“Can I speak with you?’’ Hamara asked the agents.
Shepard and Weatherall stepped into the next room and closed the door. Whitacre sat down in a chair. He had no worries. He had watched the tracings and never saw them change. He was sure he had passed easily.
In the other room, Hamara picked up the numerical scoring he had completed after the exam.
“How did he do?’’ Weatherall asked.
Hamara flipped through the results and looked up.
Whitacre, he said, had splattered the walls with ink. After ten minutes, Shepard and Weatherall returned to the room where Whitacre was waiting. Their expressions said everything; the test had gone badly.
As Weatherall sat down on the bed, he studied Whitacre. The agent was not a big believer in lie detectors; he had seen plenty of bad guys pass a polygraph and just as many innocent people fail. But this time, the whole picture—particularly the lack of any Fujiwara recordings—
left him with little doubt that Whitacre was hiding something. Shepard sat next to Whitacre.
“Mark, there were some problems,’’ he said.
Whitacre fidgeted. “Wait a minute, I watched the machine,’’ he said. “I didn’t see any changes.’’
They spoke to him gently. Let’s try to look at this, let’s try to understand it. Whitacre held fast to his story. His words trailed off. He’d had enough.
He changed the subject.
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“You know, there’s stuff that happened today that you should know about,’’ Whitacre said. “They’re worried about Wayne Brasser.’’
Weatherall and Shepard listened, allowing the tension to ease. Everyone was exhausted. They would let it go tonight, let everyone rest. It was best for Whitacre to reflect for a day. Let his psychological distress do much of the agents’ work for them.
Whitacre had mentioned Brasser days before; supposedly, he had been fired after objecting to price-fixing in ADM’s business in sodium gluconate, a chemical used in industrial cleansers. Afterward, Whitacre said, ADM panicked and gave Brasser a big severance to keep quiet. Still, Whitacre said that ADM officials were asking if he knew about a file Brasser may have taken with him. The reason they were asking, Whitacre explained, was that he and Brasser were friends; they spoke often.
Shepard decided to take advantage of the moment.
“Mark, I’m interested in this information about Wayne Brasser,’’ he said.
“What else do you want to know?’’
“You say you talk to him all the time?’’
“Yeah, all the time,” Whitacre said eagerly.
“And he talks to you about what happened?’’
“Yeah, yeah, he does.’’
Shepard leaned in.
“Then let’s call him,’’ he said.
Whitacre paused, breathing lightly. He had the look of a man who had just been cornered. He glanced from Shepard to Weatherall and back again.
Finally, he nodded his head. “Sure.’’
The line was ringing.
Whitacre sat on a bed with the receiver to his ear. In one hand, he held the microphone wire from the microcassette recorder to the earpiece. Shepard sat across from him, while Weatherall stood by the table. The agents were avoiding looking at Whitacre directly. They didn’t want to unnerve him.
A woman answered, and Whitacre asked for Brasser.
“Hello?’’
“Wayne?’’ Whitacre asked.
“Yes?’’
“This is Mark Whitacre.’’
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“Mark, how are ya?’’
Brasser sounded sleepy, as if he had just woken up. Whitacre noticed the time. It was past eleven-fifteen.
“Hope I didn’t get you up.’’
“Ah, no. What’s goin’ on?’’
The two men chatted, saying little but obviously circling around something. Several executives, Whitacre said, had been talking about Brasser’s file. But Brasser said he had no file; it had been given to Barrie Cox, who ran ADM’s business in citric acid, an ingredient used in everything from soda to detergent.
Whitacre pressed about the file. What product was that about? he asked.
“Oh, that was on gluconate,’’ Brasser said. “What they . . . you know. They came back with the information. I just . . . you know. They got the reports back.’’
Brasser was being evasive, never saying anything specific. It was the language of conspiracy. But Whitacre knew that Brasser needed to be more specific.
Were these reports from meetings with other gluconate producers? he asked.
“Yeah.’’
Whitacre had been instructed to push Brasser on every possible product, looking for confirmation. The agents were particularly interested in citric acid. To Whitacre, the moment felt right to bring it up.
“They seemed to be worried too, what you know about on, on citric,’’ he said, nervous as he probed further. “The question’s been going around a lot, ‘What does Wayne know about what went on there?’ ”
Brasser listened calmly. “Barrie told me,’’ he said.
“Same thing as on the gluconate business?’’
“Sort of, yeah.’’
Whitacre felt a rush: Barrie Cox had told Brasser that price-fixing was taking place in his multibillion-dollar market.
Whitacre brought up Brasser’s pay package. “They hoped they made a deal sweet enough that they wouldn’t have to worry about it.’’
“Yeah.’’ Brasser’s answer was noncommittal.
Whitacre glanced at Shepard. The agent had told him before the call to ask if Brasser had attended price-fixing meetings. Whitacre returned to the topic, discussing how citric prices had risen from fiftyeight cents to eighty-two cents in just a few months.
“You were never at those meetings, were you?”
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“No.’’
“So Barrie just told you about those?’’
“Yeah.’’
What about gluconate? Did he go to those meetings? Did Terry Wilson or Barrie Cox attend?
“I went to one. After that, they went.’’
“What do you mean, Barrie and Terry?’’
“Yep,’’ Brasser said.
Whitacre laughed once.
“I went there because I was invited and I didn’t know, you know, what it was,’’ Brasser said. “And I got there and I thought, ‘Holy shit!’ ”
“Well, they were worried about you knowing about that then. That makes some sense now.”
“You know, what they’re doing is, you know, playin’ with fire,’’
Brasser said.
Whitacre looked over at Shepard. The agent was watching him now, expectantly.
“Whenever those things happen, it seems the same guys are involved, doesn’t it?’’ Whitacre asked.
“Yeah,’’ Brasser said. He switched topics. Was there any chance he could get back to the company?
Whitacre sidestepped the question and asked about ADM’s payment to Brasser. Although he had worked there about five years, Brasser said, he had received eighteen months’ severance plus a company car. But everything that was happening at ADM still bothered him; Brasser said he had warned Wilson of the dangers.
“I said, ‘You realize that you’re gambling, you’re really gambling a lot here.’ ”
“Well, it’s a big deal in my opinion,’’ Whitacre said. “It’s unethical, and it’s definitely illegal.’’
“I’m sure if Mick and them are aware of it, they’re far enough away from it that, you know, they can’t get the problems.’’
Whitacre agreed.
Brasser sounded resigned. “They’re gonna get caught sooner or later.’’
>
“Well, if they get caught on that one, it will just lead to one product right after another. And then it will be about every product that ADM’s into. You know?’’
“I don’t know what would happen,’’ Brasser said.
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activities. Brasser said that Wilson was even interested in fixing prices for lactic acid, another additive.
“You mean, he wanted to make deals like that on lactic, too?’’
Whitacre asked.
“Yeah,’’ Brasser said.
But Brasser said first they would have to go to war with competitors so that ADM could grab market share. Whitacre understood the strategy; low prices make everybody willing to talk.
“Boy,’’ Whitacre said.
“Well, he said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He said, ‘Anybody has to go to jail, it will be Barrie Cox and myself.’ ”
The statement jolted Whitacre. Trying to keep from blurting anything out, he sniffed.
“He said that, huh?’’
“I said, ‘I don’t want to know about it.’ ”
“He actually said jail and everything?’’
“Yeah,’’ Brasser replied, laughing.
Whitacre looked at the clock; it was past eleven-thirty-five. He told Brasser that he needed to sleep, but still the conversation continued. Five minutes later, it wound down, with Whitacre promising to keep in touch.
“Have a good Christmas and all the best to the family,’’ Whitacre said. “All right?’’
“Let’s call, let’s talk before Christmas.’’
Whitacre agreed, and the men said their good-byes. Whitacre breathed out as the call disconnected.
He looked at Shepard and Weatherall.
“Boy,’’ he sighed.
Less than twenty minutes later, Shepard escorted Whitacre to the hotel room door, his hand touching the executive’s shoulder. They needed to speak again tomorrow, Shepard said, and he’d leave a message with the room number. Whitacre nodded, looking wrung out. He opened the door and left.
Shepard turned to Weatherall, shaking his head. They had heard enough to know this tape was fabulous.
Their witness—this lying, manipulative man who had just failed a polygraph exam—was in the middle of a massive criminal conspiracy. And, even with all of Whitacre’s wild tales, the scheme seemed bigger than they had dared imagine.
•
•
•
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At the stoplight just outside of the Holiday Inn, Whitacre turned left, heading home to Moweaqua.
He still didn’t believe that he flunked the polygraph. It didn’t make sense. None of the lines on the paper moved differently, regardless of the question. Probably, he thought, the agents just told him he had blown the exam to get leverage over him. Probably so. He took a breath, letting out some of the anxiety from the evening. That tape of Brasser had come out better than he had expected. Now the FBI agents knew that there was somebody else who could tell them a lot about price-fixing. Maybe they might be interested in trying to flip him to be their witness.
Best of all, Brasser didn’t know a thing about lysine. Whitacre decided to talk a lot more about him in the days to come. The next day, Shepard and Weatherall were back at the Holiday Inn, ready for a rough meeting. This time, they had to push Whitacre on the Fujiwara story. Something wasn’t right, something wasn’t true. They were committed to finding out what their witness was holding back. Confronting a cooperating witness with evidence of deceit is a delicate job. Threats can backfire; after all, the idea is to get the witness on board again, and fear is a poor motivator. The agents had decided that Weatherall would handle this confrontation. He was a skilled interviewer, and Whitacre seemed more off balance with him. When Whitacre arrived, the three men fell into their routine: Everyone shook hands, Shepard asked about Whitacre’s family, and Whitacre did the same. Finally, Whitacre took a seat. Weatherall sat across from him. Immediately, Whitacre knew something was up.
“Mark,’’ Weatherall said, “we need to talk.’’
Whitacre nodded. “Okay.’’
“I want to talk to you regarding your truthfulness about the Fujiwara extortion.’’
Whitacre looked taken aback. “I’ve told you the truth,’’ he said.
“Well, Mark, when you had that polygraph exam last night, it indicated that you weren’t telling the whole truth about that. It indicated that you’ve got something more to tell.’’
Whitacre shook his head vigorously.
“No, I’ve told you everything,’’ he said. “I’ve told the truth.’’
“Mark . . .’’
“Look, I’ve heard these lie detector tests aren’t accurate anyway. I mean, I’ve heard that.’’
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“Mark . . .”
“No, I’ve been telling the truth. Definitely.’’
Weatherall leaned in. It wasn’t just the lie detector, he said in his most grandfatherly voice. The Fujiwara story didn’t make complete sense. There hadn’t been any calls recorded since the FBI came onto the case. Extortionists didn’t just leave their names and forget about it. There were millions of dollars on the line; he would have been in contact.
Whitacre protested, but each time Weatherall methodically explained why his story couldn’t be true.
“Mark, I know it’s hard,’’ Weatherall said. “I know you’re in this position where you’ve told everyone this story. You’ve told it to the company; you’ve told it to us. But it doesn’t make sense.’’
Whitacre stared at the table, his expression vacant.
“You know there’s more to tell,’’ Weatherall continued. “I know it’s tough, keeping it all bottled up inside, keeping it secret.’’
Weatherall gave Whitacre a long look. “Now it’s time to be truthful. It’s time to be completely honest.’’
His eyes watery, Whitacre breathed in.
“Okay,’’ he said, his voice strained.
That’s it. The first admission. By agreeing to finally tell the truth, Whitacre had all but confessed that he had misled the agents about something. That admission, Weatherall knew, was always the hardest.
“Good, Mark,’’ he said. “That’s good. So tell me, it’s true you haven’t been completely honest about Fujiwara, isn’t it?’’
Whitacre nodded.
“Did you lie to us?’’
“Yeah,’’ Whitacre sighed.
“Did you lie to ADM?’’
Another nod. “I lied to Mick.’’
Weatherall took a breath. “Mark, did Fujiwara ever call you about a saboteur in the plant?’’
Hesitation. Whitacre said nothing.
“Mark . . .’’
“I’m sure there’s been a mole in our plant,’’ Whitacre said. “Randall thought so, too.’’
A nonresponse. His voice trailed off.
“Mark,’’ Weatherall said, “did Fujiwara ever call you about a saboteur? Did he ever demand money?’’
Nothing.
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Then, gently, Whitacre shook his head.
“No,’’ he said softly. “I made it up.’’
The conversation dragged on for hours. Just as Weatherall had expected, once Whitacre confessed to his deception, the explanations just kept flowing. As he spoke, he alternately seemed relieved and wrecked. There had not been a sabotage call or an extortion attempt, Whitacre admitted, but he never thought things would go this far. There had been problems in
the plant, with viruses causing shutdowns, and everyone was on him to solve the problem. Millions of dollars were being wasted. His bosses were angry. Sabotage seemed to explain the unending problems. But whenever he raised the idea as a possibility, no one took it seriously or would look into it. Then in September, Whitacre said, Fujiwara called.
“Why was he calling?’’ Shepard asked.
“He had a technical question,’’ Whitacre replied. “He wanted to know the status of our patent application on a drying process we use for our products. I didn’t know the answer, so I told him I would call him back.’’
But the call had given him an idea, Whitacre said, that could force ADM to listen to his suspicions. So, he went to Mick Andreas and told him that Fujiwara had called about a saboteur and wanted money. Mick had not seemed too concerned at first, Whitacre said. But he was interested in the prospect of dealing with Fujiwara to get some of Ajinomoto’s microorganisms. After some talks, Whitacre said, Mick made it clear that he would be willing to pay as much as $6 million for those bugs.
“Fujiwara called back a few nights later. I told him that I thought Ajinomoto had a mole in our plant.’’
“How did he react?’’ Weatherall asked.
“He seemed surprised. But he didn’t deny it.’’
In the conversation that followed, Whitacre said, he did just as Mick wanted. He told Fujiwara how valuable the Ajinomoto microbes would be to ADM, and how the company was willing to pay for the bugs.
“Fujiwara was surprised at the offer,’’ Whitacre said. “He seemed like he had no interest in a deal. I told him to think about it, and asked for his home number. But he didn’t want to give it to me.’’
Over the next month, he said, Fujiwara called several times but never agreed to sell the bugs.
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“That got Mick worried that we were getting set up by the Japanese. So he asked me to stall because he was going to do something. The next thing I knew, you guys were involved in this.’’
Once the FBI arrived, Whitacre said, everything changed. In no time, ADM told him to inform Fujiwara that the deal was off.
“I called Fujiwara at Ajinomoto. I told him the heat was on and we needed more time.’’
Whitacre looked from Shepard to Weatherall. “There haven’t been any talks with Fujiwara since,’’ he said. “There hasn’t been anything.’’
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