The Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

  “They’re threatening my daughter! I don’t want to talk to Fujiwara anymore. This thing is affecting my family. It’s not right.’’

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  Cheviron pushed Whitacre to explain what had happened. The story came rushing out.

  As soon as he had arrived home, Whitacre said, he had heard horrible news. His fifteen-year-old daughter, Tanya, had received a call at her boarding school in Indiana. An Asian-sounding man was on the line, telling her to write down a message. The man had told her that Fujiwara would no longer wait. He wanted a deal now; he wanted his multimillion-dollar payment. If that didn’t happen, the man had told her, she would be in trouble.

  Whitacre was wild as he told the story. “I’m not going to be involved in this anymore! I don’t want anything to do with it.’’

  In an even tone, Cheviron tried to calm Whitacre. Eventually, they agreed to talk again the next day.

  The ADM security chief hung up, bewildered. The problems stemming from this Fujiwara situation were escalating. But this time Whitacre’s story was illogical. Why would anybody threaten his daughter? How would the Japanese even know to call her? It was an improbable, amateurish move, coming at a time when Whitacre desperately wanted this investigation to end. Cheviron thought Mark Whitacre was lying.

  The next morning, November 5, Cheviron left his house early, driving in the gray half-light of dawn toward the belching smokestacks at ADM. This was going to be a busy day. After Whitacre’s call the night before, Cheviron had kept working. Mick Andreas had heard from Whitacre about the call to his daughter, and then phoned his security chief. Mick had said he wanted Cheviron to brief him and his father first thing that morning on everything Whitacre was saying. Not long after arriving at the office, Cheviron was called to a meeting with Mick and Dwayne. He told them about his doubts, and the men decided that ADM’s top lawyer, Rick Reising, needed to be involved. For the rest of the morning, the senior management of the company shuttled from meeting to meeting.

  The strangest was between Reising, Cheviron, and Whitacre. Gently, Whitacre was pressed to run through the story of the phone call to his daughter. It sounded less believable the second time around. Cheviron made it clear he thought it was all a lie, pushing Whitacre with questions. How did they find his daughter? Why go to the trouble? If they wanted to threaten Whitacre, why not call him directly? Finally, Whitacre broke down.

  “All right, I’m sorry,’’ he said. “I made it up.’’

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  Reising and Cheviron stared at Whitacre as he explained his lie. He was scared of the FBI, he said. He didn’t want to be part of this investigation. Somehow, he had gotten it into his mind that if ADM

  thought his family was threatened, they would pay Fujiwara or tell the FBI to go away. Either way, the whole mess would end. He saw now it had been a stupid idea; it was just a sign of how upset he was. Whitacre finished speaking. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

  Reising told Whitacre that he and Cheviron needed to speak alone for a moment. Whitacre headed out, closing the door behind him. About an hour later, James Randall, the ADM president, stormed in to Cheviron’s office burning with anger.

  “Whitacre came by my office,’’ Randall said. “He says you’re out to get him, that you want him fired.’’

  Cheviron stared back at Randall, floored. He asked Randall what was going on.

  “Whitacre’s all excited,’’ Randall said. “He’s talking about sabotage in the plant.’’

  The secret was out. Cheviron asked Randall what he thought. Randall scoffed. Even though Whitacre was the lysine expert, Randall didn’t believe the Japanese had managed to get into the plant.

  “There’s no sabotage,’’ he said. “We just don’t know what we’re doing. It’s start-up problems.’’

  Randall was particularly contemptuous of Fujiwara’s promise to deliver some superbug. Even Dwayne was saying that once ADM

  obtained the bug during the FBI sting, the plant’s problems would be solved. The whole idea was ridiculous, Randall said.

  “They couldn’t even transport the damn bug unless it was at extreme temperatures,’’ he scoffed. Over the next few minutes, Cheviron answered Randall’s questions. Finally, Randall calmed down and left. Cheviron dialed Mick Andreas and told him that Randall now knew about the investigation. Mick muttered, “Okay,’’ and hung up.

  A few hours later, Cheviron received a call from Shepard. The agent said that he was making the arrangements to have a recording device placed on Whitacre’s telephone. To get the recording underway, he said, Whitacre should contact a Springfield agent named Tom Gibbons. Cheviron promised to pass along the message. Cheviron dialed Whitacre’s extension and repeated Shepard’s message.

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  “All right,’’ Whitacre said, sounding angry. “I’ll call him.’’

  He hung up without another word.

  Ginger Whitacre stepped into the crowded formal dining room at the Country Club of Decatur and looked for her husband. It was just after six p.m. that same day. Most of the tables were filled, but Ginger found Mark and his guests quickly. He saw her, clad in one of her nicest dresses, and stood to greet her.

  The dinner had been planned for some time. An ADM vendor was visiting Decatur with his wife. Whitacre had a close relationship with the man; after hearing the family enjoyed horses, the vendor had presented the Whitacres with an expensive riding saddle. Dinner was relaxed and elegant, with wine and laughter flowing freely. Late in the meal, Ginger excused herself to make a trip to the ladies’ room. As she stood, placing her napkin on the table, Mark reached out with a business card in his hand.

  “Here’s that phone number you wanted,’’ he said.

  Ginger smiled as she took the card, uncertain what he was talking about. She headed past the dining room’s entryway and looked in her palm. She was holding one of Mark’s business cards for ADM. She flipped the card over and felt her heart drop as she read words written in Mark’s familiar scrawl.

  The FBI is coming by the house tonight at 10:00. With all the back and forth that day, Mark had not been able to tell Ginger what was going on. He had spoken to the FBI repeatedly, trying to schedule a time for them to stop by. He had finally agreed to allow someone to come over to the house once dinner was over. Shepard would hook up the device himself.

  Our house. Ginger felt a chill. Over the past two days, Mark had given her some hints about what was bothering him. Nothing in much detail, but enough to worry her. She had hoped that the previous day’s interview was going to be the end of it. Now, some agent would be coming out to their home, standing with them, probably asking them questions. Ginger could not think of the last time she had been so frightened. Ginger returned to the table with a smile plastered on her face. She tried to keep the mood light, to laugh at the jokes, to have a good time. But she could not stop thinking about the FBI agent out there right now, getting ready to visit her home.

  Dinner broke up just before nine o’clock. In the parking lot, the guests joined Mark in his Town Car for a lift back to the Decatur Club, Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 47

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  a nearby building where ADM owned an apartment. Ginger said her good-byes, climbed into her Grand Cherokee, and started the drive home.

  Minutes later, her car phone rang. She knew it was Mark calling from his car. He had just dropped off their guests and finally had a chance to talk.

  “This is really going to be something,’’ Mark said over the car speaker, sounding terribly nervous again. “I don’t know what to do.’’

  “I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell the truth.’’


  “You don’t understand. These guys are more powerful than the government. I’m more scared of ADM than I am of the FBI.’’

  “If I were you, I’d be more fearful of the FBI,’’ Ginger replied. “You don’t mess with the FBI. ADM’s nothing compared with the FBI.’’

  As far as Ginger was concerned, ADM was just another company. But Mark said she didn’t understand how powerful ADM was and what it could do.

  “I could tell Brian Shepard everything I know, and tomorrow morning I’ll probably be fired from ADM, and they’re a lot more powerful than the government.’’

  Ginger sighed. “Mark, you only have one choice. Don’t worry about ADM. You have to tell everything.’’

  As she spoke, Ginger passed a thick, wooden sign. On it, red letters blared, “Welcome to Moweaqua. The One and Only.’’ Ginger paused as she pulled onto Main Street in Moweaqua. Her husband’s nervousness had made her more wary.

  “Mark,’’ she said gently, trying to mask her concern. “Have you broken the law?’’

  Whitacre was quick to answer. “No,’’ he said. “I haven’t broken the law at all.’’

  “It doesn’t matter if you did or not,’’ Ginger said. “You need to tell me everything.’’

  “Ginger, I’m telling you, I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t broken the law. Definitely.’’

  There was a pause. Ginger said she was near home.

  “Okay,’’ Mark said. “I’ll see you there soon.’’

  Ginger disconnected the call and pulled into the driveway, stopping in front of the house. She needed to check on the children, then drive their housekeeper home. After that, Ginger would have nothing else to do but come back to the house, sit with her husband, and wait for the arrival of the FBI.

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  Moweaqua was a town that flourished on a promise that became a tragedy. It was founded in 1852 by Michael Snyder, the operator of a local sawmill, and for thirty years grew steadily. But it was not until 1886, when settlers discovered vast coal reserves buried beneath the Illinois countryside, that Moweaqua was transformed by an influx of new money. It seemed destined for giddy economic growth. Those hopes were dashed on Christmas Eve, 1932, at the height of the Great Depression. That day, dozens of miners were hard at work beneath the earth, heaving their pickaxes and shovels in the search for coal. Many were putting in extra hours, hoping to raise a few dollars to pay for Christmas presents.

  Unknown to everyone, the mine was filling with methane gas. In a horrible instant, the miners’ open-flame carbide lights sparked a deafening explosion. Those not killed instantly were buried beneath tons of earth. Fifty-four miners died, leaving behind thirty-three widows and seventy fatherless children in the small town.

  The great disaster closed the mines for years, choking the local economy and dousing its aspirations with misery. But remnants of that promising time still stood in town, solid homes and buildings constructed when Moweaqua seemed blessed with limitless possibilities and luck.

  Chief among them was “the Old Homestead,’’ a Georgian Colonial mansion first constructed by Michael Snyder. During Moweaqua’s days of prosperity, the home had been expanded with two-story pillars and several porches. Nestled between acres of cornfields, the property cemented Moweaqua’s connection to Decatur’s growth when Dwayne Andreas bought it in his early days at ADM. That link continued with the arrival of Mark Whitacre in 1989. The Old Homestead seemed likely to remain something of a landmark to the history of Moweaqua and its 1,900 residents for decades to come.

  There was little doubt that on the night of November 5, 1992, Brian Shepard would find his way to the house. Anyone out walking in the cool autumn air in Moweaqua that night would be able to direct the agent to the Old Homestead, a quarter-mile off Main Street. About ten p.m., Shepard approached a blinking red light in the center of Moweaqua. He turned right, passing a series of modest homes. As he headed west, large maple trees and bushes obscured Whitacre’s house. The two-story home—with multiple white awnings, pillars, and decks—was visible only in spots where dense foliage had never grown. Finally, the bright interior lights of the house cut through Eich_0767903277_5p_01_r1.qxd 10/11/01 3:56 PM Page 49

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  the darkness. Shepard turned onto the driveway, passing a black gate supported by brick pillars.

  Inside, Mark and Ginger were upstairs in the master bedroom, where they had continued discussing the impending FBI visit for another half an hour. Mark had opened up a bit, telling her details of what he knew. Ginger was more convinced that he should talk.

  “Just tell them everything,’’ she said. “We’ll just leave. I don’t like what this company has been doing to you. This is a chance to go somewhere else.’’

  Mark, sitting on the bed, looked up at her. “I may tell them at some point, but not now. Right now I’m going to follow the company line.’’

  Ginger’s face was a mask of determination.

  “Mark,’’ she said firmly. “If you don’t tell them, I will.’’

  The room fell silent. Mark stared at her; he just wasn’t ready. He needed more time.

  “I can’t,’’ he said softly. “Not now.’’

  At that moment, Shepard’s car headlights appeared in the bedroom window as he pulled up the driveway. Together, Mark and Ginger headed downstairs.

  Shepard knocked lightly, and Mark opened the door. Shepard was dressed in khaki pants, a sports shirt, and a windbreaker. In his hand, he held a case—the recording device for the telephone was inside.

  “Good evening, Mr. Shepard,’’ Mark said.

  “Call me Brian,’’ Shepard replied.

  Mark invited Shepard in and introduced him to Ginger. Shepard shook her hand. He apologized for the hour, saying he would be done in a few minutes.

  Shepard noticed that the Whitacres seemed nervous. In some ways, Mark appeared worse than he had the previous night. Perhaps if he just installed the recorder and went on his way, they would feel better.

  “Where’s that line where you’re getting the calls?’’ Shepard asked. He was looking for the ADM off-premises extension that Whitacre had mentioned.

  “The OPX line,’’ Mark replied. “It’s upstairs.’’

  The two men headed to a large room adjoining the master bedroom. Whitacre led Shepard in, showing him a small telecommunications setup, with phones and a fax machine. Shepard brought out the recording device and hooked it up to the phone.

  Downstairs, Ginger was straining to listen by the staircase. She wanted to be sure Mark opened up.

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  Five minutes after he had arrived, Shepard had returned to the front door, thanking the Whitacres for their time. Mark opened the door and Shepard walked out, crossing the porch toward his car. Inside the doorway, Ginger looked at her husband.

  “Are you going to say something?’’ she asked softly. “Or am I?’’

  Mark didn’t respond and started closing the door. Shepard had almost reached his car. Ginger turned away from her husband. She shoved past him, pushing open the door and heading outside.

  “Brian!’’

  Shepard turned when Mark called his name.

  “Yes?’’

  Mark took a few steps outside.

  “You have a minute?’’

  The two men sat in darkness.

  Whitacre had been too uncomfortable to talk inside. Sometime before, workmen had found multiple phone lines coming into the house—

  leftovers apparently, from the time Dwayne Andreas owned it. Mark and Ginger both feared that somehow ADM could listen to what they said. About the only place that seemed safe to have a conversation was inside Shepard’s car. Shepard sat in the driver’s seat, with Whitacre beside him.
The car was off; the brisk evening air chilled both men.

  “There are things I know,’’ Whitacre said. “But if I decide to tell you what’s going on, could I be prosecuted for it?’’

  The sudden shift surprised Shepard. Whitacre was talking like a potential target instead of a victim.

  “I can’t provide you with immunity,’’ Shepard replied. “But any information you tell me about your involvement in criminal activity would be discussed with the U.S. Attorney’s office.’’

  Whitacre stared forward. A moment passed.

  “Everything I told you yesterday about Fujiwara was true, except one thing,’’ Whitacre said. “I never received a call from him on my OPX line.’’

  Shepard looked at Whitacre. This made no sense.

  “Why did you tell me that you did?’’

  “Before I spoke with you, Mick Andreas and Mark Cheviron met with me. They coached me on what to say. They told me to tell you that the calls came in on my OPX line, instead of my home line.’’

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  “Why?’’

  Whitacre paused again. It was too late to turn back. He had made his decision.

  “What I’m about to tell you involves something very large,’’ he said.

  “This extortion attempt by Fujiwara is nothing compared to it.’’

  Shepard said nothing.

  “It involves price-fixing in the lysine business,’’ Whitacre said. “I’ve been involved in several meetings with our Japanese and Korean competitors, where the sole purpose is to fix prices. I’ve been instructed to go by the company.’’

  No one understood ADM’s business philosophy, Whitacre said.

  “They always say, ‘The competitors are our friends, and the customers are our enemies.’ ”

  Struggling to see in the darkness, Shepard wrote down the phrase. His mind raced; he had never been involved in a price-fixing investigation. At that moment, he wasn’t sure if the FBI handled such cases.

  “That’s why they wanted me to lie about the OPX line,’’ Whitacre said. “Fujiwara’s calling my home line. But so are the people we’re fixing prices with.’’