Informant (14 page)

Whitacre sighed. He was standing at a pay telephone in the offices of Coors Brewing Company in Golden, Colorado, where he had traveled that day to negotiate a possible business deal. He had enjoyed the day—it had been all business, not law enforcement. But then he had checked his messages and heard Shepard’s pager. The guy was like a dog with a bone.

“Well, Brian, I don’t know how much I’m going to be able to help,’’ Whitacre said. “I’ve been talking with Ginger, and we’ve decided that I should try and get a transfer to Mexico. And if I don’t get the transfer, then I’m just going to quit the company.’’

“Okay, Mark,’’ Shepard said. “But what does getting a transfer to Mexico accomplish?’’

Whitacre was breathing heavily. Clearly, he wanted Shepard to go away and was thrashing about for any excuse to get that done.

“I’m going to contact an attorney,’’ Whitacre hissed. “You guys are destroying my family.’’

“Who is, Mark?’’

“The FBI.’’

“What do you mean?’’

“The way you’re treating me is unfair. I’ve been honest with you, and I’ve told you everything I know.’’

Shepard started to speak, but Whitacre interrupted him.

“I’m out here at a business meeting, a legitimate business meeting,’’ he said. “You guys have got to realize that I’ve got a business to run and I just can’t be working with you all the time.’’

“I know that, Mark, and that’s something that we need to talk about,’’ Shepard said, sounding calm.

Whitacre interrupted again.

“You guys don’t care who you hurt. You’re going to hurt me, and you’re going to hurt Mick Andreas and a lot of other innocent people.’’

Shepard, who had started jotting down some notes, wrote the word
innocent.

“I just did what I was told to do,’’ Whitacre continued. “And I’ll bet if I talked to an attorney, he would tell me I didn’t have to talk to you anymore. All I’m going to do is go back and do business the right way. That’s all I care about.’’

“Mark, that may be what you want to do,’’ Shepard said. “But you know you’re just going to get dragged back into the price-fixing.’’

“No, I’m not. Everything’s changing, like I told you. The FBI being around reminded us that we can’t be running the company with the kind of maneuvers and tactics that we’ve used in the past. It’s a different attitude; it’s a different approach.’’

“Mark, you know they aren’t changing everything from what it was just a week ago. The company’s not going to change overnight. You’re just saying this because you want us to go away.’’

“No, you’re wrong. The price-fixing is stopping. Definitely. We’re even going to be dropping lysine prices, so we can do business the right way. And I can tell you, when we do that, all the competitors are going to be upset, especially the Japanese. There’s not going to be any more price-fixing.’’

“What about other divisions? What about the other things you know are going on there?’’

“I don’t know anything about how other divisions handle their business. I don’t know anything.’’

Now Whitacre was contradicting himself again. A week before he had told Shepard and Paisley about possible price-fixing by corn refiners. Suddenly, he knew nothing about it. Shepard decided to press him.

“Mark,’’ he said. “You’ve already told us a lot of things. You’ve told us about problems in other divisions. You know more than you’re saying now.’’

Then he closed his eyes, seething.

“Look,’’ he said. “I don’t know anything else. And I don’t want anything more to do with the FBI.’’

Then he hung up the phone.

He stood by the pay phone, shaking. Everything was getting away from him. He never imagined that the FBI would latch onto him like this. What did they want from him? For God’s sake, he didn’t want to become some professional FBI agent. He wanted to get back to his job. He gave them the tape. He’d done enough.

Why can’t Shepard just leave me alone?

On the third floor of an anonymous-looking office building in downtown Springfield, a forty-year-old federal prosecutor named Byron Cudmore was reviewing records from a criminal case. As First Assistant to the United States Attorney for central Illinois, Cudmore saw most of the paperwork from the big criminal cases in that part of the state—and generated a good deal of it himself.

To keep the heavy document traffic under control, more than half a dozen oak filing cabinets lined his office, each brimming with burgundy accordion folders. Everything about the room was meticulous. Cudmore himself, dressed as always in a starched white shirt and dark suit, had no tolerance for untidy desks or untidy minds. The law-enforcement agents who worked with Cudmore knew to come prepared if they wanted his help or counsel. The athletic prosecutor was all business, with little time for pleasantries or idle chat. Even defendants called him “Stone Face.’’

One of his lines rang, and Cudmore kept an eye on the extension light as his secretary answered. The light began blinking, and she buzzed Cudmore. Brian Shepard from the FBI was on the line.

“I’ll take it,’’ he said.

Before answering, Cudmore slid his rolling chair toward one of the filing cabinets and opened a drawer, removing the folder for the ADM investigation. The case had landed on his desk weeks before, the day after Whitacre first told Shepard about price-fixing. Since then, Cudmore had served as something of a shadow agent, providing input whenever Shepard needed it. Cudmore had worked with Shepard before and respected him; besides being hardworking, the agent always kept his appointments. He felt sure that if Shepard was calling, something important was up.

Cudmore placed the file on his desk, brought out a notepad, and wrote down the date. Prepared, he pushed the blinking light on his phone.

“Brian, this is Byron. What do you need?’’

“We’re having some trouble. The source is getting hinky. He’s going all over the chart.’’

Cudmore was not surprised. Cooperating witnesses, he knew, usually get very shaky in the early days. Most start dealing with the government without understanding the terms: Cooperation is total immersion, all or nothing. Those who try to limit the details they share with law enforcement are playing a very risky game, one that can result in their being transformed in a flash from witness to defendant.

In this case, Cudmore already knew from Shepard that Whitacre was an intelligent, high-strung person. It was hard to tell if the problems described by Shepard were the result of connivance or Whitacre’s own emotional volatility.

“Well, maybe that’s just the way he is,’’ Cudmore said. “But maybe there’s more that he’s hiding.’’

There were other concerns, Shepard said. The Fujiwara case was still the primary investigation. But Whitacre had yet to tape any calls with the Japanese executive. He had offered excuses—Fujiwara had developed cold feet; Cheviron had forced him to forward calls from his home line with the recorder onto the ADM off-premises extension. But the stories struck Shepard as illogical. On top of that, even though Whitacre had been trained days ago to use a body recorder, not a single tape had come in from ADM. It was frustrating.

“Any suggestions?” Shepard asked.

“Yeah. Maybe back off him a little bit, see what happens. But if things don’t straighten out, tell it like it is. Let him know he can’t have it both ways.’’

Cudmore held the receiver close.

“He can be a witness or he can be a target,’’ he said. “It’s his choice.’’

Whitacre closed the door to his office and walked over to his desk. He needed to talk to somebody, somebody he could trust.

He dialed the Atlanta sales office. He didn’t need to look up the number; he knew it by heart. The executive who ran the office, Sid Hulse, was his top lysine salesman and a good friend. Whitacre called Hulse many times a day—to talk business, to discuss personal finances, or just to shoot the breeze.

Karen Sterling, an assistant to Hulse, answered.

“ADM Atlanta.’’

“Yeah, hey, it’s Mark.’’

“Just a moment. I’ll get him.’’

Sterling put the call on hold and turned toward her boss. Even though she had been working for Hulse only a few months, she felt petrified of him. He was physically and emotionally intimidating; she found his sexual harassment to be unrelenting. Unknown to Hulse, Sterling had begun carrying a loaded gun to protect herself from him.

“Sid,’’ she called tentatively. “It’s Mark.’’

Hulse grabbed the phone.

“Hey,’’ he said. “What’s up?”

“Got some problems, bud,’’ Whitacre said. “Got some things happening I wanted to talk to you about.’’

Hulse asked what was wrong.

“You know we’ve been having trouble in the plant,’’ Whitacre said. “Well, it ends up we might have somebody inside who’s sabotaging the place. Dwayne called in the FBI. They’re investigating.’’

Hulse didn’t think this sounded too bad. “Well, they’ll probably get to the bottom of the problem.’’

“But that’s not all, bud. There’s other things going on here. We’ve been fixing prices for lysine.”

For a few minutes, Whitacre described the price-fixing. For all his calls to Hulse, this was the first time he had told his friend about the illegal scheme.

“So, what, you think the FBI’s gonna find out about that?’’ Hulse said.

Whitacre paused. “They already know,’’ he said. “I told them.’’

“What?’’

“Yeah, that’s my problem. I told them about it. Now they want me to help them investigate it.’’

Hulse didn’t know what to say.

“I’m in turmoil over this,’’ Whitacre said. “I didn’t know what to do, so I thought I’d call you to talk it over. I knew you wouldn’t say anything.’’

The two men hashed through Whitacre’s options. Nothing sounded good.

“This just isn’t fair, being placed in the middle of all this,’’ Whitacre said. “I mean, I don’t want to fix prices. But I don’t want to lose my job, either.’’

As he spoke, Whitacre’s distress grew. “I don’t know, Sid,’’ he said. “Where do I turn?’’

Hulse listened to his friend’s concerns but said little. He had no idea how to clean up this mess.

•   •   •

The blue waters of Camelback Lake were still and calm in the afternoon air. Usually, the forty-four-acre lake in Scottsdale, Arizona, was alive with motion, as windsurfers skimmed past brightly colored sailboats. But the approaching winter brought a chill this day, November 18, 1992. With the water too cold for swimming, the adventurous played golf instead on one of the championship courses of the lakeside resort, the Regal McCormick Ranch.

Whitacre glanced across the lake from a table at the Piñon Grill, an award-winning restaurant at the resort. He had just arrived in Scottsdale for an industry meeting and was eating lunch with executives from a food company. The talk was casual, the atmosphere relaxing. Whitacre felt calm and happy.

Lunch came to an end. Whitacre said his good-byes to his luncheon companions and wandered out of the restaurant to the hotel lobby. Ahead, he saw a bank of pay phones; he hadn’t checked his voice mail for more than an hour. He called in and found that several messages were waiting. He had just finished deleting one message, and pushed zero to hear the next.

Beep. Beep.

Whitacre quickly deleted Shepard’s pager tone and slammed down the receiver. He couldn’t take the tension anymore. Something had to make this come to an end. He picked up the receiver again and called the Decatur Resident Agency. It rang just a few times.

“FBI.’’ Shepard, as always, answered the phone.

“It’s Mark,’’ Whitacre said sharply.

Whitacre said incorrectly that he was calling from Phoenix—the city where his plane had landed that morning. Shepard asked about meeting again.

“Look, I’m here on business; I’ve got a lot of work to do,’’ Whitacre said. “I’m really having trouble with all this. I’ve really been very distraught and working under a lot of pressure for the last couple of weeks.’’

“Why? What’s going on?’’

“Everybody’s turning against me.’’

“Who?’’

“Everybody. My superiors at ADM. They’re all denying any knowledge of wrongdoing. Everything’s against me.’’

Shepard asked a few more questions, trying to soothe his witness. But Whitacre wouldn’t listen.

“You know, I’m a biochemist,’’ Whitacre said. “I have access to lots of biochemical books. And I’ve taken a bunch of them home so I can research the lethal doses for a bunch of different chemicals.’’

Shepard paused. “Why would you do that, Mark?’’

“Because I’m considering committing suicide,’’ he said, his voice choking. “I’ve been an upbeat person my whole life, but not now. Not now. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been very depressed.’’

The words flowed out as Whitacre grabbed at everything. Something, he thought, would make Shepard back off. But Shepard didn’t believe a word.

“Mark, you know you’re not serious,’’ he said evenly. “You’re not going to commit suicide. You’re just upset, and you’re trying to get away from this.’’

“Brian, I can’t keep living two lives. I mean, when does it end?’’

“It ends after you help us. Look, right now we need your help, and you’re the only one who can do it. It’s the right thing to work with us. But we’re going to keep investigating, whether you help or not. That’s the way it is. And if you’re not helping us, if you’re not with us, then you could end up a defendant.’’

Shepard paused to allow his statement to sink in.

“Now, you’re telling me people are denying knowledge of wrong-doing,’’ he said. “I gave you a tape recorder. Where’s the tape of that conversation?’’

Whitacre glanced around the lobby.

“I didn’t make it.’’

“Why not?’’

“If I record any conversations with my bosses, all it would do is implicate me. I mean, they could make me the fall guy. It’s me against the Andreas family, and I don’t see any way I can win that.’’

“Mark, you’re not alone in this. We—”

“It would never work,’’ Whitacre interrupted.

“Mark—”

“I talked to a friend of mine. He’s twenty years older than me, but he’s a high-level guy, president of a company outside Illinois. He knows the Andreases, and doesn’t like them. I told him about this situation.’’