Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

  Just back from North Carolina, Whitacre walked into his office that afternoon and headed for the phone to check his messages. He picked up the receiver and dialed into the company voice-mail system.

  Among the first messages was one from Ginger, asking him to call. She rarely phoned the office unless something important was going on. Whitacre felt a rush of anxiety.

  What’s happening now?

  He clicked off the line and dialed home.

  Cheviron had been back at his desk for less than an hour when Whitacre burst in.

  “You told me they were only going to tap one line!’’ Whitacre exploded.

  Cheviron didn’t need any explanation. He knew Whitacre was talking about the FBI.

  “They are only monitoring one line, Mark.’’

  “That’s not true. That’s not true. I just talked to Ginger. She got a call from some woman named Regina at the Inland Telephone Company. She told her both of our lines are tapped. They’ve tapped my home phone.’’

  Cheviron stared at Whitacre. This was ridiculous. The phone company was not about to start calling people with word that the FBI was tapping their lines.

  “Mark, that’s not possible. I just came back from meeting the FBI. We talked about this. They assured me that they were only monitoring the OPX line.’’

  “That’s not true! Why would this Regina say they’re tapping both lines unless it was true?’’

  Cheviron was enraged. He was sick of Whitacre’s antics. He had no doubt the man was lying, just as he had with the story about his daughter. He let Whitacre know that he didn’t believe a word.

  “Then call my wife!’’ Whitacre shouted. “She’ll tell you what happened. Or call Regina at the Inland Telephone Company. Ask her what she told my wife.’’

  Cheviron looked up at Whitacre impassively. “Fine, Mark. I will.’’

  For an instant, Cheviron just stared at Whitacre, saying nothing. Whitacre turned and stalked out.

  Whitacre’s latest story crackled through the senior reaches of ADM within the hour. But most everyone who heard it was concerned, not dismissive. Soon, Cheviron was meeting with Reising and Whitacre. The general counsel wanted to know what was going on.

  “This is impossible,’’ Cheviron protested. “I just met with the Springfield SAC. He told me only one line—the OPX line—was being monitored.’’

  Cheviron had firmly planted himself on dangerous ground. Regardless of what he thought of Whitacre, the man outranked him. He ran one of ADM’s most important divisions. And here he was, the head of corporate security, telling top management that their wonder boy was a liar—all on the say-so of Don Stukey. By the time he returned to his office, Cheviron had decided that he had to check out this new story. He looked up Whitacre’s home phone number and called Ginger.

  “Hi, this is Mark Cheviron at ADM,’’ he said. “Your husband came by earlier to tell me about a telephone call you received. I was wondering if you could tell me who called.’’

  “It was an employee of the Inland Telephone Company. She identified herself as Regina.’’

  A flicker of hesitation.

  “What did she want?’’

  “She said that it was the company’s responsibility to let us know that some sort of device had been placed on our phone line.’’

  Cheviron asked a few questions before hanging up. Ginger’s story seemed to match Mark’s. Still, Cheviron had trouble believing it. It didn’t make any sense. Why would the phone company place such a call?

  And if it was true, why had the FBI lied to him?

  That evening, Shepard drove back to Whitacre’s house. The night before, Whitacre had been petrified about returning to work, concerned that everyone would know what he had told. Shepard wanted to review Whitacre’s day and make sure he was calm. It was important for him to know that he was not alone.

  Whitacre came outside as Shepard pulled up. He was composed; it seemed as if opening up the night before had allowed his anxiety to slip away. Now, he was not as concerned about listening devices in the house and agreed to speak with Shepard in an eight-sided room near the outdoor pool. It was immense, filled with furniture, a piano, and a fireplace. Long ago, Whitacre said, the room had been a barn.

  The relaxed atmosphere made it easier on both men. With his notepad out, Shepard asked Whitacre about his day. Whitacre described his morning call to Cheviron and the subsequent trip to North Carolina with Randall. He mentioned working with Reising to finalize the contract with the Swedish company ABP International. And he brought up the call his wife had received from Regina with the phone company.

  “She told Ginger that my home telephone line was tapped or taped,’’ Whitacre said.

  Shepard wrote down the words, surprised. The FBI had placed “trap and trace” devices and “pen registers’’ on both lines at Whitacre’s home. The devices would record the date, time, and number for every outgoing and incoming call, but the FBI couldn’t listen in. Later, Shepard spoke with Ginger and straightened out the story. She had received the call but had misunderstood the devices to be wiretaps. Still, the phone company never should have said anything. If Whitacre had been under investigation, a slipup like that could have undermined an entire case.

  Regardless, Whitacre’s reaction had been just right. No one would suspect he was helping the FBI at the same time that he was complaining about the Bureau’s investigation.

  Before the interview ended, Whitacre said there was something else he wanted to discuss.

  “After the evening when you first interviewed me, I called Cheviron at his home,’’ he explained. “I told him that my daughter had received a telephone call at Culver Military Academy.’’

  For the next few minutes, Whitacre recounted his conversation with Cheviron. Then he described the meeting the next morning with Cheviron and Reising.

  “Cheviron asked me if the story about my daughter was true,’’ he said. “I admitted it wasn’t.’’

  Shepard didn’t press Whitacre on what he had been thinking, on why he had told the lie. He had enough experience as an investigator to know that cooperating witnesses do odd things. Being caught up in crimes while speaking with an FBI agent can throw people off. Pushing a witness about a lie or a strange decision can strain a developing relationship.

  Still, as he pulled out of the driveway later that night, Shepard could not shake an uncomfortable feeling about the daughter story. It was all very confusing to him. Very confusing.

  Two nights later, on November 8, Dean Paisley slipped into the passenger seat of Shepard’s car for a trip to Moweaqua. This Sunday night would be the first chance for someone besides Shepard to size up Whitacre—to figure out his motivation for talking and to see how far he might be willing to go in his cooperation.

  The two agents pulled into the driveway just after eight o’clock. Whitacre emerged at the front door, bubbly and excited, insisting that Paisley call him “Mark.’’ He gave the agents the grand tour of the house. He took them through both of his garages, showing off his many cars. In the six-car garage, Whitacre stopped next to a red Ferrari and put his hand on it.

  “I bought this one not too long ago,’’ he said. “In fact, I bought it used from Jim Randall, the president of ADM. He gave me a good price.’’

  Paisley and Shepard both chimed in with praise for the cars and the huge garage. The compliments continued as Whitacre escorted them through the rest of house, toward the room off the pool. Whitacre described the mansion’s past, again relating how Dwayne Andreas had once owned it. Paisley, intrigued, asked a number of questions about the history and architecture of the place.

  Shepard stayed in the background, letting Paisley set the pace. But at one point, he decided to get to work. Earlier, he had asked Whitacre to bring the business cards of lysine competitors who had attended price-fixing meetings. Shepard interrupted and asked if he had remembered them. Whitacre smiled and reached for his briefcase, taking out a small brown notebook.

  “Th
ey’re in here,’’ Whitacre said as he handed the notebook to Shepard.

  Shepard took the notebook to a nearby couch. Flipping through the pages, he saw mostly Japanese and Korean names. He began writing down the information.

  Paisley and Whitacre stood by the sliding glass doors that led to the pool. Outside, bright spotlights glowed across the property, giving it a look of ethereal elegance. The lush yard was perfectly manicured. Even in the fall, not a leaf was out of place. The atmosphere was calming, conducive to conversation. It was having its effect on Whitacre. Somehow, it was comforting to know that an FBI supervisor had come. He felt like they were sending a message that the FBI was looking out for him.

  As the two men gazed out across the yard, Paisley veered the discussion toward the investigation.

  “Well, I’ve heard about these things that you told Brian the other night,’’ Paisley said. “We appreciate your assistance and your openness. We’ve got a few questions for you tonight. Some might seem repetitive. We want to make sure we fully understand and make a good record of what you’re telling us.’’

  “I understand,’’ Whitacre said. “That’s fine.’’

  The ensuing conversation was free-flowing. Sometimes they sat; sometimes they paced. But over time, Whitacre described a series of crimes.

  “Until last April, I really had no contact with the business end of ADM,’’ he said. “My only concerns were in the technical aspects of lysine production and other activities like that. But in April, I got called into a meeting by Mick Andreas. He told me then that I was going to be working with Terry Wilson.’’

  Whitacre said the news had angered him. Wilson ran corn processing and knew nothing about lysine. As far as Whitacre was concerned, Wilson was a poorly educated boor, a man who only liked to drink, curse, and golf. Whitacre had complained, but Mick had told him that this was his chance to learn how ADM did business.

  In their first meeting, Whitacre said, Wilson asked nothing about the division’s employees, nothing about its products. All he had wanted to know were names of the company’s competitors and how well Whitacre knew them.

  “A couple of weeks later, we were on a plane to Japan. It was the first time I ever traveled as a businessman rather than as a technical person. I had no idea what to expect on this trip, no idea at all.’’

  Paisley brought his hand up to his chin. “When did you learn the purpose of the trip?’’

  “Pretty quickly. We were there to set prices and production volumes with our Asian competitors.’’

  Paisley nodded knowingly. He already understood that an effective price-fixing agreement would have to control total production. Otherwise, the market could become flooded with unsold goods, forcing down prices. The fact that the lysine competitors were discussing both prices and volumes was a strong sign that these people knew what they were doing.

  In Tokyo, Whitacre continued, he and Wilson had met with executives from Ajinomoto and the Kyowa Hakko Kogyo Company. Then they flew to Maui, Hawaii. There, they met again with the Japanese executives and were joined by officials from a Korean company, Miwon.

  “The first day there was spent socializing,’’ he said. “We went to social settings, played golf, stuff like that. The second day was when we started negotiating price and production volumes.’’

  Paisley broke in. “Who was running the meetings for ADM?”

  “Terry. Terry Wilson. He was actively advising everybody else on production and price levels.’’

  Whitacre sat back. “It didn’t take long for me to understand why I had been assigned to work with Terry. He was supposed to be showing me how things occur at these price-fixing meetings.’’

  The next meeting, Whitacre said, had been in June—about five months ago—and had taken place in Mexico. In September, executives from Ajinomoto had come to Decatur to tour ADM’s plant so that they could learn whether the company was bluffing about its capacity. That was important for the negotiations over production. Afterward, he said, Whitacre and Wilson had toured plants owned by Ajinomoto in the United States.

  “A few weeks ago we had another meeting in Paris, to discuss prices and volumes,’’ Whitacre said.

  Shepard leaned in. “Did you bring the copies of your expense reports that we talked about?”

  Whitacre nodded. “Sure. They’re right here.’’

  Opening his briefcase, Whitacre pulled out his expense records and handed them to Shepard. The agent pored through them. He could see they documented trips to Tokyo, Mexico City, and Paris. This was the first evidence corroborating Whitacre’s statements.

  “Who schedules these meetings?’’ Shepard asked.

  “Mr. Ikeda,’’ Whitacre said. “He’s the owner of Ajinomoto.’’

  “When’s the next meeting?’’

  “Sometime in January,’’ Whitacre said. “It’s going to be somewhere in Asia. The final arrangements are probably still being worked out by Mr. Ikeda.’’

  The price-fixing had been an enormous boon to ADM, Whitacre said. In just the past month, the lysine business brought in $2.5 million in profits; a few months before, the company had been losing that much.

  “All that profit is due to price-fixing,’’ Whitacre said.

  The agents pressed him. Had Whitacre heard about price-fixing in any other ADM products?

  Whitacre nodded. “Just this weekend, Mick Andreas and Terry Wilson traveled to Florida to meet with competitors at the Corn Refiners Association. They have formal meetings during the day, but at night they meet in private rooms for pricing talks.’’

  “How are those meetings set up?’’ Paisley asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know details. But I’ve been told the pricing discussions occur that way.’’

  Paisley’s thoughts raced. This case sounded incredible. Whitacre was a source unlike any he had ever met. Even the room they were in underscored that. This was not the flophouse of some mope or the apartment of some embittered ex-employee. This was a man in reach of ADM’s top rung. His financial rewards were obviously substantial. Personally, he seemed to have nothing to gain by stepping forward, and potentially everything to lose. Paisley had never even heard of a situation like that in law enforcement.

  “Mark,’’ Paisley said softly, “there’s something else I have to ask you.’’

  “Sure.’’

  “Why are you doing this? We know you lied to us about the phone line and you’re afraid of that. But now you’re telling us all this other stuff out of the blue, so to speak. Why are you doing this?”

  The look on Whitacre’s face was grim.

  “Things are going on I don’t approve of,’’ he said. “I don’t like it. I mean, I’m a biochemist. I’m a technical guy. But now they’ve pulled me into the business side, and they’re doing things that are illegal. I don’t like it, and they made me be a part of it because they said it’s part of the business.’’

  Neither agent moved.

  “They said that if I’m going to grow with ADM, I gotta be part of the business,’’ he said. “I knew what they wanted me to do was illegal, and that weighed on me. When they told me to lie, I had to lie.’’

  Whitacre cleared his throat. “I know I lied to you guys. I felt bad about that. I wanted to correct that. I wanted to come clean. But there was no way to explain that I’d lied without explaining why, without explaining that there are things going on in the business that are illegal. I didn’t like those things, but I felt like I had to go along. Now I want to tell you about it because it’s bothering me. It’s the wrong thing to do. I want to do the right thing.’’

  Paisley nodded. This made sense and explained Whitacre’s earlier nervousness that he had heard so much about. The words didn’t ease all of his concerns, but they made Paisley feel more comfortable.

  “So,’’ he said. “You look at yourself as wearing a white hat and they’re wearing the black hats.’’

  “Yeah,’’ Whitacre said. “Something like that.’’


  They had reached a turning point. This was the time to see how far Whitacre was willing to take this.

  “Well, Mark,’’ Paisley said, his voice almost fatherly, “do you think you’d be willing to go a few steps further in helping us?’’

  “Sure. What do you mean?’’

  “Would you be willing to help us by wearing a wire to show this is true? We don’t have other sources we can go to at this time. We need your help.’’

  Paisley knew he was asking Whitacre to risk a lot. He decided to be up-front.

  “I realize what I’m asking you to do here,’’ he said. “Sometime down the line, you’re going to be the guy who has to testify against your fellow executives. That won’t be easy. You’ll be risking a lot.’’

  Whitacre blinked. “Yeah,’’ he said, “but I feel like, if everybody else went to jail or whatever, at least I did the right thing. I’ll be the guy who did the right thing. That’s how the company will look at me. They’ll reward me for doing the right thing, and I’ll probably end up being president of the company.’’

  Paisley listened in disbelief. Whitacre was in a fantasy world, with no idea what he was getting into.

  “Mark, you gotta realize that when these stockholders and directors find out that you’re the one that caused all of this embarrassment, they’re not going to look at you as the guy in the white hat. They’re going to be mad at you. Do you really think they’re going to make you president of the company?’’

  “Yeah, I think so. Because I’m the one who’s doing the right thing.’’

  I wouldn’t count on it, Paisley thought. But he had warned Whitacre, and the man was still willing to proceed. He was sure Shepard would come back to the issue again at some future meeting.

  There were still operational details to iron out, Paisley said. A method needed to be set up so Shepard could contact Whitacre without being detected by ADM.

  “Tell me about the voice-mail system at your office,’’ Shepard said.

  It was normal voice mail, Whitacre shrugged. Worked pretty much like any other system.