  “ADM is willing to lose three million dollars to resolve this matter,’’

  Andreas continued. “But we can’t pay the money directly. If there’s a mole in the company, it might attract his attention. But my dad has told me that he’s willing to personally guarantee any money paid to this Japanese guy if the United States Government puts up the cash initially.’’

  Shepard studied Andreas as he spoke. He seemed businesslike and taciturn. He was describing this multimillion-dollar transaction with the government as though it was like any other business deal.

  “Well, Mr. Andreas,’’ Stukey said, “we obviously know who you are and who your father is. And this has the potential of being a truly international case. This is corporate espionage at the highest level. We want to do everything we can to work with you.’’

  To start, Stukey said, they needed to interview Mark Whitacre. After all, he was the person who was receiving these calls from the Japanese executive.

  “Do you know where Mr. Whitacre lives?’’ Stukey asked.

  “I can tell you exactly where he lives,’’ Andreas said. “He lives in the house my mom and dad used to live in. It’s out in Moweaqua.’’

  That house was almost symbolic of Whitacre’s stirring personal Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 38 38

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  history that was so well known around Decatur. Most everyone associated with ADM—the Andreases, Shafter, Jim Randall—had heard Whitacre tell the amazing story of his life: how he had been orphaned as a young boy in Ohio when his parents died in a car accident; how he had spent difficult times in a local orphanage, feeling unwanted; how he had been adopted by a wealthy man who owned a giant Ohio amusement park called King’s Island. Whitacre had gone from having nothing to wanting for nothing. Now from a family worth millions, Whitacre seemed to have no need to work; he had been able to buy the old Andreas house when he first joined ADM. His work ethic, combined with his family’s personal wealth, fascinated other executives.

  “We’ll need to go out there,’’ Stukey said. “We obviously would like to tape one of these phone calls he’s had with the Japanese.’’

  Andreas told the agents to make any arrangements for Whitacre through Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief. He would be fully briefed on this meeting.

  Andreas paused, eyeing the agents. There was one more thing he wanted out on the table, he said. He was of course aware of ADM’s role in the FBI investigation years before at the Chicago futures exchanges.

  “It’s also no secret that I didn’t like it when I found out about it,’’

  Andreas said. “To me, it’s repugnant to tape people when they don’t know it. In this case, I don’t want my people taped unless they know about it or I know about it ahead of time.’’

  Stukey assured Andreas that he had nothing to worry about. Still, the sudden demand seemed odd. The FBI had come to help fight off a sabotage effort. The only executives who might be taped would be those suspected of damaging ADM. Why would Andreas be against that? What was he worried about?

  The FBI. God, no.

  Later that day, Mark Whitacre sat in his office, feeling numb. He had just emerged from a meeting with Mick Andreas and Mark Cheviron, where they had told him that the FBI wanted to speak with him about the Fujiwara calls. The two had made it clear that they didn’t trust the Bureau and gave Whitacre explicit instructions on how to handle himself.

  Until then, Whitacre had heard nothing about the Andreases’ decision to inform the government about Fujiwara. Instead, he had been listening to Mick’s instructions to string Fujiwara along, to negotiate Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 39

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  him down in price. From all appearances, ADM seemed ready to pay the money and be done with it.

  But Whitacre had been fooled. Now, ADM expected him to meet with the FBI and answer their questions.

  Answer their questions! Jesus!

  Whitacre shook his head; he had never felt so nervous. Since learning of the interview, Whitacre had ranted, threatened to quit, but got nowhere. He was petrified of the FBI agents. There were too many things that they could find out. Things that could destroy him. Things that could destroy ADM.

  Whitacre paced in his office. The timing of this was so bad. His career had been coming together at ADM. He had successfully overseen completion of the lysine plant. He was a division president. And now, just in the last few weeks, his situation had improved even more. The company had announced a management reorganization, naming Mick to the title of vice-chairman. At the same time, Whitacre had been named a corporate vice president, one of the youngest in ADM

  history. Wall Street had correctly interpreted the moves as Dwayne Andreas’s clear designation of Mick as the heir apparent. In a few years, he was almost certain to take ADM’s top job, and Whitacre felt confident that he had a shot at being number two. Now, all that was at risk. All for this crazy interview.

  Whitacre glanced at the telephone. He needed to call his wife, Ginger. He was sure she could help him think this through. Ginger had always been there for him, since they met as teenagers on a bus at Little Miami High School in Ohio. The oldest daughter of factory workers, Ginger was the picture of solid Midwestern stock, the high-school homecoming queen who played whatever hand life dealt her.
In those days, Mark lived up to his then-nickname “Corky,’’ as he popped off in different directions. Throughout high school, he broke up with Ginger repeatedly, but she always took him back, convinced that someday her patience would pay off. Finally, in 1979, a few years after graduation, the couple married. When Mark pursued his doctorate at Cornell, Ginger went with him. In the years since, she never complained as Mark moved from job to job—from Ralston Purina in St. Louis to Degussa Corporation in New York and eventually to Degussa’s world headquarters near Frankfurt. Before leaving the country, they had adopted two children, Tanya and Billy, and not long after gave birth to a third, Alexander. Their family had grown from two to five people in one year.

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  The move to Decatur had been difficult for the family. Mark, caught up in his new job, was no longer as attentive as he had been. Also, Ginger felt uncomfortable around some ADM executives, who struck her as crass and too impressed with their own wealth. Still, she understood that the job was too great an opportunity to pass up. As always, she stood by Mark. Now, as Mark called home, he only hoped that Ginger could be strong for him again.

  Ginger was stepping through the living room when the telephone rang. Almost as soon as she picked it up, she could tell Mark was in a panic. His normal breezy cheeriness was gone, replaced by a tone of desperation. Before she could say anything, his story spilled out. The FBI was snooping around ADM. His boss had told him to talk with an agent.

  Ginger sat down, uneasy. Her experience with law enforcement was limited; none of her family had ever had a run-in with the police. To her, the FBI was some sort of fearful monolith, one that clearly scared Mark.

  “I’m really uncomfortable about this,’’ he said. “There are lots of things going on. I could be asked some tough questions.’’

  Ginger wasn’t sure what Mark was talking about and didn’t think she should ask. But she knew he had better not lie to the FBI.

  “Whatever you do, no matter what’s going on, just be honest with them and tell the truth,’’ she said. “Tell the truth no matter what the truth is.’’

  Brian Shepard checked the time again. It was late that same afternoon, and he was getting tired of waiting. Already, he had received two calls from ADM postponing Whitacre’s interview. There were plenty of excuses; Whitacre was busy, something had come up. Shepard wasn’t sure of the problem, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something odd was going on.

  But interviewing Whitacre was critical to the next stages of the FBI’s investigative plan. The trick was to use the prospect of a multimillion-dollar payment to lure Fujiwara to the United States, where he could be arrested. A meeting would be set up between Whitacre and the Japanese executive; the FBI would be there, recording every word. Under the current plan, Whitacre would turn over

  $3 million if Fujiwara revealed the saboteur’s identity and other information. Fujiwara would be allowed to leave that meeting and then be Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 41

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  invited back to deliver the superbug for another payment from Whitacre. Once Fujiwara handed it over, the FBI would arrest him. For the plan to work, Shepard had to learn everything that Whitacre knew about Fujiwara. That interview was going to take time—and now it was starting late. Shepard decided to call Diana and let her know he would be late for dinner.

  In a place like Decatur, the slightest whisper can rapidly echo around town into a shout. A saboteur at ADM, particularly one in a high-level position, had a better-than-even chance of learning about the investigation if word of Whitacre’s meeting with the FBI leaked out. So Jim Shafter decided to go all out in protecting the interests of his best client.

  Late in the afternoon, Shafter made the rounds of his law firm, Kehart, Shafter & Hughes, telling everyone to head home. There were some people coming who needed privacy, he said. The staff started clearing out of their offices on the fifth floor of the Citizen’s Bank building in Decatur. They were happy to take advantage of an early Thursday.

  With nothing to do but wait, Shafter started a pot of coffee and checked the conference room. Before the staff had time to leave, a receptionist buzzed. Whitacre and Cheviron were waiting in the lobby. Shafter hustled out to the front. No one was supposed to have seen them arrive. After all the delays, now they were early. When he reached the lobby, Shafter was surprised at their appearance. Whitacre was pacing and sweating. Cheviron seemed frustrated. The men said nothing until they were in Shafter’s private office. Whitacre resumed his pacing, unable to sit down. It struck Shafter as bizarre.

  This guy is more than kind of nervous. What was the matter with him?

  “Mark, you don’t have a damn thing to worry about,’’ Cheviron said, in a tone that made it clear he was repeating himself. Whitacre looked to Shafter. “Is it okay for me to meet with them?’’

  he asked.

  Shafter stared at Whitacre, trying to gauge what was going on. When he spoke, his tone was calm.

  “Look, Mark, let me clear one thing up for you. I represent the company here; I don’t represent you. If you want a lawyer, we’ll get you a lawyer. I can only give the company advice, and what I can tell you is Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 42 42

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  that the company has requested that you meet with the FBI and cooperate with them.’’

  Whitacre showed no reaction. “Fine, that’s fine,’’ he replied. “I’m a loyal employee.’’

  A minute later, the receptionist buzzed again. Special Agent Shepard from the FBI was out front. So much for sending everyone home first.

  Shafter brought Cheviron and Whitacre to the reception area and escorted everyone to the windowless conference room. It was as private a place as could be found in Decatur on short notice. Shafter excused himself and headed back to his office. The situation was odd for Shepard. Cheviron had asked to sit in on the interview, a request that left the agent uncomfortable. Usually, FBI interviews are conducted privately. At times, a witness will bring along a lawyer, but no one else. That way, the witness could be assured any information would remain confidential. That seemed particularly important in this case. But Shepard decided not to make waves. ADM

  was the victim; if the company wanted Cheviron along, Shepard could agree, even if he didn’t like it.

  Shepard studied Whitacre. With his unlined, boyish face and blond hair, he looked as innocent as an altar boy. Still, Whitacre seemed anxious. For people in law enforcement, the reaction was not too unusual. Most everyone interviewed by an FBI agent or a prosecutor is, one way or another, probably having a bad day. Shepard began by trying to calm Whitacre.

  “Let me introduce myself,’’ he said amiably. “My name’s Brian Shepard. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.’’

  Shepard put out his hand. Whitacre took it, feeling Shepard’s strong grip.

  “Hey,’’ he said. “I’m Mark Whitacre.’’

  “I met with Michael Andreas this morning, and he told me you were president of the Bioproducts Division,’’ Shepard said. “We hope you can help us out. I’m not sure where this case will be going, but I want to listen to what you have to say.’’

  The men took their seats. Already, Whitacre felt more at ease. Shepard wasn’t what he had expected. Maybe this wasn’t going to be like on television, where some growling G-man sweats information out of the reluctant witness. Instead, Shepard seemed down-to-earth, more neighborly than confrontational.

  Whitacre leaned forward in his chair as he told the story about Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 43

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  Fujiwara. Shepard listened, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. After the first thirty minutes, Shafter stuck his head in the room. He was heading home, he said, and asked the men to shut off the coffeepot and lock
up when they left.

  In no time, Shepard’s notes contained the broad outline of the case. Whitacre described how the Ajinomoto executives had been invited to Decatur so that ADM could persuade them to shut down their American plants. He told of the bizarre phone call he had received from Fujiwara on his off-premises office extension that ADM had installed at his house. He discussed his subsequent conversation with Mick Andreas and the efforts to haggle Fujiwara down in price. Since then, Fujiwara had called every few days.

  “He told me that he wanted his payments deposited by wire transfer to numbered bank accounts in Switzerland and the Caribbean,’’

  Whitacre said.

  “When was your last contact with him?’’

  “Three days ago. He said he would call three or four days after that. But I think he’s getting suspicious, since he hasn’t gotten a positive response from us yet. I’ve dragged this out as long as I can. If we don’t get back to him soon, he may back out.’’

  Whitacre said he expected to receive the next Fujiwara call that very evening. He mentioned two ADM executives who previously worked for Ajinomoto; perhaps they were the saboteurs. Shepard said he needed a phone directory for the Bioproducts Division so that he could obtain numbers for those executives. As the meeting wrapped up, Shepard said an agent would be coming by Whitacre’s house with a recording device to tape the next Fujiwara call. But first, Shepard said, he needed approvals. It might take another day. Sometime after eight-thirty, more than three hours after it began, the meeting broke up. Whitacre and Shepard shook hands again before stepping out of the room. Whitacre seemed delighted to be going home.

  “Now my family’s being threatened! I can’t put up with this!’’

  Whitacre was rambling, nearly hysterical. He had called Cheviron at home, shortly after leaving Shafter’s office. From the instant Cheviron heard his voice, he knew something strange must have happened.

  “Mark, what are you talking about?’’ Cheviron asked. “Calm down.’’