The Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

Stukey and Hoyt jumped at the suggestion. Paisley headed back to his office and called Weatherall.

  “Hey, Joe, how’s it going?’’ Paisley asked. “Listen, I’ve got something that I’d like for you to consider doing.’’

  Two days later, shortly before six p.m., Shepard and Weatherall walked silently down a fifth-floor hallway at the Holiday Inn in Decatur. Stopping at a door, Shepard took out the electronic key card he had picked up from the front desk. After he swiped the card through the lock, the agents stepped inside.

  Shepard headed for the telephone and dialed Whitacre’s voice mail. He listened for the tone.

  “Five-forty-seven,’’ he said.

  Then he hung up.

  Across town, Whitacre was pulling away from the ADM underground garage. Soon, he turned west onto Eldorado Street, heading out of town. A few minutes after six, he checked the clock. Following Shepard’s instructions from earlier in the day, Whitacre called his voice mail on his car phone. He went through his messages quickly, paying little attention. Finally, he heard someone say a number. Whitacre disconnected the call. Now he knew the hotel room where the FBI was waiting for him.

  Weatherall sat quietly at a small table in the back of the hotel room. Nearby, Shepard was having trouble sitting still. He was jumpier, more nervous than Weatherall, and it showed. There was a knock at the door. Whitacre ambled into the room as soon as Shepard answered.

  “Hey, bud,’’ Whitacre said. “Sorry, there were some people in the hallway. I had to walk back and forth a couple of times before I knocked. I didn’t want you opening the door with people seeing it.’’

  “That’s okay, Mark,’’ Shepard said. “Good thinking.’’

  Whitacre looked across the room and saw a hulking man. Shepard had told him a new agent would be at tonight’s meeting, but still the man’s presence was disquieting. There was something about him, something more than just his size. He carried himself with a precision and exactness that reminded Whitacre of his preconceptions of federal agents.

  “Mark,’’ Shepard said, “this is Special Agent Joe Weatherall. He’s from the Champaign office. He’s going to be working with me on this case.’’

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  Whitacre smiled and took Weatherall’s hand.

  “Hey,’’ he said, “how’s it going?’’

  “Going fine. Good to meet you.’’

  Weatherall’s words were short and clipped. He was never much for small talk and not nearly as animated as Shepard. Still, he seemed friendly enough. Whitacre’s anxiety about the new agent eased up. Weatherall sat on the bed, and Whitacre took a seat at the table. Shepard sat across from him.

  For several minutes, Shepard and Whitacre chatted—about families, the rain, whatever. The pleasantries went on a little long for Weatherall’s taste; he wanted to get started. Still, he recognized that Shepard had his own style, and it seemed to work.

  Finally, Shepard got down to business. He asked Whitacre to reconstruct the portions of his conversation with Mimoto that had not been taped. Shepard listened, writing down Whitacre’s words. Finally, he flipped the page in his notebook.

  “Anything else we should know about?’’ he asked.

  Whitacre nodded.

  “ADM is real concerned about you guys,’’ he said. “Ever since you started talking to people at the company, they’ve been worried about it.’’

  Two days before, Whitacre had flown to Mexico with Jim Randall and a group of other ADM executives.

  “We were walking to the customs area,’’ Whitacre said, “and Randall told me that ADM was going to do things by the book from now on.’’

  Whitacre looked at the two agents. “He still said that he thought the company could beat the FBI. He told me, ‘We’re ADM, we’re a lot stronger than the FBI.’ He told me that Dwayne is more powerful than anybody could imagine.’’

  Despite Randall’s hubris, Whitacre said, there was no doubt that ADM had decided to start playing straight.

  “This is a big policy switch,’’ Whitacre said. “Randall told me I was supposed to hear about it from Mick tomorrow. It’s supposed to be a big secret, so he told me to act surprised when I heard.’’

  Whitacre glanced over at Weatherall. The agent was watching, not saying a word.

  Around two o’clock that day, Whitacre said, he had called the office and spoke with Mick. “Mick started talking about how much ADM had invested in my division and how much I mean to the com-Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 85

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  pany. He spent a lot of time telling me about my potential to become president of ADM, because his father and Randall are getting old.’’

  Shepard wrote down the words.

  “After telling me all that, he said things were going to be different from now on,’’ Whitacre continued. “He said, ‘Mark, we’re going to start doing things your way. You’re not going to have to go to Japan in January. As a matter of fact, you’re not going to be calling these guys anymore.’ ”

  “What about the price-fixing?’’ Shepard asked.

  “It’s over,’’ Whitacre shrugged. “Mick told me, ‘We’re not going to be fixing prices anymore.’ ”

  Shepard asked more questions, while Weatherall sat silently on the bed. Finally, Shepard told Whitacre that he had brought a recording device and wanted to show him how it worked. It was a microcassette recorder and looked just like one from an office-supply store. Shepard showed Whitacre what buttons to push and how to tell if it was working.

  Shepard slid the device into Whitacre’s inside pocket of his suit jacket. Then, he clipped a tiny microphone to the top. No one would ever know a recorder was there unless they looked inside Whitacre’s jacket.

  “Now, Mark, be relaxed, be normal when you talk to people at the office,’’ Shepard said. “Don’t think about the recorder. But let’s talk about some scenarios, what you should do in certain situations.’’

  By the evening’s end, Whitacre felt somewhat comfortable with the device. He pulled his suit straight, and shook the agents’ hands. Shepard said he would be back in touch soon. Whitacre nodded and headed out into the hallway.

  After Whitacre was gone, Shepard pulled down the bedcovers; he didn’t want the maids wondering why the guest in this room never slept. For security, he and Weatherall decided to wait around a few minutes.

  Weatherall looked over at Shepard.

  “So,’’ he said, “how much of that story do you believe?’’

  The telephone rang at Shepard’s house the following Monday night at 9:10. On the line was Gene Flynn, a switchboard operator from the FBI office.

  “Brian,’’ Flynn said, “I have a call from Mark Whitacre, who says he’s working with you on a case.’’

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  Shepard had left a page for Whitacre earlier in the day and never heard back. Probably this was the return call. He asked Flynn for the number. In a minute, he had Whitacre on the line.

  “Yeah, Mark, it’s Brian. What’s going on?’’

  Whitacre abandoned any pretense of civility. “Brian, what do you want now?’’ he snapped, holding his voice down. “When does this end?’’

  Shepard took a breath. Whitacre had been pulling away, starting with his claims that the price-fixing had come to an end. Obviously, he was reaching some sort of breaking point. Shepard murmured a few calming comments, but Whitacre would have none of it.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,’’ he said. “I’ve proved I was telling the truth. That tape proved it. I’ve done what you asked of me, and now I’ve got a job to do. I don’t know what else you want from me.’’

  “Mark, there’s a lot more that we have to do,’’ Shepard said. “Right now you’re our only witness. You’re the only person we have to talk to. Yo
u know this is important, and we still need your help.’’

  Whitacre sighed. He was standing at a pay telephone in the offices of Coors Brewing Company in Golden, Colorado, where he had traveled that day to negotiate a possible business deal. He had enjoyed the day—it had been all business, not law enforcement. But then he had checked his messages and heard Shepard’s pager. The guy was like a dog with a bone.

  “Well, Brian, I don’t know how much I’m going to be able to help,’’

  Whitacre said. “I’ve been talking with Ginger, and we’ve decided that I should try and get a transfer to Mexico. And if I don’t get the transfer, then I’m just going to quit the company.’’

  “Okay, Mark,’’ Shepard said. “But what does getting a transfer to Mexico accomplish?’’

  Whitacre was breathing heavily. Clearly, he wanted Shepard to go away and was thrashing about for any excuse to get that done.

  “I’m going to contact an attorney,’’ Whitacre hissed. “You guys are destroying my family.’’

  “Who is, Mark?’’

  “The FBI.’’

  “What do you mean?’’

  “The way you’re treating me is unfair. I’ve been honest with you, and I’ve told you everything I know.’’

  Shepard started to speak, but Whitacre interrupted him.

  “I’m out here at a business meeting, a legitimate business meeting,’’ he said. “You guys have got to realize that I’ve got a business to run and I just can’t be working with you all the time.’’

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  “I know that, Mark, and that’s something that we need to talk about,’’ Shepard said, sounding calm.

  Whitacre interrupted again.

  “You guys don’t care who you hurt. You’re going to hurt me, and you’re going to hurt Mick Andreas and a lot of other innocent people.’’

  Shepard, who had started jotting down some notes, wrote the word innocent.

  “I just did what I was told to do,’’ Whitacre continued. “And I’ll bet if I talked to an attorney, he would tell me I didn’t have to talk to you anymore. All I’m going to do is go back and do business the right way. That’s all I care about.’’

  “Mark, that may be what you want to do,’’ Shepard said. “But you know you’re just going to get dragged back into the price-fixing.’’

  “No, I’m not. Everything’s changing, like I told you. The FBI being around reminded us that we can’t be running the company with the kind of maneuvers and tactics that we’ve used in the past. It’s a different attitude; it’s a different approach.’’

  “Mark, you know they aren’t changing everything from what it was just a week ago. The company’s not going to change overnight. You’re just saying this because you want us to go away.’’

  “No, you’re wrong. The price-fixing is stopping. Definitely. We’re even going to be dropping lysine prices, so we can do business the right way. And I can tell you, when we do that, all the competitors are going to be upset, especially the Japanese. There’s not going to be any more price-fixing.’’

  “What about other divisions? What about the other things you know are going on there?’’

  “I don’t know anything about how other divisions handle their business. I don’t know anything.’’

  Now Whitacre was contradicting himself again. A week before he had told Shepard and Paisley about possible price-fixing by corn refiners. Suddenly, he knew nothing about it. Shepard decided to press him.

  “Mark,’’ he said. “You’ve already told us a lot of things. You’ve told us about problems in other divisions. You know more than you’re saying now.’’

  Then he closed his eyes, seething.

  “Look,’’ he said. “I don’t know anything else. And I don’t want anything more to do with the FBI.’’

  Then he hung up the phone.

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  from him. He never imagined that the FBI would latch onto him like this. What did they want from him? For God’s sake, he didn’t want to become some professional FBI agent. He wanted to get back to his job. He gave them the tape. He’d done enough.

  Why can’t Shepard just leave me alone?

  On the third floor of an anonymous-looking office building in downtown Springfield, a forty-year-old federal prosecutor named Byron Cudmore was reviewing records from a criminal case. As First Assistant to the United States Attorney for central Illinois, Cudmore saw most of the paperwork from the big criminal cases in that part of the state—and generated a good deal of it himself.

  To keep the heavy document traffic under control, more than half a dozen oak filing cabinets lined his office, each brimming with burgundy accordion folders. Everything about the room was meticulous. Cudmore himself, dressed as always in a starched white shirt and dark suit, had no tolerance for untidy desks or untidy minds. The lawenforcement agents who worked with Cudmore knew to come prepared if they wanted his help or counsel. The athletic prosecutor was all business, with little time for pleasantries or idle chat. Even defendants called him “Stone Face.’’

  One of his lines rang, and Cudmore kept an eye on the extension light as his secretary answered. The light began blinking, and she buzzed Cudmore. Brian Shepard from the FBI was on the line.

  “I’ll take it,’’ he said.

  Before answering, Cudmore slid his rolling chair toward one of the filing cabinets and opened a drawer, removing the folder for the ADM

  investigation. The case had landed on his desk weeks before, the day after Whitacre first told Shepard about price-fixing. Since then, Cudmore had served as something of a shadow agent, providing input whenever Shepard needed it. Cudmore had worked with Shepard before and respected him; besides being hardworking, the agent always kept his appointments. He felt sure that if Shepard was calling, something important was up. Cudmore placed the file on his desk, brought out a notepad, and wrote down the date. Prepared, he pushed the blinking light on his phone.

  “Brian, this is Byron. What do you need?’’

  “We’re having some trouble. The source is getting hinky. He’s going all over the chart.’’

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  Cudmore was not surprised. Cooperating witnesses, he knew, usually get very shaky in the early days. Most start dealing with the government without understanding the terms: Cooperation is total immersion, all or nothing. Those who try to limit the details they share with law enforcement are playing a very risky game, one that can result in their being transformed in a flash from witness to defendant. In this case, Cudmore already knew from Shepard that Whitacre was an intelligent, high-strung person. It was hard to tell if the problems described by Shepard were the result of connivance or Whitacre’s own emotional volatility.

  “Well, maybe that’s just the way he is,’’ Cudmore said. “But maybe there’s more that he’s hiding.’’

  There were other concerns, Shepard said. The Fujiwara case was still the primary investigation. But Whitacre had yet to tape any calls with the Japanese executive. He had offered excuses—Fujiwara had developed cold feet; Cheviron had forced him to forward calls from his home line with the recorder onto the ADM off-premises extension. But the stories struck Shepard as illogical. On top of that, even though Whitacre had been trained days ago to use a body recorder, not a single tape had come in from ADM. It was frustrating.

  “Any suggestions?” Shepard asked.

  “Yeah. Maybe back off him a little bit, see what happens. But if things don’t straighten out, tell it like it is. Let him know he can’t have it both ways.’’

  Cudmore held the receiver close.

  “He can be a witness or he can be a target,’’ he sai
d. “It’s his choice.’’

  Whitacre closed the door to his office and walked over to his desk. He needed to talk to somebody, somebody he could trust. He dialed the Atlanta sales office. He didn’t need to look up the number; he knew it by heart. The executive who ran the office, Sid Hulse, was his top lysine salesman and a good friend. Whitacre called Hulse many times a day—to talk business, to discuss personal finances, or just to shoot the breeze. Karen Sterling, an assistant to Hulse, answered.

  “ADM Atlanta.’’

  “Yeah, hey, it’s Mark.’’

  “Just a moment. I’ll get him.’’

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  though she had been working for Hulse only a few months, she felt petrified of him. He was physically and emotionally intimidating; she found his sexual harassment to be unrelenting. Unknown to Hulse, Sterling had begun carrying a loaded gun to protect herself from him.

  “Sid,’’ she called tentatively. “It’s Mark.’’

  Hulse grabbed the phone.

  “Hey,’’ he said. “What’s up?”

  “Got some problems, bud,’’ Whitacre said. “Got some things happening I wanted to talk to you about.’’

  Hulse asked what was wrong.

  “You know we’ve been having trouble in the plant,’’ Whitacre said.

  “Well, it ends up we might have somebody inside who’s sabotaging the place. Dwayne called in the FBI. They’re investigating.’’

  Hulse didn’t think this sounded too bad. “Well, they’ll probably get to the bottom of the problem.’’

  “But that’s not all, bud. There’s other things going on here. We’ve been fixing prices for lysine.”

  For a few minutes, Whitacre described the price-fixing. For all his calls to Hulse, this was the first time he had told his friend about the illegal scheme.

  “So, what, you think the FBI’s gonna find out about that?’’ Hulse said.

  Whitacre paused. “They already know,’’ he said. “I told them.’’

  “What?’’

  “Yeah, that’s my problem. I told them about it. Now they want me to help them investigate it.’’