Informant (48 page)

In recent days, Reno said, Aubrey Daniel had sent written complaints to her by messenger. Most everyone at the table already knew about them; Freeh had received copies, and Gorelick had also seen them. The most recent letter complained about press coverage, claiming that “agents of the government” had spoken with reporters. The letter clearly implied that the FBI, Whitacre, or both were the source of the leaks.

The group discussed the Williams & Connolly complaints, with the FBI taking the opportunity to brief Reno and Gorelick on the progress of the case. The discussion ended in a matter of minutes.

In the days that followed, the ADM case was increasingly a topic of conversation at the senior levels of the Justice Department. The frontal assault by Williams & Connolly made it painfully clear that ADM was preparing for war. The prosecution team was going to need reinforcements. Quickly, the decision was made. They needed to find a prosecutor with experience in high-profile cases involving top-notch defense attorneys.

In a onetime newspaper publishing office in Oklahoma City, Joe Hartzler was reviewing documents about the bombing at that city’s federal building. Since leaving the ADM case months before, Hartzler had volunteered to come from the Springfield U.S. Attorney’s office to lead the prosecution of Timothy McVeigh and his co-conspirators in the terrorist attack. Indictments were just weeks away.

The phone rang on Hartzler’s desk. It was Merrick Garland, the senior Justice Department official who had personally handled portions of the bombing case. Hartzler and Garland spoke frequently every day, but this time Garland said there was also another matter on his mind.

“We have a complicated financial case out in Chicago,’’ Garland said. “It involves some high-powered defense counsel, and I wanted to know if there was a lawyer in the U.S. Attorney’s office you think could handle it.’’

Hartzler suspected this was his old case, Harvest King. And immediately, he knew that his friend Scott Lassar was perfect for it. Lassar was a federal prosecutor who had worked many major cases. At this point, Lassar was deeply immersed in Operation Silver Shovel, an investigation that used a corrupt waste hauler as a cooperating witness to collect recordings of Chicago city officials soliciting and collecting bribes. Lassar knew tapes, he knew informants, he could handle tough cases.

“I’d recommend Scott Lassar,’’ Hartzler replied. “He’s the First Assistant there, although I’m not sure he could take on a major battle that would be all-consuming.’’

“Well,’’ Garland said, “without telling anybody else, could you call Lassar and find out if he’d consider it?’’

Hartzler reached Lassar that evening after ten o’clock. Lassar relaxed in his family room while speaking on the portable phone; Hartzler was calling from his temporary quarters at the Embassy Suites in Oklahoma City.

“Scott, I got a call from DOJ, and they’re looking for somebody to handle a complex financial fraud case. Your name came to mind. And I was wondering if it’s something you would consider.’’

Lassar had no idea what case Hartzler was talking about or where it would even be tried. But he didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Sure,’’ he said. “I’m interested.’’

Outside a budget hotel in Bloomington, Illinois, Whitacre stepped out of his car, buttoning the jacket on his lightweight double-breasted suit. The drive north on Route 51 from Moweaqua had taken a bit more than an hour, pretty good time. Whitacre looked at his watch. Just before six o’clock. He might even be early.

For days, Whitacre had been coming apart. He had been bottling up secrets, holding back on information he knew. He was tired of it. He wanted to open up.

He walked through the lobby, heading for the prearranged hotel room, the site of his secret meeting. After so many years, all the stealth and sneaking felt like second nature. He arrived at the room and knocked on the door. A young man answered.

“Mark?’’ the man said, extending a hand. “Hi, I’m Ron Henkoff. Good to see you.’’

Whitacre smiled. Henkoff, a reporter from
Fortune
magazine, looked just the way he had imagined. Whitacre knew that
Fortune
was well trusted by Warren Buffett; Howard had told him so. And now
Fortune
was promising to let Whitacre tell his own story, in his own words. This was his chance to speak to Decatur—for that matter, to the world. Then everyone would understand the choices he had made. They would understand he had done the right thing.

Henkoff invited Whitacre to another room, where a photographer, Chris Sanders, was waiting. The blinds were closed; pieces of cloth were hung up as a background. Whitacre looked occasionally bemused as Sanders snapped shot after shot. One of these, Whitacre knew, was a photograph destined for the magazine’s cover.

Once the photography session was over, Whitacre returned to Henkoff’s room and sat at a table. For several hours under the reporter’s questioning, Whitacre told his perspective on the price-fixing investigation, describing the roles of Wilson and Mick Andreas, the involvement of Kyowa Hakko and Ajinomoto, his first meeting with Shepard, volume agreements, the tapes.

Close to midnight, they were done. Many of the secrets of Harvest King had been revealed.

The Whitacres’ purchase of the house in Franklin, Tennessee, was proceeding without a hitch. Gert Borasky, their real-estate agent, had heard from Whitacre that an associate would be helping him find a mortgage. During their conversations, Whitacre mentioned that he had been working for two years as an FBI informant, but insisted she not tell anyone. It was a secret, he said.

Borasky said she needed something attesting to the Whitacres’ financing. A letter, written July 26, soon arrived at her office from Joseph Caiazzo, a New York lawyer. Caiazzo wrote that he represented a lender who had agreed to provide the Whitacres with financing of up to $930,000 for the purchase.

Everything looked in order. Only one item was curious. Neither Caiazzo nor Whitacre had told Borasky the name of the lender. But the oversight seemed inconsequential.

Nothing seemed to concern Whitacre more than the talk about him inside ADM. Every negative rumor left him arguing fitfully that the comment was a lie. Ginger begged him to stop calling old colleagues in search of scuttlebutt. Sometimes he seemed to agree—only to rush back to the phone minutes later and start his hunt again.

In July, Whitacre was visiting family in Ohio when he called Lou Rochelli, the ADM controller. Whitacre asked eagerly if anything was happening.

“Well,’’ Rochelli said, “there’s one thing happening you’re going to be interested in.’’

“ADM’s trying to smear my character!’’ Whitacre wailed to Shepard. “This isn’t right!’’

It was minutes later. Whitacre explained he had heard that Mick Andreas was instructing auditors to review Whitacre’s expense statements and financial transactions in search of irregularities.

“And he’s telling them if they don’t find anything wrong, that they’re supposed to make something up!’’

“Mark,’’ Shepard said soothingly, “we’ve talked to you about this in the past as something you should expect.’’

Despite Shepard’s efforts, Whitacre stayed upset. He didn’t like the way this was going. Definitely not.

A flurry of faxes and letters from the anonymous Lamet Vov continued to arrive throughout July to the homes and offices of ADM executives and directors. One went to Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief, urging him to tell what he knew to the board. Another was sent to the company’s chief pilot, urging him to report all improper travel by officers. Each was forwarded to Aubrey Daniel, who was growing angered by what he perceived to be threats.

On July 30, a new, more aggressive fax from the Lamet Vov was sent to ADM directors. It demanded the resignations of Dwayne and Mick Andreas, Terry Wilson, and Barrie Cox. It also insisted that Joe Hale, a company director, be named chief executive and that Mark Whitacre be selected as executive vice president.

“We suggest you get things moving in the right direction, and fast,’’ the fax read. “We can have a book on the street in two weeks exposing our findings that will ruin many people and end careers.’’

Brian Mulroney had no illusions about the allegiances of Williams & Connolly. They were fighting for the company, which in this case could easily mean for the Andreas family. But now Mulroney was in charge of the board’s special committee, a group that did not even exist when Williams & Connolly was retained. What if the committee needed to take an action that might harm the Andreases? How could Williams & Connolly provide objective advice?

Mulroney telephoned his cochairman, John Daniels.

“I’m concerned,’’ he said. “I think we need our own counsel, because we may not be working on the same side of the street as Williams & Connolly before we’re through.’’

Daniels agreed but had no suggestions for which law firm to hire. Mulroney came up with his own idea.

Beneath vast stretches of deep blue in Emigrant, Montana, a team of ersatz cowboys straggled out of the main lodge at the B Bar Ranch, ready for the day’s activities. The summer haying and vegetable harvests were still under way at the nine-thousand-acre ranch in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. But there were plenty of other activities available for the wealthy clientele, from fly-fishing in the meandering Yellowstone River to saddling up for some work with cattle herds.

Richard Beattie, chairman of the New York law firm Simpson Thacher & Bartlett, was planning on taking advantage of the fishing. A soft-spoken ex-marine, Beattie was a man who traveled in diverse circles, from the political elite of New York’s Democratic Party to the top deal-makers of Wall Street’s investment community. Beattie had also gained fame from his longtime role as a legal advisor to Henry Kravis, general partner with Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co., the premier leveraged-buyout firm. Beattie had been a principal advisor in Kravis’s successful takeover bid for RJR Nabisco, besting a competing offer from a group led by the company’s then-chairman, F. Ross Johnson. Beattie, like Johnson and Kravis, had been prominently featured in
Barbarians at the Gate
, the best-selling book about the takeover fight.

On this day, Beattie was vacationing with an old friend, Kenneth Lipper, a renowned investment banker and former deputy mayor of New York. For the two men and their wives, the trip to the B Bar Ranch was a chance to get away from the hustle and ringing phones of Manhattan. But that morning, a message was waiting for Beattie at the ranch’s front office. Brian Mulroney wanted to speak with him. Beattie found a phone and called right back.

“I called because I need someone to advise a special committee of directors with the Archer Daniels Midland Company,’’ Mulroney said a few minutes later. “And you have come highly recommended to me.’’

Mulroney said he had spoken with one of his fellow directors, Ross Johnson, as well as with Henry Kravis, and both had sung Beattie’s praises.

Despite the sketchy details, Beattie accepted the assignment. He and Mulroney agreed that they would get together at the next meeting of the special committee, at the Washington offices of Williams & Connolly.

The August morning was clear and bright, the hot sun tempered by a cool breeze. Herndon figured it was perfect golfing weather—and a great excuse to show Whitacre that the FBI still cared. He dialed Whitacre’s home number.

“Hey,’’ Herndon said. “It’s Bob. How’s it going?’’

“Pretty good, pretty good,’’ Whitacre mumbled.

Herndon took a breath. Whitacre sounded terrible, his voice heavy with distraction.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure everything’s going okay,’’ Herndon said. “I haven’t seen you for a while, and I wanted to see if maybe you’d like to play some golf. I can take an afternoon off if you want to go—”

“I’m kind of busy,’’ Whitacre interrupted.

“Well, how about Brian and I come by and let’s go to lunch? We need to pick up that equipment, and we’d like to see you and see what’s going on.’’

“Well, yeah, what’s good for you?’’

“Whatever’s good for you, Mark. You tell me.’’

Whitacre flipped through his schedule. He suggested meeting in two days, on Wednesday, August 2.

“That’ll be great, Mark,’’ Herndon said. “We’ll see you then at your house.’’

Later that afternoon, Jim Epstein’s telephone rang. He had been representing Whitacre for less than a month, but already the case was taking up much of his time. He had reached the outlines of a $7.5 million severance agreement with ADM, which would require Whitacre to sit for an extensive exit interview. But those negotiations were not Epstein’s only demands from the case. Between calls from ADM, the government, reporters, and Whitacre, it seemed he was spending most of his day on the phone.

This time, the caller was a surprise. It was Jim Randall, along with a Williams & Connolly lawyer.

“I am calling on behalf of ADM to demand that your client, Mark Whitacre, meet with company officials on the afternoon of August third, at five o’clock,’’ Randall said.

What was this all about? Epstein asked.

“We want him to answer questions about certain financial transactions.’’

On the morning of August 2, Jim Griffin was at his desk in the Chicago office when he heard that Aubrey Daniel was holding for him. He picked up the phone.

“I have an urgent matter to discuss,’’ Daniel said. “I want a meeting immediately, in Washington. And I want it with someone in the division who has the authority to make decisions about the investigation.’’

Griffin listened, intrigued. “What does this involve?’’ he asked.

“That’s what I want to discuss at the meeting. I assure you, it’s an important matter, and I wouldn’t be making this request if it wasn’t.’’

Griffin thought for a moment. There seemed to be enough urgency in Daniel’s tone that he couldn’t simply be put off. Griffin decided to take the lawyer at his word.

“I’ll arrange something,’’ Griffin said, “and get right back to you.’’

Shepard shook his head. “What do they think they have now?’’ he asked.

The news of Daniel’s demands for a meeting hit like a dousing of cold water. Griffin had made arrangements to hold the meeting the next morning and had already booked his flight to Washington. The agents thought the response was excessive; probably this was just going to be another complaint about leaks in the press.