Informant (61 page)

The presentation ended. Beattie smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. And then he laughed out loud.

Before taking his seat, Whitacre glanced around the Chinese restaurant in downtown Ithaca, New York. He looked at the two men accompanying him, telling them that he needed to sit facing the door. With everything that was happening with ADM, Whitacre said, he had to be prepared for anything.

The two men, Dr. Colin Campbell and his son, Nelson, nodded appreciatively. Dr. Campbell, a professor at Cornell University, had served more than a decade before on Whitacre’s doctoral thesis committee.

Their dinner this night had come about through serendipity. A few weeks before, Dr. Campbell had been contacted by Sharon Walsh of the
Washington Post
as she was preparing her article about Whitacre’s background. The reporter’s questions had raised his curiosity, and Dr. Campbell had decided to reach out to his former student.

As he spoke with Whitacre, Dr. Campbell was struck with an idea. He and his son were operating a small start-up company, which was working on a system to identify predictors of disease in human blood. But neither man had much business experience. And now, this former ADM executive—a man who had fought to do the right thing—was available. It seemed a perfect match, and Dr. Campbell had invited Whitacre to Ithaca to discuss the idea.

Just the first few minutes of their dinner at the Chinese restaurant left the Campbells awed at the events swirling around Whitacre. He declined their offers to meet other Cornell professors; better, he said, to keep a low profile.

As they enjoyed their meal, Whitacre said that ADM was out to get him for something he hadn’t done, and explained the circumstances surrounding his suicide attempt.

By the end of the meal, the Campbells were a little frightened, but also excited. Whitacre seemed to have great ideas. If he could run ADM’s giant Bioproducts Division, he certainly could handle their tiny company, which would soon be christened Future Health Technologies. Enthralled, they offered him the job of chief executive.

Whitacre’s first day would be October 1. He would open offices for the company just outside Chicago.

Tired from his travels, Reinhart Richter sat at the dining table in the Whitacres’ kitchen in their new suburban Chicago home. Richter had not flown home since his meeting with Williams & Connolly. Even though his lawyer had told Richter to stay away from Whitacre, he could not resist visiting his old friend.

So far, the visit had been odd. Whitacre had picked up Richter at O’Hare Airport that afternoon and then stopped on the way home for a psychiatrist’s appointment. Richter had puttered around the waiting room until Whitacre emerged.

Sometime later, after they settled at the family’s kitchen table, Whitacre pulled out a slip of paper.

“Listen, I’ve got what I promised,’’ he said, passing the paper to Richter.

Richter glanced down. It was a check for $425,000 written to him on a Swiss bank account, one of the three checks that Daniel Briel had sent weeks before through Mike Gilbert, Whitacre’s brother-in-law in Ohio. Richter felt elated; he had begun to worry that he would never see this money.

“Thank you, Mark,’’ he said. The two men always spoke in English; Richter thought Whitacre’s German was poor.

“Hey, I promised,’’ Whitacre said. “But it’s getting hard. ADM’s trying to freeze my account in Switzerland.’’

The conversation continued on for some time. Whitacre mentioned how he had been pursued by ADM. Mick Andreas himself had called, Whitacre said, threatening to kill him if he disclosed the company’s other dirty secrets. As Richter listened, the questions in his mind became overwhelming. He decided to broach one, about a lie that Whitacre had told him personally.

“Mark,’’ he said softly, “what about this story of the adoption? Why did you come up with it?’’

Whitacre waved his hand dismissively. “I had my reasons,’’ he said. “It’s not important, anyway.’’

On September 21, Jim Epstein called Agent Bassett with interesting news. Whitacre had spoken several times with Reinhart Richter. And Whitacre was telling Epstein that Richter was backing up his story.

Richter had been interviewed by ADM about the diversion of almost $200,000, Epstein said.

“Mark told me that Richter indicated to the lawyers he had obtained the money with the full knowledge and approval of Jim Randall, ADM’s president,’’ Epstein continued. “The ADM lawyer asked Richter to drop Randall from the story.’’

But when Richter refused, he was placed on leave. “Mark says that Richter believes that happened because he wouldn’t change his story.’’

Richter could also back up other information, Epstein added. Richter had been present two years before when Whitacre had spoken with Howard Buffett about the offshore payments received by many ADM executives. Whitacre was saying that Richter was also present when Dwayne Andreas offered a Mexican politician a two-million-dollar bribe.

“There was one other thing,’’ Epstein said. “Mark says that Richter heard Randall offer four million dollars to Dr. Chris Jones of Kronos, so that he would leave the company and start a methionine plant for ADM in Mexico.’’

Bassett wrote that down, not quite familiar with the name. He didn’t immediately realize that Jones was the central player in the methionine criminal investigation being handled in Mobile.

For more than a week, the antitrust prosecutors were finally feeling optimistic. A plea deal with Terry Wilson seemed imminent. To move it along, they had allowed Wilson’s lawyer, Reid Weingarten, to review videotapes. He seemed impressed, particularly with the Hawaii tape.

Cooperation from Terry Wilson would change everything. He could probably testify about price-fixing in other products; he could even serve as the prime witness in the lysine case if Whitacre’s frauds proved fatally damaging.

But on September 27, the bubble burst. Weingarten informed prosecutors that his client might take a plea in a normal case—but this was not a normal case. Wilson was fiercely dedicated to the Andreases and would never turn on that family. Wilson also had a son who was very sick, who needed him. The Andreases had been very supportive of Wilson and his family. He owed them. Put simply, Wilson loved ADM and wanted the company to win.

Mann accused Weingarten of tricking the prosecutors into showing him the tapes when no deal was possible. But Weingarten dismissed that, saying he had acted in good faith. Still, the prosecutors had their answer. The only way Terry Wilson would be testifying in this case was if he chose to do so—as a defendant.

In Hunt Valley, Maryland, David Page pushed through the glass door at the front of a Marriott Hotel. He followed the prearranged instructions, and in no time located Laurie Fulton and Bill Murray, the two lawyers from Williams & Connolly who had come to town to speak with him.

As he met the lawyers, Page exuded confidence. Even though he had been hired at ADM while continuing to work at another company, Page believed he and Whitacre had been clever. No one would figure out what they had done.

The lawyers asked a few opening questions. What, specifically, had been Page’s responsibilities at ADM?

Page smiled. And then he lied and lied.

Early on the morning of October 10, Bassett and D’Angelo drove from downtown Chicago to Prospect Heights, a suburban town that is home to Household International. The agents found the finance company and parked in the lot. They walked to the building, knowing the next few minutes were sure to be interesting. Ron Ferrari, the person they had come to interview, had no idea the FBI was on the way.

The list of easy interviews in the case had rapidly dwindled to Ferrari, the former San Francisco 49er who was Whitacre’s friend. Richter and Schweizer were out of the country, and Allison had already retained a lawyer. That left Ferrari as the last person mentioned in Whitacre’s interview who could still be confronted without hassles.

Inside, the agents asked a receptionist for Ferrari.

“We’re here to see him about a confidential matter,’’ Bassett said.

A few minutes later, Ferrari showed up in the waiting area, looking nervous as the agents identified themselves.

“Oh,’’ he said anxiously, “I’m surprised you guys came to see me already.’’

Interesting. Apparently, at some level, Ferrari expected them. He showed the agents to a private room.

“We want to talk to you about Mark Whitacre from ADM,’’ Bassett said. “We’re just here to get at the truth on this. We’re hearing a lot of different things from different people. And we want to give you an opportunity to tell your side of the story.’’

Ferrari nodded. “Okay.’’

“First,’’ Bassett said, “why don’t you give us your background.’’

For several minutes, Ferrari told the agents about his education and profession. The story jumped around, with Ferrari repeatedly mentioning that he had “played ball.’’ Whitacre never mentioned the professional football, so the agents had no idea what Ferrari was talking about.

“Yeah, I was a farm boy,’’ Ferrari said at one point. “And I probably got my job at ADM because I played ball.’’

That’s something like four times,
D’Angelo thought. “Where’d you play baseball?’’ he asked.

“Uh, no, football,’’ Ferrari responded. “I played with the San Francisco Forty-niners from 1982 through 1987.’’

The agents gave Ferrari the once-over. He didn’t
look
like a football player.

“Yeah, I’m really lucky,’’ Ferrari said, as if he had read the agents’ minds. “I wasn’t that great a player, but I got to play six years with the Forty-niners, and they won a Super Bowl championship. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’’

Ferrari’s story continued to circle around. The agents were pleased; people
this
nervous tended to make mistakes. Soon, a new phrase took the place of “played ball,’’ as Ferrari repeatedly mentioned how he had “talked to Joe.’’ The agents let it go the first few times without comment.

“You know, before I went to ADM, I always wondered what I would do in life,’’ Ferrari said later. “And so I talked to Joe, and he gave me a lot of advice.’’

D’Angelo held up a hand. “Who’s this ‘Joe’?”

Ferrari blinked. Joe Montana, he said. The famous 49ers quarterback.

The agents nodded. As best they could figure, Ferrari was trying to impress them with casual references to having “played ball” and “talked to Joe.’’ It wasn’t working.

The conversation steered to Ferrari’s friendship with Whitacre. The two joined ADM at about the same time, working in different divisions. Whitacre was higher on the corporate ladder, but they had become good friends.

“Did you ever have any business deals with Whitacre?’’ Bassett asked.

Ferrari shook his head. “No, never.’’

The agents let a moment pass. They had seen the paperwork showing Ferrari had done a deal with Whitacre involving a company called Far East Specialists, or FES.

Bassett leaned in. “Did you ever have a company called FES?’’ he asked.

Ferrari’s face flushed with shock. “Yes,’’ he said softly.

Under questioning, Ferrari gradually described the formation of FES. He had joined another company after ADM but decided to simultaneously use his skills in international marketing to find consulting work with Asian companies. So he had incorporated FES.

“How did you get that done?’’ D’Angelo asked.

“I saw an ad in an airline magazine that specialized in forming companies in Delaware. I don’t remember the name of it. Maybe the Corporation Company?’’

After a few other questions, Bassett tried to determine how real FES had been.

“Did FES have any officers or directors?’’

“No, just me.’’

“Did you rent office space or hire any employees?’’

Ferrari shook his head.

“Print any business cards or any stationery?’’

“Umm, no, I don’t believe so.’’

The agents let a few seconds pass. They had some FES stationery in a briefcase.

“Did you do
anything
with this business?’’ D’Angelo asked.

“Well, I traveled to Hong Kong to make a presentation to a foreign distributor.’’

“How did you first meet him?’’ Bassett asked.

“I don’t remember.’’

“Pick his name out of a phone book, or what?’’ D’Angelo asked.

“We corresponded by mail and arranged a meeting.’’

The agents said nothing. Ferrari’s story, of course, meant there were no phone records to prove any of this.

“What was the distributor’s name?’’ D’Angelo asked.

“I really don’t remember.’’

“Name of his company?’’

Ferrari paused. “Sorry, I don’t remember that, either.’’

Sounds like a really active company,
D’Angelo thought.

“I might be able to find his card, or maybe the letters we wrote,’’ Ferrari said.

Bassett removed a letter written on FES stationery from a briefcase. It had been used in support of a bogus invoice of $1.5 million to ADM.

“Do you recognize that stationery?’’

Ferrari appeared even more nervous. “This isn’t mine,’’ he said. “We never did this kind of business.’’

The records referred to a Hong Kong bank account. Did Ferrari know it?

“Yeah, that’s my account,’’ he said. “I opened an FES account at the Swiss Bank Corporation while I was in Hong Kong for that meeting.’’

Again, Swiss Bank Corporation.
Did everyone have an account there?

“Why Swiss Bank Corporation?’’ D’Angelo asked.

“It was in the same building where I had my meeting.’’

The agents barraged him with questions. Did he make an initial deposit? Did he receive bank statements? Did he open an American account? Each time, Ferrari answered no.

“I mean, it really didn’t do any business,’’ Ferrari said. “I just opened the account because I thought I might need it. But we didn’t do any commission work.’’

“What did you do?’’

“Well, I had some leads and put together proposals.’’

“Can you get us copies of those?’’

“Sure, I’ll try.’’

The agents paused. “And no money ever went through the Hong Kong account?’’

“No,’’ Ferrari said. “Except for that $1.5 million you have on those papers there. That was the money Mark wired into the account.’’