The Informant
Page 11
T H E I N F O R M A N T
75
the lobby, parking near a Shakey’s pizza parlor that shared the same lot. The two-story beige-and-green hotel was nothing much to see—just one of thousands of faceless inns dotting the country that boasted of free cable and air-conditioning for weary travelers. After locking his car, Whitacre walked toward the hotel, pulling his coat tight. Even though it was before 6:00 p.m., the lot was getting dark. Whitacre felt relieved when he reached the lobby. Outside, he felt too exposed; anyone driving by could see him.
He looked around the lobby and crinkled his nose. What a shady place. It was small; the recessed lights were dim, giving a dark, dingy feel. In some ways, the appearance made Whitacre comfortable. He felt sure none of the people from his circles would drop by.
“Can I help you?’’ the front-desk clerk asked.
“No, no thanks. I’m just waiting for someone.’’
A minute later, Whitacre saw Shepard, wearing a trench coat, come in through the side door. The agent walked down a short hallway, stopping by some pay phones. Whitacre approached him.
“Hey,’’ Whitacre said in a soft, nasal tone. “How’s it going?’’
“Fine, fine. Listen, we’re not going to be able to get a room tonight. But I still need you to make some calls.’’
Whitacre fixed him with a puzzled look. “Okay,’’ he said cautiously.
“What phone are we going to use?”
“One right here,’’ Shepard said, nodding toward the lobby’s bank of pay phones.
Here? In public? Whitacre thought. He didn’t understand what was going on. Did Shepard’s credit card not work?
Shepard wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but it had been thought up at the last minute, when someone in Springfield raised concerns about using a hotel room phone. There were some legal and technical concerns. What if the conspirators had caller ID? They might become suspicious.
Whitacre looked around the small lobby. “This seems a little awkward,’’ he said.
“It’s the best I can do right now.”
The side door to the pool opened. A hotel guest walked by the two men, excusing himself as he passed on his way to the Chestnut, the hotel’s restaurant. When the man was gone, Shepard looked at Whitacre.
“Let’s go out to my car and talk.’’
The two men headed back to the lot and got inside the car. Shepard looked at Whitacre intently.
Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 76 76
K U R T E I C H E N W A L D
“We really need these conversations, Mark,’’ he said. They needed proof that Whitacre was telling the truth.
Whitacre nodded. “Okay. What do we do?’’
Reaching into his pocket, Shepard pulled out a small recording device. It looked like any other microcassette recorder, but it was only available from the FBI. A wire was attached, with a small, sensitive microphone at the end.
“Hold this microphone on the receiver. There’s a clip on it, but don’t worry about that. It doesn’t clip to the phone. You hold the microphone on the receiver, and I’ll hold the recorder.’’
“Okay.’’
“Do you have the phone numbers with you?’’
“Yeah, I brought them with me.’’
Whitacre took out the numbers. Shepard glanced at them, and the two men discussed their plan of attack. They agreed to first try a Kyowa Hakko executive named Masaru Yamamoto, or “Massy,” as Whitacre called him.
Opening his briefcase, Shepard brought out some documents known as FD-472s. Shepard explained that the forms authorized the FBI to record the phone conversation. Then, Shepard handed Whitacre an FD-473, explaining that this would provide authorization to place a tape recorder on his body. Shepard said he would give Whitacre a recorder the next time they met.
The two men walked back to the lobby. Shepard held the tape recorder, while Whitacre fumbled with the microphone. He picked up the phone and dialed zero.
An Illinois Bell operator answered. Whitacre asked for help dialing Japan, and she transferred him to an AT&T operator. He told her the eleven numbers she needed and recited his fourteen-digit calling-card number.
A man answered the phone in Japanese, identifying himself as working with Kyowa Hakko’s special pharmaceutical division.
“Uh, yes,’’ Whitacre responded. “May I speak with Mr. Yamamoto, please.’’
The Japanese man shifted to English. “May I have your name, please?’’
“Yes, the name is Mark Whitacre.’’
“Mark. Okay.’’
The man put Whitacre on hold. Light, syrupy music played for a moment. Yamamoto came on the line.
Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 77
T H E I N F O R M A N T
77
“Hello,’’ Yamamoto said in accented English.
“Mr. Yamamoto?’’
“Hi. Yamamoto speaking. How are you?’’
The two men traded pleasantries. Whitacre apologized for the delay in calling back. He had been traveling and would be leaving again tomorrow.
“I will pretty much be unreachable this week,’’ Whitacre said.
“Oh, I see. Ah, how is your sales?’’
In less than thirty seconds, the conversation had already veered into sales.
“Sales are doin’ pretty good,’’ he replied. “How ’bout yours?’’
“It’s good.’’
Yamamoto complained about certain lysine prices that he had heard were being offered. As Whitacre listened, an older woman walked past, staring at him as he held the microphone to the receiver. Whitacre felt enormously uncomfortable—he figured she thought he was taping his wife. He shifted the microphone, trying to look less conspicuous. He didn’t know that he had just caused his own voice to amplify on the tape.
“So Mr. Ikeda told me you guys would have a meeting November thirtieth—yourself and the Koreans.”
“Yes.’’
“In Korea, I think, isn’t it?’’
“Yes, yes, Seoul.’’
This was working.
“And then we meet again with myself involved and maybe someone else from our company involved. Maybe even Mick Andreas. That would be early January?’’
“Yeah, maybe so,’’ Yamamoto said. “Then we discuss ninety-three, for ninety-three.’’
They were close. Whitacre decided to push Yamamoto on what they would be discussing about 1993.
“Right,’’ he said. “For ninety-three pricing and volume.’’
“Ah.”
“In Hong Kong or Singapore. Is that correct?’’
“Yes, yes.’’
Whitacre had said it, but Yamamoto hadn’t denied it. Competitors were meeting to discuss prices and volumes. That should prove something to the FBI. Yamamoto mentioned that customers were claiming that ADM
Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 78 78
K U R T E I C H E N W A L D
was offering low prices—something that couldn’t be done under pricefixing.
“We don’t know is the customer making a trick,’’ Yamamoto said in imperfect English. Maybe, he was suggesting, the customers were lying.
“Customers can be tricky,’’ Whitacre replied.
Still, Yamamoto said, something had to be done for the best customers.
“It’s very, very important how we can keep a good price for the big customers, don’t you think?’’
“Yeah, I think you’re right.’’
Then, Yamamoto opened up.
“It’s better to talk, you know, see how we maintain the price at
$2.50, you know, in other countries, and $1.05 in the United States.’’
Jackpot. Yamamoto just admitted everything. The competitors were working together to control the prices. Whitacre felt a rush, a thrill. The conversation proceeded for a few more minutes, with Yamamoto congratulating Whitacre on his recent promotion. Finally, it came to a close.
“Okay, Massy.’’
“Bye-bye.’’
Whitacre pulled the microphone away and hung up the receiver before turning to Shepard. He couldn’t wait to let him know everything Yamamoto had said. Around six-forty-five, Shepard and Whitacre came out of the hotel, walking to the parking lot. Whitacre had placed several more calls but only reached Ikeda and Mimoto from Ajinomoto. Ikeda confirmed the upcoming meetings; Mimoto hadn’t said much, and the tape ran out near the beginning of the call. Still, Whitacre felt happy. The two men climbed into Shepard’s car and for a few minutes, Whitacre described the calls.
“Mark, this is exactly what we needed,’’ Shepard said. “It really verifies what you’ve said.’’
Whitacre smiled.
There were still more forms required for the tape. Shepard filled out an FD-504b, indicating the date and time he had taken custody of the tape. When the paperwork was done, Shepard asked if anything else had happened recently. Whitacre recounted his day. Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 79
T H E I N F O R M A N T
79
There was another issue, Whitacre said.
Shepard looked up from his notes. “What is it?’’
“Well,’’ Whitacre continued, “it’s somewhat common knowledge among the executives at ADM that Mark Cheviron is responsible for secretly recording customers when they’re staying at the Decatur Club.’’
“What do you mean?’’
“ADM has a place at the Decatur Club, and out-of-town customers stay there. I’ve heard we have taping equipment hidden there. So when we negotiate some deal, we hear what the other side really thinks.’’
“How have you heard about this?’’ Shepard asked.
“Well, it’s been the talk around ADM. And my secretary, Liz, used to work for Cheviron, and she told me one of her jobs was transcribing the recordings.’’
Shepard reviewed his notes. If ADM was conducting secret surveillance, that could result in another investigation. After a few followups, he was done.
“Thanks for your time,’’ Shepard said. “I’ll go over this tape in more detail and be back in touch.’’
Whitacre hopped out and hurried across the lot. In no time, he was in his car. As he veered left toward Route 51 South, he ran the evening’s events through his mind. Now the FBI knew that he was telling the truth about price-fixing. He felt confident Shepard had everything he needed to crack open this case.
He smiled. This would be over soon. The FBI would be done with him, and he could get back to his job.
Probably, he thought, in a few days the FBI wouldn’t even need his help anymore.
As he headed down Pershing Road, Shepard was excited. Everything had worked out well. Now, they had strong evidence to prove that price-fixing was occurring. Still, the investigation had a long way to go. To make a criminal case, Whitacre would have to help develop more evidence, more tapes.
The FBI, Shepard knew, was probably going to need Whitacre’s help for some time to come.
Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 80
CHAPTER 4
Acres of farmland stretched across flat Illinois plains, disappearing into darkness. A nighttime wind sent raindrops sideways, providing a last burst of energy before they splashed the windshield of Dean Paisley’s car. The wipers, on low, did little to improve visibility. Moderate rain had fallen throughout the day, and now a patchy fog hung over the highway. Usually, few drivers could resist exceeding the sixty-fivemile-an-hour speed limit on the monotonous drive from Decatur to Springfield on Interstate 72. But this night, the treacherous weather commanded patience. Paisley slowed to fifty-five.
It was shortly before eleven on November 9, 1992. More than three hours had passed since Shepard had taken custody of Whitacre’s recording. Now it was inside Paisley’s briefcase on the front seat of his car. Shepard had contacted Paisley almost immediately after the evening’s success, and the supervisor had driven to Decatur for an update. Shepard’s briefing dispelled most of Paisley’s doubts about the price-fixing conspiracy. And now, Whitacre had tipped them to another potential criminal scheme: the taping at the Decatur Club. Paisley drove past the Macon County border. Normally, by this point in such a long drive, he would have switched on the radio to hear some of the late-night talk shows he enjoyed. But on this evening, he drove in silence, lost in his thoughts.
Whitacre mystified him. Paisley remained uneasy about the man’s blasé willingness to cooperate. If nothing else, Whitacre was sure to be a fragile witness. A time would come—probably soon—when he would decide the risks of cooperating were too much. Paisley knew that Shepard would have to watch for that.
Paisley stared ahead, the white lines of the highway glowing in his headlights, as he considered Whitacre’s latest tip. The lead on the Decatur Club seemed shakier than the rest. Whitacre had no solid Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 81
T H E I N F O R M A N T
81
details, just rumors and second-hand information. If the FBI pursued that investigation now, ADM was sure to catch wind of it—and that would surely raise suspicions. The company might even call off the price-fixing if they suspected someone was talking.
Let’s just let this one hang out there for a while, Paisley thought. Price-fixing was the bigger case. Plus, they still had Fujiwara, along with Whitacre’s allegations of ADM’s industrial espionage. Those investigations couldn’t all be pursued at the same time. Instead, Paisley figured they could pick up the Decatur Club investigation later; maybe Whitacre would even come up with some better information by then. Still, the investigation was too sprawling; no agent could handle it alone. If this case had originated in Chicago or New York, a half dozen agents would have already been assigned. Shepard needed help. By the time he crossed the Sangamon River outside Springfield, Paisley had made up his mind. Tomorrow, he would appeal for more manpower. If his supervisors turned him away, Paisley could shift around other agents who reported to him. One way or another, Shepard would have a co–case agent by the next night. But as he pulled off Route 72, Paisley was still struggling with a thought: Who should be the other agent?
“Sales are doin’ pretty good. How ’bout yours?’’
Whitacre’s taped voice hissed out of a playback device resting in the center of Don Stukey’s desk. It was early the next afternoon. The Springfield SAC was leaning back in his chair, while John Hoyt, the ASAC, stood beside the desk. Paisley sat in front of the desk, his eyes flitting from the tape recorder to his supervisors. This, he hoped, was all the proof he needed to show that the ADM case required more agents.
After almost an hour, the tape ended. Stukey, who had been fiddling with a pen, sat up in his chair.
“Well, it looks like there might be something to what the source has been telling us,’’ he said, looking at Paisley. “So what’s your plan?’’
“Well,’’ Paisley said, “if this is what we think it is, we need Brian on this full-time, and we need someone with him. I’d recommend three people on it.’’
Stukey looked uncomfortable. “Do we need three?’’
If not, Paisley said, then at least there needed to be a backup. There would be days when Shepard was sick, on vacation, or testifying in some other case.
Topping it off, the case was expanding again. Earlier that day, Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 82 82
K U R T E I C H E N W A L D
Kevin Corr had taped a call with Richard Reising, ADM’s general counsel, who had said that the order to stop cooperating with the Fujiwara investigation had come from Dwayne Andreas himself. It was no leap of logic that an obstruction case might lead to the top of the company.
Hoyt joined in, agreeing with Paisley.
“Well,’’ Stukey said, “why don’t we just go with one more right now, and see how things progress.’’
Paisley nodde
d. It was a start.
“So,’’ Stukey said, “who do you think should be working on this with Brian?’’
Paisley had been pondering that question all night and was ready with an answer.
“Well, we have to pick somebody we think can do the best job, but it also has to be somebody who can work with Shepard,’’ he said. That meant they couldn’t pick a young agent or somebody new.
“So who do you recommend?’’
“Joe Weatherall,’’ Paisley answered. “He’s meticulous and he’s worked with Shepard before.’’
Everyone in the room knew Weatherall, a no-nonsense, Joe Friday type. He was the senior resident agent in the Champaign office, which reported through Springfield. The office was more than forty miles from Decatur; while he had worked cases in Decatur, Weatherall probably would be unknown to ADM.
The fifty-year-old agent had been with the FBI for decades—in fact, he was eligible for retirement, but seemed to have no intention of leaving anytime soon. A balding man with large, bushy eyebrows, Weatherall stood six feet three inches and weighed about 220 pounds. With the right glare or tone, he could be frightfully intimidating but usually came off more like a gentle giant. A West Point graduate and former member of the army, Weatherall was a man without pretense—
his name in many ways reflected his character: he was never Joseph or Joey, just Joe. That, in fact, was the name listed on his birth certificate. Joe Albert Weatherall, Jr.
As an agent, Weatherall was a stickler for detail. He would continually wring his hands over everything that might go wrong in an investigation. If a fellow agent failed to account for possible flaws in a plan, Weatherall would quietly upbraid the colleague. Failure to consider details was how soldiers got hurt in Vietnam, he would say. The tone of the simple statement, propelled by the force of Weatherall’s character, was withering.
Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 83
T H E I N F O R M A N T
83