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agreement that had existed for years among Asian competitors. The comfortable, familiar way of doing business was gone. Making it worse was their suspicion that ADM was a corporate thief. Ajinomoto knew how long it took to develop the microorganisms required for the business. Yet ADM had become a big player almost overnight. There was only one way that the company could have moved so quickly, the Japanese executives were convinced: ADM must have stolen Ajinomoto’s bug and used it as their own.
The September meeting in Decatur, when Ikeda and Mimoto had toured ADM’s plant with two Ajinomoto engineers, had provided the perfect cover to prove their suspicion. During the visit, Mimoto had attempted to steal one of ADM’s microbes by wiping a damp handkerchief along a staircase. The handkerchief had been taken to a lab, where it was searched for the bugs used by ADM. Ajinomoto had hoped to examine the bacteria for the telltale genetic markers embedded in its own proprietary microorganisms. That way, Ajinomoto would have proof that ADM had stolen them.
But no success. If the handkerchief had ever held any bugs, they had died before arriving at the lab. Ajinomoto’s hopes of quickly pushing ADM out of the business with a patent-infringement suit were put on hold. Cooperation was the only option. For now.
Ikeda and Mimoto walked through the Marriott lobby to the elevators. They rode upstairs, wandering the hall in search of the conference room where they were supposed to meet the ADM executive. Finally, they found the room. The ADM executive was there, sitting alone at a table. He stood as the Japanese executives walked in.
“Mr. Whitacre,’’ Ikeda said. “Good to see you.’’
Whitacre grinned, shaking Ikeda’s hand eagerly.
“Good to see you again, too.’’
The men sat. They talked amiably as they enjoyed a catered meal. The Ajinomoto executives hammered their position—regardless of any agreements, their company would have to remain the market leader. Whitacre turned that aside, saying that they needed to meet Mick Andreas and negotiate a lysine-production agreement. Otherwise, the scheme would never work.
Nothing seemed extraordinary to the Japanese executives. The talks involved the same issues, with the same hard-nosed positions from the past.
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government, a man who had signed an agreement to inform his FBI handlers of every illegal act. That way, such meetings could be taped and agents could surreptitiously observe them.
None of that, however, was taking place. Whitacre was not taping. No agents were present.
In fact, no one from the government knew what Whitacre was doing in Chicago. He had told the FBI nothing about this price-fixing meeting.
Whitacre felt sure he could keep it secret.
Rusty Williams set down his yard tools when he saw Whitacre walking toward him. Williams had been the Whitacres’ groundskeeper for about six months and already liked his new employer. Whitacre, in fact, had rapidly become more of a friend than a boss. When Whitacre had heard that Williams owed seven thousand dollars in debts, he had handed over the money as a gift. Rather than ignoring Williams or talking down to him, Whitacre often discussed his work and daily life, like any other friend.
Whitacre stepped over the grass, toward the white fence where Williams was standing.
“Hey, bud,’’ Whitacre said.
“Hey, how’s it going?’’
The two men talked about the yard. As always, Whitacre was concerned about keeping the driveway clear. After a few minutes, Whitacre changed the subject to his work at ADM. Williams had heard earlier from Whitacre that he was the top man in charge of ADM’s lysine production. He had been impressed.
On this day, Whitacre said he had dreams for his job, a way to become very rich.
“I’ve got plans, bud, I’ve got plans,’’ he said.
“What kind of plans?’’ Williams asked.
“I’ll tell you, if I could control gas prices, I would be a millionaire.’’
“Yeah?’’
Whitacre nodded knowingly.
“But if I could control the price of lysine and other products at ADM,’’ Whitacre continued, “I’d be a billionaire by age fifty.’’
Six weeks passed.
The criminal investigations of ADM were going nowhere. Shepard had officially notified the company that the FBI was dropping the Fuji-Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 125
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wara inquiry. With no new calls, he explained, there was nothing to investigate. The company seemed relieved. Whitacre was proving to be a disappointing witness, despite the cooperation agreement. The agents had spoken with him only about a half dozen times since late January but he was always empty-handed, with no new information about price-fixing. One of the topics he wanted to talk about was Wayne Brasser. It was obvious Whitacre was hoping that Brasser would become their witness. They had made an attempt, interviewing Brasser as part of the Fujiwara investigation and asking at the end if he had other issues to discuss. Brasser didn’t take the bait, and the agents weren’t going to push. The more people who knew of their interest in price-fixing, the greater the risk that ADM
might get tipped off.
Making it worse was the poor quality of the few tapes Whitacre did record. The agents had enough experience to know the types of recordings that should have been coming in, but it wasn’t happening. Some recordings—such as the Randall airplane tape—were hard to hear. Oftentimes, there were televisions or other distractions drowning out the discussions.
The conversations they could hear were of little help. They didn’t want to listen to any more tapes of Brasser; they wanted to hear what people inside ADM were saying. But again and again, Whitacre insisted there was nothing to record. Finally, Shepard ran out of patience.
“Whitacre acts like he’s cooperating, but I don’t think he is,’’
Shepard told Weatherall. “I think he’s trying to wriggle off the hook.’’
Weatherall agreed; Whitacre was still hiding something. The two agents again contacted the Behavioral Science Unit and spoke with Special Agent Steven Etter, who for months had been providing them with advice on how to handle Whitacre. Shepard bounced his plans off Etter, who offered a few suggestions. Then, Shepard called Byron Cudmore, describing his concerns about Whitacre.
“So what’s the plan?’’ Cudmore asked.
“We’re going to put him on the box again.’’
The box. Another polygraph.
“Sounds good,’’ Cudmore said. “Let me know what happens.’’
Twenty seconds.
“Are you lying about any aspect of your involvement in ADM’s price-fixing operations?’’ Agent Hamara asked.
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Whitacre glanced at the chart paper. It was March 10, sometime after seven o’clock at night. Whitacre had been surprised to see Hamara; again, he had been given no warning. Whitacre had tried being casual, telling the agents he was hiding nothing and was willing to take the test. Again, he had been told the questions in advance. This was the one that concerned him.
“No,’’ he said in a strong voice.
As best as he could tell, the ink tracings stayed steady. Whitacre felt relieved. This was the fifteenth question he had been asked during the test and the second about his knowledge of price-fixing. Only two other questions seemed relevant; one asked whether Mick Andreas had directed him to buy bugs from Fujiwara and another whether Cheviron had told him to forward his home phone to the ADM offpremises extension. Whitacre had answered both questions yes. Hamara asked a final control question and marked the paper with the response. He did not look up.
Whe
n Hamara finished with his two sets of questions, he studied the results, translating the tiny movements in the tracings into a numerical equation. Once he toted it up, he had no doubt: Each relevant answer was indicative of deception.
Whitacre had blown the box again.
The agents met behind closed doors for just a few minutes while Whitacre waited in the adjoining room. The agents were quiet; Whitacre could hear nothing. Finally, the door opened and Whitacre stood. The looks on everyone’s faces told him all he needed to know. He started speaking before they could sit down.
“Guys, I’m really tired and I’ve got some stuff I’ve got to do early tomorrow morning. I need to go home.’’
Shepard and Weatherall paused before responding.
“Really, I need to go home,’’ Whitacre repeated. “I’ve got a lot of stuff tomorrow. And I’m really tired. So I really need to go home.’’
If Whitacre wanted to leave, there was little the agents could do to hold him.
“Okay, Mark,’’ Shepard said. “Head on home.’’
Whitacre walked to the door. Shepard and Weatherall watched, silent and frustrated. Whitacre certainly knew he had failed the polygraph. Weatherall felt sure that once their witness was out the hotel room door, he would never return. Even if he did, he would probably keep telling his lies.
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The covert investigation, Weatherall thought dejectedly, was all but over.
The telephone rang in the Decatur Resident Agency early the next day. Shepard answered.
“Hey,’’ Whitacre said, his voice a twangy whisper. “It’s Mark.’’
Shepard was stunned to hear from him.
“I want to get together,’’ Whitacre said. “I’ve got more to tell you.’’
“Well, Mark, we’ve . . .’’
“Brian, just listen to me one more time. I really think you should.’’
Shepard paused.
“Sure, Mark,’’ he said. “I’ll get a room.’’
Whitacre arrived that night seeming particularly hyperactive. Shepard and Weatherall listened as he protested that he had told the truth, that he was still working with them, that they could trust him. Over the past day, he’d studied up on polygraphs; he knew they weren’t reliable. People telling the truth failed all the time. He’d read that. He knew. The agents weren’t buying; the game was over. Whitacre could spend all the time he wanted arguing that the polygraph was wrong; it would get him nowhere.
Soon, Whitacre seemed spent. Weatherall moved in.
“Mark, I know this has all got to be hard, working in an organization where this is happening. I know it’s hard to be reporting on your friends and colleagues. There are no easy choices, and I know that’s tough.’’
Whitacre said nothing.
“But there’s only one good choice for you. That’s all there ever has been. We’re not going away. There’s only one way to protect yourself and to do what’s right. And that’s to start telling the truth.’’
For several minutes, Weatherall tried to get inside Whitacre’s head, trying to empathize with him.
“Now, Mark, I know the truth is tough,’’ he said. “But there’s something you’re hiding, something you’re keeping from us. And I know that’s got to be hard, to be carrying around a burden like that.’’
Whitacre stared at the table.
“Mark, that’s true, isn’t it?’’
Finally, slowly, Whitacre nodded.
Connection.
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honest. Can you do that? Make it easier on yourself, Mark. Just talk about it.’’
Weatherall leaned in. “You’ve got to stop worrying about your colleagues, Mark, and start worrying about yourself.’’
Whitacre looked at Weatherall. He was trapped. The meetings with the Asians were starting again; the price war was falling apart. His plan had failed.
He cleared his throat. Nothing had shaken these guys. He was sure they were at the final break point. They were getting ready to prosecute him.
He had only one option.
“For the past five weeks,’’ he said, “I’ve been personally involved in efforts to fix lysine prices.’’
For the next hour, Whitacre talked about price-fixing. He told of his meetings with Ajinomoto and Kyowa Hakko, another major Japanese competitor.
“Does anybody know about these meetings?’’ Shepard asked.
“Mick Andreas. He’s fully aware of them.’’
The talks were far along, Whitacre said. The Japanese had agreed to fix the price at about $1.10 a pound—almost double the recent cost—if ADM would cut its volume. More talks were scheduled on April 30, when a top Ajinomoto executive was coming to Decatur to meet with Mick Andreas. Whitacre said he would be participating in many of the discussions.
The agents listened, feeling a rush. After so many months, a breakthrough. Whitacre was personally confessing to specific crimes. This had to be true. Only a fool would lie like this to an FBI agent. More important, Whitacre’s demeanor had changed. He wasn’t nervous, didn’t seem shifty. Instead, he was energetic, seeming excited about the prospect of working with the FBI. He had either turned the corner, or he was the greatest actor the agents had ever seen.
“Well, Mark,’’ Shepard said, “I want you to get these things on tape and bring us up to date on lysine. I don’t want to just have your word, I want to hear this on tape. Are you going to do it?’’
Whitacre paused. The agents were right. It had become a simple choice: his colleagues or him.
“Yeah,’’ he said, nodding eagerly. “I’ll give you all the tapes you need.’’
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BOOK TWO
HONOR AMONGST
THIEVES
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CHAPTER 6
The blue Lincoln Town Car approached gate number three in front of ADM headquarters on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day. A guard inside the gate’s security booth peered through the driver’s window. Whitacre lifted a hand off the steering wheel, giving a slight wave. As the guard nodded his recognition, Whitacre slowly eased the car past the fence.
Driving past the Ronald Reagan statue in front of the office, Whitacre tapped the electronic door opener attached to his windshield visor. By the time his car came around the curve, the metal door to the underground executive parking garage was opening. Whitacre felt a rush of tension as he drove in. The microcassette recorder hidden in his coat felt huge. He had used it before, but never like he would today.
Whitacre pulled into his reserved spot. Reaching inside his jacket, he slid the switch on the recorder. Was it on? He looked inside his pocket and saw the red light glowing. He smoothed out the jacket, putting sounds of rustling on the tape.
“It’s currently seven-thirty a.m. on Wednesday; Wednesday, March seventeenth,’’ he said into the recorder, staring at a wall as he spoke.
“I’m just getting ready to go into my office.’’
Whitacre explained that he had turned on the device now because he felt sure that Wilson and Randall would want to see him immediately. The night before, he was supposed to have spoken with Masaru Yamamoto of Kyowa Hakko, the Japanese lysine company second in size to Ajinomoto. Yamamoto, whom ADM executives called Massy, had not been in, but Wilson and Randall might want a report first thing. It was easier, he told the tape, to turn on the device now rather than later, in front of his colleagues.
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Whitacre opened his car door.
“Just getting out of my car and going to
the office now,’’ he said. He spoke to no one as he made his way to his office. Sitting at his desk, he looked at his watch.
“Seven-thirty-three a.m.,’’ he said. “Wednesday, March seventeenth.’’
He shuffled some papers, glancing up when he heard someone approach.
“Well, Terrance Wilson,’’ he announced.
Wilson was in no mood for pleasantries. “Did you talk to Massy?’’
he asked.
“Yeah, I called, uh, Massy. He wasn’t in.’’
Whitacre mentioned that afterward, he had heard from Kanji Mimoto of Ajinomoto. Apparently, Mimoto thought ADM had promised in September to cut production if prices went up. But no commitment had been made, Whitacre said. Instead, he and Wilson had promised to raise the idea with ADM management if lysine reached
$1.10 a pound. But that never happened—ADM was only receiving ninety-three cents a pound now.
“I said, as long as prices are as low as they are, we had nothing,’’
Whitacre continued. “We’re not gonna go to our management and look silly to ’em.’’
“What’d he say?’’
“He said, ‘We understand it’s a promise. We feel you’ve reneged on your promise.’ ”
As they spoke, Jim Randall walked into the room. The ADM president sat on the desk, arms folded across his chest. Whitacre started his story again.
“We got a call last night,’’ he said.
“You did?’’ Randall asked. “From the Japs?’’
“Yeah.’’
“About what?”
“Got a call on my voice mail to call, and I did from a pay phone. This was Ajinomoto.’’
Randall scrunched his nose. “Your, uh, tap’s off your phone, you know,’’ he said. There was no need to keep using pay phones.
“You think so?’’ Whitacre asked.
“Cheviron told me it was. The FBI is out of it, and they took the tap off the phone.’’
“Okay,’’ Whitacre said. “I still think the pay phone is the way anyway.’’
Whitacre told Randall of the Mimoto conversation.
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