“We’ll need to go out there,’’ Stukey said. “We obviously would like to tape one of these phone calls he’s had with the Japanese.’’
Andreas told the agents to make any arrangements for Whitacre through Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief. He would be fully briefed on this meeting.
Andreas paused, eyeing the agents. There was one more thing he wanted out on the table, he said. He was of course aware of ADM’s role in the FBI investigation years before at the Chicago futures exchanges.
“It’s also no secret that I didn’t like it when I found out about it,’’ Andreas said. “To me, it’s repugnant to tape people when they don’t know it. In this case, I don’t want my people taped unless they know about it or I know about it ahead of time.’’
Stukey assured Andreas that he had nothing to worry about. Still, the sudden demand seemed odd. The FBI had come to help fight off a sabotage effort. The only executives who might be taped would be those suspected of damaging ADM. Why would Andreas be against that? What was he worried about?
The FBI. God, no.
Later that day, Mark Whitacre sat in his office, feeling numb. He had just emerged from a meeting with Mick Andreas and Mark Cheviron, where they had told him that the FBI wanted to speak with him about the Fujiwara calls. The two had made it clear that they didn’t trust the Bureau and gave Whitacre explicit instructions on how to handle himself.
Until then, Whitacre had heard nothing about the Andreases’ decision to inform the government about Fujiwara. Instead, he had been listening to Mick’s instructions to string Fujiwara along, to negotiate him down in price. From all appearances, ADM seemed ready to pay the money and be done with it.
But Whitacre had been fooled. Now, ADM expected him to meet with the FBI and answer their questions.
Answer their questions! Jesus!
Whitacre shook his head; he had never felt so nervous. Since learning of the interview, Whitacre had ranted, threatened to quit, but got nowhere. He was petrified of the FBI agents. There were too many things that they could find out. Things that could destroy him. Things that could destroy ADM.
Whitacre paced in his office. The timing of this was so bad. His career had been coming together at ADM. He had successfully overseen completion of the lysine plant. He was a division president. And now, just in the last few weeks, his situation had improved even more. The company had announced a management reorganization, naming Mick to the title of vice-chairman. At the same time, Whitacre had been named a corporate vice president, one of the youngest in ADM history. Wall Street had correctly interpreted the moves as Dwayne Andreas’s clear designation of Mick as the heir apparent. In a few years, he was almost certain to take ADM’s top job, and Whitacre felt confident that he had a shot at being number two. Now, all that was at risk. All for this crazy interview.
Whitacre glanced at the telephone. He needed to call his wife, Ginger. He was sure she could help him think this through.
Ginger had always been there for him, since they met as teenagers on a bus at Little Miami High School in Ohio. The oldest daughter of factory workers, Ginger was the picture of solid Midwestern stock, the high-school homecoming queen who played whatever hand life dealt her. In those days, Mark lived up to his then-nickname “Corky,’’ as he popped off in different directions. Throughout high school, he broke up with Ginger repeatedly, but she always took him back, convinced that someday her patience would pay off. Finally, in 1979, a few years after graduation, the couple married. When Mark pursued his doctorate at Cornell, Ginger went with him. In the years since, she never complained as Mark moved from job to job—from Ralston Purina in St. Louis to Degussa Corporation in New York and eventually to Degussa’s world headquarters near Frankfurt. Before leaving the country, they had adopted two children, Tanya and Billy, and not long after gave birth to a third, Alexander. Their family had grown from two to five people in one year.
The move to Decatur had been difficult for the family. Mark, caught up in his new job, was no longer as attentive as he had been. Also, Ginger felt uncomfortable around some ADM executives, who struck her as crass and too impressed with their own wealth. Still, she understood that the job was too great an opportunity to pass up. As always, she stood by Mark.
Now, as Mark called home, he only hoped that Ginger could be strong for him again.
Ginger was stepping through the living room when the telephone rang. Almost as soon as she picked it up, she could tell Mark was in a panic. His normal breezy cheeriness was gone, replaced by a tone of desperation. Before she could say anything, his story spilled out. The FBI was snooping around ADM. His boss had told him to talk with an agent.
Ginger sat down, uneasy. Her experience with law enforcement was limited; none of her family had ever had a run-in with the police. To her, the FBI was some sort of fearful monolith, one that clearly scared Mark.
“I’m really uncomfortable about this,’’ he said. “There are lots of things going on. I could be asked some tough questions.’’
Ginger wasn’t sure what Mark was talking about and didn’t think she should ask. But she knew he had better not lie to the FBI.
“Whatever you do, no matter what’s going on, just be honest with them and tell the truth,’’ she said. “Tell the truth no matter what the truth is.’’
Brian Shepard checked the time again. It was late that same afternoon, and he was getting tired of waiting. Already, he had received two calls from ADM postponing Whitacre’s interview. There were plenty of excuses; Whitacre was busy, something had come up. Shepard wasn’t sure of the problem, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something odd was going on.
But interviewing Whitacre was critical to the next stages of the FBI’s investigative plan. The trick was to use the prospect of a multimillion-dollar payment to lure Fujiwara to the United States, where he could be arrested. A meeting would be set up between Whitacre and the Japanese executive; the FBI would be there, recording every word. Under the current plan, Whitacre would turn over $3 million if Fujiwara revealed the saboteur’s identity and other information. Fujiwara would be allowed to leave that meeting and then be invited back to deliver the superbug for another payment from Whitacre. Once Fujiwara handed it over, the FBI would arrest him.
For the plan to work, Shepard had to learn everything that Whitacre knew about Fujiwara. That interview was going to take time—and now it was starting late. Shepard decided to call Diana and let her know he would be late for dinner.
In a place like Decatur, the slightest whisper can rapidly echo around town into a shout. A saboteur at ADM, particularly one in a high-level position, had a better-than-even chance of learning about the investigation if word of Whitacre’s meeting with the FBI leaked out. So Jim Shafter decided to go all out in protecting the interests of his best client.
Late in the afternoon, Shafter made the rounds of his law firm, Kehart, Shafter & Hughes, telling everyone to head home. There were some people coming who needed privacy, he said. The staff started clearing out of their offices on the fifth floor of the Citizen’s Bank building in Decatur. They were happy to take advantage of an early Thursday.
With nothing to do but wait, Shafter started a pot of coffee and checked the conference room. Before the staff had time to leave, a receptionist buzzed. Whitacre and Cheviron were waiting in the lobby.
Shafter hustled out to the front. No one was supposed to have seen them arrive. After all the delays, now they were early. When he reached the lobby, Shafter was surprised at their appearance. Whitacre was pacing and sweating. Cheviron seemed frustrated.
The men said nothing until they were in Shafter’s private office. Whitacre resumed his pacing, unable to sit down. It struck Shafter as bizarre.
This guy is more than kind of nervous. What was the matter with him?
“Mark, you don’t have a damn thing to worry about,’’ Cheviron said, in a tone that made it clear he was repeating himself.
Whitacre looked to Shafter. “Is it okay for
me to meet with them?’’ he asked.
Shafter stared at Whitacre, trying to gauge what was going on. When he spoke, his tone was calm.
“Look, Mark, let me clear one thing up for you. I represent the company here; I don’t represent you. If you want a lawyer, we’ll get you a lawyer. I can only give the company advice, and what I can tell you is that the company has requested that you meet with the FBI and cooperate with them.’’
Whitacre showed no reaction. “Fine, that’s fine,’’ he replied. “I’m a loyal employee.’’
A minute later, the receptionist buzzed again. Special Agent Shepard from the FBI was out front. So much for sending everyone home first.
Shafter brought Cheviron and Whitacre to the reception area and escorted everyone to the windowless conference room. It was as private a place as could be found in Decatur on short notice. Shafter excused himself and headed back to his office.
The situation was odd for Shepard. Cheviron had asked to sit in on the interview, a request that left the agent uncomfortable. Usually, FBI interviews are conducted privately. At times, a witness will bring along a lawyer, but no one else. That way, the witness could be assured any information would remain confidential. That seemed particularly important in this case. But Shepard decided not to make waves. ADM was the victim; if the company wanted Cheviron along, Shepard could agree, even if he didn’t like it.
Shepard studied Whitacre. With his unlined, boyish face and blond hair, he looked as innocent as an altar boy. Still, Whitacre seemed anxious. For people in law enforcement, the reaction was not too unusual. Most everyone interviewed by an FBI agent or a prosecutor is, one way or another, probably having a bad day. Shepard began by trying to calm Whitacre.
“Let me introduce myself,’’ he said amiably. “My name’s Brian Shepard. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.’’
Shepard put out his hand. Whitacre took it, feeling Shepard’s strong grip.
“Hey,’’ he said. “I’m Mark Whitacre.’’
“I met with Michael Andreas this morning, and he told me you were president of the Bioproducts Division,’’ Shepard said. “We hope you can help us out. I’m not sure where this case will be going, but I want to listen to what you have to say.’’
The men took their seats. Already, Whitacre felt more at ease. Shepard wasn’t what he had expected. Maybe this wasn’t going to be like on television, where some growling G-man sweats information out of the reluctant witness. Instead, Shepard seemed down-to-earth, more neighborly than confrontational.
Whitacre leaned forward in his chair as he told the story about Fujiwara. Shepard listened, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. After the first thirty minutes, Shafter stuck his head in the room. He was heading home, he said, and asked the men to shut off the coffeepot and lock up when they left.
In no time, Shepard’s notes contained the broad outline of the case. Whitacre described how the Ajinomoto executives had been invited to Decatur so that ADM could persuade them to shut down their American plants. He told of the bizarre phone call he had received from Fujiwara on his off-premises office extension that ADM had installed at his house. He discussed his subsequent conversation with Mick Andreas and the efforts to haggle Fujiwara down in price. Since then, Fujiwara had called every few days.
“He told me that he wanted his payments deposited by wire transfer to numbered bank accounts in Switzerland and the Caribbean,’’ Whitacre said.
“When was your last contact with him?’’
“Three days ago. He said he would call three or four days after that. But I think he’s getting suspicious, since he hasn’t gotten a positive response from us yet. I’ve dragged this out as long as I can. If we don’t get back to him soon, he may back out.’’
Whitacre said he expected to receive the next Fujiwara call that very evening. He mentioned two ADM executives who previously worked for Ajinomoto; perhaps they were the saboteurs. Shepard said he needed a phone directory for the Bioproducts Division so that he could obtain numbers for those executives. As the meeting wrapped up, Shepard said an agent would be coming by Whitacre’s house with a recording device to tape the next Fujiwara call. But first, Shepard said, he needed approvals. It might take another day.
Sometime after eight-thirty, more than three hours after it began, the meeting broke up. Whitacre and Shepard shook hands again before stepping out of the room.
Whitacre seemed delighted to be going home.
“Now my family’s being threatened! I can’t put up with this!’’
Whitacre was rambling, nearly hysterical. He had called Cheviron at home, shortly after leaving Shafter’s office. From the instant Cheviron heard his voice, he knew something strange must have happened.
“Mark, what are you talking about?’’ Cheviron asked. “Calm down.’’
“They’re threatening my daughter! I don’t want to talk to Fujiwara anymore. This thing is affecting my family. It’s not right.’’
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.’’
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 record-ing 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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