Informant (12 page)

The call ended quickly. Cheviron was not in the mood to talk. Four hours later, at 3:25, Cheviron’s phone rang. Dean Paisley was on the line.

“I just talked with Brian about your telephone conversation,’’ he said. “What is exactly your concern? What is your heartburn?’’

Cheviron lashed out like a wounded animal.

“I understand you can’t tell me everything,’’ he said. “But I told Brian the only thing I don’t want is lying. You don’t lie to me, and I don’t lie to you.’’

He recounted the Regina story, emphasizing how this contradicted what Don Stukey had said. He told how he had called Whitacre a liar—he had even told
Dwayne Andreas
that Whitacre was lying. Now, Cheviron said, it ended up that the FBI had made him into a fool.

“They don’t trust me here,’’ Cheviron said. “They want me out of it, and it’s going to be handled by the legal department.’’

Paisley explained why Cheviron could not be told everything. Someone at ADM was potentially a saboteur, he said. Information had to be closely held. But now, he needed to know what ADM’s role would be.

“Are you saying your company is formally telling the FBI that you will no longer cooperate at all in this investigation in which you are the victim?’’

“Yes,’’ Cheviron said.

“And you have that authority to tell me that from your people?’’

“From our legal department. Rick Reising said he would be glad to tell you that.’’

Paisley pressed. “What you are saying is that any request that we have of your company to help us in this criminal investigation, you’re not going to cooperate in any way. Is that what you’re saying?’’

Cheviron’s antennae went up. Why was Paisley pushing him? He answered cautiously.

“I don’t know if that’s what he’s saying. I think what he said is we want to withdraw our complaint.’’

“You know better than that,’’ Paisley scoffed. “You don’t do that in a federal investigation. Once an investigation is started, we have to play it out.’’

Something told Cheviron to hedge his answers.

“All I’m saying is that they’re not going to let me be involved anymore,’’ he said. “You can work it out with Rick Reising. I get the feeling they don’t believe me anymore, and that’s not my fault.’’

Paisley wrapped it up. He said he would contact Reising, and the call came to an end. Cheviron eyed the phone. He didn’t know what Paisley had been up to, but something about the conversation bothered him.

About forty miles away, Paisley placed his phone in its cradle. He reached across the desk to the tape recorder that had been hooked up minutes before and jabbed the Stop button. The spools that had been turning during his call with Cheviron stopped moving.

That morning, beginning with Cheviron’s second call to Shepard, the FBI had started taping ADM. It seemed obvious to the agents that the company was trying to shut down the Fujiwara investigation, maybe to cover up the other crimes Whitacre had described. But to prove an obstruction of justice, they needed evidence. That meant, from now on, the FBI’s conversations with ADM executives were going to be on tape.

Paisley popped the cassette out of the recorder. Soon, the tape was sent down the hall to the office of the “ELSUR clerk”—an FBI staffer who maintained recordings from electronic surveillance. There, it was logged as number 1B2. Paisley had little doubt that it would be needed later.

That afternoon, Whitacre called the in-house voice mail and entered his code. He listened to a few messages, then dialed a number for the next one.

Beep.

Before the second tone from Shepard’s pager could sound, Whitacre pushed two buttons on his keypad.

Deleted,
the electronic voice said.

Whitacre headed out of the office to a nearby conference room. He felt sure it was a safe place to talk. He figured it wouldn’t take long to find out from Shepard where they would be meeting for the first secret taping of the price-fixing conspirators.

Whitacre pulled off Pershing Road into the parking lot for the Best Western Shelton Inn, just outside downtown Decatur. He drove past the lobby, parking near a Shakey’s pizza parlor that shared the same lot. The two-story beige-and-green hotel was nothing much to see—just one of thousands of faceless inns dotting the country that boasted of free cable and air-conditioning for weary travelers.

After locking his car, Whitacre walked toward the hotel, pulling his coat tight. Even though it was before 6:00
P.M.
, the lot was getting dark. Whitacre felt relieved when he reached the lobby. Outside, he felt too exposed; anyone driving by could see him.

He looked around the lobby and crinkled his nose.
What a shady place
. It was small; the recessed lights were dim, giving a dark, dingy feel. In some ways, the appearance made Whitacre comfortable. He felt sure none of the people from his circles would drop by.

“Can I help you?’’ the front-desk clerk asked.

“No, no thanks. I’m just waiting for someone.’’

A minute later, Whitacre saw Shepard, wearing a trench coat, come in through the side door. The agent walked down a short hallway, stopping by some pay phones. Whitacre approached him.

“Hey,’’ Whitacre said in a soft, nasal tone. “How’s it going?’’

“Fine, fine. Listen, we’re not going to be able to get a room tonight. But I still need you to make some calls.’’

Whitacre fixed him with a puzzled look. “Okay,’’ he said cautiously. “What phone are we going to use?”

“One right here,’’ Shepard said, nodding toward the lobby’s bank of pay phones.

Here? In public?
Whitacre thought. He didn’t understand what was going on. Did Shepard’s credit card not work?

Shepard wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but it had been thought up at the last minute, when someone in Springfield raised concerns about using a hotel room phone. There were some legal and technical concerns. What if the conspirators had caller ID? They might become suspicious.

Whitacre looked around the small lobby. “This seems a little awkward,’’ he said.

“It’s the best I can do right now.”

The side door to the pool opened. A hotel guest walked by the two men, excusing himself as he passed on his way to the Chestnut, the hotel’s restaurant. When the man was gone, Shepard looked at Whitacre.

“Let’s go out to my car and talk.’’

The two men headed back to the lot and got inside the car. Shepard looked at Whitacre intently.

“We really need these conversations, Mark,’’ he said. They needed proof that Whitacre was telling the truth.

Whitacre nodded. “Okay. What do we do?’’

Reaching into his pocket, Shepard pulled out a small recording device. It looked like any other microcassette recorder, but it was only available from the FBI. A wire was attached, with a small, sensitive microphone at the end.

“Hold this microphone on the receiver. There’s a clip on it, but don’t worry about that. It doesn’t clip to the phone. You hold the microphone on the receiver, and I’ll hold the recorder.’’

“Okay.’’

“Do you have the phone numbers with you?’’

“Yeah, I brought them with me.’’

Whitacre took out the numbers. Shepard glanced at them, and the two men discussed their plan of attack. They agreed to first try a Kyowa Hakko executive named Masaru Yamamoto, or “Massy,” as Whitacre called him.

Opening his briefcase, Shepard brought out some documents known as FD-472s. Shepard explained that the forms authorized the FBI to record the phone conversation. Then, Shepard handed Whitacre an FD-473, explaining that this would provide authorization to place a tape recorder on his body. Shepard said he would give Whitacre a recorder the next time they met.

The two men walked back to the lobby. Shepard held the tape recorder, while Whitacre fumbled with the microphone. He picked up the phone and dialed zero.

An Illinois Bell operator answered. Whitacre asked for help dialing Japan, and she transferred him to an AT&T operator. He told her the eleven numbers she needed and recited his fourteen-digit calling-card number.

A man answered the phone in Japanese, identifying himself as working with Kyowa Hakko’s special pharmaceutical division.

“Uh, yes,’’ Whitacre responded. “May I speak with Mr. Yamamoto, please.’’

The Japanese man shifted to English. “May I have your name, please?’’

“Yes, the name is Mark Whitacre.’’

“Mark. Okay.’’

The man put Whitacre on hold. Light, syrupy music played for a moment. Yamamoto came on the line.

“Hello,’’ Yamamoto said in accented English.

“Mr. Yamamoto?’’

“Hi. Yamamoto speaking. How are you?’’

The two men traded pleasantries. Whitacre apologized for the delay in calling back. He had been traveling and would be leaving again tomorrow.

“I will pretty much be unreachable this week,’’ Whitacre said.

“Oh, I see. Ah, how is your sales?’’

In less than thirty seconds, the conversation had already veered into sales.

“Sales are doin’ pretty good,’’ he replied. “How ’bout yours?’’

“It’s good.’’

Yamamoto complained about certain lysine prices that he had heard were being offered. As Whitacre listened, an older woman walked past, staring at him as he held the microphone to the receiver. Whitacre felt enormously uncomfortable—he figured she thought he was taping his wife. He shifted the microphone, trying to look less conspicuous. He didn’t know that he had just caused his own voice to amplify on the tape.

“So Mr. Ikeda told me you guys would have a meeting November thirtieth—yourself and the Koreans.”

“Yes.’’

“In Korea, I think, isn’t it?’’

“Yes, yes, Seoul.’’

This was working.

“And then we meet again with myself involved and maybe someone else from our company involved. Maybe even Mick Andreas. That would be early January?’’

“Yeah, maybe so,’’ Yamamoto said. “Then we discuss ninety-three, for ninety-three.’’

They were close. Whitacre decided to push Yamamoto on what they would be discussing about 1993.

“Right,’’ he said. “For ninety-three pricing and volume.’’

“Ah.”

“In Hong Kong or Singapore. Is that correct?’’

“Yes, yes.’’

Whitacre had said it, but Yamamoto hadn’t denied it. Competitors were meeting to discuss prices and volumes. That should prove something to the FBI.

Yamamoto mentioned that customers were claiming that ADM was offering low prices—something that couldn’t be done under price-fixing.

“We don’t know is the customer making a trick,’’ Yamamoto said in imperfect English. Maybe, he was suggesting, the customers were lying.

“Customers can be tricky,’’ Whitacre replied.

Still, Yamamoto said, something had to be done for the best customers.

“It’s very, very important how we can keep a good price for the big customers, don’t you think?’’

“Yeah, I think you’re right.’’

Then, Yamamoto opened up.

“It’s better to talk, you know, see how we maintain the price at $2.50, you know, in other countries, and $1.05 in the United States.’’

Jackpot
. Yamamoto just admitted everything. The competitors were working together to control the prices. Whitacre felt a rush, a thrill.

The conversation proceeded for a few more minutes, with Yamamoto congratulating Whitacre on his recent promotion. Finally, it came to a close.

“Anyway, congratulations, and see you soon,’’ Yamamoto said.

“Okay, Massy.’’

“Bye-bye.’’

Whitacre pulled the microphone away and hung up the receiver before turning to Shepard. He couldn’t wait to let him know everything Yamamoto had said.

Around six-forty-five, Shepard and Whitacre came out of the hotel, walking to the parking lot. Whitacre had placed several more calls but only reached Ikeda and Mimoto from Ajinomoto. Ikeda confirmed the upcoming meetings; Mimoto hadn’t said much, and the tape ran out near the beginning of the call. Still, Whitacre felt happy.

The two men climbed into Shepard’s car and for a few minutes, Whitacre described the calls.

“Mark, this is exactly what we needed,’’ Shepard said. “It really verifies what you’ve said.’’

Whitacre smiled.

There were still more forms required for the tape. Shepard filled out an FD-504b, indicating the date and time he had taken custody of the tape. When the paperwork was done, Shepard asked if anything else had happened recently. Whitacre recounted his day.

There was another issue, Whitacre said.

Shepard looked up from his notes. “What is it?’’

“Well,’’ Whitacre continued, “it’s somewhat common knowledge among the executives at ADM that Mark Cheviron is responsible for secretly recording customers when they’re staying at the Decatur Club.’’

“What do you mean?’’

“ADM has a place at the Decatur Club, and out-of-town customers stay there. I’ve heard we have taping equipment hidden there. So when we negotiate some deal, we hear what the other side really thinks.’’

“How have you heard about this?’’ Shepard asked.

“Well, it’s been the talk around ADM. And my secretary, Liz, used to work for Cheviron, and she told me one of her jobs was transcribing the recordings.’’

Shepard reviewed his notes. If ADM was conducting secret surveillance, that could result in another investigation. After a few follow-ups, he was done.

“Thanks for your time,’’ Shepard said. “I’ll go over this tape in more detail and be back in touch.’’

Whitacre hopped out and hurried across the lot. In no time, he was in his car. As he veered left toward Route 51 South, he ran the evening’s events through his mind. Now the FBI knew that he was telling the truth about price-fixing. He felt confident Shepard had everything he needed to crack open this case.

He smiled. This would be over soon. The FBI would be done with him, and he could get back to his job.

Probably, he thought, in a few days the FBI wouldn’t even need his help anymore.

As he headed down Pershing Road, Shepard was excited. Everything had worked out well. Now, they had strong evidence to prove that price-fixing was occurring. Still, the investigation had a long way to go. To make a criminal case, Whitacre would have to help develop more evidence, more tapes.