Informant (46 page)

Andreas nodded. “You’re right. Some people still view me as a carpetbagger from Minnesota.’’

The conversation lasted into the night, with both men discussing the possibility that others at ADM were working against Andreas. It was the first stage of the paranoia.

The next day, Shepard received another page from Whitacre. His calls had picked up since the raid; clearly he was reaching out to the agent for support.

“Hey, how you doing?’’ Whitacre asked a moment later. “Did you page me?’’

“No, I’m returning your page.’’

“Oh, I just got a funny number on my pager, didn’t know what it was. Figured you might be trying to get me.’’

“It wasn’t me,’’ Shepard said. “But how’s it going?’’

“Well, I met with a new lawyer, a guy named Jim Epstein in Chicago. I’m very satisfied with him.’’

Everything was working out, Whitacre said. Epstein had agreed to take the case.

Shepard clicked off the line a few minutes later. Whitacre sounded levelheaded again, more controlled. The agent felt relieved. Now that his witness finally had someone watching out for his interests, maybe everything would be all right.

Scott Roberts, an ADM in-house lawyer, thumbed through records at the office. Roberts had been assigned to handle some of the defense work in the lawsuit filed months before by Ajinomoto, accusing ADM of illegally using the Japanese company’s threonine microbe. That day, Roberts had pulled documents related to ADM’s purchase of the bug from ABP International, a Swedish company.

Roberts removed two ABP contracts. The first, for $3 million, was signed in November 1992—unknown to Roberts, during the week Whitacre first met Shepard. The second, for $2.5 million, was dated October 21, 1993.

Something about the records bothered Roberts. For one thing, there were too many invoices. Plus, the contracts seemed odd. Both Jim Randall and Lennart Thorstensson, the presidents of the two companies, had initialed each page of the first contract, but hadn’t on the second. Why was that?

Roberts flipped to the last pages, where the signatures of Randall and Thorstensson appeared. To Roberts’s eye, each man’s handwriting looked similar from contract to contract.
In fact . . . 

Bringing the two pages closer together, Roberts laid the signature page of one over the other. He held them up to a light, allowing him to see both signatures together.

Slowly, he slid the two pages until the signature lines matched up. Randall’s signature on the top page melded perfectly with the one on the bottom.

The signatures weren’t just similar—
they were identical.

Roberts set the documents down on his desk. He needed to find Rick Reising right away.

After dinner, Whitacre was at home, skimming an old copy of
National Geographic
. Outside, the evening was tranquil, a stark contrast to the emotions and thoughts swirling through his head. He set the magazine down when the phone rang. Lou Rochelli, an ADM controller and a friend, was on the line. Whitacre appreciated the call; he wanted desperately to know the gossip inside the company.

“Hey, Mark,’’ Rochelli said. “I haven’t seen you around. What’s going on?’’

“Why? Are people saying things about me?’’

“They seem like they’re angry with you. Do you know what’s happening?’’

“It’s just this investigation,’’ Whitacre said. “There was somebody in the company working for the FBI. But what are you hearing about me?’’

For several minutes, Rochelli revealed everything he had learned behind the thick walls at ADM headquarters.

“Dwayne’s going after me inside the company,’’ Whitacre said to Shepard.

It was the next morning, Friday, July 2. Whitacre sounded ragged. The calming influence of Epstein had worn off. Hanging around the house was tearing him up.

“I’ve had like twelve phone calls from coworkers,’’ he said, “and they tell me Dwayne’s saying I was responsible for the investigation. But everybody calling is supportive of me. Definitely. I’ve got a lot of support.’’

Not only that, but Howard Buffett had told him he would be resigning soon. “He really feels the company has committed criminal acts and that they’re going to be prosecuted,’’ Whitacre said. “He’s getting out.’’

The troops from Williams & Connolly arrived for their first meeting with the Chicago antitrust prosecutors that same day. Aubrey Daniel took the lead, accompanied by Barry Simon and other lawyers from the firm. The show of force seemed intended to send a message: ADM was ready to fight.

The meeting started casually, with Marvin Price providing a brief history of the building. The lawyers then assembled in the office’s large conference room. The antitrust lawyers had prepared their seating arrangement in advance for the most strategic positioning. The defense team sat in a row on the far side of the table, their backs to a wall of windows. They were cordial but aggressive.

“Rick Reising has told me that Whitacre says he made thousands of audio- and videotapes,’’ Daniel said. “We want the results of the entire investigation to date, including all of the tapes. Any tapes in this case are company property. An ADM officer made them, on company time.’’

The antitrust lawyers suppressed smiles.

No, Griffin responded, the defense lawyers would not be getting everything now. The tapes were the property of the government, not ADM. They would be turned over, as required, in preparation for any court trial.

Barry Simon of Williams & Connolly stood in a conference room across from Jim Epstein, jabbing a finger in the air as he spoke.

“Your client is an ADM officer,’’ Simon said sharply. “He has obligations to this company. And he is going to meet those obligations.’’

Epstein raised an eyebrow and laughed. Whether intentional or not, Daniel and Simon were running some good cop/bad cop routine—and there was no doubt of Simon’s assigned role. Epstein never liked being bullied and wasn’t about to respond to the tactic.

The issue on the table was whether Whitacre would cooperate with an internal ADM investigation of price-fixing being conducted by Williams & Connolly. Epstein doubted it would be objective—the chairman’s son was facing prison, for heaven’s sake. Rather, he felt sure it would be used to formulate ADM’s defense. Before agreeing to help, Epstein first wanted to check with the antitrust lawyers. If they had no problem, Epstein would probably allow an interview with Whitacre as part of some severance agreement. That would clean up the loose ends.

Epstein raised his hands. “I’ve heard what you’ve said. I’ll get back to you.’’

More than a week after the government raids on ADM, little about the criminal case unfolding in Illinois had captured the attention of the national news media. Fairly small articles, usually buried inside newspapers, noted that ADM had been served with search warrants, as had a few other companies. It seemed like small beer.

That was about to change. Two reporters with the Chicago bureau of the
Wall Street Journal
were about to propel the investigation to front pages around the globe.

On the evening of July 7, a Friday, Ginger listened as a car pulled around the driveway. A moment later the bell rang, and she opened the door. A bearded man was there.

“Good evening,’’ he said. “Is Mark Whitacre home?’’

Ginger stared at the man. “Sorry, he’s out of town.’’

“My name’s Scott Kilman. I’m a reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
.’’

Kilman explained that he and a
Journal
colleague, Tom Burton, were working on an article about the ADM case, and he laid out details of what they had learned. Ginger spoke for a short bit but insisted that her husband was not around. Eventually Kilman thanked her and headed back to the car.

Ginger listened as he drove away. Thank heavens a friend had called to warn that the reporter was on the way. Ginger crossed the room and picked up the phone, calling the stables across the street.

“Mark?’’ Ginger said. “He left. You can come back.’’

Over the days that followed, Kilman and Burton kept beating the bushes, trying to confirm their information that Whitacre had cooperated with the FBI.

Until now, Whitacre had been despondent. His life was in shambles; nobody was congratulating him for doing the right thing. He was the white hat, but the black hats had run him out of town. Maybe if people knew the truth, Whitacre thought, it would help. Maybe Decatur, the industry—maybe even the ADM board—would back him up. These
Journal
reporters had already figured out a lot and were going to print it anyway; they may as well get it right.

Kilman returned early Sunday morning, driving his car to the Whitacres’ stables. Whitacre was waiting inside. The time was finally right, he felt, to get his story out.

Later that day, Shepard took a call from Whitacre.

“Brian, listen,’’ Whitacre said. “I heard from some reporters with
Wall Street
. They tell me
Wall Street
is running an article tomorrow or the next day. They said that it’s gonna name me as cooperating with the government.’’

Shepard listened, uneasy. This was not good.

“Did you talk to them, Mark? What did you say?’’

“They came by the house Friday. But Ginger told them I was out of town. One of them came by again this morning, and I was here. But I just told him I had no comment.’’

Soon afterward, Whitacre cradled the phone. He didn’t feel bad misleading Shepard. As far as he was concerned, he’d helped the FBI enough. He didn’t owe them the truth.

Mutchnik arrived at work early Monday morning and headed to the mailboxes. As always, several copies of the
Wall Street Journal
—brought up from the lobby by a receptionist—were stacked up. Mutchnik grabbed one, scanning the front. His eyes locked on the lead article.

S
EEDS OF DOUBT: AN EXECUTIVE BECOMES INFORMANT FOR THE
FBI,
STUNNING GIANT
ADM, the headline read.

A little more than halfway down the page, a sketch of a smiling Whitacre appeared. Mutchnik skimmed the article as he walked to his office; the reporters had learned a lot. The article told how Whitacre had begun working for the FBI in 1992, offered details about audio- and videotapes, and listed meeting sites in Tokyo, Hawaii, and Los Angeles. The reporters had even found out about the briefcase rigged with a recording device. Obviously, they had good sources.

Mutchnik was reviewing the article again when his phone rang. Shepard and Herndon were on the line. They had just seen the article and were very upset.

“How could this happen?’’ Shepard asked.

“Yeah,’’ Mutchnik said. “What a shame for Mark.’’

That same morning, Whitacre was in his kitchen eating cereal as he watched the news on WAND, a Decatur television station. The weather segment had just finished and the anchor, Gayle Simpson, announced the top news story.

“Mark Whitacre, a high-level executive with the Archer Daniels Midland Company, has reportedly been a Federal Bureau of Investigation informant,’’ Simpson intoned, crediting the news to a report in the
Wall Street Journal
.

Whitacre listened, swelling with pride.

“Hey, Ginger!’’ he called out. “Quick, get in here! You’ve gotta hear this!’’

Ginger hurried in and listened to the news in wonder.

In Lake Charles, Louisiana, Kyle Rountree grabbed the top copy from a stack of
Wall Street Journal
s at a local store and paid the cashier. As he headed for the door, he glanced at the lead article.

Mark Whitacre.

Whitacre. From ADM. Rountree, the cooperating witness in the FBI’s investigation into the possible theft of Degussa’s methionine secrets, was very familiar with the name. This was a central figure in the methionine case, a man Rountree had discussed with the FBI. Now, it ends up Whitacre had been a cooperating witness, too?
Since 1992?

Rountree found a phone and dialed Special Agent Craig Dahle at the FBI office in Mobile, Alabama.

“It’s Kyle Rountree,’’ he said when Dahle answered. “What the hell’s going on here?’’

Ron Ferrari was watching the television news at his house in suburban Chicago when a photograph of his old friend Mark Whitacre appeared on the screen. Ferrari listened as the newscaster described Whitacre’s work for the FBI. Immediately he reached for a telephone.

Ferrari was a local hero back in his hometown of Moweaqua, thanks to five years as a linebacker with the San Francisco 49ers. His team had even traveled to the Super Bowl in 1985, although a knee injury had kept Ferrari off the field. But Ferrari had long known that he would never be a star and was prepared to fall back on his training in grain marketing. After his professional football career, Ferrari had worked at ADM, where he had met Whitacre. Ferrari had since left the company but kept in touch with Whitacre. He reached his old friend at home.

“Hey,’’ Ferrari said. “I’m sitting here watching TV, and I saw you.’’

“Yeah,’’ Whitacre replied. “What do you think?’’

“What should I think? I can’t believe this.’’

Whitacre described all of the events of recent days. Ferrari asked a question about Mick Andreas.

“He’s not going to be with the company anymore,’’ Whitacre said. “I’m going to be taking over. Mick’s gone.’’

Just off the Whitacre’s driveway, crowds of reporters milled about, some craning their necks for a look at the home of that day’s most newsworthy corporate executive.

The steady drumbeat of news coverage was overwhelming. The Whitacres’ name was on every television and radio station. It all left Ginger uneasy. Long a private person, she could no longer leave her own home without passing throngs of shouting reporters. Worse, Mark would tell her, anonymous threatening calls were coming to the house. She had never imagined it would come to this.

Still, for the first few days, Mark seemed happy with the way the story was playing out. Everywhere, he was being portrayed as a corporate hero, a golden boy executive who had been unwilling to tolerate wrongdoing. He liked that.

But on the third day of relentless coverage, the tide turned. That morning, Whitacre drove to a gas station where there was a newspaper box for the
Wall Street Journal
. He dropped in a few coins and took his copy, heading back to his car as he scanned the paper. A headline on the front page hit him like a sock in the stomach.