Informant

by Kurt Eichenwald

  Whitacre had also played a recording for me, which he said showed that Shepard had ordered him to destroy evidence. While I could recognize the voices on the tape as belonging to Whitacre and Shepard, their words were largely incomprehensible. Whitacre had provided a transcript, but would not give me a copy of the tape.

  After reading the Fortune article that Sunday, I telephoned Whitacre.

  “Mark, I need to come visit you right away.’’

  Whitacre sounded leery. “Why?’’ he asked.

  “Why do you think? The Fortune article!’’

  After a pause, Whitacre consented to a meeting in North Carolina. He understood how reporters felt when they were beaten on a big story. I asked him to bring Ginger, who had been mentioned in the Fortune article as well. He agreed.

  • • •

  The next evening in Chapel Hill, I met Mark and Ginger in Biomar’s lobby and was escorted to a conference room. I took a seat at the head of the table, while the Whitacres sat across from each other. Mark looked at me expectantly.

  He didn’t know that I had come with a script.

  “Mark,’’ I said, “before I ask anything, I want to talk to you for a minute.’’

  Whitacre nodded. “All right.’’

  “For the last four years, everyone who met with you has wanted something,’’ I said. “The FBI wanted your help on an investigation. Prosecutors wanted your help to get a conviction. Reporters wanted your help to get a story.’’

  Whitacre stared back blankly. He had no idea where this was going.

  “I’m not here tonight because I want anything from you,’’ I said. “I’m here because I’m worried about you.’’

  Whitacre blinked.

  “What do you mean?’’ he asked.

  Reaching into my briefcase, I brought out a manila folder filled with documents.

  “These are the records you gave me,’’ I said. “I’ve looked them over very carefully.’’

  “Okay.’’

  I set the documents on the table.

  “And they’re not real. They’re forgeries.’’

  The room was silent.

  For weeks, I had struggled with concerns about the bogus documents. Whitacre’s allegations against Shepard had been built on fraud. The barely audible tape he had played for me was also fake; while it was clearly Shepard’s voice, the background static on the recording repeatedly changed pitch depending on who was speaking—a strong sign that it had been spliced together from different recordings.

  At the time, it had hardly seemed newsworthy that someone had lied to a reporter. But then, rumors circulated that Fortune would be printing the allegations against Shepard. My editors ruled, and I agreed, that we could not tell Fortune about the forgeries, since we didn’t know whether the magazine had obtained other material to support the story—or was even, in fact, planning an article.

  Aware by that time that Whitacre had been diagnosed with a bipolar condition, I spoke with several psychiatrists. Laying out the scenario, I asked what would happen if the New York Times revealed the forgeries after a Fortune article appeared. Most agreed that such a disclosure ran a significant risk of prompting another suicide attempt. It was an impossible situation, a choice between watching the destruction of an agent’s career or potentially prompting the death of a witness. Troubled by those options, I had consulted with another expert, who had devised the third alternative that was being pursued on this night: confrontation.

  As planned, I brought out the letter purportedly written by Dr. Miller in 1995. In it, the psychiatrist appeared to discuss Whitacre’s allegations against Shepard. It was Whitacre’s proof that his claim was not something he had thought up once he faced price-fixing charges.

  I showed Whitacre a second Miller letter I had obtained, pointing out dramatic differences between them. The typeface changed. The format was different. The 1995 letter was addressed to “Dr. Mark Whitacre’’ and opened with “Dear Mark”; the second, later letter was addressed to “Mark Whitacre’’ and began, “Dear Mr. Whitacre.’’

  Mark brushed away these concerns, saying that a new secretary could account for the change. I pointed out other problems with the 1995 letter; as planned, each discrepancy was more difficult to explain than the last. I glanced at Ginger; her face showed doubt. It was time to pull out the stops.

  “Another problem is the letterhead,’’ I said. “The office has an area code of 847. But the letter was written on November 14, 1995. That area code wasn’t in use yet.’’

  Whitacre didn’t hesitate.

  “Well, everybody knew about that area code coming,’’ he said. “Lots of people ordered it early when they bought new stationery. That’s probably what Dr. Miller did.”

  “I thought about that,’’ I said, pulling out another document. “So I asked the phone company, Ameritech.’’

  I slid the document across the table to him.

  “This is the press release they issued in 1995, when they first announced the 847 area code. It’s dated November twentieth, six days after this letter was written.’’

  Ginger looked shocked.

  “So, Mark,’’ I said, “how did Dr. Miller know the new area code before it was announced?’’

  Whitacre stared at the press release, saying nothing. Finally, he looked up.

  “Well, I don’t understand why you’re having all these problems,’’ he said sharply. “Ron Henkoff called Dr. Miller, and he told him that this letter is real.’’

  Whitacre was lying. This was the turning point I had been told to expect.

  “Well, I called Dr. Miller, too. And after I persuaded him there’s no doctor-patient privilege for fake documents, he told me that he’s never seen this letter before.’’

  Whitacre didn’t move.

  “He also said that he’s very worried about you and wants to speak with you right away,’’ I said.

  I slid a piece of paper with a phone number toward Whitacre. “He’s at home right now, waiting for your call.’’

  My conversations with Miller had taken place days before. We skated on the edge of the doctor-patient relationship; without ever mentioning Whitacre’s name, I explained my dilemma. The charade continued with Miller instructing me generally on how to handle this type of situation with a severe manic-depressive—and then arranging for the call to his home. Everything—from the words I had chosen to the request that Ginger be present as a witness—had been planned with Miller’s input.

  In the next few minutes, Whitacre tearfully confessed that the Miller letter was a forgery. I told him that Jim Epstein was at home and had agreed to comment on the authenticity of the letter cited by Fortune, if Whitacre would give permission. Shaken, Whitacre admitted that the Epstein letter was also fake. Ginger covered her face with her hands, telling her husband he was damaging himself with his lies.

  We remained in the conference room for another hour. Eventually, the Whitacres went alone to another room, where they phoned Dr. Miller. Thirty minutes passed. When they returned, Mark looked chagrined.

  “Looks like I’m going back to the hospital,’’ he said.

  Our meeting continued; we eventually moved to the Whitacres’ house so that Ginger could pack for the hospital. There, Mark assured me that his story of FBI corruption was true, even if the documents were fakes. I told the Whitacres that I would be writing an article about his confession, and that it would be appearing as soon as possible. Past one in the morning, there was nothing left to say. I left their home. It was the last time I would speak with Mark Whitacre for several years.

  • • •

  Thirty hours later, Bill Walker, Whitacre’s new attorney, was making his way through a hectic swirl of crowds at O’Hare Airport. He had picked up a copy of the New York Times and was reading it as he headed for his plane. Then he saw a headline that brought him to a halt.

  ARCHER DANIELS INFORMER ADMITS RECENT DECEPTION.

  Oh, shit! Walker thought.

  Whitacre h
ad given him no idea this was coming.

  That same day, a federal grand jury in Springfield indicted Whitacre on forty-five felonies, including wire fraud, tax evasion, and money laundering. His nighttime visit to Ron Ferrari’s home in October 1995—when he had urged his friend to confirm his story of a corporate-wide scheme—led to an obstruction-of-justice charge. There were no other mentions of the under-the-table bonus story.

  For once, there was no public comment from Whitacre. He remained under psychiatric care in a Chapel Hill hospital, where he would stay for much of the week. He was not allowed access to newspapers or television news. His doctors believed that they might worsen his condition.

  In the months that followed, the job of negotiating a plea for Whitacre fell to his new lawyers, Bill Walker and Richard Kurth. But unlike Epstein, who had already made headway with the Justice Department, the new lawyers started from several yards back. Not only did they arrive with no cache of trust, their decision to file the Shepard suit had crippled their credibility with the government.

  Neither lawyer seemed to recognize the incalculable damage caused by their gambit. At meetings with fraud prosecutors, Walker rambled about Shepard’s purported misdeeds that were raised in the lawsuit. But there were also new, more incredible allegations. Walker told prosecutors that Shepard had forced Whitacre to join other ADM executives in a tryst with prostitutes at New York’s Waldorf-Astoria Hotel; the lawyer claimed that Shepard feared Whitacre would be ostracized by other ADM executives if he did not participate. This had torn apart the family, Walker said, since Whitacre had recently confessed the indiscretion to Ginger and explained Shepard’s role in it.*

  At the end of each monologue, Walker would look knowingly at the prosecutors, informing them that, of course, many of these allegations could be proved with the evidence that Whitacre had gathered on tape.

  But those supposed tapes were elusive. Whitacre claimed that in the summer of 1995, he had sent the Shepard recordings to a friend for safekeeping. The friend’s name was familiar to the government. It was David Hoech, the now-infamous Lamet Vov. To prove his new claim, Whitacre produced a tape of a phone conversation with Hoech. In it, Hoech told Whitacre that he had received the material and destroyed it. But Whitacre insisted that the tapes still existed.

  Walker also claimed that there was taped evidence from Harvest King proving that ADM had authorized the payments to Whitacre. The recording, he said, was from the spring of 1994, and had captured Mick Andreas openly discussing the $2.5 million payment to Whitacre. When the FBI had questioned Whitacre about it at the time, Walker said, his client had explained the matter away as merely a discussion of a salary boost. The fraud prosecutors told Walker’s claims to Herndon, who reported back that no such recording existed.

  Eventually, Walker presented his terms for a plea agreement. They were difficult to understand. But as best as Mackay could tell, Walker was hoping for a plea that would allow his client to keep at least some of the money from ADM and serve no prison time. Mackay telephoned and rejected the offer.

  Weeks later, Walker arrived for a meeting in the Fraud Section conference room. Mary Spearing was there, along with Mackay and Nixon. Walker, in short sleeves and no tie, took a seat on the far side of the table. As the meeting began, he brought out a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. It was his original terms for a settlement. He asked about them again. Spearing gave Mackay a look.

  “Didn’t Don get back to you on this?’’ she asked.

  “Yeah, he did,’’ Walker said.

  Spearing stared at him for a moment. “We’re not here to negotiate this,’’ she said.

  But Walker wouldn’t drop it. Spearing left the room as Walker listed his terms again, explaining the reasoning for each. Eventually, Mackay had enough, and held up his hands.

  “All right, Bill,’’ he said. “Thank you. I get it.’’

  Walker stared at the prosecutors.

  “You know, you’ve been around Mr. Mackay,’’ he said slowly. “This all goes back many years, probably before you were born. This is bigger than any of us, and it’s ongoing. And I know who’s behind it.’’

  For several minutes, Walker weaved tales of mysterious conspiracies, driven by powers he would not describe.

  “I know you’re skeptical, but I’ve seen it. I know who they are. But I can’t tell you who right now.’’

  Mackay suppressed a smile. “Is that because you’re afraid for your safety?’’

  “Well, no,’’ Walker said. “I’ll tell you someday when this is all over.’’

  Walker looked Mackay in the eye. “I’ll tell you the identity of the Master Puppeteer,’’ he said.

  Mackay blinked. “Who?’’ he finally stammered.

  “The Master Puppeteer. I know who it is. And no, it’s not who you’re thinking.’’

  “Who am I thinking?’’ Mackay asked.

  “It’s not Dwayne Andreas. He’s just small fry.’’

  Mackay knew that if he looked at Nixon, he would crack up.

  “I can’t tell you now,’’ Walker said. “But I promise, I’ll reveal the identity when this is all over.’’

  “Well, I guess this is somebody who’s alive, then.’’

  Walker raised his hands. “I’m not saying any more.’’

  The prosecutors rushed Walker through the rest of the meeting. After seeing him out, they headed back into Mackay’s office. There, they both collapsed in laughter.

  Whitacre’s allegations against Shepard set off a series of new problems for the price-fixing prosecution. Lawyers for Mick Andreas and Terry Wilson demanded a hearing to determine whether the FBI had destroyed exculpatory evidence. Federal Judge Blanche Manning, who had been assigned the case, granted the motion.

  In preparation for the hearing, the prosecutors launched a series of meetings with Shepard and Herndon, reviewing the investigation. At one session, the group met in a large conference room at the Antitrust Division’s Chicago office. Boxes of documents were piled around. Scott Lassar led the discussion from the head of the table.

  “Okay, Brian,’’ he said. “Walk me through the beginning of the investigation.’’

  Shepard nodded. “All right,’’ he said.

  Starting with the first phone call, Shepard described the earliest days of Harvest King—the first interview with Mick Andreas, the delay as he waited for Whitacre that same night, the Fujiwara allegations.

  “Of course,’’ Shepard said, “nothing came from the Fujiwara investigation.’’

  Lassar shrugged. “Well, that was just part of Whitacre’s fraud,’’ he said simply.

  What? The words hit the agents hard.

  “What are you talking about, Scott?’’ Herndon said.

  “That whole Fujiwara episode was part of Whitacre’s fraud,’’ Lassar repeated. “Think about it. He’s telling ADM there’s a saboteur who can be stopped if they pay millions of dollars, wired to Swiss and Cayman Islands accounts.’’

  Lassar looked from Herndon to Shepard.

  “There’s only one person we know of who had accounts there. It was Whitacre. He was trying to steal the money.’’

  The agents were shaken.

  “Wait,’’ Herndon said. “That makes no sense. This isn’t like the other frauds. It doesn’t involve invoices.’’

  “Yeah, Scott, I don’t know,’’ Shepard said. “He did nothing else like this.’’

  Lassar held up his hands. “Guys, we’ve all got to be on the same page. One big question in this hearing is going to be what Fujiwara was all about. What other explanation is there? Who was going to get that money?’’

  “But Scott,’’ Herndon said, “ADM isn’t going to hand Whitacre ten million dollars and say, ‘Drop it off with the extortionist. See you at work tomorrow.’ That money isn’t going to go out the door easily. They’d trace it.’’

  “No, they wouldn’t,’’ Lassar replied. “It was going to Swiss and Caymans accounts. They’d never figure it out.’’
>
  Shepard shook his head. “I don’t agree with this.’’

  “Yeah, Scott,’’ Herndon said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But I’m not going to be able to testify to that. We don’t have any evidence to prove that.’’

  Shepard and Herndon left the meeting unconvinced, even a little angry. The idea required them to readjust everything that they had believed about the investigation.

  But over time, logic overpowered their emotional resistance. Lassar’s theory explained so much—why Whitacre had been so nervous in the first days, why he had stressed that the price-fixing was more important than the Fujiwara threats, why he had been so volatile.

  The agents had always thought that Harvest King had, indirectly, led to the discovery of Whitacre’s frauds. But eventually, they understood that the opposite was also probably true: The frauds had indirectly led to the FBI’s discovery of price-fixing.

  By the fall of 1997, the fraud investigation was effectively finished. The FBI and the prosecutors had interviewed scores of witnesses, hunted the Caymans for records, and reviewed thousands of documents.

  Most of Whitacre’s stories were chased down, but invariably, the person portrayed as the source of the rumor told a markedly different version. While ADM’s financial controls were clearly slipshod, nothing had emerged to prove the existence of a corporate-wide fraud scheme.

  Even though he was the last main witness to speak with the government, Marty Allison was granted the first plea bargain. He was charged with one count of conspiracy, signing the agreement a month after his critical interview. In consideration of his cooperation, he received no jail.

  A grand jury indicted Reinhart Richter, but the charges remained under seal for many months. During that time, he met with the FBI again to clarify a few issues. He had never heard of an illegal bonus plan while working at ADM, he said; the money sent to him was used solely for recouping Nigerian losses. He also told investigators that he had partially misled them about the $425,000 check he had received from Whitacre—a portion of that was accrued salary that Whitacre had withheld from him. Eventually, Richter pleaded guilty to two conspiracy counts, but also received no prison time because of his cooperation.