Informant (65 page)

The interview ended and the agents put away their documents. With Nixon, they stood and made their exit. Within minutes, the three were back on the street, quietly discussing the interview. Both agents thought Ferrari was in trouble; the note to the bank crippled his story.

Nixon was not so sure.

A week later, on December 13, Mike Bassett saw the familiar colors of a Federal Express envelope in his box. He removed it and glanced at the shipping label. It was from the Fraud Section. Bassett headed back to his desk and pulled the cardboard strip along the envelope’s top.

After reading the letter, Bassett reached for the phone. He needed to talk to D’Angelo right away.

“Tony, I just got a letter from the prosecutors,’’ Bassett said. “You’ve got to see it. Goddamn it! I’ve never seen anything like it.’’

Within fifteen minutes, D’Angelo was reading the same letter. It struck him as strange right off the bat; most communications from prosecutors would go through supervisors, not directly to the case agents. But as D’Angelo read, what at first seemed odd struck him as far more worrisome.

The letter, signed by Mackay and Nixon for Mary Spearing, opened with a chatty “Dear Mike and Tony.’’ From there, it launched into an assessment of the fraud investigation. It listed the interviews conducted and the amount of money traced so far. Records of companies and accounts in five parts of the world were still being sought. The prosecutors were also still attempting to arrange interviews through Aubrey Daniel with several ADM officers, including Randall and Andreas.

The prosecutors wrote that when the investigation began, they had hoped to finish by November. That proved impossible, but a new deadline was now being set.

“We would like to have the investigation completed by the end of January 1996,’’ the letter read.

That’s a little more than a month,
D’Angelo thought.

To accomplish that, they needed to confront Whitacre soon.

“Some aspects of the investigation may not be fully completed until we have obtained access to individuals and records in foreign jurisdictions,’’ the letter read. “Nonetheless, we believe the domestic part of this investigation can be substantially completed by this date.’’

The prosecutors wanted to indict before reviewing all the evidence? What was the rush?

To meet the deadline, the letter stated, the agents needed to focus on a few tasks. Those included interviewing seven people, completing a net-worth analysis for Whitacre, obtaining and reviewing his tax returns, tracing the fraud proceeds, and analyzing his phone records.

But the prosecutors were also clearly suspicious of the agents. At one point in the letter, they asked why they had not received 302s from conversations with defense lawyers. D’Angelo and Bassett both laughed. Agents don’t write 302s for lawyers—those are reserved for witness statements. And, while they did write memos of those contacts, such records were rarely shared with prosecutors—after all, the
prosecutors
were supposed to be in frequent contact with the defense lawyers, not the
agents.

Then, a sentence appeared that stopped D’Angelo cold.

“Please note that it is not an objective of this investigation to turn Whitacre into an informant for the investigation of others who are involved in the improper activities of Whitacre.’’

He read the sentence again.

It is not an objective of this investigation to turn Whitacre into an informant for the investigation of others. . . . 

D’Angelo felt a chill. Was the FBI being ordered to ignore Whitacre’s leads, to ensure a quick indictment?

He set the letter down and looked at Bassett.

“What the hell is this?’’ he said.

Bassett folded his arms across his chest. “I was wondering how long it would take you to see that.’’

Neither agent knew what to do. Their job was to pursue every lead to the end of the earth; now, it seemed, they were being told to limit their investigation to ensure the indictment of only one particular person.

They couldn’t shake the feeling that they were witnessing a potential obstruction of justice—only this time, by the Department of Justice itself.

Later that day, Bassett and D’Angelo were eating lunch in the rear of a Chicago deli, stewing about their options. Bassett swallowed a bite of his turkey sandwich.

“Goddamn it, this is bullshit!’’ he fumed.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,’’ D’Angelo said. “We’re not putting up with this; we’re going on record.’’

The Justice Department
had
to be bowing to the demands of Williams & Connolly, the agents said. First, there was the false announcement that ADM was not a target; now it seemed that they were being told to take out the chief witness against the company as fast as possible. This was becoming some Washington influence game, they railed.

“The fix is in, man,’’ D’Angelo said. “Williams & Connolly is running this investigation.’’

The conversation shifted to hypotheticals. What if they did it? What if they ignored Whitacre’s leads?

“That one’s not hard to figure out,’’ Bassett said. “We could be prosecuted for obstruction.’’

D’Angelo nodded and took a bite of his club sandwich.

“You know one thing is true,’’ he said. “Once Whitacre’s indicted, they’re not going to do anything against these other people.’’

“We’ve got to finish everything at the same time,’’ Bassett said. “Once Whitacre’s gone, DOJ is out of it.’’

Bassett took another bite of his sandwich and chuckled. He was expecting a transfer to Albany soon.

“I’ll probably be out of here before this is over,’’ Bassett said. “Then this will be all your problem.’’

“Thanks a lot,’’ D’Angelo laughed.

The next step was sending this matter up the line in the Bureau. The agents agreed that this one might end up going all the way back to headquarters.

“Let’s see if the Bureau backs us,’’ Bassett said.

“Yeah, but Mike, what if they don’t?’’

The agents fell silent for a moment.

“I’ll tell you, Mike,’’ D’Angelo said, “if they tell us, ‘Don’t follow leads, don’t go after co-conspirators, don’t go after ADM,’ that’s it. I’ll leave the job first.’’

“I feel the same way.’’

D’Angelo took another bite.

“And Mike,’’ he added, “if that happens, I think we should go public.’’

Bassett nodded. That would be an enormous step for an agent, something almost never done. But he saw the logic.

“I agree,’’ he said.

By the end of the meal, the agents were decided. If they were told to ignore Whitacre’s leads—
if they were told to obstruct justice
—they would resign that day.

And afterward, they would call
60 Minutes
.

There had been no need to worry.

In the days that followed, the Bureau reacted with muted outrage to the extraordinary letter from the Justice Department. Their supervisors not only fell squarely behind Bassett and D’Angelo, but they took up the battle for them.

After hearing about the letter, their supervisor took the matter to Ed Worthington, the Chicago ASAC. Worthington agreed to sign the response to the prosecutors that D’Angelo had written. It oozed diplomacy, although a dig at the prosecutors occasionally slipped through.

The letter went through the prosecutors’ requests one at a time. Regarding the net-worth analysis for Whitacre, it stated that requests for foreign-bank information had gone out, but that the analysis could not be completed before the data was delivered. As for obtaining Whitacre’s tax records, the response pointed out this was not usually handled by the FBI, since it required a court order—something the prosecutors needed to obtain.

“The U.S. Attorney’s office for the Northern District of Illinois routinely procures tax information via such orders,’’ it read, dripping condescension. “An example can be made available to your office if necessary.’’

Regarding the matter of the 302s of defense lawyers, the response explained that lawyer contacts are written up in memorandums, not 302s. Still, in the future those would also be shared with the prosecutors.

At the bottom, the response addressed the expectation that Whitacre would not be an informant against others.

“All potential criminal activities revolving around Whitacre’s fraud scheme will be thoroughly investigated prior to the culmination of this case,’’ the response stated. “The FBI will endeavor to complete these investigative tasks as expeditiously as possible. However, thoroughness should not be sacrificed to accomplish this goal.’’

In the days and weeks that followed, the Chicago Field Office sought support from headquarters for their decision to disregard the prosecutors’ instructions. D’Angelo and Bassett briefed Neil Gallagher, Deputy Assistant Director for the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division. Afterward, Gallagher told the agents to ignore any instruction to take shortcuts.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,’’ he told them.

Signs of strain were emerging in what had been a united front by potential defendants in the price-fixing case. While ADM and its executives still seemed to stand steadfast against a plea, the foreign competitors were wavering—and obviously ready to fall.

Miwon’s lysine division—now known by its new corporate name, Sewon—seemed the most geared up to cut a deal. In a series of discussions, Lawrence Kill, a lawyer representing the Korean company, said that Sewon was hoping for a fine of a few hundred thousand dollars; the prosecutors insisted on millions. But as they negotiated, several good signs emerged. First, Kill dangled the tantalizing news that Sewon had maintained documents relating to price-fixing. On top of that, he almost never mentioned J. S. Kim, the Sewon executive most involved in the scheme. Apparently, there would be none of the usual sticking points about the fate of executives.

That did not hold true for other conspirators. On December 19, lawyers for Ajinomoto called with a proposal. The company would plead nolo contendere—essentially a statement that Ajinomoto did not contest the charges, but was not pleading guilty. The lawyers also hinted that a plea might be possible from Kanji Mimoto, who had collected numbers for the volume agreement. But they said a plea from Kazutoshi Yamada, the managing director, was off the table.

The prosecutors listened but were unwilling to cut Yamada free. Still, this was Ajinomoto’s opening bid. Before long, the prosecutors felt confident, the company would come back with a better offer—probably when indictment seemed inevitable.

On December 18, as a driving rain fell in Greenville, North Carolina, a car pulled off the road into the parking lot of a small chiropractic clinic. The driver, Vernon Ellison, a local private detective, maneuvered into a spot near the clinic door and shut off the engine. The swishing wipers that had been fending off the cold rain came to a stop. Ellison glanced toward his passenger, Andrew Levetown from Kroll Associates, the corporate investigative agency that was coordinating the search for Whitacre’s millions.

“Ready?’’ Ellison asked.

“Let’s go,’’ Levetown said, throwing open the door.

Levetown had just arrived from Kroll’s Washington office. Weeks before, Swiss lawyers had obtained many of Whitacre’s records from his bank accounts in that country, and now agents were fanning out wherever money had been sent by wire or check. One name in the records was that of Patti McLaren, who appeared to have received a check for about $8,000 from Whitacre earlier in the year. Kroll detectives tracked McLaren to Greenville, but still didn’t know who she was. Levetown had volunteered to confront her. Ellison, a licensed investigator in the state, was hired to tag along.

The two detectives walked toward the clinic door in the rain, pulling their trench coats tight. Inside, the waiting room was filled with patients flipping through old magazines and generally looking bored. Levetown glanced around the run-down office. It seemed the last place that might be associated with a Swiss bank account.

Near the front of the office, a woman sat behind a reception desk. The detectives approached her.

“Excuse me,’’ Levetown said. “I’m looking for Patti McLaren.’’

The woman looked up. “That’s me,’’ she said.

Levetown identified himself and handed over his card.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about some money you received from Mark Whitacre,’’ he said.

McLaren eyed the men suspiciously.

“Well,’’ she said, standing, “this would be awkward right here. Let me find a place where we can talk.’’

McLaren walked to the back of the office, out of sight. Levetown figured she was probably calling a lawyer. Minutes later, McLaren returned, her face deadly serious.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,’’ she said crisply.

“Well . . .  ,’’ Levetown began.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,’’ McLaren repeated.

She pointed to the door. “You have to leave now.’’

The detectives headed toward the exit. Levetown glanced back at McLaren. He decided to press her.

“Do you want to tell us why Mark Whitacre gave you eight thousand dollars last May?’’ he asked.

McLaren’s anger and contempt showed in her face.

“We’re a close family!’’ she snapped. “That’s none of your business!’’

McLaren’s last words provided the necessary clue to her identity. Within hours, Kroll detectives figured out that she was Ginger Whitacre’s sister. Whatever the reason Whitacre had given her money, there was probably little in the story that would help ADM. Levetown headed home.

The next day, Levetown returned to Kroll’s offices at Eighteenth and M Streets in downtown Washington. His mind was already on other work; beyond the McLaren noninterview, he didn’t expect to have much involvement in the case.

During the day, a call arrived at the switchboard. Janine Hightower, an office receptionist, answered.

“Kroll Associates.’’

“Andrew Levetown,’’ the man on the line requested.

“May I ask who’s calling?’’

The caller’s voice turned angry.

“I’m looking at his business card right now, the one he gave Patti McLaren. I know what he did. I know he’s offering money to get people to tell stories about Mark Whitacre. I want you to get him a message for me. You tell him he not only just made the biggest mistake of his career, but the biggest mistake Kroll has ever made.’’