“All right,’’ Shepard said, pulling a pager off his belt. “Here’s what we’re going to do. If I need to speak with you, I’ll call your voice mail. When the message records, I’ll turn the pager on, like this.’’
A shrill beeping sound echoed in the large room.
“So whenever you hear that,’’ Shepard continued, “you find a safe phone and call me back.’’
Whitacre nodded. The idea sounded good to him.
Shepard brought out a small slip of paper. “This is my office number. Put this in a safe place, and when you hear the pager, call me there.’’
Whitacre took the slip and escorted the agents to the door, where they thanked him again. Whitacre nodded, obviously feeling good about his decisions.
Shepard again cautioned Whitacre to act normal at the office the next day, as if nothing was going on. He said he would contact Whitacre during the day to see about setting up a place for the first recording.
Whitacre smiled.
“Okay, buddy,’’ he said. “Talk to you then.’’
Paisley stared blankly out the car window, studying the surrounding fields as Shepard pulled out of Whitacre’s driveway. He waited until they had left Moweaqua before asking the question on his mind.
“What do you think of this guy?’’ he asked. “Think he’s telling the truth now?’’
“Right now I’m taking him at face value,’’ Shepard responded. “Why would somebody lie and then ask to wear a wire? That doesn’t make any sense.’’
“Yeah, but why would somebody in his position do this? I mean, he’s basically cutting his own throat with the company as soon as this comes out.’’
The two agents were quiet. Neither had an answer.
“Well, if he’s willing to do it, we’ll go ahead and do it,’’ Paisley said finally. “I’ll just have the SAC sign off on it and we’re in business.’’
Paisley sat back. “You know, Brian, we’re not going to wait too long for this guy to produce. Especially where we’re just taking his word for it, and we’ve got a wire on an executive at ADM. We can’t wait too long for results.’’
Shepard stared ahead. “I know,’’ he said.
The next morning, Whitacre tore into Cheviron’s office before eight. He had the same look of anxiety that had been on his face for days.
“Have you been able to get hold of Regina at Inland Telephone Company?’’ Whitacre asked, fuming.
Cheviron tried hard not to look too dismissive. He had thought this issue was done with.
“No, I haven’t.’’
Whitacre could usually control his anger. But that morning, he looked ready to explode.
“Don’t you care?’’ he snapped.
“Well, I care, but what’s the problem?’’
“I think you’re setting me up, or ADM’s setting me up!’’ he shouted, trembling in anger. “You’re lying to me! They’ve tapped both my phones.’’
The moment was rife with deceit. Whitacre’s frenzy was mostly an act—he already knew from Shepard that no listening devices were on his phone. But at ADM, he had to avoid raising suspicion by pretending that he knew nothing. For his part, Cheviron was tired of Whitacre’s ravings. He had already openly attacked Whitacre’s truthfulness. His career didn’t need this.
Cheviron sighed. “Get me Regina’s phone number and I’ll call her.’’
“Fine,’’ Whitacre said. He charged out of the office. Within thirty minutes, he was on the phone to Cheviron’s secretary, giving her the number.
Just after ten-thirty, Whitacre reappeared. From the way he was acting, anyone would think this phone call was the most important thing Whitacre had to deal with. Whitacre certainly seemed to believe it was the only thing on Cheviron’s plate.
“Did you call Regina?’’
“No,’’ Cheviron replied. “Haven’t had a chance.’’
That was all Whitacre needed to hear.
“Don’t think I don’t understand what’s happening here,’’ he yelled. “You’re working with the FBI!’’
Cheviron held up his hands.
“This is ridiculous,’’ he said. “I’ll call Brian Shepard, and I’ll just ask him, Mark.’’
Whitacre sat in a chair in front of the desk. Cheviron looked up Shepard’s office number and punched it into the phone, trying hard to control his anger.
“FBI.”
Cheviron recognized Shepard’s voice.
“Brian, it’s Mark Cheviron. I’ve been talking with Mark Whitacre, and he’s having a problem.’’
Cheviron, glancing at Whitacre, quickly related the story of the phone call from Inland Telephone.
“Now, I asked you guys which lines you were monitoring on Friday, and you told me just the OPX line. But have you tapped both lines?’’
Shepard paused.
“I really can’t answer,’’ he said. There were no taps, just the “trap and trace” and “pen registers.’’ But that was not something he could discuss.
For Cheviron, the nonresponse spoke volumes. He felt convinced the FBI had lied to him on Friday.
“You don’t have to answer,’’ he said. “That’s enough.’’ He hung up the phone.
Cheviron looked over at Whitacre. “Well, Mark, you’re probably right,’’ he said. “I believe they’ve probably tapped both of your phones.’’
Whitacre jumped up. “But that’s not right!’’ he blurted. “I was promised that both phones wouldn’t be tapped! I was promised!’’
“I know, Mark,’’ Cheviron said, holding up his hands again. “I know that’s what we were told. But I think they’ve been lying to us.’’
“I knew it! I knew it! I knew we never should have done this! It was a bad idea talking to the FBI. I told everybody that, but nobody listened to me!’’
Cheviron did his best to calm Whitacre but failed. After Whitacre left, Cheviron walked to Reising’s office to brief the general counsel. Reising eyed Cheviron carefully before replying.
“What it sounds like to me is that you’re not doing your job,’’ he said, “since you can’t keep track of what the FBI is doing.’’
Cheviron felt beaten. By the time he left Reising’s office, the decision had been made: ADM was pulling out. They would no longer cooperate with the FBI.
Later that morning, Cheviron called Shepard again and told him everything—how he had branded Whitacre a liar to his bosses, based on the FBI’s word, how his own job now seemed threatened. Management didn’t trust him anymore.
“ADM just wants out of this investigation,’’ Cheviron said. “We are not going to cooperate any further with FBI requests, and any further requests should be referred to Reising.’’
The call ended quickly. Cheviron was not in the mood to talk. Four hours later, at 3:25, Cheviron’s phone rang. Dean Paisley was on the line.
“I just talked with Brian about your telephone conversation,’’ he said. “What is exactly your concern? What is your heartburn?’’
Cheviron lashed out like a wounded animal.
“I understand you can’t tell me everything,’’ he said. “But I told Brian the only thing I don’t want is lying. You don’t lie to me, and I don’t lie to you.’’
He recounted the Regina story, emphasizing how this contradicted what Don Stukey had said. He told how he had called Whitacre a liar—he had even told Dwayne Andreas that Whitacre was lying. Now, Cheviron said, it ended up that the FBI had made him into a fool.
“They don’t trust me here,’’ Cheviron said. “They want me out of it, and it’s going to be handled by the legal department.’’
Paisley explained why Cheviron could not be told everything. Someone at ADM was potentially a saboteur, he said. Information had to be closely held. But now, he needed to know what ADM’s role would be.
“Are you saying your company is formally telling the FBI that you will no longer cooperate at all in this investigation in which you are the victim?’’
“Yes,’’ Che
viron said.
“And you have that authority to tell me that from your people?’’
“From our legal department. Rick Reising said he would be glad to tell you that.’’
Paisley pressed. “What you are saying is that any request that we have of your company to help us in this criminal investigation, you’re not going to cooperate in any way. Is that what you’re saying?’’
Cheviron’s antennae went up. Why was Paisley pushing him? He answered cautiously.
“I don’t know if that’s what he’s saying. I think what he said is we want to withdraw our complaint.’’
“You know better than that,’’ Paisley scoffed. “You don’t do that in a federal investigation. Once an investigation is started, we have to play it out.’’
Something told Cheviron to hedge his answers.
“All I’m saying is that they’re not going to let me be involved anymore,’’ he said. “You can work it out with Rick Reising. I get the feeling they don’t believe me anymore, and that’s not my fault.’’
Paisley wrapped it up. He said he would contact Reising, and the call came to an end. Cheviron eyed the phone. He didn’t know what Paisley had been up to, but something about the conversation bothered him.
About forty miles away, Paisley placed his phone in its cradle. He reached across the desk to the tape recorder that had been hooked up minutes before and jabbed the Stop button. The spools that had been turning during his call with Cheviron stopped moving.
That morning, beginning with Cheviron’s second call to Shepard, the FBI had started taping ADM. It seemed obvious to the agents that the company was trying to shut down the Fujiwara investigation, maybe to cover up the other crimes Whitacre had described. But to prove an obstruction of justice, they needed evidence. That meant, from now on, the FBI’s conversations with ADM executives were going to be on tape.
Paisley popped the cassette out of the recorder. Soon, the tape was sent down the hall to the office of the “ELSUR clerk”—an FBI staffer who maintained recordings from electronic surveillance. There, it was logged as number 1B2. Paisley had little doubt that it would be needed later.
That afternoon, Whitacre called the in-house voice mail and entered his code. He listened to a few messages, then dialed a number for the next one.
Beep.
Before the second tone from Shepard’s pager could sound, Whitacre pushed two buttons on his keypad.
Deleted, the electronic voice said.
Whitacre headed out of the office to a nearby conference room. He felt sure it was a safe place to talk. He figured it wouldn’t take long to find out from Shepard where they would be meeting for the first secret taping of the price-fixing conspirators.
Whitacre pulled off Pershing Road into the parking lot for the Best Western Shelton Inn, just outside downtown Decatur. He drove past the lobby, parking near a Shakey’s pizza parlor that shared the same lot. The two-story beige-and-green hotel was nothing much to see—just one of thousands of faceless inns dotting the country that boasted of free cable and air-conditioning for weary travelers.
After locking his car, Whitacre walked toward the hotel, pulling his coat tight. Even though it was before 6:00 P.M., the lot was getting dark. Whitacre felt relieved when he reached the lobby. Outside, he felt too exposed; anyone driving by could see him.
He looked around the lobby and crinkled his nose. What a shady place. It was small; the recessed lights were dim, giving a dark, dingy feel. In some ways, the appearance made Whitacre comfortable. He felt sure none of the people from his circles would drop by.
“Can I help you?’’ the front-desk clerk asked.
“No, no thanks. I’m just waiting for someone.’’
A minute later, Whitacre saw Shepard, wearing a trench coat, come in through the side door. The agent walked down a short hallway, stopping by some pay phones. Whitacre approached him.
“Hey,’’ Whitacre said in a soft, nasal tone. “How’s it going?’’
“Fine, fine. Listen, we’re not going to be able to get a room tonight. But I still need you to make some calls.’’
Whitacre fixed him with a puzzled look. “Okay,’’ he said cautiously. “What phone are we going to use?”
“One right here,’’ Shepard said, nodding toward the lobby’s bank of pay phones.
Here? In public? Whitacre thought. He didn’t understand what was going on. Did Shepard’s credit card not work?
Shepard wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but it had been thought up at the last minute, when someone in Springfield raised concerns about using a hotel room phone. There were some legal and technical concerns. What if the conspirators had caller ID? They might become suspicious.
Whitacre looked around the small lobby. “This seems a little awkward,’’ he said.
“It’s the best I can do right now.”
The side door to the pool opened. A hotel guest walked by the two men, excusing himself as he passed on his way to the Chestnut, the hotel’s restaurant. When the man was gone, Shepard looked at Whitacre.
“Let’s go out to my car and talk.’’
The two men headed back to the lot and got inside the car. Shepard looked at Whitacre intently.
“We really need these conversations, Mark,’’ he said. They needed proof that Whitacre was telling the truth.
Whitacre nodded. “Okay. What do we do?’’
Reaching into his pocket, Shepard pulled out a small recording device. It looked like any other microcassette recorder, but it was only available from the FBI. A wire was attached, with a small, sensitive microphone at the end.
“Hold this microphone on the receiver. There’s a clip on it, but don’t worry about that. It doesn’t clip to the phone. You hold the microphone on the receiver, and I’ll hold the recorder.’’
“Okay.’’
“Do you have the phone numbers with you?’’
“Yeah, I brought them with me.’’
Whitacre took out the numbers. Shepard glanced at them, and the two men discussed their plan of attack. They agreed to first try a Kyowa Hakko executive named Masaru Yamamoto, or “Massy,” as Whitacre called him.
Opening his briefcase, Shepard brought out some documents known as FD-472s. Shepard explained that the forms authorized the FBI to record the phone conversation. Then, Shepard handed Whitacre an FD-473, explaining that this would provide authorization to place a tape recorder on his body. Shepard said he would give Whitacre a recorder the next time they met.
The two men walked back to the lobby. Shepard held the tape recorder, while Whitacre fumbled with the microphone. He picked up the phone and dialed zero.
An Illinois Bell operator answered. Whitacre asked for help dialing Japan, and she transferred him to an AT&T operator. He told her the eleven numbers she needed and recited his fourteen-digit calling-card number.
A man answered the phone in Japanese, identifying himself as working with Kyowa Hakko’s special pharmaceutical division.
“Uh, yes,’’ Whitacre responded. “May I speak with Mr. Yamamoto, please.’’
The Japanese man shifted to English. “May I have your name, please?’’
“Yes, the name is Mark Whitacre.’’
“Mark. Okay.’’
The man put Whitacre on hold. Light, syrupy music played for a moment. Yamamoto came on the line.
“Hello,’’ Yamamoto said in accented English.
“Mr. Yamamoto?’’
“Hi. Yamamoto speaking. How are you?’’
The two men traded pleasantries. Whitacre apologized for the delay in calling back. He had been traveling and would be leaving again tomorrow.
“I will pretty much be unreachable this week,’’ Whitacre said.
“Oh, I see. Ah, how is your sales?’’
In less than thirty seconds, the conversation had already veered into sales.
“Sales are doin’ pretty good,’’ he replied. “How ’bout yours?’’
“It’s good.’
’
Yamamoto complained about certain lysine prices that he had heard were being offered. As Whitacre listened, an older woman walked past, staring at him as he held the microphone to the receiver. Whitacre felt enormously uncomfortable—he figured she thought he was taping his wife. He shifted the microphone, trying to look less conspicuous. He didn’t know that he had just caused his own voice to amplify on the tape.
“So Mr. Ikeda told me you guys would have a meeting November thirtieth—yourself and the Koreans.”
“Yes.’’
“In Korea, I think, isn’t it?’’
“Yes, yes, Seoul.’’
This was working.
“And then we meet again with myself involved and maybe someone else from our company involved. Maybe even Mick Andreas. That would be early January?’’
“Yeah, maybe so,’’ Yamamoto said. “Then we discuss ninety-three, for ninety-three.’’
They were close. Whitacre decided to push Yamamoto on what they would be discussing about 1993.
“Right,’’ he said. “For ninety-three pricing and volume.’’
“Ah.”
“In Hong Kong or Singapore. Is that correct?’’
“Yes, yes.’’
Whitacre had said it, but Yamamoto hadn’t denied it. Competitors were meeting to discuss prices and volumes. That should prove something to the FBI.
Yamamoto mentioned that customers were claiming that ADM was offering low prices—something that couldn’t be done under price-fixing.
“We don’t know is the customer making a trick,’’ Yamamoto said in imperfect English. Maybe, he was suggesting, the customers were lying.
“Customers can be tricky,’’ Whitacre replied.
Still, Yamamoto said, something had to be done for the best customers.
“It’s very, very important how we can keep a good price for the big customers, don’t you think?’’
“Yeah, I think you’re right.’’
Then, Yamamoto opened up.
“It’s better to talk, you know, see how we maintain the price at $2.50, you know, in other countries, and $1.05 in the United States.’’
Jackpot. Yamamoto just admitted everything. The competitors were working together to control the prices. Whitacre felt a rush, a thrill.
Informant Page 10