Free Informant by Kurt Eichenwald

unable to sit down. It struck Shafter as bizarre.
    This guy is more than kind of nervous.
What was the matter with him?
    “Mark, you don’t have a damn thing to worry about,’’ Cheviron said, in a tone that made it clear he was repeating himself.
    Whitacre looked to Shafter. “Is it okay for me to meet with them?’’ he asked.
    Shafter stared at Whitacre, trying to gauge what was going on. When he spoke, his tone was calm.
    “Look, Mark, let me clear one thing up for you. I represent the company here; I don’t represent you. If you want a lawyer, we’ll get you a lawyer. I can only give the company advice, and what I can tell you is that the company has requested that you meet with the FBI and cooperate with them.’’
    Whitacre showed no reaction. “Fine, that’s fine,’’ he replied. “I’m a loyal employee.’’
    A minute later, the receptionist buzzed again. Special Agent Shepard from the FBI was out front. So much for sending everyone home first.
    Shafter brought Cheviron and Whitacre to the reception area and escorted everyone to the windowless conference room. It was as private a place as could be found in Decatur on short notice. Shafter excused himself and headed back to his office.
    The situation was odd for Shepard. Cheviron had asked to sit in on the interview, a request that left the agent uncomfortable. Usually, FBI interviews are conducted privately. At times, a witness will bring along a lawyer, but no one else. That way, the witness could be assured any information would remain confidential. That seemed particularly important in this case. But Shepard decided not to make waves. ADM was the victim; if the company wanted Cheviron along, Shepard could agree, even if he didn’t like it.
    Shepard studied Whitacre. With his unlined, boyish face and blond hair, he looked as innocent as an altar boy. Still, Whitacre seemed anxious. For people in law enforcement, the reaction was not too unusual. Most everyone interviewed by an FBI agent or a prosecutor is, one way or another, probably having a bad day. Shepard began by trying to calm Whitacre.
    “Let me introduce myself,’’ he said amiably. “My name’s Brian Shepard. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI.’’
    Shepard put out his hand. Whitacre took it, feeling Shepard’s strong grip.
    “Hey,’’ he said. “I’m Mark Whitacre.’’
    “I met with Michael Andreas this morning, and he told me you were president of the Bioproducts Division,’’ Shepard said. “We hope you can help us out. I’m not sure where this case will be going, but I want to listen to what you have to say.’’
    The men took their seats. Already, Whitacre felt more at ease. Shepard wasn’t what he had expected. Maybe this wasn’t going to be like on television, where some growling G-man sweats information out of the reluctant witness. Instead, Shepard seemed down-to-earth, more neighborly than confrontational.
    Whitacre leaned forward in his chair as he told the story about Fujiwara. Shepard listened, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. After the first thirty minutes, Shafter stuck his head in the room. He was heading home, he said, and asked the men to shut off the coffeepot and lock up when they left.
    In no time, Shepard’s notes contained the broad outline of the case. Whitacre described how the Ajinomoto executives had been invited to Decatur so that ADM could persuade them to shut down their American plants. He told of the bizarre phone call he had received from Fujiwara on his off-premises office extension that ADM had installed at his house. He discussed his subsequent conversation with Mick Andreas and the efforts to haggle Fujiwara down in price. Since then, Fujiwara had called every few days.
    “He told me that he wanted his payments deposited by wire transfer to numbered bank accounts in Switzerland and the Caribbean,’’ Whitacre said.
    “When was your last contact with him?’’
    “Three days ago. He said he would call three or