Informant (73 page)

So Whitacre asked Page to open a Swiss account of his own. Then, beginning in the fall of 1994, Whitacre periodically wired $10,000 from one of his offshore banks to Page’s foreign account. Simultaneously, Page withdrew $10,000 in cash from his American bank account and passed the money to Whitacre. With that system, Page helped Whitacre launder $30,000 into the United States.

“Usually we would meet at a hotel,’’ Page said. “And I would just pass him an envelope stuffed with cash.’’

After almost three hours, the interview ended. The investigators and prosecutors gathered their papers, tossed them in their cases, and made their way to the exit. As soon as the door closed behind them, they began laughing.

“I’ll tell you, Whitacre has
no
credibility,’’ D’Angelo said. “I can’t believe his greed! With all his millions, he’s setting up this guy for a few thousand!’’

Mackay shook his head. “This tops them all.’’

Something about the petty nature of the Page fraud—and the complexity of the laundering—eliminated any remaining doubts about the deceit in Whitacre’s story. The frauds had never been about a corporate scheme. They had been about greed. Pure and simple.

The group spent the rest of the day marveling at Whitacre’s machinations. But the humor ended when Don Mackay voiced the concern slowly dawning on all of them.

“When you get stuff like this popping up out of nowhere,’’ Mackay said, “you know we’ll probably never figure out everything Whitacre did.’’

C
HAPTER
19

S
o, where do we stand?’’ John Daniels asked his fellow directors. It was shortly before noon on Tuesday, October 8, the day of the last gathering of the ADM special committee. Williams & Connolly had finally hammered out the final details of a plea agreement with the government. Now, the directors had returned to Simpson Thacher to vote the deal up or down.

In the room, four ADM directors, three Simpson Thacher lawyers, and the company’s general counsel listened as Aubrey Daniel spelled out the terms of the settlement. Several directors, including Brian Mulroney and Ray Goldberg, listened in by speakerphone. On one side of the conference room, coffee and pastries loaded on a buffet table remained largely untouched.

For more than twenty minutes, Daniel described the deal. The price tag stood at $100 million. Dwayne Andreas and Jim Randall would now be part of the immunity deal, he explained, although both were expected to testify before the price-fixing grand jury. When Daniel finished, the room was silent for a moment.

“All right,’’ Mulroney said over the phone. “Let’s poll the vote.’’

Glenn Webb, a director who headed an agricultural company, spoke up. “No. It’s too early in the process to make a decision of this magnitude.’’

The size of the settlement left Webb troubled. “This is a terribly high price,’’ he said. “At this amount, I would think we could get a lot more concessions.’’

Several directors nodded in agreement. Their friendship with Dwayne Andreas weighed on them. Some directors looked to Beattie for his opinion.

“No, that’s not our place,’’ Beattie said. “This is one of those hard decisions we’ve been telling you about that you’re going to have to make.’’

Ross Johnson leaned up. “We have to stay focused on the shareholders. An indictment would really hit the value of the stock. We need to move on.’’

At one point, Aubrey Daniel suggested that he could perhaps negotiate the price of the settlement down.

“Aubrey!’’ John Daniels snapped, pounding the table. “I don’t want any more negotiation. We’ve got to come to grips with this. Let’s not prolong this process.’’

Aubrey Daniel nodded, saying nothing.

The discussions continued for hours. Finally, John Daniels had had enough. He shot a look at Beattie.

“Let’s bite the bullet and accept this,’’ he said. “It’s in the best interest of the shareholders.’’

“Let’s poll the vote,’’ Mulroney said.

Ray Goldberg, who was calling from Harvard and had only a few minutes before he was scheduled to teach a class, was the first to respond.

“We’ve got to put this behind us,’’ he said. “If this is what it takes, I vote yes.’’

Daniels glanced toward Rod Bruce, a former ADM executive. “Roddy?’’

“Yes,’’ Bruce said evenly.

Brian Mulroney, who was calling from an airport where he was waiting for a flight, was next. Everyone knew that this moment—effectively turning against the Andreas family—would be difficult for him.

“Brian?’’ Daniels said.

A moment’s hesitation.

“We need to do the right thing for the company and the stock-holders,’’ Mulroney said. “We’ve done a terrific job as a special committee. It’s now the time for us to make the right decision for all those involved.’’

A few directors nodded in agreement.

“And I regret that the U.S. government treated people the way they treated the ADM people, that they would have a father testify against his own son,’’ Mulroney continued.

The next words rushed out without even a breath.

“I’m sorry, I have to run,’’ Mulroney said. “I’m giving my proxy to Glenn Webb.’’

Mulroney was gone. He never voted.

The conference-room door opened. A waitress wheeled in a buffet lunch of salmon, boneless chicken, and pasta salad, distracting the directors. As the waitress laid out lunch, Daniels looked to Webb, the man with two votes.

“Well, Glenn. How do you vote?’’

Webb threw up his hands. “I vote in favor.’’

Daniels turned to Ross Johnson, who had already made it clear where he stood.

“Yes,’’ Johnson said.

One more to go. Daniels faced John Vanier, a quiet man who was chief executive of his own agricultural company.

“Jack?’’

Vanier chuckled. “Of course I vote yes.’’

Unanimous. The case was over.

Their official duties out of the way, the remaining directors turned to lunch. Beattie addressed the group.

“There’s one other important issue we have to discuss,’’ he said. A decision needed to be reached about the future of Mick Andreas and Terry Wilson.

On October 17, two days after the record price-fixing settlement with ADM was announced, company shareholders gathered in Decatur for the annual meeting. Those who remembered the company’s combative approach the previous year were surprised to see a subdued Dwayne Andreas take to the stage this time around. No longer did he silence critics; instead, he complimented even vociferous detractors. Most surprising, he issued an apology for ADM’s crimes.

“I consider this a serious matter, which I deeply regret, and I acknowledge to you that this occurred on my watch,’’ he said. “You have my apology and my commitment that this will never happen again.’’

Whitacre was never mentioned directly, but neither were Mick Andreas and Terry Wilson. As the ceremonies ended, reporters surrounded Brian Mulroney near the stage. With ADM pleading guilty to price-fixing, one reporter asked, what was the future of Mick Andreas and Terry Wilson?

“They no longer work here,’’ Mulroney said simply.

Terry Wilson had retired, and Mick Andreas had gone on leave. Their once stellar careers at ADM were over.

•   •   •

Providing psychiatric treatment to Whitacre had been a whirlwind for Dr. Derek Miller.

It had taken months to find a lithium level that controlled Whitacre’s manic periods. But, in early October, Whitacre showed signs of trouble, writing a letter to his lawyer that accused the government of being communist. It was the worst time for him to spin out of control. Not only was his case heading toward indictment, but he was leaving Chicago for Biomar’s offices in Chapel Hill, North Carolina—away from his regular sessions with Miller.

On October 16, Miller dictated progress notes for Whitacre, whom he still referred to as Patrick O’Brien.

“Mr. O’Brien is really being quite manic, and it is clear that he is not taking his lithium,’’ Miller said. “He denied that he was not taking it to me. But he told his attorney that he was not taking it because he enjoys how he feels when he is not taking it.’’

Miller planned to refer Whitacre to a North Carolina psychiatrist. He could only hope that Whitacre followed up with the new doctor before he did something self-destructive.

The teams of prosecutors clustered at a Justice Department conference room, surrounding Jim Epstein. The defense lawyer had come to Washington to take the first steps in the settlement dance for Whitacre. Until now, Epstein thought that the government’s fears of Williams & Connolly had driven decisions in the prosecution of his client. But today, he wanted Washington to understand there was a price to be paid for mishandling Whitacre as well.

“It’s these guys from ADM who stole hundreds of millions of dollars, defrauding people worldwide,’’ Epstein told the group. “Mark not only told you about it, but he gave you unprecedented evidence to prove it. He helped you stop a multimillion-dollar fraud. He gave you the chance to show that multinational price-fixing is going on.’’

Epstein looked down the row of faces.

“When agents go undercover for the FBI, they get trained for the stresses of living a secret life, of having nobody who is really their friend,’’ he said. “We hear this all the time from you guys, about how difficult that is and how easy it is for trained agents to crack.’’

Not a sound or a movement interrupted the moment.

“And here was Mark, a civilian with no training. He didn’t choose this as a career. But you guys just shove him in there, you tell him ‘go for it.’ You send him in there without training, without support, without anything to make sure he doesn’t crack under the pressure.’’

Epstein’s words were having a visible effect.

“Mark committed a crime. It was indefensible. He stole nine million dollars. But that’s opposed to helping you stop a multimillion-dollar fraud many times that.’’

Now, Epstein said, because of vagaries of the sentencing guidelines, Whitacre faced more prison than did the executives whose price-fixing involved much more money.

“Now, we’re not looking for the earth, the sky, and the stars,’’ he said. “We’re looking for something in the area of three years, which is about what the guidelines are for these guys who stole hundreds of millions of dollars.’’

The option, Epstein said, was a sentencing hearing.

“We’ll be at a public hearing covered by the world’s press, and I’ll lay out everything Mark did, good and bad. I’ll talk about the lack of training and everything that happened to him because he came forward. Your future whistle-blowers will pick up the
New York Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
, and read what Mark’s life has been like because of his decision to cooperate.’’

Epstein spread his arms.

“And then,’’ he said, “you’ll never have one of these guys pick up the phone and call you ever, ever again.’’

Jack Keeney, the Acting Assistant Attorney General in charge of the Criminal Division, was the first to speak.

“Well,’’ he said, “we have a formidable person across the table from us.’’

Epstein left with no agreements, but he had made headway. He would have to return a few times to nail down a deal. In the end, he figured Whitacre would receive a five-year sentence, with the potential that the judge could depart downward. It was the best outcome he could imagine. But Whitacre was outraged when he heard that his lawyer was even
considering
a plea deal.

“This isn’t right!’’ Whitacre moaned. “ADM’s the bad guys! The Justice Department is covering for them. It’s just ‘dump on Mark Whitacre!’ ”

Rather than negotiate, Whitacre said, they should sue the government. The FBI had mistreated him. A lawsuit might make them back down. Epstein barely listened. He had heard Whitacre complain many times about being persecuted. The man was disconnected from reality.

“What do you want me to do, Mark?’’ Epstein asked, exasperated. “You’ve got to focus here. You stole nine million dollars, and basically admitted it on the front page of the
Tribune
. I’m just doing damage control. We’ve got very few cards in our hand, and I’m going to play them the right way to give you the least possible time.’’

Epstein hit the same points again and again, until Whitacre finally seemed convinced. But a few days later, a fax arrived at the office for Epstein. It was a letter from Whitacre, on Biomar stationery.

“Ginger and I have spent many hours in discussions the past few weeks about which direction we would like to go,’’ he wrote. “We have decided to go a different direction than you had planned and recommended.’’

Epstein finished the letter and set it on his desk.

He’d just been fired. And he couldn’t have been happier.

Fine, go,
Epstein thought.
You’re not my problem anymore.

Whitacre had already been searching for new lawyers and was quick to name replacements. The first was Richard Kurth, a lawyer from Danville, Illinois, whom Whitacre trusted. The two had grown close after Kurth had provided advice on selling the house in Moweaqua. During that time, the two had discussed Whitacre’s situation, and Kurth had offered his input. From what he had heard, Whitacre had little doubt Kurth was just the kind of lawyer he needed.

But Kurth, a specialist in bankruptcy and personal-injury cases, needed help. So he told Whitacre about a friend he had known since law school. The lawyer, Bill Walker, a hulking man with a shock of white hair, ran his own practice in Granite City, Illinois. He was aggressive and loud; he expressed outrage that the government would even
consider
indicting Whitacre. Walker’s style appealed to Whitacre, and the lawyer was hired immediately.

One of the most complex white-collar cases ever was now being handled by a personal-injury lawyer and his friend, a small-town solo practitioner.

At 10:25 on the morning of November 6, a single-page fax arrived in ADM’s legal department. It was addressed to Rick Reising, the general counsel.

Reising read the fax quickly. It was another unsigned letter relating to Whitacre, one of many ADM had received in recent years. But this one was the most stunning of all.

“I used to work for the United Brotherhood of Carpenters, the proponent of a shareholder proposal on director liability brought before the Archer Daniels Midland shareholders,’’ the letter read. “The UBC is also a strong supporter of Dr. Mark Whitacre and has helped him, with the help of Cargill, find stronger counsel.’’

There was one important item, the letter said, that ADM needed to know.

“Dr. Whitacre discharged Mr. Epstein due to the fact that he would not tell the government about certain tapes that were not in the FBI’s favor.’’

After Whitacre began taping ADM, it said, he had grown uncomfortable with the local FBI agent running the case.

“The local agent would tell Dr. Whitacre to take several of the tapes that he felt were in ADM’s favor back home with him and to destroy them,’’ it read. “Whitacre became disenchanted with the FBI, and started taping several meetings with the agents, unknown to them, because of the trust factor. He built a strong file of tapes that the FBI told him to discard and also several tapes of the FBI telling him to discard them. These are the tapes that Mr. Epstein would not let him use because of the strong chance of weakening the government’s case against ADM.’’

The caller ID device on the fax machine was checked. The sender had tried to block the number, but failed.

The fax had come from the North Carolina offices of Biomar International.

Mark Whitacre’s employer.

The Harvest King team was sharply divided on a single question: What should be done with Mark Whitacre?