For days, often as Kroll puffed his cigars, he and a few associates had thumbed through copies of the book, looking for similarities between Whitacre’s story and Grisham’s tale of a young lawyer working at a corrupt law firm.
The most obvious comparison was between ADM and Grisham’s fictional firm, Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Both hired employees from big cities to work in out-of-the-way towns. And while the fictional firm was in Memphis, it was really controlled by the Mafia from Illinois—ADM’s home state. The firm used corporate jets as a centerpiece of a scheme to evade taxes; the Lamet Vov letters had made accusations about corporate jets and taxes. The head of security at Bendini, Lambert was a former cop who tapped phones, threatened people, and committed other crimes; the head of security at ADM was a former cop who Whitacre said had done those very same things.
There were also striking parallels between Whitacre and Mitch McDeere, the hero of Grisham’s story. McDeere’s father had been killed when he was seven; Whitacre falsely claimed that his father and mother had been killed when he was about the same age. McDeere faced death threats; Whitacre had publicly proclaimed that he had, too. Both cooperated with the FBI after being threatened with indictment. Both played a hero role by turning over evidence of colleagues’ crimes. Both felt betrayed by the FBI. Someone leaked word of McDeere’s cooperation; Whitacre claimed the same thing had happened to him.
The same American locations also cropped up in the two stories. The wives of both cooperators fled or tried to flee to suburban Nashville. There were random trips in The Firm to Knoxville and St. Louis; anonymous letters had already been traced to those two cities.
There were even bizarre similarities that Whitacre could not have controlled, including some between the real-life and fictional case agents. In The Firm, Special Agent Wayne Tarrance had been stationed at the New York City Field Office before being transferred to the smaller town where the big investigation unfolds. The same was true for Special Agent Brian Shepard.
And then . . .
And then there were the financial transactions. The fictional firm ran dirty money through companies with names like Dunn Lane Ltd., Eastpointe Ltd., and Gulf-South Ltd. ADM money had been run through companies with names like Aminac, Eurotechnologies, and FES. In real life and in fiction, there were wire transfers between New York money-center banks and banks in the Caribbean. McDeere set up accounts in the Caribbean and in Zurich; so did Whitacre. In the book, money that arrived in a Caribbean bank account was moved to Switzerland; Whitacre often laundered his cash the same way. The central locale for many of the fictional crimes was the Cayman Islands; same thing in real life. McDeere and his associates ended the book with eight million dollars in offshore accounts; Whitacre and his cohorts did a bit better, with slightly more than nine.
When the list was finished, Kroll looked it over. It went on for two pages, with forty-six similarities between the true and fictional stories. The detective had little doubt that this seemingly crazy theory was right on target.
Larry Kill picked up a stack of papers from a conference table and set them on his lap. The defense lawyer representing Sewon looked up from the documents, ready to make the presentation that he hoped would win his client a deal. Sitting across from Kill were Robin Mann and Jim Mutchnik, along with a paralegal from the Chicago antitrust office. Everyone had pens and paper for notes. Kill leaned back as he began.
“I want to be clear that we’re coming forward with such detailed information in the hopes of obtaining a reduced fine,’’ he said.
A smile flashed across his face.
“Not only can we provide you with records from Kim and other employees,’’ he continued, “we’ve even got paper from Ajinomoto. You’ll be very happy.’’
Kill flipped through the documents on his lap. The first price-fixing meeting attended by Sewon occurred in 1986, he began. From there, Kill delivered details of every meeting—where they had been held, who had attended, what had been said. Everything was documented, including—as Kill promised—with records that Sewon had received over the years from Ajinomoto. By the time Kill reached meetings in March 1992, Mann and Mutchnik not only were ready for a break, but also needed to place a call.
Mutchnik walked to the law-firm lobby, where he found a telephone. He knew that Jim Griffin was planning to make some final decisions involving Ajinomoto that day. For months, the Japanese company had been maintaining that ADM had dragged it into price-fixing. But now, thanks to Sewon, the ground had shifted. The records showed that, even before ADM came along, Ajinomoto had fixed lysine prices. Mutchnik punched in Griffin’s office number.
“Jim,’’ Mutchnik said, “wait for us to get back. They’ve got tons of info on Ajinomoto. They’re up to their eyeballs in it.’’
Just after ten o’clock on the morning of March 3, a Sunday, Ginger was puttering around the house in suburban Chicago. Earlier that morning, Mark had driven the three miles to his office to check his e-mail account. The home computer wasn’t working, he had told Ginger, and now she was waiting for him to come home.
Sometime later, Mark called. As soon as she heard him, Ginger knew that something horrible had happened. His voice was shaky, his breathing heavy.
“My God, Mark,’’ she said. “What’s wrong?’’
He breathed deeply several times.
“A couple of guys just abducted me,’’ he said.
A few hours later, Ray Goldberg and his wife Thelma were enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon in their Cambridge apartment. Goldberg, a Harvard professor and member of the ADM board’s special committee, had received publicity of late, thanks to a study he spearheaded to review the company’s corporate governance. But this day, as the Goldbergs relaxed, ADM was far from their minds.
The phone rang and Thelma answered. The caller asked for Ray Goldberg.
“Who’s calling?’’ she asked.
“My name is David Hoech,’’ the caller said. “I’m from the ADM Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and we need to talk.’’
Thelma told her husband who was calling. Goldberg didn’t recognize the name; he knew nothing of Hoech’s work as an industry consultant. He picked up the phone and said hello.
“Let me introduce myself,’’ Hoech said. “I’m one of the leaders of the ADM Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and everything that’s ever been written is true and verified. I’m going to tell you some alarming things.’’
Hoech’s tone was emotional and angry. Goldberg already vaguely understood that this caller played some role in the strange letters he had been receiving from the Shareholders’ Watch Committee, and signed by the Lamet Vov.
“This morning Whitacre was abducted in the parking lot of his office, taken on a little ride for an hour and a half,’’ Hoech continued. “His life was threatened. He was told, ‘Tell your buddies at the Watch Committee that they shouldn’t say any more things or talk to any more reporters, or you’re all going to be dealt with.’ ”
Goldberg glanced around by the phone. He wanted to take a few notes. All he could find was a round piece of paper emblazoned with the words I’d Rather Be Playing Tennis. He flipped the paper over and picked up a pen.
“We’re going on national television, and we’re going to hang everybody out!’’ Hoech said, his voice rising. “You get hold of the rest of the members, and you call a goddamned special meeting and remove these people. This is ludicrous! This is America! What the hell is going on? Do you think we write this stuff because it’s a lie? Do you think we spend $3.5 million to dig this shit up—and you people are sitting there listening to Dwayne, who’s a dictator? This is a disgrace to democracy!’’
Goldberg wrote down “$3.5 million to dig up this shit,’’ and drew a box around it.
“You’re going to have the blood of Whitacre, myself, and some other members on your hands because you people are standing around doing nothing!’’ Hoech raged.
In the background, Hoech’s wife interrupted, telling him to calm down. Goldberg c
ould not understand what was being said, but thought he was hearing children playing.
Hoech breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, but I’m upset, Goldberg.’’
This was Goldberg’s chance to respond. “We are investigating—”
“Investigating, my ass!’’ Hoech yelled. “Get these people out of there! You’re spending our money! They spent thirty million dollars! Goddamned Aubrey Daniel says last week, he says, ‘All we’ve got to do is kill Whitacre, and we don’t have a case.’ ”
Hoech’s wife again told him to calm down.
“I’m sorry,’’ Hoech said. “I’m not yelling at you, Goldberg. I’m just unloading. I’m tired of this. My life’s been threatened.’’
“Who are these people threatening you?’’
“Who are these people?’’ Hoech shot back. It was those criminals at ADM, he said, listing a series of allegations against company executives, ranging from drug use to being part of a hit-and-run.
“You don’t know how rotten these people are!’’ Hoech yelled. “They’re a disgrace to humanity!’’
“Well,’’ Goldberg said, “I’m sorry to hear that.’’
Hoech again mentioned the Lamet Vov letters.
“Everything you’ve read in those letters is factual. I’ll go on national TV with it. And the reason we’ve stayed underground is because we know what we’re up against.’’
“You’re afraid of being hurt, is that it?’’
“He’s already threatened our life this morning; they’ve been down here,’’ Hoech said. “I live in Florida, and they’ve been down here checking on me, and my phone is wired up; my fax machine I’ve had to unjam, and I know what we’re up against. It’s like with Marcos in the Philippines. You try to stay alive until you get the job done.’’
“Have you gone to the FBI or—”
“Come on! For what, Ray? Wake up!’’
Goldberg almost sighed. “I guess I’m naïve.’’
“You are. Wake up!’’
Hoech launched into a tirade, telling Goldberg that ADM management had lied, that the company was dirty, and that directors had abandoned their duties.
“It’s gone too far now, Ray. You’ve gotta get hold of these people. You’ve gotta remove Dwayne, Mick, Randall, Terry Wilson, and Barrie Cox. If you don’t, the blood is going to start flowing because these people are sick!’’
Hoech started in again, repeating that ADM executives were dangerous. Goldberg realized he needed to bring this call to a close.
“I appreciate your calling,’’ he interrupted.
Hoech stopped. He provided his phone number and repeated his name, asking that it be kept confidential. Goldberg asked a few questions. He learned that Hoech had never worked for ADM, although he claimed his group had owned three million shares of the company, which were sold the day of the raid.
“Now here’s what I recommend,’’ Hoech continued. “If they don’t want to call a special board meeting, you resign. I’ll get you all the press you want. I’ll put you on national TV. ABC, NBC, and CBS.’’
Goldberg said he didn’t want publicity but would continue working in the interests of ADM shareholders. Hoech promised to help in any way he could, including by writing more letters.
“Well, I appreciate your call,’’ Goldberg said.
“You keep my name to yourself.’’
“I will.’’
Hanging up, Goldberg ran through his notes, now covering both sides of the paper. He decided to telephone his attorney. He needed advice on what to do, now that he had learned the identity of the mysterious Lamet Vov.
That same week, Williams & Connolly contacted the antitrust prosecutors with what at first sounded like big news: ADM wanted to cut a deal.
Then came the details. The lawyers offered for ADM to plead nolo contendere to charges of fixing prices for lysine and citric—allowing the company to dispose of the criminal case without giving evidence of guilt to the plaintiffs suing in civil court. In addition, the lawyers demanded immunity for all ADM officers. In exchange, ADM would turn over evidence that could be used to convict other companies in the two schemes. The government would have its victory and would be able to diffuse the almost certain legal attack that ADM was planning against the FBI.
“Otherwise, there’s going to be a bloody war,’’ Aubrey Daniel said in presenting the offer. “Let’s avoid it.’’
The proposal was dismissed. What Williams & Connolly did not know was that the prosecutors were becoming very confident about their hand. That same week, all of the major lysine conspirators were knocking on the door, offering far better deals. Griffin and Mutchnik had just returned from Korea, where they had reviewed Sewon documents. Ajinomoto was already offering to pay $10 million in fines. And Kyowa Hakko was willing to plead guilty, if prosecutors passed on indicting Masaru Yamamoto.
At this point, Lassar and Griffin were turning aside the offers, demanding tougher terms. But the desperation of the other lysine producers let the prosecutors know that they didn’t need ADM’s silly little deal.
Dick Beattie slid into the backseat of the chauffeured sedan, headed to the airport. The Simpson Thacher partner warmly greeted the driver, a man he considered a friend. The driver was well known among the corporate elite; in addition to Beattie, he chauffeured Ross Johnson. But his best customer was Dwayne Andreas, who years before had trusted the driver to buy a stretch limousine for the ADM chairman’s use when he was in New York.
The scandal at ADM had been difficult on the driver. Now, several customers were on different sides of the same issue. Since reviewing the tapes, Beattie had been blunt in advising the directors to consider a corporate plea. But Dwayne Andreas, who heard through the grapevine about Beattie’s push, remained vehemently opposed. Much to the driver’s discomfort, the brewing dispute had been a frequent topic of conversation among Andreas and his associates.
As they pulled onto the highway, the driver mentioned that he had heard talk about Beattie in his car.
“Watch out, be very careful,’’ the driver said. “They’re very nervous about you. And there’s a lot of plotting against you.’’
Beattie thanked the driver for the warning, while figuring there was little that he could do about it.
But in Decatur, the suspicions about Beattie’s intentions continued to grow. Dwayne Andreas, convinced that neither his son nor ADM could ever be convicted of price-fixing, began to suspect a complex conspiracy in the works. Beattie, he became convinced, was acting as the Trojan Horse for ADM’s true enemy—Henry Kravis, the corporate buyout king who was the lawyer’s premier client. In calls with Bob Strauss, Zev Furst, and other advisors, Andreas raged that Beattie was pushing a settlement to weaken ADM and set it up for a Kravis takeover. Strauss and Furst visited with Beattie, but walked away convinced of his good faith. Still, Andreas would have none of it.
Eventually, Beattie heard by phone from Ross Johnson.
“You ain’t gonna believe what they’re doing to you,’’ Johnson chuckled.
A fax had been sent from Dwayne’s office to some directors, Johnson said. It was an excerpt from a recent, highly critical book about Kravis and his firm, Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co. The excerpt was all about Beattie, portraying him as a man who had manipulated others for Kravis’s benefit. Decatur’s message was easy to decipher: Beattie was a bad guy who could not be trusted.
“The troops are coming, old buddy,’’ Johnson laughed. “They’re out to get you.’’
Sunday morning was relatively calm at the offices of ADM. Phones were mostly quiet, and the usual frantic hustle of the workday was muted. With few other distractions, the one-page, anonymous fax that arrived that morning in the legal department was noticed quickly.
“Be careful of Fortune Magazine. They are working closely with Whitacre,’’ the note began.
The note lapsed into incoherence about some fax supposedly sent between ADM and Ron Henkoff, the Fortune magazine reporter covering ADM. In an apparent
reference to David Hoech—the Lamet Vov—it mentioned that people at ADM were speaking with a man from Miami who was briefing Ray Goldberg about wrongdoing.
The fax closed with a warning about spies in ADM. “They see and hear more than you think,’’ it said. “They even spent the weekend at the Whitacres’ a few weekends ago. After that, Whitacre convinced them to talk to a reporter on background.’’
The ADM employee studied the fax. It was unsigned; there was no fax telltale. Then, he glanced at the fax machine. The AT&T Caller-ID device that had been installed appeared to have worked perfectly. Not only did it capture the phone number that sent the fax, but it also listed the name registered to that line. The employee read the screen.
“Whitacre, Ginger,’’ it said.
On the morning of Monday, March 22, Robin Mann arrived at the office and saw the message light already glowing on her phone. Dialing into the voice-mail system, she retrieved a panicked message left the previous day by Ginger Whitacre. Someone had abducted her husband and threatened him weeks before, Ginger said. She was terrified; her family needed protection.
Mann returned the call and listened as Ginger spilled details of the story. Mark had gone to the office to check his e-mail on March 3, she said. Two men in a Dodge Dynasty had followed him into the parking lot.
Mark was thrown into their car, she said. He couldn’t get out; the door locks had been sawed off. The men hopped in front and pulled away. For twenty minutes, Ginger said, the men drove Mark around, warning him to forget everything about ADM that wasn’t on tape. These other allegations he raised should never be mentioned again, they told him.
“Did he file a police report?’’ Mann asked.
“No, we told Jim Epstein,’’ Ginger replied. “But no police report. Mark was afraid of the publicity.’’
This was tearing up her family, Ginger said. Her fourth-grader was terrified; at one point they had found the child hiding in the closet. They had changed the locks on the house, but it wasn’t enough. The family needed protection. Ginger said that she wanted someone to get back to her with information about what was going to be done.
Informant Page 59