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Authors: Kurt Eichenwald
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Japanese.’’
Andreas told the agents to make any arrangements for Whitacre through Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief. He would be fully briefed on this meeting.
Andreas paused, eyeing the agents. There was one more thing he wanted out on the table, he said. He was of course aware of ADM’s role in the FBI investigation years before at the Chicago futures exchanges.
“It’s also no secret that I didn’t like it when I found out about it,’’ Andreas said. “To me, it’s repugnant to tape people when they don’t know it. In this case, I don’t want my people taped unless they know about it or I know about it ahead of time.’’
Stukey assured Andreas that he had nothing to worry about. Still, the sudden demand seemed odd. The FBI had come to help fight off a sabotage effort. The only executives who might be taped would be those suspected of damaging ADM. Why would Andreas be against that? What was he worried about?
The FBI. God, no.
Later that day, Mark Whitacre sat in his office, feeling numb. He had just emerged from a meeting with Mick Andreas and Mark Cheviron, where they had told him that the FBI wanted to speak with him about the Fujiwara calls. The two had made it clear that they didn’t trust the Bureau and gave Whitacre explicit instructions on how to handle himself.
Until then, Whitacre had heard nothing about the Andreases’ decision to inform the government about Fujiwara. Instead, he had been listening to Mick’s instructions to string Fujiwara along, to negotiate him down in price. From all appearances, ADM seemed ready to pay the money and be done with it.
But Whitacre had been fooled. Now, ADM expected him to meet with the FBI and answer their questions.
Answer their questions! Jesus!
Whitacre shook his head; he had never felt so nervous. Since learning of the interview, Whitacre had ranted, threatened to quit, but got nowhere. He was petrified of the FBI agents. There were too many things that they could find out. Things that could destroy him. Things that could destroy ADM.
Whitacre paced in his office. The timing of this was so bad. His career had been coming together at ADM. He had successfully overseen completion of the lysine plant. He was a division president. And now, just in the last few weeks, his situation had improved even more. The company had announced a management reorganization, naming Mick to the title of vice-chairman. At the same time, Whitacre had been named a corporate vice president, one of the youngest in ADM history. Wall Street had correctly interpreted the moves as Dwayne Andreas’s clear designation of Mick as the heir apparent. In a few years, he was almost certain to take ADM’s top job, and Whitacre felt confident that he had a shot at being number two. Now, all that was at risk. All for this crazy interview.
Whitacre glanced at the telephone. He needed to call his wife, Ginger. He was sure she could help him think this through.
Ginger had always been there for him, since they met as teenagers on a bus at Little Miami High School in Ohio. The oldest daughter of factory workers, Ginger was the picture of solid Midwestern stock, the high-school homecoming queen who played whatever hand life dealt her. In those days, Mark lived up to his then-nickname “Corky,’’ as he popped off in different directions. Throughout high school, he broke up with Ginger repeatedly, but she always took him back, convinced that someday her patience would pay off. Finally, in 1979, a few years after graduation, the couple married. When Mark pursued his doctorate at Cornell, Ginger went with him. In the years since, she never complained as Mark moved from job to job—from Ralston Purina in St. Louis to Degussa Corporation in New York and eventually to Degussa’s world headquarters near Frankfurt. Before leaving the country, they had adopted two children, Tanya and Billy, and not long after gave birth to a third, Alexander. Their family had grown from two to five
Andreas told the agents to make any arrangements for Whitacre through Mark Cheviron, ADM’s security chief. He would be fully briefed on this meeting.
Andreas paused, eyeing the agents. There was one more thing he wanted out on the table, he said. He was of course aware of ADM’s role in the FBI investigation years before at the Chicago futures exchanges.
“It’s also no secret that I didn’t like it when I found out about it,’’ Andreas said. “To me, it’s repugnant to tape people when they don’t know it. In this case, I don’t want my people taped unless they know about it or I know about it ahead of time.’’
Stukey assured Andreas that he had nothing to worry about. Still, the sudden demand seemed odd. The FBI had come to help fight off a sabotage effort. The only executives who might be taped would be those suspected of damaging ADM. Why would Andreas be against that? What was he worried about?
The FBI. God, no.
Later that day, Mark Whitacre sat in his office, feeling numb. He had just emerged from a meeting with Mick Andreas and Mark Cheviron, where they had told him that the FBI wanted to speak with him about the Fujiwara calls. The two had made it clear that they didn’t trust the Bureau and gave Whitacre explicit instructions on how to handle himself.
Until then, Whitacre had heard nothing about the Andreases’ decision to inform the government about Fujiwara. Instead, he had been listening to Mick’s instructions to string Fujiwara along, to negotiate him down in price. From all appearances, ADM seemed ready to pay the money and be done with it.
But Whitacre had been fooled. Now, ADM expected him to meet with the FBI and answer their questions.
Answer their questions! Jesus!
Whitacre shook his head; he had never felt so nervous. Since learning of the interview, Whitacre had ranted, threatened to quit, but got nowhere. He was petrified of the FBI agents. There were too many things that they could find out. Things that could destroy him. Things that could destroy ADM.
Whitacre paced in his office. The timing of this was so bad. His career had been coming together at ADM. He had successfully overseen completion of the lysine plant. He was a division president. And now, just in the last few weeks, his situation had improved even more. The company had announced a management reorganization, naming Mick to the title of vice-chairman. At the same time, Whitacre had been named a corporate vice president, one of the youngest in ADM history. Wall Street had correctly interpreted the moves as Dwayne Andreas’s clear designation of Mick as the heir apparent. In a few years, he was almost certain to take ADM’s top job, and Whitacre felt confident that he had a shot at being number two. Now, all that was at risk. All for this crazy interview.
Whitacre glanced at the telephone. He needed to call his wife, Ginger. He was sure she could help him think this through.
Ginger had always been there for him, since they met as teenagers on a bus at Little Miami High School in Ohio. The oldest daughter of factory workers, Ginger was the picture of solid Midwestern stock, the high-school homecoming queen who played whatever hand life dealt her. In those days, Mark lived up to his then-nickname “Corky,’’ as he popped off in different directions. Throughout high school, he broke up with Ginger repeatedly, but she always took him back, convinced that someday her patience would pay off. Finally, in 1979, a few years after graduation, the couple married. When Mark pursued his doctorate at Cornell, Ginger went with him. In the years since, she never complained as Mark moved from job to job—from Ralston Purina in St. Louis to Degussa Corporation in New York and eventually to Degussa’s world headquarters near Frankfurt. Before leaving the country, they had adopted two children, Tanya and Billy, and not long after gave birth to a third, Alexander. Their family had grown from two to five
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