Whitacre ranted. “They’re saying I’m not a good worker and can’t be trusted! How can they be saying that?”
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“Mark,’’ Herndon replied soothingly, “why are you worried about that? You know you’re a hard worker. You’re a workaholic; you do a good job. Look, Mark, these guys violated the law. They’re going to lash out at you.’’
“Yeah, but . . .’’
“Mark, listen. Haven’t we talked about this before? How many nights did we tell you how you had to expect the unexpected, that you might be attacked, you might be fired, that some people aren’t going to like you.’’
“Well, it’s not fair. They shouldn’t be able to say these things. I’m thinking about bringing a slander suit.’’
“Mark, I’m not an attorney. I can’t give you legal advice. But I don’t know if this is a slander suit.’’
Whitacre took a breath. Herndon could tell he wasn’t holding up well.
“Mark, you need to relax,’’ Herndon said. “Hey, want to play some golf?’’
“No, I’m not going to play golf.’’
“Well, why don’t you guys take a vacation, just get out of the area. Look, this story is the big thing in Decatur. Get away from it. Go out of town.’’
Again, Whitacre turned away the suggestion. He had other concerns, he said. He might move sometime, to get away from all this. He had asked for the government’s help in selling his house before but never received a response. What was happening with that? Herndon said he still didn’t have an answer. As long as ADM continued paying Whitacre, the government would resist giving him money. But Shepard and Herndon understood Whitacre’s financial concerns. They wouldn’t forget him.
Five days later, on July 18, two innocuous-looking letters arrived at ADM headquarters. Postmarked on July 13 in Knoxville, Tennessee, both had been sent with no return address and stamps that portrayed President Nixon. One was addressed to Dwayne Andreas, the other to Jim Randall. Even though they were anonymous, the letters contained allegations against Whitacre—and the FBI—that the company took very seriously.
After they were read and copied, the letters were sent to Aubrey Daniel. He would know how to use them to ADM’s advantage in its fight with the government.
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Franklin, Tennessee, nestled in the bluegrass hills twenty miles south of Nashville, is a town whose citizens like to boast of being comfortable not only living beside their history, but in it. The town is built around a fifteen-block Victorian commercial district, featuring at its center a towering statue of a Confederate soldier—one of many markers to the bloody Battle of Franklin in 1864. But in 1995 the new battle of Franklin was being won. After years spent renovating the town, young entrepreneurs were beginning to join its citizenry. Property values were climbing. It was a good time to be a real-estate broker.
Among the brokers who handled Franklin was Gertraud Borasky, a top saleswoman at the Haworth Homes–Century 21. Business had been brisk for Borasky in recent months; the phone was always ringing. One afternoon, Borasky was at her desk when another call came in. She answered pleasantly.
“Hello,’’ a woman’s voice said. “My name is Ginger Whitacre. My husband and I live in Moweaqua, Illinois, and we’re going to be coming to Nashville to look for a new house. I wanted to see what was available in your area.’’
“Of course,’’ Borasky said. “What kind of home are you looking for?’’
“Well, we need nine thousand square feet of living space and facilities for our horses.’’
Borasky smiled. This would be a big sale. The caller scheduled an appointment for late July. The Whitacres wanted to come down and do some house hunting.
At 3:19 on the afternoon of July 16, a Sunday, a fax machine for Dwayne Andreas hummed to life at ADM. A one-page typewritten memo scrolled into a tray. The fax “telltale,’’ which normally prints the number of the sender at the top of the sheet, had been disguised. But the first words of the note made clear the intended recipients. TO: Aubrey Daniels and ADM board members.
FROM: ADM Shareholders’ Watch Committee (ADMSWC) What followed was unbelievable. The author—or authors—
claimed to be part of a shareholders’ group formed to investigate companies whose stock they owned.
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to present our findings at the upcoming shareholders’ meeting,’’ the note read. “Unfortunately, the FBI upstaged us. We were well aware of ADM’s price-fixing activities.’’
The note accused an ADM officer of billing the company millions of dollars for personal travel on company planes. It also criticized Aubrey Daniel—incorrectly calling him Daniels—implying that he represented the interests of the Andreas family rather than those of the shareholders.
“We have moles, if I may use the word, inside every division of ADM. You see, this is our company, not the Andreases!’’ it read. “Fifty thousand shareholders are a sleeping giant that is waking up to the alarming actions of Dwayne and his den of thieves!’’
At the bottom, it was signed, “The Lamet Vov.’’
Even as those words were printing out of Andreas’s fax machine, the unlisted business fax number for another company director was ringing. Over the next forty-six minutes, the anonymous note would be faxed to more than a dozen sites around the continent—including Montreal, Springfield, Washington, and Minneapolis—to the offices of most every ADM board member.
Brian Mulroney, the former prime minister of Canada, smiled to his fellow directors as he walked into the sixth-floor boardroom at ADM
on July 19. They took their seats around the large circular table dominating the room. Replicas of master artworks, painted through a technique involving computers, hung on the walls beside plaques and honors awarded to Dwayne Andreas over the years. Mulroney looked around the table. Seated nearby was F. Ross Johnson, the former chairman and chief executive of RJR Nabisco who had lost a battle to buy the company but won national fame from his depiction in Barbarians at the Gate, the book and movie about the takeover fight. Bob Strauss, the dean of Washington insiders, occupied another seat. Happy Rockefeller, the widow of Nelson and a longtime friend of the Andreases, was chatting with Ray Goldberg, a Harvard University professor. John Daniels, a former ADM chairman, was reviewing material for the meeting. The primary agenda item that day was the criminal investigation. Aubrey Daniel was there to make a presentation to the board. He laid out the relevant information developed by that point. Already, the company was facing numerous shareholder lawsuits claiming that price-fixing had damaged the stock value.
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appoint a committee to cope with the litigation, then a group of shareholders can become a self-appointed committee.’’ In essence, if the board didn’t handle this, the shareholders might.
The directors agreed to form a litigation committee. The newest director—Gaylord Coan, the president of Gold Kist Inc.—announced that he had a conflict of interest. His company was in a partnership with ADM and was a large purchaser of lysine. “I’m not going to sit on this committee,’’ he said after explaining his problems. Bob Strauss spoke up. “I also have some difficulties,’’ he said. His firm represented ADM in some matters—and then there was the short-lived representation of Whitacre by his partner, John Dowd. After several minutes, the group reached an agreement. Nine of the seventeen directors would serve on the committee, including Mulroney, Johnson, Daniels, and Gol
dberg. Mulroney was named chairman.
“It would be best,’’ Aubrey Daniel suggested, “to have cochairmen.’’
The directors looked at one another. Several eyes settled on John Daniels. Would he take the job? Daniels thought for a second. His grandfather had founded this company; his father had been chief executive. The decision was easy.
“I’m horrified at what I have heard in the last few weeks,’’ he said.
“I feel a close affinity for this company and anything I can do to help I want to do.’’
Daniels looked at the assembled directors.
“So, yes,’’ he said, “I will accept the nomination as cochairman.’’
The next sign of trouble for the government’s investigation appeared the following morning, in the pages of the Chicago Tribune. The article led with ADM’s announcement that the board had formed a special committee to deal with the case. A few paragraphs later, it veered in a new direction. Millikin University in Decatur had provided the reporters with biographical information about Whitacre that had been turned over to the school when he was elected to its board. The information showed that Whitacre had earned a master’s degree from the prestigious Kellogg Graduate School of Management and a doctorate in biochemistry from Cornell.
But, according to the article, the claims were false. Whitacre never received a master’s from Kellogg, a school spokesman told the paper. And, while Whitacre was awarded a doctorate from Cornell, the article said, it was in nutrition, not biochemistry.*
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“Questions about Whitacre’s credibility could become an issue in the government’s grand jury investigation,’’ the paper intoned. That morning, Mutchnik laughed as he read those words on his usual 6:53 train to work. He had always thought that something about Whitacre exuded pretense; this story fit his opinion. When Mutchnik arrived at the office, he headed for the phone to call the agents. Herndon was at his desk.
“Hey, Bob,’’ Mutchnik said, laughing.
“What’s so funny?’’
“Hold on,’’ Mutchnik said. “Let me read this to you.’’
As he listened to the Tribune article, Herndon sighed.
“Oh, man,’’ Herndon said. “What’s he going to lie about next?’’
That same day, Mark and Ginger Whitacre were down in Tennessee, walking through a large house with Gert Borasky of Century 21. The tour took more than an hour, but by then the Whitacres were ready to buy. Borasky phoned later that day with a bid of $890,000—$60,000 below the list price. The owners, Paul and Carole Myer, countered with a price of $935,000, and the two sides struck a deal. The next day, the Whitacres came back to the house with the realtors, ready to go to contract. Everyone gathered around a table as Mark signed. Paul Myer watched, feeling good. The house had been on the market for more than a month. He was glad the sale was done.
“Listen, Mr. Myer,’’ Mark Whitacre said after he finished signing.
“Can I speak with you outside for a second? I have a question about your hot tub.’’
“Sure,’’ Myer replied, standing up.
The men walked out to the deck. Whitacre stopped and looked Myer in the eye.
“Do you know who I am?’’ he asked in a near-whisper.
“I know you’re the person who just spent almost a million dollars buying my house,’’ Myer replied, instantly regretting the words.
“Well, I asked you that question because I was recently on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, regarding Archer Daniels Midland,’’ Whitacre said. “I was an informant for the FBI. I was working with them in an investigation of ADM, my employer. For two and a half years I worked as an informant, taping evidence about pricefixing. Now the case is public, and Decatur is a very small community. So the FBI advised me that it might be good to relocate. That’s why I’m moving here.’’
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“So I’m just wondering if you have any concerns,’’ Whitacre said. Myer shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, I have no need for any of this information,’’ he said. “My only concern is obviously getting the money for the house.’’
“Don’t worry, I have the money,’’ Whitacre replied. “The FBI’s willing to help me financially, probably by providing a loan to cover the sale of my other house. The government’s making it possible for me to move from Decatur.’’
A fleeting smile passed over Whitacre’s face. “I have the money,’’
he repeated.
It took only a few days for another unsigned note, mailed in San Francisco on July 17, to arrive at Williams & Connolly. This one was addressed to Aubrey Daniel, who by now was growing used to the flood of anonymous letters. It was as if there were two teams out there:
“the Lamet Vov,” who sent notes attacking ADM, and other writers who went after Whitacre. The latest note clearly came from someone on the anti-Whitacre side.
“Sir,’’ it began, “ADM’s Whitacre has some ‘strange’ allies— and a bit of blackmail against him. Check his family, ‘friends’ and Justice people.’’
The writer cautioned not to hire a “stumblebum investigator,’’ but instead to find somebody “ruthless and smart,’’ like G. Gordon Liddy, the famed Watergate burglar.
“You’ll be surprised,’’ the letter said at its close, “about who Whitacre really is.’’
Janet Reno, the Attorney General of the United States, stepped into a Justice Department conference room where Louis Freeh and his top deputies from the FBI were gathering. They had just arrived from Bureau headquarters for their biweekly meeting with the department’s senior staff, including Jamie Gorelick, the Deputy Attorney General. The meetings were intended to keep communications open, and Reno tried to stop by whenever possible.
The conversation moved along quickly. After reviewing a number of agenda items, Reno spoke. “On the ADM matter, I’ve received letters from their counsel,’’ she said. “They’re represented by Williams & Connolly.’’
In recent days, Reno said, Aubrey Daniel had sent written complaints to her by messenger. Most everyone at the table already knew about them; Freeh had received copies, and Gorelick had also seen Eich_0767903277_5p_02_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:57 PM Page 341
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them. The most recent letter complained about press coverage, claiming that “agents of the government” had spoken with reporters. The letter clearly implied that the FBI, Whitacre, or both were the source of the leaks.
The group discussed the Williams & Connolly complaints, with the FBI taking the opportunity to brief Reno and Gorelick on the progress of the case. The discussion ended in a matter of minutes. In the days that followed, the ADM case was increasingly a topic of conversation at the senior levels of the Justice Department. The frontal assault by Williams & Connolly made it painfully clear that ADM was preparing for war. The prosecution team was going to need reinforcements. Quickly, the decision was made. They needed to find a prosecutor with experience in high-profile cases involving top-notch defense attorneys.
In a onetime newspaper publishing office in Oklahoma City, Joe Hartzler was reviewing documents about the bombing at that city’s federal building. Since leaving the ADM case months before, Hartzler had volunteered to come from the Springfield U.S. Attorney’s office to lead the prosecution of Timothy McVeigh and his co-conspirators in the terrorist attack. Indictments were just weeks away. The phone rang on Hartzler’s desk. It was Merrick Garland, the senior Justice Department official who had personally handled portions of the bombing case. Hartzler and Garland spoke frequently every day, but this time Garland said there was also another matter on his mind.
“We have a complicated financial case out in Chi
cago,’’ Garland said. “It involves some high-powered defense counsel, and I wanted to know if there was a lawyer in the U.S. Attorney’s office you think could handle it.’’
Hartzler suspected this was his old case, Harvest King. And immediately, he knew that his friend Scott Lassar was perfect for it. Lassar was a federal prosecutor who had worked many major cases. At this point, Lassar was deeply immersed in Operation Silver Shovel, an investigation that used a corrupt waste hauler as a cooperating witness to collect recordings of Chicago city officials soliciting and collecting bribes. Lassar knew tapes, he knew informants, he could handle tough cases.
“I’d recommend Scott Lassar,’’ Hartzler replied. “He’s the First Assistant there, although I’m not sure he could take on a major battle that would be all-consuming.’’
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“Well,’’ Garland said, “without telling anybody else, could you call Lassar and find out if he’d consider it?’’
Hartzler reached Lassar that evening after ten o’clock. Lassar relaxed in his family room while speaking on the portable phone; Hartzler was calling from his temporary quarters at the Embassy Suites in Oklahoma City.
“Scott, I got a call from DOJ, and they’re looking for somebody to handle a complex financial fraud case. Your name came to mind. And I was wondering if it’s something you would consider.’’
Lassar had no idea what case Hartzler was talking about or where it would even be tried. But he didn’t hesitate for a second.
“Sure,’’ he said. “I’m interested.’’
Outside a budget hotel in Bloomington, Illinois, Whitacre stepped out of his car, buttoning the jacket on his lightweight double-breasted suit. The drive north on Route 51 from Moweaqua had taken a bit more than an hour, pretty good time. Whitacre looked at his watch. Just before six o’clock. He might even be early. For days, Whitacre had been coming apart. He had been bottling up secrets, holding back on information he knew. He was tired of it. He wanted to open up.
He walked through the lobby, heading for the prearranged hotel room, the site of his secret meeting. After so many years, all the stealth and sneaking felt like second nature. He arrived at the room and knocked on the door. A young man answered.
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