Informant (10 page)

But Brian Shepard was a good investigator, and in this case, he was the best person for the job. Finding agents to handle the normal Decatur caseload would be easy; finding someone who knew the community as well as Shepard would not. Already, Whitacre had trusted Shepard enough to open up. Changing agents now might cause their new cooperator to shut down.

Hoyt leaned in on his chair. “Brian, you are simply the most knowledgeable person in the FBI about ADM,’’ he said. “That is a tremendous resource. We can’t waste it. We have the full trust in you that you can do this investigation. And you won’t be alone. There is no individual or company that is bigger than the FBI. We will stand behind you one hundred percent.’’

Shepard nodded. He wasn’t comfortable, but knew that as long as he had the Bureau’s backing, he would probably get whatever support he needed. He was not alone; his ASAC had now made it clear that the resources of the government were standing behind him.

Over time, that would prove optimistic.

“We don’t want the FBI going through all of ADM’s closets.’’

As he said the words, Mark Cheviron stared across Stukey’s office, into the eyes of the Springfield SAC. The meeting between the Springfield supervisors and ADM’s security chief had begun at 2:30 that afternoon. With every statement he made, Cheviron made clear ADM’s concerns about the investigation. In part, he said, that stemmed from the fallout after the sting operation at the commodities exchanges a few years before.

“Our reputation suffered because of that, and that has made us very reluctant to cooperate with the FBI,’’ he explained. “Our reputation is more important to us than a couple-of-million-dollar extortion.’’

ADM wanted limits on the investigation, Cheviron said. Without them, the company might not cooperate.

“Dwayne Andreas is concerned about the FBI going off and investigating high-level ADM executives. We’re also not sure we want to cooperate to the extent of allowing you to monitor our phone calls.’’

The agents listened carefully. With the information from Whitacre, they knew that this conversation could have hidden meanings. Sure, ADM might not want the FBI eavesdropping on its business. But maybe the truth was that the company was afraid its price-fixing and other conspiracies might be overheard.

Stukey assured Cheviron that the only phone being monitored by the FBI was Whitacre’s off-premises extension—the OPX line. Cheviron nodded.

“Now, I believe what Whitacre’s said about Fujiwara,’’ Cheviron said amiably. “But you have to understand, Whitacre is a young Ph.D. who’s paranoid. All this has an effect on him.’’

Cheviron looked at the agents around the room. “Our bottom line is, we have a business to run. We don’t want our executives getting caught up in this to the extent that they can’t do their jobs. That would not be worth our continued assistance. So, for us to keep helping, we need to know what’s going on.’’

Stukey’s response was the model of politeness.

“We appreciate your concerns, but please understand that we don’t need a complainant to pursue this,’’ he said. “If we have knowledge of a crime, it’s the FBI’s responsibility to pursue an investigation whether we have the cooperation of a complainant or not. Now, we will keep you advised of what is happening as much as possible, but there will be certain things that cannot be disclosed to you.’’

The conversation moved to the next stage of the Fujiwara in-vestigation. Kevin Corr handed Cheviron a rough draft of a con-tract between ADM and the FBI. It said that the FBI would provide $3 million to ADM to use in the Fujiwara sting. If the money was not recovered within twelve hours, ADM would reimburse the government. Cheviron said the contract needed to be reviewed by ADM lawyers; they would come back with a response.

The meeting ended. Cheviron stood to shake hands, all smiles and pleasantries. The message he was conveying was simple: He understood law enforcement. He was a former cop. Maybe they differed on this investigation, but beneath it all, they were the same.

Stukey escorted Cheviron to the front lobby. Smiling, the SAC pushed open one of the glass doors. In a moment, Cheviron was on an elevator, heading down to the street.

Shepard gathered his notes from the meeting. Stukey wanted Cheviron’s statements written up in a 302 while memories were fresh. He knew that someone might have to testify someday about everything the ADM security chief had just said.

Just back from North Carolina, Whitacre walked into his office that afternoon and headed for the phone to check his messages. He picked up the receiver and dialed into the company voice-mail system.

Among the first messages was one from Ginger, asking him to call. She rarely phoned the office unless something important was going on. Whitacre felt a rush of anxiety.

What’s happening now?

He clicked off the line and dialed home.

Cheviron had been back at his desk for less than an hour when Whitacre burst in.

“You told me they were only going to tap one line!’’ Whitacre exploded.

Cheviron didn’t need any explanation. He knew Whitacre was talking about the FBI.

“They
are
only monitoring one line, Mark.’’

“That’s not true. That’s not true. I just talked to Ginger. She got a call from some woman named Regina at the Inland Telephone Company. She told her both of our lines are tapped. They’ve tapped my home phone.’’

Cheviron stared at Whitacre. This was ridiculous. The phone company was not about to start calling people with word that the FBI was tapping their lines.

“Mark, that’s not possible. I just came back from meeting the FBI. We talked about this. They assured me that they were only monitoring the OPX line.’’

“That’s not true! Why would this Regina say they’re tapping both lines unless it was true?’’

Cheviron was enraged. He was sick of Whitacre’s antics. He had no doubt the man was lying, just as he had with the story about his daughter. He let Whitacre know that he didn’t believe a word.

“Then call my wife!’’ Whitacre shouted. “She’ll tell you what happened. Or call Regina at the Inland Telephone Company. Ask her what she told my wife.’’

Cheviron looked up at Whitacre impassively. “Fine, Mark. I will.’’

For an instant, Cheviron just stared at Whitacre, saying nothing. Whitacre turned and stalked out.

Whitacre’s latest story crackled through the senior reaches of ADM within the hour. But most everyone who heard it was concerned, not dismissive. Soon, Cheviron was meeting with Reising and Whitacre. The general counsel wanted to know what was going on.

“This is impossible,’’ Cheviron protested. “I just met with the Springfield SAC. He told me only one line—the OPX line—was being monitored.’’

Cheviron had firmly planted himself on dangerous ground. Regardless of what he thought of Whitacre, the man outranked him. He ran one of ADM’s most important divisions. And here he was, the head of corporate security, telling top management that their wonder boy was a liar—all on the say-so of Don Stukey. By the time he returned to his office, Cheviron had decided that he had to check out this new story. He looked up Whitacre’s home phone number and called Ginger.

“Hi, this is Mark Cheviron at ADM,’’ he said. “Your husband came by earlier to tell me about a telephone call you received. I was wondering if you could tell me who called.’’

“It was an employee of the Inland Telephone Company. She identified herself as Regina.’’

A flicker of hesitation.

“What did she want?’’

“She said that it was the company’s responsibility to let us know that some sort of device had been placed on our phone line.’’

Cheviron asked a few questions before hanging up. Ginger’s story seemed to match Mark’s. Still, Cheviron had trouble believing it. It didn’t make any sense. Why would the phone company place such a call?

And if it was true, why had the FBI lied to him?

That evening, Shepard drove back to Whitacre’s house. The night before, Whitacre had been petrified about returning to work, concerned that everyone would know what he had told. Shepard wanted to review Whitacre’s day and make sure he was calm. It was important for him to know that he was not alone.

Whitacre came outside as Shepard pulled up. He was composed; it seemed as if opening up the night before had allowed his anxiety to slip away. Now, he was not as concerned about listening devices in the house and agreed to speak with Shepard in an eight-sided room near the outdoor pool. It was immense, filled with furniture, a piano, and a fireplace. Long ago, Whitacre said, the room had been a barn.

The relaxed atmosphere made it easier on both men. With his notepad out, Shepard asked Whitacre about his day. Whitacre described his morning call to Cheviron and the subsequent trip to North Carolina with Randall. He mentioned working with Reising to finalize the contract with the Swedish company ABP International. And he brought up the call his wife had received from Regina with the phone company.

“She told Ginger that my home telephone line was tapped or taped,’’ Whitacre said.

Shepard wrote down the words, surprised. The FBI
had
placed “trap and trace” devices and “pen registers’’ on both lines at Whitacre’s home. The devices would record the date, time, and number for every outgoing and incoming call, but the FBI couldn’t listen in. Later, Shepard spoke with Ginger and straightened out the story. She had received the call but had misunderstood the devices to be wiretaps. Still, the phone company never should have said anything. If Whitacre had been under investigation, a slipup like that could have undermined an entire case.

Regardless, Whitacre’s reaction had been just right. No one would suspect he was helping the FBI at the same time that he was complaining about the Bureau’s investigation.

Before the interview ended, Whitacre said there was something else he wanted to discuss.

“After the evening when you first interviewed me, I called Cheviron at his home,’’ he explained. “I told him that my daughter had received a telephone call at Culver Military Academy.’’

For the next few minutes, Whitacre recounted his conversation with Cheviron. Then he described the meeting the next morning with Cheviron and Reising.

“Cheviron asked me if the story about my daughter was true,’’ he said. “I admitted it wasn’t.’’

Shepard didn’t press Whitacre on what he had been thinking, on why he had told the lie. He had enough experience as an investigator to know that cooperating witnesses do odd things. Being caught up in crimes while speaking with an FBI agent can throw people off. Pushing a witness about a lie or a strange decision can strain a developing relationship.

Still, as he pulled out of the driveway later that night, Shepard could not shake an uncomfortable feeling about the daughter story. It was all very confusing to him. Very confusing.

Two nights later, on November 8, Dean Paisley slipped into the passenger seat of Shepard’s car for a trip to Moweaqua. This Sunday night would be the first chance for someone besides Shepard to size up Whitacre—to figure out his motivation for talking and to see how far he might be willing to go in his cooperation.

The two agents pulled into the driveway just after eight o’clock. Whitacre emerged at the front door, bubbly and excited, insisting that Paisley call him “Mark.’’ He gave the agents the grand tour of the house. He took them through both of his garages, showing off his many cars. In the six-car garage, Whitacre stopped next to a red Ferrari and put his hand on it.

“I bought this one not too long ago,’’ he said. “In fact, I bought it used from Jim Randall, the president of ADM. He gave me a good price.’’

Paisley and Shepard both chimed in with praise for the cars and the huge garage. The compliments continued as Whitacre escorted them through the rest of house, toward the room off the pool. Whitacre described the mansion’s past, again relating how Dwayne Andreas had once owned it. Paisley, intrigued, asked a number of questions about the history and architecture of the place.

Shepard stayed in the background, letting Paisley set the pace. But at one point, he decided to get to work. Earlier, he had asked Whitacre to bring the business cards of lysine competitors who had attended price-fixing meetings. Shepard interrupted and asked if he had remembered them. Whitacre smiled and reached for his briefcase, taking out a small brown notebook.

“They’re in here,’’ Whitacre said as he handed the notebook to Shepard.

Shepard took the notebook to a nearby couch. Flipping through the pages, he saw mostly Japanese and Korean names. He began writing down the information.

Paisley and Whitacre stood by the sliding glass doors that led to the pool. Outside, bright spotlights glowed across the property, giving it a look of ethereal elegance. The lush yard was perfectly manicured. Even in the fall, not a leaf was out of place. The atmosphere was calming, conducive to conversation. It was having its effect on Whitacre. Somehow, it was comforting to know that an FBI supervisor had come. He felt like they were sending a message that the FBI was looking out for him.

As the two men gazed out across the yard, Paisley veered the discussion toward the investigation.

“Well, I’ve heard about these things that you told Brian the other night,’’ Paisley said. “We appreciate your assistance and your openness. We’ve got a few questions for you tonight. Some might seem repetitive. We want to make sure we fully understand and make a good record of what you’re telling us.’’

“I understand,’’ Whitacre said. “That’s fine.’’

The ensuing conversation was free-flowing. Sometimes they sat; sometimes they paced. But over time, Whitacre described a series of crimes.

“Until last April, I really had no contact with the business end of ADM,’’ he said. “My only concerns were in the technical aspects of lysine production and other activities like that. But in April, I got called into a meeting by Mick Andreas. He told me then that I was going to be working with Terry Wilson.’’

Whitacre said the news had angered him. Wilson ran corn processing and knew nothing about lysine. As far as Whitacre was concerned, Wilson was a poorly educated boor, a man who only liked to drink, curse, and golf. Whitacre had complained, but Mick had told him that this was his chance to learn how ADM did business.