The agents flipped through their notes. This story had the ring of truth. The idea that ADM had tried to buy a competitor’s bug was similar to Whitacre’s other allegations about industrial espionage.
“So,’’ Shepard said, “the major motive for telling Mick this story in the first place was?’’
“The major motive was to prove to Mick something I’ve been saying for eighteen months,’’ Whitacre said. “I think we had a mole in the plant, causing contamination and information-flow problems.’’
“And why did you agree to try and obtain the organisms?’’
Whitacre shrugged. “I wanted to be on the team. I thought it would help my relationship with Mick.’’
The agents questioned Whitacre again from the beginning, writing it all down in longhand. They wanted to be sure Whitacre was committed to this version. Weatherall showed him the written statement.
“So, this is the full story?’’
Whitacre nodded.
“Mark, if there’s anything else you want to add, now’s the time. The truth matters here.’’
“That’s the full story.’’
“Now, this document and anything else you say can be used in court. Do you understand that?’’
“Yeah, I understand.’’
“And you still want to sign? Nothing to add?’’
Whitacre shook his head.
“Okay,’’ Weatherall said, sliding the document across the table to him.
Whitacre signed the statement. Weatherall and Shepard both signed as witnesses.
“Okay, Mark,’’ Weatherall said. “I’m proud you told the truth. You’re doing the right thing.’’
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opened up. Maybe now his real work as a cooperating witness could begin.
Ginger Whitacre, wearing a nightgown and a robe, carried two glasses of lemonade into the family room. Mark had brought wood in for a fire before changing for bed; now the flames were giving the room a warm glow. She walked toward the couch where Mark was sitting, handed him a lemonade, and sat down beside him.
She took a sip, staring into the fire.
“Mark,’’ she said, “it’s the right thing to do.’’
He drank his lemonade.
“I know,’’ he said.
“You’ve started something; now you’ve got to finish it.’’
“I could always leave.’’
“Yes, you can just walk away, go work for somebody else,’’ she said.
“I’d be happy with that. But as long as you work for ADM, you should cooperate. You should sign the agreement.’’
He took another sip. “It’s not like I’d be doing a lot of things different. I meet with them whenever they want; I make tapes for them. I guess all I’d be doing is putting everything in writing.’’
Ginger knew nothing about Mark’s confession of his deceit to the FBI. She knew nothing of his plan. He still hoped he could upend the investigation and get away from the FBI. But until then, it seemed to make sense to sign the cooperation agreement. At least that way, no one could prosecute him.
“Okay,’’ he said finally. “I’ll call Brian. I’ll tell him I want to sign.’’
Ginger leaned her head on his shoulder. She was proud of her husband. He was doing the right thing. Christmas came and went, and afterward Shepard and Weatherall received one additional present—news of Whitacre’s decision. The night of his confession seemed to have been a breakthrough. Now, he talked about how eager he was to help. Shepard called Cudmore in the prosecutors’ office to let him know. They needed to get together again—and this time Cudmore could take the agreement out of his briefcase.
They met at the Holiday Inn on Tuesday, December 29. Whitacre arrived late; he had been at the store, purchasing seven cans of caramel popcorn as late presents for business associates.
“I brought the agreement,’’ the prosecutor said, bringing out the Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 117
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three-page document. “You’ll find it’s exactly as I told you. I want to go over it with you and make sure you don’t have any questions.’’
Whitacre read through the cooperation agreement’s thirteen terms. It said that the government could not prosecute Whitacre on the basis of information he provided. In exchange, he was required to offer “complete and truthful’’ details about his crimes and the crimes of others. If he failed to meet that requirement, either by lying or omitting information, anything he said could be used against him in the prosecution of any crime, including perjury.
“For instance, you must neither conceal or minimize your own actions in any offense,’’ it said. “You agree that you will not engage in any criminal activity of any kind without the prior knowledge and approval of FBI agents and this office.’’
Whitacre noticed a term forbidding him from telling anyone information about the investigation without FBI approval. Repeatedly, the document discussed Whitacre’s “covert role” and “covert capacity.’’
Whitacre asked how far that role would go.
“There’s going to be a lot of undercover work,’’ Cudmore replied.
“Tape recordings, obtaining notes, those kinds of things.’’
Whitacre finished reading and looked up.
“Do I have to sign this now?’’ he asked.
“No,’’ Cudmore said. “Take some time with it. Have a lawyer look it over. But this is the deal. It’s not open to negotiation. And like I said before, we don’t care how we proceed here, it’s either you or them. The way to have us focus on them is to sign the agreement and prove you’re being truthful.’’
Whitacre nodded. “Okay.’’
Sometime in early January, Cudmore said, he should let the agents know if he would be signing. With that, Cudmore packed up his briefcase.
“You’re making the right decision,’’ he told Whitacre as he shook his hand.
Cudmore headed to the door, stopping before he opened it. He looked back into the room.
“Happy New Year, everybody,’’ he said.
The next Monday, Shepard studied Whitacre as he glided into the hotel room. Expensive suit. Garish tie. Gregarious demeanor. He looked calm and confident, with no sign of anxiety that might signal he was planning to back out.
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Whitacre and Shepard sat at the table. Whitacre opened up the discussion, saying that he had not brought the agreement. He was still looking it over.
Shepard asked if he had any information about price-fixing. Nothing to report, Whitacre replied.
“But I’ve been thinking,’’ he said. “I think it might be good for you guys to interview Wayne Brasser. He knows a lot about price-fixing at ADM.’’
“He’s somebody we’re going to want to talk to, Mark,’’ Shepard said.
“You should do it soon. He’s gonna forget stuff if you let too much time slip by.’’
The main thing now, Shepard said, was for Whitacre to come in with whatever information he could on price-fixing. Whitacre said he would try, but it was difficult. Everyone was still wary. The conversation drifted away from price-fixing, toward the allegations of industrial espionage. Whitacre had earlier mentioned that ADM had hired an executive named Michael Frein from International Minerals Corp. Shepard asked about that again.
Randall had told him all about it, Whitacre said: ADM had hired Frein and paid him to bring along one of IMC’s microorganisms, a bug used to manufacture an antibiotic called bacitracin.
“Are you going to be with Randall anytime soon?’’ Shepard asked.
“I see him every day.’’
“Next time you do, ask him about this on tape. See what he says.’’
Jim Randa
ll stretched out his legs as he sat on one of the pillowy, upholstered seats in an ADM corporate jet. Despite the roar of the jet engine, this was a moment for Randall to relax. There were no phones ringing, no meetings to attend. Nursing a drink, he slouched in his seat and loosened his tie.
Nearby, Whitacre watched the ADM president. It was January 6, 1993, a Wednesday. Whitacre had been traveling with Randall for two days, as part of an effort to start a business in a new product called methionine—an amino acid, like lysine, that promotes animal growth. For much of the trip, they had been accompanied by Chris Jones, a former Whitacre colleague from Degussa who was now consulting with ADM on the project. The ADM plane had just dropped off Jones in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Randall and Whitacre were finally alone. For a few minutes, the two executives chatted. Whitacre mentioned Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 119
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an executive he had met the other day from American Cyanamid, a company with dealings in the bacitracin business. Whitacre watched as Randall leaned his head back, seeming to rest.
Whitacre slid his hand into his inside left breast pocket. Looking in, he saw the indicator light on the top of the FBI’s microcassette recorder. He flicked the switch. The indicator light glowed red. Whitacre leaned toward Randall.
“You know, one thing the Cyanamid guy asked me,’’ Whitacre said,
“he asked me, ‘Where did you guys get your technology?’ ”
Days later, Shepard slid a copy of tape number 1B13 into the TASCAM
playback device on his desk. Slipping a set of puffy earphones over his head, he glanced at the paperwork for the tape.
Shepard cued the tape. Instantly, he heard the sound of a jet engine. Already, he could tell this would be a troublesome recording; there was too much background noise. He heard Whitacre’s voice, saying something about a guy at Cyanamid asking where ADM obtained its technology.
“I said, well, we got it from Korea,’’ Shepard heard Whitacre say.
“The bacitracin technology.’’
Vaguely, Shepard could hear Randall say something. The engine drowned out the words.
“Huh?’’ Whitacre asked. Apparently, it was hard to hear on the plane, too.
“Got it from where?’’ Randall was speaking up.
“Korea,’’ Whitacre said, “which is the standard lie we’ve always been sayin’ when we’re asked. You know, we don’t get asked that much.’’
“Yeah,’’ Randall replied.
Shepard played the section back. Randall hadn’t jumped up, asking why Whitacre was lying about how ADM obtained the bug. That might mean something. Shepard turned on the tape again. Whitacre was talking.
“And he goes, well, ah, the IMC guys felt that you got it from this, from a guy that left their company named Mike Frein, that Mike Frein stole the bug,” Whitacre said. “That’s what he said.’’
“Yeah,’’ Randall replied.
An indifferent statement. No shock. Interesting.
The conversation meandered. Randall mentioned a man named Scott who had done business with ADM.
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“He used to be friends with Mike Frein,’’ Whitacre said.
“Oh, yeah, he was.’’
“Is that how you got Mike Frein? From him, wasn’t it?”
“Right.’’
“Did Frein come to us looking for a job?’’ Whitacre asked. “Or Scott told you about him?’’
“I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly how . . .’’ Randall’s words dipped, drowned out by the jet engine.
A second later they were clear again.
“I paid him fifty thousand dollars per bug.’’
“Cheapest bug we ever got,’’ Whitacre responded, as both men laughed.
The middle section of Randall’s statement had been unintelligible. Try as he might, Shepard could not understand those few words. But the words after that were clear as a bell.
I paid him fifty thousand dollars per bug.
Soon, Whitacre sent the conversation in another direction.
“It’s a shame we got Frein, ah, the bacitracin bug,’’ he said. “What we need is Ajinomoto’s lysine bug.’’
“Do you think it’s better than ours?’’
Shepard listened closely. This had come up several times. That first night Whitacre spoke in the car, he had said that ADM hired women to hang around near the American offices of an Asian competitor in search of employees willing to sell a bug or answer questions. There was a chance that topic would come up.
Randall and Whitacre discussed the technical differences between the two bugs. Suddenly, Whitacre brought up the women.
“Cheviron never did have any luck with girls and stuff?’’ he asked.
“No, we pulled him out,’’ Randall replied, “because then we were starting to deal with the Japanese.’’ They had been getting friendly with their competitors, he said. New strategies were necessary. Shepard stopped the tape and rewound it.
Cheviron never did have any luck with girls and stuff? No, we pulled him out.
Unbelievable.
Shepard listened to the rest of the tape; its quality was terrible. But by the time he finished, Shepard was beginning to suspect that Whitacre’s stories about ADM’s industrial espionage might well be true.
•
•
•
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After two days of rain in Decatur, the sun broke through the clouds on January 9. With the weather on his side, Shepard made good time to the Holiday Inn parking lot. Tonight, he would not be going inside. A short time later, Whitacre pulled alongside. Shepard climbed out of his car; in a second, he was sitting in Whitacre’s passenger seat.
“You have that agreement?’’ Shepard asked.
“Yeah, right here,’’ Whitacre replied.
In a call that day, Whitacre had said that he was ready to sign the cooperation agreement. Shepard wanted it as soon as possible, so Whitacre agreed to meet. He wouldn’t be around much of the next week; he had business to take care of in the Cayman Islands. Whitacre handed the agreement to Shepard, who looked it over. Everything appeared to be in order. The two had a short conversation, and Whitacre decided to add one item to the agreement. He brought a pen out of his pocket and flipped to the last page.
“Furthermore,’’ he wrote, “I promise to take a ‘polygraph test’ at any time.’’
Dwayne Andreas worked on the sixth floor of ADM’s corporate headquarters, in a large corner office next to the boardroom. In a company that prized its secrecy, Andreas’s office was the inner sanctum. Few went there uninvited; rarely did anyone stand by listening while Andreas worked the telephones, networking with political and industrial leaders. In that office, the final rulings were made on any tough issue for ADM. Dwayne would take input, but in making his decision he stood alone, unchallenged. Such was the prerogative of the chairman. But the decision this day was particularly tough.
Should Mark Whitacre be fired?
The entire Fujiwara episode had been a disaster. After a while, no one believed that there was a saboteur. Whitacre, they figured, had made the whole thing up to buy time so he could get the plant running. But what about this lie involving threats to his daughter? What was going on with him?
Whitacre had finally been confronted by Reising and danced around the question of whether the original call from Fujiwara ever took place. He still insisted a saboteur had been in the plant but was less clear about whether he had proof.
The whole situation was too strange. Thankfully, the FBI didn’t seem to be taking the investigation seriously. Shepard checked in Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 122 122
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occasionally, but with no ne
w Fujiwara phone calls, the whole thing appeared to have faded away. Dwayne didn’t want to reveal ADM’s conclusion to the government. He didn’t like airing the company’s dirty laundry.
Dwayne figured that Whitacre should go. He called Randall and asked him to his office. The ADM president worked closest with Whitacre. He should have a say.
Randall was stunned when he heard the news. “Dwayne, you can’t be serious. We need this guy. He’s the best there is.’’
Sure, Randall said, Whitacre was odd, and this whole Fujiwara episode had been bizarre. But Whitacre had panicked; he was immature. Besides, the bottom line should be the bottom line, and Whitacre’s division was finally showing profits.
“The margins are bigger than any other business line,’’ Randall said. “We can’t do it without him.’’
Randall kept up the lobbying, promising he would personally keep an eye on Whitacre. Dwayne finally decided to let the young lysine executive keep his job. Whitacre, he was convinced, played too important a role in the company’s business. A sense of fantasy permeated Chicago’s “Magnificent Mile,” the famed shopping district dotted with posh shops, mock-Gothic newspaper headquarters, and world-class hotels. On January 22, white Christmas lights twinkled in the trees along Michigan Avenue, as if the city was desperately clinging to the faded holiday season. The decorations were a concession to a Hollywood studio filming a movie, but the city embraced the illusion. Remnants of holiday cheer were a helpful tonic as Chicago struggled through another cold, blustery winter. In the heart of the shopping district, two Asian executives headed into a hotel, the forty-six-floor Chicago Marriott Downtown. The men wore elegant suits and muted ties. They looked like nothing more than the visiting businessmen that they were. But Kanji Mimoto and Hirokazu Ikeda of Ajinomoto were in town to commit a crime. They wanted to see if the illegal price-fixing conspiracy among lysine manufacturers could get back on track. As part of that effort, a meeting had been arranged with a senior executive of ADM, the newest competitor in the business. They weren’t looking forward to the encounter; they viewed ADM management as reckless and ill-mannered. The Americans had rushed into the lysine business like cowboys, upending a cooperative price-fixing Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 123
The Informant Page 16
