Informant (56 page)

Around the globe, private investigators retained by Williams & Connolly were digging up more dirt on Mark Whitacre. No possibility for information was ignored. Some detectives—under instructions never to reveal that they were working for ADM—had even been stationed outside the offices of a moving company, to conduct surveillance on the parked tractor-trailers loaded with the Whitacres’ belongings for the long-aborted move to Tennessee.

Meanwhile, three detectives—Steve Vickers, Deepak Bhawnani, and Eric Hui—were busy in Asia, tracking down phone numbers that appeared on Whitacre’s calling-card bills and hotel records. On one expense form, they found a stay in Thailand at the Shangri-La Hotel; the investigators called there trying to learn what movies Whitacre may have rented—perhaps it would be pornography. But no such luck. The hotel didn’t offer such services.

The majority of their time, though, was spent tracking down corporations that did business with Whitacre at ADM. The theory was simple: If he had used a bogus company once, he would do it again. The investigators were tearing apart his records in search of companies that didn’t exist.

Whitacre had hired one purported regulatory consulting firm—Far East Specialists, or FES—that appeared to be located in Bangkok, according to information in ADM’s files. The investigators made numerous calls to local contacts. Nothing by that name could be found in Thailand. Following up invoice information, an investigator checked a local address for FES, but the site didn’t exist.

Finally, they dialed a Bangkok phone number listed in the files. A woman answered.

A few questions made it clear the woman did not work for FES. Instead, the investigators had just telephoned a site in Bangkok’s notorious red-light district.

The ADM directors who assembled at the offices of Williams & Connolly for a meeting that August were a confused and anxious group. As members of the special committee, they were still uncertain of their responsibilities. Were they supposed to only deal with the tornado of lawsuits brought by shareholders and customers accusing ADM of price-fixing? Or were they supposed to resolve the criminal case as well?

Until now, most of the directors’ communications had been by conference call, with Aubrey Daniel leading the conversation. In fact, the calls often became a monologue for Daniel as he described the state of the case. The committee itself was making few—if any—decisions. Some members were beginning to feel like figureheads.

But today’s meeting might go differently. This would be the directors’ first chance to meet Dick Beattie, the Simpson Thacher lawyer who had flown back from his Montana vacation to take the assignment. Beattie arrived at the conference room, accompanied by Charles Koob, his firm’s top antitrust expert. As the two lawyers walked in, one director, Ross Johnson, broke into a wide smile and stood. He hadn’t seen Beattie since the lawyer had helped best him in the takeover fight for RJR Nabisco.

Johnson walked to Beattie and threw an arm around him, turning him toward the other directors.

“Here’s the best goddamned lawyer in the country,’’ Johnson boomed. “And he’s an old friend of mine.’’

Beattie smiled, pleased at the effusive endorsement from a onetime adversary.

The room was packed with lawyers. In addition to Simpson Thacher, Daniel and some of the other Williams & Connolly lawyers were in attendance. Jim Shafter, the longtime lawyer for the Andreas family, was seated to one side. Beattie suggested that the other lawyers leave the room, so that Simpson Thacher could discuss matters with its client. The Williams & Connolly lawyers were incensed at the suggestion but eventually agreed to step out.

The directors asked a few questions about the background of Beattie and his firm. Then, they pressed Beattie with questions about their responsibilities. Most spoke with concern about their respect for the Andreas family. Beattie answered each question, making it clear that the committee had a lot of work ahead.

“This is going to be a long process,’’ Beattie said. “And eventually, you may have to make some very, very difficult decisions.’’

In the Chicago bureau of the
Wall Street Journal
, Burton and Kilman—the reporters who had broken the story of Whitacre’s role with the FBI—were hard at work. They had learned of Whitacre’s attempted suicide and were preparing an article for the Monday paper. During the day, Kilman checked his mail. He found a letter addressed to him from Whitacre, postmarked August 9. He tore it open and started to read. One portion stopped him.

“Regarding overseas accounts and kickbacks; and overseas payments to some employees,’’ it said. “Dig deep. It’s there! They give it; then use it against you when you are their enemy.’’

Letter in hand, Kilman went to find Burton. This had to go in the story.

In Washington, fear was setting in that the antitrust case might be in peril.

While lysine seemed secure, Whitacre’s troubles were almost certain to bog down other cases—particularly citric acid. On a Saturday in Washington, Gary Spratling and Jim Griffin met for five hours to discuss the problem. By day’s end, they reached their decision.

The lysine case would remain in Chicago. But the citric investigation would be sent to agents and prosecutors in San Francisco, while high-fructose corn syrup would be pursued in Atlanta.

The Harvest King team was off those parts of the case.

The press release from
Fortune
magazine arrived that same afternoon in newsrooms around the country.

F
ORTUNE EXCLUSIVE
, it blared. F
AST-TRACK EXEC BARES INSIDE SECRETS AT
A
RCHER
D
ANIELS
M
IDLAND
.

In the release,
Fortune
’s publicity department boasted that the magazine had snagged Mark Whitacre’s first-person account of his experience as a government mole, with a story that included many of the confidential details from the price-fixing investigation. All this, the release said, from a man “who many say was in line to become president of the company.’’ The magazine itself, according to the release, would be hitting the newsstands in nine days.

“If this story were not on the pages of
Fortune
,’’ it read, “you’d swear you were reading a John Grisham novel.’’

Monday morning, law-enforcement offices in Chicago, Springfield, and Washington buzzed with concern about the
Fortune
article. Everyone was making calls, trying to find a copy so that they could gauge how much damage Whitacre had done. Finally, someone succeeded, quickly faxing the article to everyone involved in Harvest King.

To the agents and prosecutors in the case, errors in Whitacre’s story were apparent, always skewed to make him look good. The sabotage allegations that led to the FBI’s arrival were portrayed as widely suspected at ADM—not something Whitacre had raised himself. His early attempts to walk away from the FBI were glossed over. Still, there were plenty of accurate details, from the evidence that had been collected to the identities of targets.

The only government official mentioned in the article was Brian Shepard, a fact that led to some good-natured teasing of the agent by Herndon and the antitrust prosecutors. Repeatedly, Whitacre underscored his admiration for Shepard, saying that the agent’s personality had played a big role in his decision to cooperate.

“We met Brian Shepard, the head of the FBI in Decatur—a super-nice guy,’’ Whitacre told the magazine. Shepard “was a very trust-worthy guy. I really hit it off with him well.’’

In the article, Whitacre also addressed a question that had vexed many government officials: Why had he revealed the price-fixing scheme in the first place?

“I did not feel comfortable lying to the FBI,’’ Whitacre was quoted as saying. “Definitely not.’’

The next day, Tuesday, Daniel Briel of the Swiss Bank Corporation’s Zurich office received a fax. For some reason, the one-page hand-written note was dated from a week before, August 8. Despite that, the Swiss banker had seen the penmanship enough times to identify the writer without reading the signature—it was from Mark Whitacre.

“I hope all is well,’’ it began. “Please sell some bonds because I need some
checks
written.’’

The instructions were unusual for Whitacre, but Briel knew it was not his place to question a customer. As requested, he arranged for an overnight package to be shipped by DHL. It was addressed to Mike Gilbert in Ohio, a name Briel had not seen before. Inside, Briel included envelopes containing three checks—one each in the names of Ginger Whitacre, Marion Whitacre, and Reinhart Richter.

Briel thought nothing of the transaction. No one had told him that the Zurich district attorney was freezing Whitacre’s assets in Switzerland. After all, the prosecutors from that office had not yet found Whitacre’s account at Swiss Bank Corporation.

About twelve o’clock that afternoon, Herndon was walking toward his desk when he noticed that the small red light on his phone was glowing. He dialed the voice-mail system and scribbled down the message. It was Craig Dahle, the agent from Mobile in charge of the methionine investigation, asking Herndon to call back immediately.

Before he had a chance, a clerk dropped off a teletype. Herndon hung up; hand-delivered teletypes are classified
immediate,
the FBI’s highest priority.

Glancing at the top, Herndon saw that the teletype had been sent to Springfield and Bureau headquarters by Craig Dahle. Herndon quickly reviewed the contents.

He nearly dropped the teletype.

“This is to advise that in preparation for grand jury indictment of captioned matter, it has been determined that Mark E. Whitacre, cooperating witness in Springfield’s case, should be charged,’’ the teletype said. “The case is expected to be presented to a federal grand jury on Wednesday, August 16.’’

Floored, Herndon read through the teletype again.

Wednesday, August 16?
That was tomorrow!

Herndon reached for the phone. He needed to call Jim Griffin at the Chicago antitrust office. The prosecutors should know that their already troubled witness was twenty-four hours away from being charged with corporate espionage.

In minutes, antitrust prosecutors were on the phone, calling Mobile, Washington—anyplace there was somebody who might derail the pending indictment of Mark Whitacre.

Griffin was the first to telephone Scott Lassar, his new co–lead counsel.

“It’s Jim,’’ Griffin said in his soft voice. “We’ve got another plot twist.’’

At 1:20 that day, a call came for Mary Spearing at her office in the Fraud Section.

“Ms. Spearing, this is Kate Killham with the FBI in Springfield. I wanted to let you know that I strongly believe that Bob Herndon and Brian Shepard should be the agents handling Mark Whitacre, and nobody else.’’

Spearing was dumbstruck.
This
again?

“This issue has already been discussed and resolved,’’ Spearing said.

“Still, I believe that Bob and Brian should have that responsibility.’’

The call ended quickly. Outraged, Spearing phoned Chuck Owens, the head of the FBI’s Financial Crime Section, to complain. The Bureau needed to bring Springfield in line, she demanded, explaining the bizarre call she had just received. Owens said he would look into the matter.

In a matter of minutes, Owens learned some disturbing news. Kate Killham had never placed the call. Whoever had just spoken with Spearing was an impostor.

That same day, Beat Schweizer was in his home office in Steffisburg, Switzerland. Since striking out on his own after years at Swiss Bank Corporation in the Cayman Islands, Schweizer had been able to take a more relaxed attitude to his work. Now, he spent his workday dressed mostly in blue jeans; handling money for private clients also gave him the chance to spend more time parachuting, his passion. But he no longer could keep banker’s hours. His office was always open, twenty-four hours a day.

That afternoon, Schweizer heard a call come in on his fax machine. A handwritten letter, several pages in length, rolled out. It was from Mark Whitacre, his odd but wealthy client from America. Since July, Whitacre had been calling Schweizer at all hours, jabbering about work he had done for the FBI. To Schweizer, the man was beginning to sound deranged.

This fax only reinforced that opinion. In it, Whitacre asked Schweizer to get a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check to his wife, Ginger.

“Please move it from my account to another account first,
not
directly from my account,’’ it read. “Send it regular mail;
not
Federal Express; and with no return address.’’

Whitacre instructed Schweizer to include a typed anonymous letter inside the same envelope, with no names and no signatures. “It should say ‘Dear Mrs. Whitacre, From a friend of Mark’s who cares. Please take care.’ ”

He then asked Schweizer to write a one-hundred-thousand-dollar check to his parents, with another anonymous note. He also asked Schweizer to move his account “where it is safer,’’ and also to “get the money back from Joseph.’’ However, $250,000 was to be left with Joseph for a loan to Ginger.

“Please promise me on this,’’ Whitacre wrote. “It’s so important. You are a great friend. But my life is threatened due to putting these ADM guys in jail.’’

At the close he wrote, “I’m counting on you.’’

Finishing the letter, Schweizer shook his head. Most clients sent terse wiring instructions, no more than a sentence. But this one sounded positively insane.

Schweizer filed away the letter. He decided to ignore it. He didn’t want Whitacre as a client anymore.

A package arrived by DHL courier early the next morning in Blanchester, Ohio, to the home of Mike Gilbert. The last few weeks had been unusual for Gilbert, to say the least. First, he had learned that his brother-in-law, Mark Whitacre, had worked with the FBI. Then Gilbert had received a call from his sister Ginger, asking if he would allow the Whitacre family mail to be sent to his house. Ginger feared that someone—probably ADM—was tampering with their letters and packages. Gilbert agreed to help.