PORTLAND — Doug Levene wasn’t expecting visitors at his rural Maryland office when a stranger knocked on the door.

A suited man introduced himself with a gold badge — the credentials of an FBI agent.

Levene’s business built on bribery had just come to an end.

For more than six years, Levene, a veteran food broker, faithfully sent money to an Oregon prison executive, buying his way into the state’s $10 million food budget. Now, Levene is headed for federal prison, a felon.

He isn’t going alone. Four others also face prison after the unraveling of one of Oregon’s worst episodes of public corruption.

But the man at the core of the case — Farhad “Fred” Monem — lives free, out of reach in his native Iran. He is accused of taking $1.2 million in bribes while in his $79,000-a-year state job. In return, prosecutors say, he steered millions in state business to brokers such as Levene.

The broad outlines of the scandal have been revealed in court filings. Now, though, Levene is telling the inside story of how corruption came to Oregon. He agreed to interviews with The Oregonian to publicly acknowledge he was wrong and as an apology to Oregonians.

“I could have stopped it,” Levene said.

His version is necessarily one-sided because Monem isn’t commenting. In recent weeks, Monem told The Oregonian by e-mail from Iran that he wanted to tell his side of the story, but he hasn’t done so.

Levene’s memory alone is the source for his conversations with Monem. Court and prison records support other recollections. Prosecutors wouldn’t comment but noted in court that for two years Levene had provided verifiable information.

How it started

This extraordinary look inside public corruption starts off with a mundane tale of chicken.

In the fall of 1999, Levene was scrambling to save his business.

He had fired key salesmen from his food brokerage, including the man responsible for handling modest business with Oregon prisons. Levene was under pressure to find sales to clear out more than a million pounds of food stacked in warehouses across the country.

Fred Monem recently had been promoted to chief food buyer for the Oregon prison system.

Monem called Levene, asking why 11,000 pounds of chicken breasts had arrived at a state warehouse. “I didn’t order this,” Monem said, according to Levene.

Levene said he asked Monem to take the chicken anyway, explaining his dire circumstances.

Monem relented — and then sprang another surprise. What about the millennium steaks? He said he had been promised steaks to feed prisoners on New Year’s night 1999. Levene promised he’d do what he could.

“We found some imported rib steaks” and sent those out to Oregon, losing $8,000 on the deal, Levene said.

Levene said Monem sent in more orders. “He basically saved my job,” Levene said. “He had taken tons of stuff and had not hinted or asked for anything.”

In May 2000, Levene flew to Oregon. He was stunned by the scale of the Oregon Corrections Department’s operation. He realized the extent of Monem’s buying power.

Monem and Levene had become friendly in regular early-morning phone calls. As best Levene can recall now, he and Monem were out for a walk, perhaps at the coast. They discussed friends and loyalty. They talked business. They talked future orders.

Then, Levene said, Monem made his move.

“Will there be anything in it for me?” Monem asked.

The question didn’t entirely surprise Levene. One of Levene’s top salesmen had once pointed out Monem as a “taker” — someone open to bribes.

Today, Levene acknowledges he broke the law. “I should have said ‘no’ to Fred that day.”

Instead, he offered Monem a share of his profits on sales to Oregon.

A month later, Levene packed up 15 $100 bills and dispatched them by FedEx to Monem’s Salem home.

The packages of cash — typically $4,000 to $5,000 — flowed, as did the deals for Levene. A business losing money badly was suddenly turning a profit.

Levene insisted that while he and Monem were doing well, so was the state Corrections Department. He said Oregon received good food deals all along — sometimes at break-even rates for Levene. He said Monem insisted on driving down costs.

As business bloomed, Monem insisted on a more businesslike arrangement. Levene devised a computerized spreadsheet. The spreadsheet showed what he paid for a particular food product, the price paid by the state and Levene’s profit. Levene would account for taxes and then record the 50 percent kickback owed to Monem.

He faxed the forms once a month to Monem.

Cash on the bed

Levene started meeting Monem in person to deliver cash. Most often, they met in Las Vegas but didn’t live like high-rollers, Levene said. The men shared suites costing no more than $300 a night. They played quarter slot machines and low-stakes craps.

Levene said he would pack $10,000 to $20,000 in cash in his briefcase. After the men checked in, Levene said, he’d take out the bank-banded money and toss it on the bed. “That’s yours,” he’d tell Monem.

Levene also introduced Monem to three men from Los Angeles. They, too, were food brokers, among Levene’s main suppliers. Levene said one of the men pulled him aside once in Las Vegas and asked if Monem was a “taker.” Levene said no.

But the Los Angeles vendors found out that Monem was, and soon Oregon’s orders to Levene started falling off. Levene found out why by accident.

On a fall evening in 2004, Levene and his wife were driving out of town for the weekend when he decided to check his office phone for messages. There was one — a recording of a call made when Monem mistakenly “pocket dialed” Levene from his cell phone.

Levene’s answering machine recorded nearly a half-hour of conversation. Levene said it was clear Monem was in Las Vegas, dining with the three Los Angeles brokers. That explained where the Oregon food sales had gone.

Levene called Monem in Las Vegas to confront him. Monem said Levene didn’t hear what he thought he did, that he had been pushing to get better deals for their own arrangement.

Levene said he didn’t believe Monem, but he was trapped. He said his business depended on sales to Oregon, even at a diminished level. And he knew those sales would continue only as long as he kept paying Monem. By the end of 2006, he had sent $600,000 to Monem.

The FBI agent in his office that January day in 2007 was following up on tips provided by former employees of the Los Angeles operation. Levene initially denied any impropriety, but he was caught.

At that moment, across the country, investigators searching Monem’s home found the spreadsheets Levene had faxed, meticulously detailing every bribe.