Informant (67 page)

Lassar told Allison that his cooperation would be reported to the fraud prosecutors. He then passed a proffer letter across the table, providing the commitment that Allison’s truthful statements would not be used against him as direct evidence at trial. Monico and Allison read the document and signed it.

With the legal matters aside, Herndon took over.

“When did you first hear about price-fixing in lysine?’’ the agent asked.

Allison took a breath and nodded.

“I’ve known about price-fixing activities in the lysine market since approximately 1992,’’ he began.

Marty Allison was a dynamite witness. His answers were direct, his demeanor unwavering. He fully responded to any question put to him, with little need for Herndon to tease out details. Unlike other witnesses in this case, his expressions of remorse seemed sincere, not self-pitying.

Best of all, Allison had extensive knowledge. He described Whitacre’s concerns in 1992 about Terry Wilson’s sudden assignment to work with his division. It coincided with Whitacre’s story of how Wilson came in and began directing price-fixing. Allison also provided a window on regional price-fixing meetings held among lower-level lysine executives. Prior to his interview, Allison had even prepared a list of every regional meeting, based on records in his electronic calendar.

Some of Allison’s information was disturbing. For example, he told of the 1994 ADM sales meeting in Scottsdale where Whitacre had presented competitors’ secret sales figures to his rather astonished colleagues. As Allison described the event, Herndon felt his blood boil again. Whitacre had never told the FBI he had done this, and had not recorded the meeting.

Late in the interview, Michael Monico raised a hand. “Guys, we’ve only got a few minutes before we have to leave.”

“We still have more questions,’’ Lassar responded.

“We’ll come back whenever you need,’’ Monico said.

“Wait,’’ Herndon said.

Monico had mentioned earlier that Allison knew about technology thefts by ADM. “Could we spend a few minutes on that before you leave?’’ the agent asked.

“Sure,’’ Monico said. “Go ahead.’’

The story unfolded quickly. Allison described a 1990 meeting where Randall mentioned that Mike Frein had brought the bacitracin bug with him to ADM from his previous employer. Herndon’s ears picked up. This was the kind of confirmation he was looking for.

“Randall made comments when I was first hired that really led me to believe that ADM was a different kind of company,’’ Allison said.

For example, he described how Randall had once brought a competitor’s bag into Whitacre’s office, asking if they would be able to obtain the other company’s microorganism by examining its contents. He had asked if ADM could go into the sewers near a competitor’s plant to obtain a bug. He had also heard rumors that the company had placed listening devices on some of its own executives’ phones and had even tried to use prostitutes against a competitor in Iowa.

As he wrote down the information, Herndon suppressed a smile. Allison, this great witness, had information on most everything he wanted to know about.

The next day, D’Angelo received a call from Scott Lassar about the Allison interview. The man, Lassar said, was an extremely promising witness.

“I think he could be very useful to you,’’ Lassar added. “You ought to try to schedule an interview through his lawyer, Mike Monico.’’

Changing the subject, Lassar mentioned that he had been reviewing some of Whitacre’s old 302s during the covert stage of the price-fixing case and had stumbled across something interesting. Back during the flare-up of the Mobile investigation involving methionine, Whitacre had been interviewed about former Degussa employees, including one named Chris Jones. Whitacre had said that he had arranged to pay Jones a monthly retainer of between $10,000 and $20,000.

“That just sounded too familiar to me,’’ said Lassar.

“What do you mean?’’

“I think you guys ought to check out whether these payments were utilized by Whitacre to divert other money from ADM for himself.’’

After skimming page 236 of the green paperback novel, Jules Kroll stopped to write down some notes for his ADM file.

The Whitacre investigation had been eating at Kroll for months. Since founding Kroll Associates in 1972, the fifty-six-year-old private detective had developed a reputation as a man who got the job done. But not this time. Since Williams & Connolly had ruled out any more interviews, Kroll was muzzled. Still, nobody could stop Jules Kroll from thinking about the case. And now, Kroll was working on his most inventive investigative theory:

Mark Whitacre was playing out some sort of delusional version of John Grisham’s book
The Firm.

For days, often as Kroll puffed his cigars, he and a few associates had thumbed through copies of the book, looking for similarities between Whitacre’s story and Grisham’s tale of a young lawyer working at a corrupt law firm.

The most obvious comparison was between ADM and Grisham’s fictional firm, Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Both hired employees from big cities to work in out-of-the-way towns. And while the fictional firm was in Memphis, it was really controlled by the Mafia from Illinois—ADM’s home state. The firm used corporate jets as a centerpiece of a scheme to evade taxes; the Lamet Vov letters had made accusations about corporate jets and taxes. The head of security at Bendini, Lambert was a former cop who tapped phones, threatened people, and committed other crimes; the head of security at ADM was a former cop who Whitacre said had done those very same things.

There were also striking parallels between Whitacre and Mitch McDeere, the hero of Grisham’s story. McDeere’s father had been killed when he was seven; Whitacre falsely claimed that his father and mother had been killed when he was about the same age. McDeere faced death threats; Whitacre had publicly proclaimed that he had, too. Both cooperated with the FBI after being threatened with indictment. Both played a hero role by turning over evidence of colleagues’ crimes. Both felt betrayed by the FBI. Someone leaked word of McDeere’s cooperation; Whitacre claimed the same thing had happened to him.

The same American locations also cropped up in the two stories. The wives of both cooperators fled or tried to flee to suburban Nashville. There were random trips in
The Firm
to Knoxville and St. Louis; anonymous letters had already been traced to those two cities.

There were even bizarre similarities that Whitacre could not have controlled, including some between the real-life and fictional case agents. In
The Firm
, Special Agent Wayne Tarrance had been stationed at the New York City Field Office before being transferred to the smaller town where the big investigation unfolds. The same was true for Special Agent Brian Shepard.

And then . . . 

And then there were the financial transactions. The fictional firm ran dirty money through companies with names like Dunn Lane Ltd., Eastpointe Ltd., and Gulf-South Ltd. ADM money had been run through companies with names like Aminac, Eurotechnologies, and FES. In real life and in fiction, there were wire transfers between New York money-center banks and banks in the Caribbean. McDeere set up accounts in the Caribbean and in Zurich; so did Whitacre. In the book, money that arrived in a Caribbean bank account was moved to Switzerland; Whitacre often laundered his cash the same way. The central locale for many of the fictional crimes was the Cayman Islands; same thing in real life. McDeere and his associates ended the book with eight million dollars in offshore accounts; Whitacre and his cohorts did a bit better, with slightly more than nine.

When the list was finished, Kroll looked it over. It went on for two pages, with forty-six similarities between the true and fictional stories. The detective had little doubt that this seemingly crazy theory was right on target.

Larry Kill picked up a stack of papers from a conference table and set them on his lap. The defense lawyer representing Sewon looked up from the documents, ready to make the presentation that he hoped would win his client a deal. Sitting across from Kill were Robin Mann and Jim Mutchnik, along with a paralegal from the Chicago antitrust office. Everyone had pens and paper for notes. Kill leaned back as he began.

“I want to be clear that we’re coming forward with such detailed information in the hopes of obtaining a reduced fine,’’ he said.

A smile flashed across his face.

“Not only can we provide you with records from Kim and other employees,’’ he continued, “we’ve even got paper from Ajinomoto. You’ll be very happy.’’

Kill flipped through the documents on his lap. The first price-fixing meeting attended by Sewon occurred in 1986, he began. From there, Kill delivered details of every meeting—where they had been held, who had attended, what had been said. Everything was documented, including—as Kill promised—with records that Sewon had received over the years from Ajinomoto. By the time Kill reached meetings in March 1992, Mann and Mutchnik not only were ready for a break, but also needed to place a call.

Mutchnik walked to the law-firm lobby, where he found a telephone. He knew that Jim Griffin was planning to make some final decisions involving Ajinomoto that day. For months, the Japanese company had been maintaining that ADM had dragged it into price-fixing. But now, thanks to Sewon, the ground had shifted. The records showed that, even before ADM came along, Ajinomoto had fixed lysine prices. Mutchnik punched in Griffin’s office number.

“Jim,’’ Mutchnik said, “wait for us to get back. They’ve got tons of info on Ajinomoto. They’re up to their eyeballs in it.’’

Just after ten o’clock on the morning of March 3, a Sunday, Ginger was puttering around the house in suburban Chicago. Earlier that morning, Mark had driven the three miles to his office to check his e-mail account. The home computer wasn’t working, he had told Ginger, and now she was waiting for him to come home.

Sometime later, Mark called. As soon as she heard him, Ginger knew that something horrible had happened. His voice was shaky, his breathing heavy.

“My God, Mark,’’ she said. “What’s wrong?’’

He breathed deeply several times.

“A couple of guys just abducted me,’’ he said.

A few hours later, Ray Goldberg and his wife Thelma were enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon in their Cambridge apartment. Goldberg, a Harvard professor and member of the ADM board’s special committee, had received publicity of late, thanks to a study he spearheaded to review the company’s corporate governance. But this day, as the Goldbergs relaxed, ADM was far from their minds.

The phone rang and Thelma answered. The caller asked for Ray Goldberg.

“Who’s calling?’’ she asked.

“My name is David Hoech,’’ the caller said. “I’m from the ADM Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and we need to talk.’’

Thelma told her husband who was calling. Goldberg didn’t recognize the name; he knew nothing of Hoech’s work as an industry consultant. He picked up the phone and said hello.

“Let me introduce myself,’’ Hoech said. “I’m one of the leaders of the ADM Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and everything that’s ever been written is true and verified. I’m going to tell you some alarming things.’’

Hoech’s tone was emotional and angry. Goldberg already vaguely understood that this caller played some role in the strange letters he had been receiving from the Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and signed by the Lamet Vov.

“This morning Whitacre was abducted in the parking lot of his office, taken on a little ride for an hour and a half,’’ Hoech continued. “His life was threatened. He was told, ‘Tell your buddies at the Watch Committee that they shouldn’t say any more things or talk to any more reporters, or you’re all going to be dealt with.’ ”

Goldberg glanced around by the phone. He wanted to take a few notes. All he could find was a round piece of paper emblazoned with the words
I’d Rather Be Playing Tennis
. He flipped the paper over and picked up a pen.

“We’re going on national television, and we’re going to hang everybody out!’’ Hoech said, his voice rising. “You get hold of the rest of the members, and you call a goddamned special meeting and remove these people. This is ludicrous! This is America! What the hell is going on? Do you think we write this stuff because it’s a lie? Do you think we spend $3.5 million to dig this shit up—and you people are sitting there listening to Dwayne, who’s a dictator? This is a disgrace to democracy!’’

Goldberg wrote down “$3.5 million to dig up this shit,’’ and drew a box around it.

“You’re going to have the blood of Whitacre, myself, and some other members on your hands because you people are standing around doing nothing!’’ Hoech raged.

In the background, Hoech’s wife interrupted, telling him to calm down. Goldberg could not understand what was being said, but thought he was hearing children playing.

Hoech breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, but I’m upset, Goldberg.’’

This was Goldberg’s chance to respond. “We are investigating—”

“Investigating, my ass!’’ Hoech yelled. “Get these people out of there! You’re spending our money! They spent thirty million dollars! Goddamned Aubrey Daniel says last week, he says, ‘All we’ve got to do is kill Whitacre, and we don’t have a case.’ ”

Hoech’s wife again told him to calm down.

“I’m sorry,’’ Hoech said. “I’m not yelling at you, Goldberg. I’m just unloading. I’m tired of this. My life’s been threatened.’’

“Who are these people threatening you?’’

“Who are these people?’’ Hoech shot back. It was those criminals at ADM, he said, listing a series of allegations against company executives, ranging from drug use to being part of a hit-and-run.

“You don’t know how rotten these people are!’’ Hoech yelled. “They’re a disgrace to humanity!’’

“Well,’’ Goldberg said, “I’m sorry to hear that.’’

Hoech again mentioned the Lamet Vov letters.

“Everything you’ve read in those letters is factual. I’ll go on national TV with it. And the reason we’ve stayed underground is because we know what we’re up against.’’

“You’re afraid of being hurt, is that it?’’