Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

  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.’’

  “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.

  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.

  “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.’’

  The agents flipped through their notes. This story had the ring of truth. The idea that ADM had tried to buy a competitor’s bug was similar to Whitacre’s other allegations about industrial espionage.

  “So,’’ Shepard said, “the major motive for telling Mick this story in the first place was?’’

  “The major motive was to prove to Mick something I’ve been saying for eighteen months,’’ Whitacre said. “I think we had a mole in the plant, causing contamination and information-flow problems.’’

  “And why did you agree to try and obtain the organisms?’’

  Whitacre shrugged. “I wanted to be on the team. I thought it would help my relationship with Mick.’’

  The agents questioned Whitacre again from the beginning, writing it all down in longhand. They wanted to be sure Whitacre was committed to this version. Weatherall showed him the written statement.

  “So, this is the full story?’’

  Whitacre nodded.

  “Mark, if there’s anything else you want to add, now’s the time. The truth matters here.’’

  “That’s the full story.’’

  “Now, this document and anything else you say can be used in court. Do you understand that?’’

  “Yeah, I understand.’’

  “And you still want to
sign? Nothing to add?’’

  Whitacre shook his head.

  “Okay,’’ Weatherall said, sliding the document across the table to him.

  Whitacre signed the statement. Weatherall and Shepard both signed as witnesses.

  “Okay, Mark,’’ Weatherall said. “I’m proud you told the truth. You’re doing the right thing.’’

  The meeting ended twenty minutes later. Whitacre had finally opened up. Maybe now his real work as a cooperating witness could begin.

  Ginger Whitacre, wearing a nightgown and a robe, carried two glasses of lemonade into the family room. Mark had brought wood in for a fire before changing for bed; now the flames were giving the room a warm glow. She walked toward the couch where Mark was sitting, handed him a lemonade, and sat down beside him.

  She took a sip, staring into the fire.

  “Mark,’’ she said, “it’s the right thing to do.’’

  He drank his lemonade.

  “I know,’’ he said.

  “You’ve started something; now you’ve got to finish it.’’

  “I could always leave.’’

  “Yes, you can just walk away, go work for somebody else,’’ she said. “I’d be happy with that. But as long as you work for ADM, you should cooperate. You should sign the agreement.’’

  He took another sip. “It’s not like I’d be doing a lot of things different. I meet with them whenever they want; I make tapes for them. I guess all I’d be doing is putting everything in writing.’’

  Ginger knew nothing about Mark’s confession of his deceit to the FBI. She knew nothing of his plan. He still hoped he could upend the investigation and get away from the FBI. But until then, it seemed to make sense to sign the cooperation agreement. At least that way, no one could prosecute him.

  “Okay,’’ he said finally. “I’ll call Brian. I’ll tell him I want to sign.’’

  Ginger leaned her head on his shoulder. She was proud of her husband. He was doing the right thing.

  Christmas came and went, and afterward Shepard and Weatherall received one additional present—news of Whitacre’s decision. The night of his confession seemed to have been a breakthrough. Now, he talked about how eager he was to help. Shepard called Cudmore in the prosecutors’ office to let him know. They needed to get together again—and this time Cudmore could take the agreement out of his briefcase.

  They met at the Holiday Inn on Tuesday, December 29. Whitacre arrived late; he had been at the store, purchasing seven cans of caramel popcorn as late presents for business associates.

  “I brought the agreement,’’ the prosecutor said, bringing out the three-page document. “You’ll find it’s exactly as I told you. I want to go over it with you and make sure you don’t have any questions.’’

  Whitacre read through the cooperation agreement’s thirteen terms. It said that the government could not prosecute Whitacre on the basis of information he provided. In exchange, he was required to offer “complete and truthful’’ details about his crimes and the crimes of others. If he failed to meet that requirement, either by lying or omitting information, anything he said could be used against him in the prosecution of any crime, including perjury.

  “For instance, you must neither conceal or minimize your own actions in any offense,’’ it said. “You agree that you will not engage in any criminal activity of any kind without the prior knowledge and approval of FBI agents and this office.’’

  Whitacre noticed a term forbidding him from telling anyone information about the investigation without FBI approval. Repeatedly, the document discussed Whitacre’s “covert role” and “covert capacity.’’ Whitacre asked how far that role would go.

  “There’s going to be a lot of undercover work,’’ Cudmore replied. “Tape recordings, obtaining notes, those kinds of things.’’

  Whitacre finished reading and looked up.

  “Do I have to sign this now?’’ he asked.

  “No,’’ Cudmore said. “Take some time with it. Have a lawyer look it over. But this is the deal. It’s not open to negotiation. And like I said before, we don’t care how we proceed here, it’s either you or them. The way to have us focus on them is to sign the agreement and prove you’re being truthful.’’

  Whitacre nodded. “Okay.’’

  Sometime in early January, Cudmore said, he should let the agents know if he would be signing. With that, Cudmore packed up his briefcase.

  “You’re making the right decision,’’ he told Whitacre as he shook his hand.

  Cudmore headed to the door, stopping before he opened it. He looked back into the room.

  “Happy New Year, everybody,’’ he said.

  The next Monday, Shepard studied Whitacre as he glided into the hotel room. Expensive suit. Garish tie. Gregarious demeanor. He looked calm and confident, with no sign of anxiety that might signal he was planning to back out.

  Whitacre and Shepard sat at the table. Whitacre opened up the discussion, saying that he had not brought the agreement. He was still looking it over.

  Shepard asked if he had any information about price-fixing. Nothing to report, Whitacre replied.

  “But I’ve been thinking,’’ he said. “I think it might be good for you guys to interview Wayne Brasser. He knows a lot about price-fixing at ADM.’’

  “He’s somebody we’re going to want to talk to, Mark,’’ Shepard said.

  “You should do it soon. He’s gonna forget stuff if you let too much time slip by.’’

  The main thing now, Shepard said, was for Whitacre to come in with whatever information he could on price-fixing. Whitacre said he would try, but it was difficult. Everyone was still wary.

  The conversation drifted away from price-fixing, toward the allegations of industrial espionage. Whitacre had earlier mentioned that ADM had hired an executive named Michael Frein from International Minerals Corp. Shepard asked about that again.

  Randall had told him all about it, Whitacre said: ADM had hired Frein and paid him to bring along one of IMC’s microorganisms, a bug used to manufacture an antibiotic called bacitracin.

  “Are you going to be with Randall anytime soon?’’ Shepard asked.

  “I see him every day.’’

  “Next time you do, ask him about this on tape. See what he says.’’

  Jim Randall stretched out his legs as he sat on one of the pillowy, upholstered seats in an ADM corporate jet. Despite the roar of the jet engine, this was a moment for Randall to relax. There were no phones ringing, no meetings to attend. Nursing a drink, he slouched in his seat and loosened his tie.

  Nearby, Whitacre watched the ADM president. It was January 6, 1993, a Wednesday. Whitacre had been traveling with Randall for two days, as part of an effort to start a business in a new product called methionine—an amino acid, like lysine, that promotes animal growth. For much of the trip, they had been accompanied by Chris Jones, a former Whitacre colleague from Degussa who was now consulting with ADM on the project. The ADM plane had just dropped off Jones in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Randall and Whitacre were finally alone.

  For a few minutes, the two executives chatted. Whitacre mentioned an executive he had met the other day from American Cyanamid, a company with dealings in the bacitracin business. Whitacre watched as Randall leaned his head back, seeming to rest.

  Whitacre slid his hand into his inside left breast pocket. Looking in, he saw the indicator light on the top of the FBI’s microcassette recorder. He flicked the switch. The indicator light glowed red.

  Whitacre leaned toward Randall.

  “You know, one thing the Cyanamid guy asked me,’’ Whitacre said, “he asked me, ‘Where did you guys get your technology?’ ”

  Days later, Shepard slid a copy of tape number 1B13 into the TASCAM playback device on his desk. Slipping a set of puffy earphones over his head, he glanced at the paperwork for the tape.

  Shepard cued the tape. Instantly, he heard the sound of a jet engine. Already, he could tell this would be a troublesom
e recording; there was too much background noise. He heard Whitacre’s voice, saying something about a guy at Cyanamid asking where ADM obtained its technology.

  “I said, well, we got it from Korea,’’ Shepard heard Whitacre say. “The bacitracin technology.’’

  Vaguely, Shepard could hear Randall say something. The engine drowned out the words.

  “Huh?’’ Whitacre asked. Apparently, it was hard to hear on the plane, too.

  “Got it from where?’’ Randall was speaking up.

  “Korea,’’ Whitacre said, “which is the standard lie we’ve always been sayin’ when we’re asked. You know, we don’t get asked that much.’’

  “Yeah,’’ Randall replied.

  Shepard played the section back. Randall hadn’t jumped up, asking why Whitacre was lying about how ADM obtained the bug. That might mean something. Shepard turned on the tape again. Whitacre was talking.

  “And he goes, well, ah, the IMC guys felt that you got it from this, from a guy that left their company named Mike Frein, that Mike Frein stole the bug,” Whitacre said. “That’s what he said.’’

  “Yeah,’’ Randall replied.

  An indifferent statement. No shock. Interesting.

  The conversation meandered. Randall mentioned a man named Scott who had done business with ADM.

  “He used to be friends with Mike Frein,’’ Whitacre said.

  “Oh, yeah, he was.’’

  “Is that how you got Mike Frein? From him, wasn’t it?”

  “Right.’’

  “Did Frein come to us looking for a job?’’ Whitacre asked. “Or Scott told you about him?’’

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly how . . ’’ Randall’s words dipped, drowned out by the jet engine.

  A second later they were clear again.

  “I paid him fifty thousand dollars per bug.’’

  “Cheapest bug we ever got,’’ Whitacre responded, as both men laughed.

  The middle section of Randall’s statement had been unintelligible. Try as he might, Shepard could not understand those few words. But the words after that were clear as a bell.

  I paid him fifty thousand dollars per bug.

  Soon, Whitacre sent the conversation in another direction.