Informant (20 page)

In March, Cudmore’s request for assistance landed on the desk of Kent Brown, the chief of the Midwest office. In a phone call, Cudmore laid out the history of the ADM case while Brown took notes. Brown said he wanted to talk over the case with one of his lawyers, Robin Mann, and would have her get back to Cudmore.

Hanging up, Brown gathered his notes. He felt confident Mann was perfect for the assignment. A veteran antitrust prosecutor, Mann had handled a number of price-fixing cases, some involving tapes—albeit on a far smaller scale than this new case. The daughter of a struggling salesman and a receptionist, Mann grew up in Chicago with little money and drifted into a legal career after years of working in a state welfare office. Her arrival at the Antitrust Division had been almost serendipitous; wary of the stifling atmosphere of law firms, Mann searched for a job after law school by flipping through a book of government agencies and calling the ones that seemed interesting. While she hardly arrived at the office with a fervor for antitrust enforcement, Mann soon became indispensable. She was a stickler for detail, who could drive colleagues to distraction with her concerns. But by fretting over the minutiae, Mann often uncovered weak points in cases that needed to be airtight.

Notes in hand, Brown found Mann. A cooperating witness was turning over evidence of possible price-fixing by ADM, he told her. Would she take the case?

Mann gave Brown a quizzical look.

“What,’’ she asked, “is ‘ADM’?”

Whitacre was back in a hotel room, meeting with the FBI. This time, though, the mood was upbeat.

“Mark, you’re doing a great job,’’ Shepard said. “These are just the kind of tapes we need.’’

Whitacre beamed. He was part of the team.

Still, there were problems, Shepard said. Whitacre shouldn’t narrate what was happening, just let the tape speak for itself. And there was no need to rush; he didn’t have to catch everyone on tape in just a few days. And never make things up, like the Mimoto call—that might cause trouble later.

“We don’t want you to go in and have a conversation unless you would do it normally,’’ Weatherall said. “Let the conversation come to you.’’

“Guys,’’ Whitacre said, “I’m an executive. They want me to handle this. If I don’t go to them, they might not come to me. They’ll figure everything’s under control.’’

The agents thought for a second. What kind of contact would a boss expect from an underling?

“All right, try this,’’ Weatherall said. “Contact them before the big meetings. It would make sense for you to go to them then.’’

“You’d be getting your marching orders,’’ Shepard said, picking up on the idea. “Ask them what they want you to do before a big meeting, then brief them on the results afterwards. That’s perfectly natural.’’

Whitacre nodded. “Okay.’’

There was one other issue, Shepard said. Someone in Springfield had offered a suggestion. Maybe there was another way to gather evidence.

Whitacre listened carefully as Shepard described the plan that the FBI wanted to try.

Dusk had changed into night, and the executives from ADM’s headquarters had headed home. A cleaning staff was making its rounds, and a guard stood watch in the lobby. Sometime after seven-thirty, Whitacre came in the front door, accompanied by a man the guard didn’t recognize. The man was dressed in a suit and carried a large briefcase. Probably just another executive.

“Just bringing in one of our clients,’’ Whitacre said to the guard. “Have some things to show him.’’

The guard nodded with disinterest, and Whitacre signed in. On the next line of the sheet, he wrote a name for his guest: Dwight Armstrong, an executive with Carl S. Akey Inc., an Ohio feed company.

The two men walked through the lobby, heading to Whitacre’s office. Shutting the door, Whitacre pulled a curtain across the glass wall at the front and then closed the window drapes. He glanced at his guest.

“Just talk about business,’’ the guest said.

“You know, Dwight, our lysine business is really going great,’’ Whitacre began, sitting at his desk. “And I’ve got to tell you, we’re really delighted with Akey’s business. You’re one of our best customers.’’

As Whitacre spoke, his guest stood on a chair and pushed up a ceiling tile. His head disappeared into the ceiling. Whitacre watched as his guest shifted a foot onto his desk.

“And I’m really glad you could come out here, Dwight,’’ he said. “I think you’re going to be impressed with our plans and how they’re going to fit in with your business.’’

The guest replaced the tile and climbed down.

“Now, are you guys going to be growing your business in Ohio more in the swine industry or in poultry?’’ Whitacre asked.

“Oh, we’re growing in swine,’’ the guest said, turning to a wooden cabinet in the back of the office. He opened the doors, inspecting everything inside.

“How’s that experimental farm you’re working on?’’ Whitacre asked.

“It’s good. It’s going real well.’’

The guest opened his briefcase, removing an electronic device. Switching it on, he analyzed a radio frequency.

Ten minutes later, the men left Whitacre’s office and headed down the hall to a conference room.

“I’ve got a little slide show that I think will give you a lot of useful information,’’ Whitacre said. He dimmed the lights and turned on a projector. On the screen, yellow letters spelling out
ADM Bioproducts Division
appeared against a blue background.

Whitacre looked out across the room. “This presentation will tell you about ADM’s Bioproducts Division, and how we are vertically integrated in the company.’’

As Whitacre spoke, the guest scrambled up to the ceiling again, lifting several panels and looking inside. Climbing down, he turned on the device he was using to analyze the radio signal. Whitacre droned on, clicking through the slides as he watched his guest maneuver all over the conference room. After about thirty minutes, the man put his equipment away.

“That was an excellent presentation, Mark,’’ the man interrupted.

“Thanks,’’ Whitacre said, shutting off the projector and turning up the lights.

The men headed out, wandering to ADM’s computer center. After a glance, the tour was over. About an hour after arriving, they were back in the parking lot, climbing into Whitacre’s Town Car. Whitacre drove past the front gate, heading toward a local hotel.

“So,’’ said Whitacre, “any luck?’’

The guest, Special Agent Thomas Gibbons, a technology specialist with the FBI’s Springfield office, shook his head.

“Nothing we can do,’’ Gibbons said. “We can’t broadcast a signal out of the building.’’

Whitacre nodded. The FBI had hoped to place a transmitter inside ADM that would allow agents to monitor price-fixing meetings. But something was blocking the signal, probably some low-frequency device used to prevent potential bugging by corporate competitors. A transmitter would give the agents nothing but static.

The FBI would have to rely on Whitacre’s tapes.

•   •   •

Whitacre was back in his office, staring out the window at the Ronald Reagan statue, when the phone rang. He spun around and reached for the receiver.

“Mark?’’ a voice said. “David Hoech.’’

Whitacre smiled to himself. Hoech was one of those people who operated in the shadows of every industry, gathering market information like a detective and using it for clients of his agricultural consulting firm. Whitacre had met him years before, when Hoech came to Decatur for a tour of ADM. During that trip, he had learned a lot about Hoech, and knew that he had lived in Japan. Whitacre also knew that even now, Hoech was in frequent contact with Yamamoto of Kyowa Hakko, one of the consultant’s best clients.

Weeks had passed since Whitacre had heard from Hoech, so they spent the first few minutes chatting. Then, Hoech began subtly pumping Whitacre for information. What was up with the lysine business?

“Things are great, David. We’re all set to start producing seventeen million pounds of lysine a month by June. We’re ready to have a price war.’’

“That’ll be new,’’ Hoech drawled sarcastically.

“We can win this one, David. At that production level, our cost will be fifty cents a pound. We can ride the price down, and still make profit.’’

The boast intrigued Hoech, and he drilled Whitacre with questions. Whitacre answered with a confident, almost arrogant tone.

By the time he hung up, Whitacre felt pretty clever. The information he had revealed wasn’t public, so he knew Hoech would write it up and send it to Kyowa Hakko. Yamamoto would read it, maybe panic.

It was all a tactic. Whitacre was using a back channel to pressure Yamamoto to the negotiating table. After all, the faster the price-fixing became serious, the faster Whitacre would be done with the FBI.

St. Mary’s Hospital rises beside Lake Decatur like a gleaming white manor. With ample parking, the hospital is a secluded spot right on the way from ADM to Moweaqua, a perfect location whenever Shepard needed a quick meeting with Whitacre.

As Whitacre headed home one evening, he veered onto Lake Shore Drive, toward St. Mary’s. His briefcase rested on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Shepard had asked him to bring it.

Whitacre spotted Shepard’s car in the lot and parked beside him. The agent got out of his car and quickly hopped into Whitacre’s front passenger seat.

“This should only take a minute,’’ Shepard said.

Shepard picked up the brown briefcase and wrote down its specifications.

“We’re going to fix you up with a briefcase like this one,’’ Shepard said. “But we’re going to put a recording device in it, a better one than you have.’’

“Will I use that as my new briefcase?’’

“Only sometimes, only when you need it,’’ Shepard said. “Most of the time, you’ll keep your regular one. But it will make taping a lot easier for you.’’

Whitacre nodded. All these new toys were making the job more exciting.

John Hoyt, the Springfield ASAC, pounded the telephone receiver on his desk after disconnecting with Bureau headquarters.

“Incompetent bureaucratic nincompoops!’’ he shouted, banging the receiver on each word.

For weeks Hoyt had been pushing headquarters for an additional agent or two. The ADM case was moving rapidly, and his agents were wearing thin. Shepard and Weatherall handled everything—interviewing Whitacre, picking up tapes, listening to tapes. They were working fifteen-hour days, most every day. For goodness’ sake, the agents were spending time
transcribing
the darned tapes. Plus, the loss of two agents from Springfield’s relatively small contingent was rippling across the office. A new agent had been moved to Decatur; somebody else had picked up the work in Champaign; and other agents were needed to replace the agents replacing Shepard and Weatherall. This was a case, Hoyt felt certain, that called for more manpower and attention from the Bureau.

He had called Washington with his pitch, laying out the investigation’s magnitude and the demands being placed on his agents.

“Well,’’ the Washington supervisor had replied, “that sounds like a great case. Why don’t you send me an air-tel and tell me when you expect to indict. Maybe we can work it into a national press release.’’

An air-tel?
Hoyt had been around long enough to know that a request for such a written communication was just a brush-off. They weren’t ready to indict, Hoyt had said. They needed agents to investigate, recording devices to gather evidence, maybe money to pay sources. They needed resources to get the job done.

But the words had flown past the Washington supervisor. Antitrust investigations were not something that set hearts racing at the Bureau. They rarely generated headlines, big fines, or lengthy prison terms. Hoyt had heard those unspoken words as the supervisor prattled on about hiring freezes and the needs of larger offices. His protests were pointless. When the call had ended, Hoyt was seething.

After pounding the desk, Hoyt slammed the receiver in its cradle. He remembered the promise he had given Shepard many months ago:
The Bureau would give him all the support he needed
.

Hoyt was beginning to realize how hard it would be to keep his word.

Yard cuttings were strewn across the Whitacres’ driveway, and Rusty Williams was using a gas-powered blower to clean up the mess. The groundskeeper saw Whitacre driving past the gate, and stepped out of the way. Whitacre stopped the car and climbed out.

“Hey bud, come on over,’’ Whitacre called. “I want to show you something.’’

Whitacre opened the back door and pulled out a briefcase. Walking behind the car, he set the case on the trunk. When Williams reached him, Whitacre opened the briefcase and smiled.

“What do you think?’’ Whitacre asked.

Williams looked inside. Nothing.

“It’s a nice briefcase.’’

“Ah, but wait,’’ Whitacre said excitedly.

He reached inside, grasping a pocket at the top. Williams heard Velcro tear as a secret compartment lifted. Behind it was a silver tape recorder. Williams didn’t know it, but he was looking at a Nagra, one of the best recording devices used by the FBI.

“How do you like that?’’ Whitacre buzzed.

Williams didn’t know what to say.

“Just start calling me 014,’’ Whitacre said.

Williams looked at him. “Why 014?’’

Whitacre smiled. “Because I’m twice as smart as 007.’’

Around eight-fifteen on the morning of April 15, Whitacre walked into Mick Andreas’s office. He was there to talk about a meeting scheduled in Chicago later that same day with Yamamoto of Kyowa Hakko. The microcassette recorder in his pocket was already running.

“Well, today’s the big day,’’ Whitacre announced.

Andreas looked up, smiling. “Today’s the little day,’’ he said in a low voice. Kyowa Hakko was the little Japanese company, Ajinomoto the big one.

“The little, yeah, the little day,’’ Whitacre said. “The little Jap.’’

“You’re just goin’ up there to listen, aren’t you?’’

“Yeah, that’s what Terry and I just talked about.’’

Just listening did not mean he should forget to let Yamamoto know ADM’s position, Andreas said.