The raids were on.
Minutes later, Shepard and Herndon pulled into a sandy area just off the road, parking in front of a waiting car. Kevin Corr, the principal legal advisor in Springfield, came out of the other car and walked over as Herndon rolled down his window.
“Well, you were gone so long I thought maybe you had him,’’ Corr said.
“Nah, he’s not cooperating,’’ Herndon said. “So let’s go do the next thing.’’
Corr nodded and walked back to his car. It was time to go confront Wilson.
At almost the same instant, FBI agents walked into the main headquarters of ADM brandishing search warrants and headed quickly up to the executive floors.
Allen Andreas, Mick’s cousin who years before had worked with ADM in London, was at his new desk at headquarters. He watched as a group of agents swept across the office, packing documents and carrying them out. None of them was paying attention to Allen.
After a while, Allen decided this was a sign that the workday was over. He walked to the elevator.
The warm, breezy evening had attracted a crowd to the outdoor patio at the Country Club of Decatur. At one table was Jim Shafter, the lawyer for the Andreas family who had attended Mick’s original FBI interview about the Fujiwara incident. He and his wife, Gigi, were relaxing over wine as they waited for their meal.
Just past six o’clock, two cars pulled up in the parking lot about twenty yards away. With his back to the lot, Shafter couldn’t see Shepard, Herndon, and Corr as they walked from their cars into the club. Nor did he notice when Corr returned minutes later, escorting Whitacre to one of the cars.
A waitress set dinner in front of the Shafters. As the couple enjoyed their meal, Shepard and Herndon came out of the club. Almost on cue, Whitacre climbed out of the car and approached the two agents, appearing apprehensive. Whitacre and one of the agents said something as they passed.
Sometime later, the waitress returned to the table. “Mr. Shafter, when you finish with dinner, Mr. Reising would like to speak with you,’’ she said.
“All right,’’ Shafter replied. “Thank you.’’
Shafter thought nothing of the call. Probably ADM’s general counsel wanted to line up a golf game. But soon, the waitress returned.
“Mr. Shafter, Mr. Reising would like you to call as soon as you can,’’ she said.
“Okay, thanks.’’
Minutes passed. The waitress returned.
“Mr. Shafter,’’ she said, “Mr. Reising wants you to call him right now.’’
Shafter considered using his cell phone. But if Reising had called three times, this was probably sensitive. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood.
“I’ll be right back,’’ he said to his wife.
Shafter walked inside the club to the men’s locker room and found a phone. Reising’s wife answered at his home. Her husband was at Mick’s, she said, and was expecting Shafter to call him there. Shafter dialed Andreas’s house, and Reising answered.
“Come over here right now,’’ Reising said cryptically as soon as Shafter spoke.
“Well, Rick, give me some heads-up here,’’ Shafter said. “What’s—”
“Come over here right now,’’ Reising interrupted.
Then he hung up.
After pulling away from the country club, Shepard drove to a small marina. He and Herndon had not yet had a chance to take a breath, to talk about their interviews. Neither wanted to be immediately thrown into the mix at the Decatur R.A.
Shepard pulled into a spot and shut off the car. He looked over at Herndon.
“Do you think it went well?’’ Shepard said.
“Yeah,’’ Herndon said. “I don’t think I would change a thing.’’
Neither could believe Andreas had given them so much time; they had obtained some good statements. Wilson was even better—he repeatedly contradicted his words on tape. A jury would see that.
The agents looked at each other and extended their hands.
“Good job,’’ Shepard said.
At that moment, agents were fanning out across Decatur, confronting ADM executives at their homes.
Two older agents, Alec Wade and Steven Nash, pulled up in a Bureau car to the gate at the end of Dwayne Andreas’s driveway. They phoned the house from the car, and the gates swung open.
Andreas met the agents inside. They told him that they were investigating possible price-fixing in high-fructose corn syrup, citric acid, and lysine. They asked if he had ever heard about the trade associations that existed for those products.
“I’m unfamiliar with those associations,’’ Andreas shrugged. “I consider most trade associations as do-gooders anyway.’’
“Well, do you know if ADM sells any of these products to the government?’’ one of the agents asked.
“No, I don’t. Do you?’’
“No, sir, I don’t.’’
The agents asked Andreas several questions about price-fixing, and he shook his head dismissively. It was impossible to fix prices in those products because too many variables were involved, he replied.
The agents circled around, asking about Andreas’s contact with competitors and whether he was aware of any recordings of competitors that took place at the Decatur Club—a charge Whitacre had raised years before. Andreas calmly batted away each question.
“Well, sir,’’ one of the agents said, “can you explain why Wayne Brasser was fired?’’
Andreas looked back blankly. “Wayne Brasser? Who’s Wayne Brasser? Was he an employee?’’
“Yes, sir. And we’ve heard Wayne Brasser was fired from ADM because he wouldn’t fix prices.’’
Andreas snorted a laugh.
“Fat chance,’’ he grunted.
In another part of town, Barrie Cox, the head of ADM’s citric business, had been surprised outside of his home by two FBI agents. The agents told him they were investigating possible price-fixing, and Cox good-naturedly invited them inside. Everyone was taking a seat in the living room when the telephone rang. Cox took the call. When he returned, his smile was gone.
“I don’t understand your inquiry,’’ Cox said suddenly. “And if you have any questions, I think you should call my boss, Terry Wilson, or the ADM corporate counsel, Richard Reising. Other than that, I don’t have anything to say.’’
The agents stood to leave, and one of them handed Cox a grand jury subpoena. ADM was already locking up its employees, less than an hour after the operation began. Their lawyers moved fast.
Howard Buffett was at home, playing host to Special Agent Robert Schuler. Not only was Buffett willing to talk, he was dropping tantalizing tidbits.
“I don’t believe Dwayne Andreas is a totally honest individual,’’ Buffett said. “He would do anything to get what he wanted. He’s authoritarian and very cunning.’’
The agent pressed for details. Buffett mentioned his confrontation with Andreas over the football tickets for the congressman. He said that he believed ADM misrepresented the size of its revenues from one business in order to disguise risks in the stock. But he said he had no direct knowledge of price-fixing and knew nothing about whether ADM secretly recorded visitors to the Decatur Club.
The interview lasted long into the night. Probably, Schuler thought, the case agents needed to follow up with Buffett.
Special Agent Ken Temples arrived at the home of Kirk Schmidt, the controller for the Bioproducts Division. Schmidt opened the door, and Temples flashed his creds.
“Oh yeah, come on in,’’ Schmidt said. He seemed calm. Almost as if he had been expecting a visit.
Outside Mick Andreas’s house, Rick Reising was slumped in a chair, reading subpoenas. Beside him, Andreas was reliving his FBI interview. The two heard someone coming and looked up. Jim Shafter was walking across the yard toward them. Reising stood.
“Here,’’ Reising said, thrusting the subpoenas toward Shafter. “Read this and we’ll start.’’
For a few minutes, Shafter revi
ewed the subpoenas. “Okay,’’ he said, looking up when he finished. “What’s going on?’’
“Right now,’’ Reising said, “I don’t know the number, but we’ve got twenty or thirty FBI agents going through the offices, carrying out documents.’’
“Do we have anybody there?’’ Shafter asked.
Reising nodded. “Yeah, Cheviron’s people.’’
“Well, not to interfere, but obviously tell them to keep track of things as best they can.’’
Reising made a face. “Gee, thanks, Jim,’’ he said sarcastically.
The men reviewed everything they knew. Agents were visiting executives all over town; even Dwayne’s house had been hit. Reising looked at his watch.
“Listen, I’m sorry,’’ he said. “I’ve got to go.’’ Other executives were coming to his house to meet.
Shafter sat beside Andreas. “Mick, what the hell?’’ he said. “Why don’t you tell me what the FBI talked to you about?’’
Andreas looked calm. “It was about lysine.’’
Back at the Decatur R.A., the mood was hectic. Shepard and Herndon showed up after six-thirty and helped coordinate the flow of information that was coming in. In one part of the room, lawyers and agents were watching a computer rigged to pen registers and trap-and-trace devices on some executives’ home phones. Every time a call was placed to or from one of those houses, the other phone number registered on the computer. The group then tried to figure out who the number belonged to.
Mutchnik was having a blast. He manned the phones, answering with a brisk “CP,’’ for Command Post. He felt like a cop.
At one point, Mutchnik was out of his chair when the phone rang. An agent answered and called Mutchnik. “This guy needs to talk to you,’’ he said.
Mutchnik grabbed the phone. “CP.’’
“Yeah, hey, this is Ken Temples.’’
“Hey, Kenny. It’s Jim Mutchnik.’’
“Hey, Jim. Listen, we’ve got a problem out here.’’
Temples sounded floored by something. Mutchnik’s antennae went up.
“What’s wrong?’’
“I was just out interviewing an ADM employee named Kirk Schmidt.’’
“Yeah?’’
“Well, Schmidt knew we were coming,’’ Temples said. “He said that Whitacre told him days ago all about the raid.’’
A few minutes later, Mutchnik hung up the phone, shell-shocked. He walked to another part of the office where Mann, Price, and Susan Booker, another antitrust lawyer, were working. He stopped in front of them.
“Mark told,’’ Mutchnik said simply.
That grabbed everyone’s attention. “What do you mean?’’ Mann asked.
“Mark told,’’ Mutchnik repeated. “They knew.’’
Over the next ten minutes, the word from the field kept getting worse. Another agent phoned in with the same news, that Whitacre had told a woman in his division named Kathy Dougherty about the raid. The biggest shock came from the agent who had interviewed Liz Taylor, Whitacre’s secretary. He not only gave her a heads-up on the raid, but had told her months earlier about his work with the FBI.
Shepard and Herndon were enraged. For months, they had held Whitacre’s hand as he poured out his fears of being discovered. In their interviews, they had done everything to protect him, even avoiding the word lysine—the one bait that might have hooked Andreas. And now they learned it was all for nothing.
People at the company knew that Whitacre had been working for the FBI.
But now there were bigger concerns. How bad did this get? If ADM executives had received enough warning, they might have concocted a cover story or even planted fake evidence that could be used to exonerate them. This was a potential disaster.
Just past eight-thirty, the agents were angrily preparing to meet with Whitacre when the phone rang. Herndon answered to find an FBI supervisor from Washington on the line. Freeh, the supervisor informed him, needed a memo by 6:30 the next morning on every interview conducted that night by every agent around the country.
Herndon seethed, working the muscles in his jaw. This was a bunch of Washington bureaucrats in action. Freeh was too much on the side of the field agents to demand paperwork in the middle of an operation. Herndon argued, but got nowhere. The fight caught the attention of the antitrust attorneys, who walked over.
“Look, I’ll try my best,’’ Herndon said into the phone acidly. “I’ll have something for you. But this isn’t right. This isn’t right.’’
“Well, Bob,’’ the supervisor said, in a condescending tone, “I’ve got to be here all night, too.’’
Herndon hung up and looked at the lawyers. “You’re not going to fucking believe this!’’
The lawyers listened as Herndon explained. They told him not to worry about the memo. He and Shepard needed to meet Whitacre. The prosecutors would write the summary for Freeh themselves.
Herndon looked at the lawyers, feeling touched. After all the earlier tension, the group had solidified into a real team.
“Thank you,’’ Herndon said, relieved. “You guys are just great.’’
With barely another word, he and Shepard hurried out the door.
The two agents sat in Shepard’s car, looking out on to the fishing pond off the back parking lot of the Holiday Inn. As angry as Herndon was with Whitacre, Shepard felt even worse. He had known Whitacre the longest; he had stuck up for him and tailored the case for him. He felt deeply betrayed.
“Hey, Bob,’’ Shepard said as they waited, “let me talk to Mark first.’’
Herndon nodded. “Okay.’’
Whitacre pulled beside them. The agents got out of the car, and Shepard opened Whitacre’s front passenger seat. Herndon climbed into the back.
Whitacre seemed hyped up. He excitedly said that Wilson had been scared by the confrontation. He and Wilson had met with Mick, he said, and the whole conversation was recorded. He thought the tape was really good. Shepard mumbled a few compliments.
“So,’’ Whitacre said, “how’s everything going? Everything going okay?’’
Shepard stared hard at Whitacre.
“Mark,’’ he said abruptly, “who did you tell?’’
Silence descended on the car for an instant.
“What . . . what do you mean?’’ Whitacre fumbled.
“Who did you tell?’’
Whitacre stammered out a tangle of words.
“Well,’’ he said finally, “I had to tell Liz Taylor.’’
Shepard’s eyes flashed in anger.
“I told her a long time ago, like, three months ago,’’ Whitacre said, the words rushing out. “I didn’t tell her anything about what you guys are doing. I just said, ‘Look, I’m working with the FBI on some things. I may be out of touch for a while.’ I had to tell her where to contact me. I make a lot of decisions and a lot of times they need to find me. I had to let Liz know where I was going to be, so I told her I was involved with you guys on some things. But she didn’t know anything about what you’re doing.’’
Shepard stared at Whitacre, waiting for more.
From the backseat, Herndon could almost see Whitacre’s mind turning. By Herndon’s guess, Whitacre was trying to figure out how much the agents already knew.
“Well, oh yeah, you know I’ve mentioned Kathy Dougherty to you before,’’ Whitacre said. “She’s a dear friend and a trusted ally. I just didn’t want her to be scared. So I told her a few days ago that some FBI guys would be coming by to talk to her this week and that she should just answer their questions.’’
“Why did you do that, Mark?’’ Shepard said forcefully. “Come on, Mark. That story doesn’t make any sense. Why did you tell Dougherty?’’
“It’s just like I said: I didn’t want her to be scared,’’ Whitacre replied, working himself into a frenzy. “You guys don’t know what it’s like. I was just looking out for her interests. And I can trust her. Guys, I can trust her. I mean, nothing’s going wrong tonight. Is anything g
oing wrong tonight?’’
The agents didn’t answer. They couldn’t explain their fears about fake evidence and false statements. Plus, Whitacre had messed with their careers. They had built him up to their superiors. They were supposed to be his controllers. And he was out of control.
“Who else, Mark?’’ Shepard snapped, his voice brittle. “Come on, don’t jack us around. Who else?’’
It took another minute before Whitacre offered up Kirk Schmidt.
“I wanted to let him know it was okay to talk to you, ’cause he might not ’cause he’s loyal to me,’’ he said. “You guys don’t understand. I have to work with these people long after you’re gone.’’
Shepard’s anger got to him. “Mark,’’ he growled, “you could have ruined this entire operation!”
Whitacre went white and babbled excuses. It was becoming obvious that the bizarre call received by Agent Bruch on the hello line was probably from one of Whitacre’s friends, checking out his story.
From the backseat, Herndon didn’t like what he was seeing. They needed Whitacre’s head clear for the next day. Herndon put a hand on Shepard’s shoulder, signaling that he was about to join the conversation.
“Time out, Mark,’’ he said slowly. “You know what you did was wrong in our eyes.’’
Whitacre started to speak.
“Don’t say anything, Mark,’’ Herndon said. “Look, we can talk about this later, okay? We can get past this. But is there anything else we need to know?’’
Whitacre shook his head. “No, no, I can’t think of anything, Bob.’’
“Okay, so let’s talk about tonight,’’ Herndon said. “Did you tell anybody at the company that you’re going to cooperate with the government?’’
Whitacre paused. “Well, you’ve got to understand. After everything that happened, I was concerned about telling them. I mean, I was just scared.’’
Herndon held his anger. “Okay, Mark, but listen. You can’t be walking around hearing their legal strategies. You’ve got to let them know first thing tomorrow that you’re going to be cooperating. Okay?’’
“Okay, okay,’’ Whitacre said, nodding. “I’ll tell them as early as I can.’’
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