Gunning for the Big Guy

It's early June 2003. The man in the shades guides his black Pontiac Grand Prix down a side street near the 101 freeway. Overhead a jet on its final approach to San Francisco International Airport roars in, nearly drowning out Tupac on the car stereo. In a single extended motion the man flips off the music and switches on a tiny black electronic device.

He pulls into the parking lot of a colorless two-story warehouse draped with a banner for Bay Area Fitness. He's early enough to snare his favorite spot, right next to a Chevy SUV with tinted windows and the vanity plate w8 GURU.

He leaves his shades on the dash, the thunder from the freeway hitting him when he opens the door. He's wearing gang-neutral colors—black sweats, black tee and black shoes (all Nike)—10 grand of gleaming gold on one wrist, a diamond ring and a $7,000 Rolex. Ronnie Gerald Allen doesn't do the locker room and doesn't carry a bag. He begins with chicken teriyaki in the gym's cafe, watching a bit of the box. At 11 A.M. he saunters through an open door into a bodybuilder's heaven and hell—a cavernous warehouse nearly as long as a football field and crammed with factory-style rows of barbells and machines. Massive steel roll-down doors pass for windows, and black rubber mats pass for a floor.

Greg Anderson, San Francisco Giants superstar Barry Bonds's personal trainer and the guy with the w8 GURU vanity plate, awaits him. Anderson doesn't look like much—he's short and squat, with cropped brown hair and a dimpled chin. His long sleeves and sweats make it hard to gauge his bulk. He starts off with Ronnie by targeting his shoulders, requiring four subtle movements—more than 40 reps—just for one major muscle group. Anderson insists they execute each lift at an excruciatingly slow pace—10 seconds so demanding that by the end of a 10-rep set the trainer is cradling Ronnie's shaking triceps, helping him finish. After a ferocious round of weights and sit-ups, it's upstairs onto the treadmill for a 45-minute slog and then another 45-minute churn on the bike.

"Good workout," Anderson tells the sweat-drenched Ronnie. "We're going to hit it hard tomorrow."

Ronnie can barely think about tomorrow. The week's workouts have taken their toll—on his way out he grabs at a twinge deep inside his shoulder that feels like a torn muscle. But there's no stopping now, because Ronnie G. is on a mission. He is actually Iran White, a top undercover cop sure that he's about to crack the biggest case of his career. He has worn a wire and kept a Glock stuffed in his waistband for two months, all in a daring attempt to get close to Anderson and, ultimately, to Bonds himself. White is armed because he's looking for juice: He's on a hunt for steroids.

That evening White has a headache he can't shake. His wife nods off, but White sits up in bed watching television, his gun on the nightstand. On the wall hangs a photo of him with fellow agents posing in front of a light armored vehicle used to ram a drug dealer's gate. He stares at it as the hours pass. Sometime in the early morning he feels a chill go up his spine. Then he has trouble breathing, as if someone has punched him in the chest. He tries to sit up, but his right side won't cooperate. He shakes his wife awake and barely gets the words out. "Call 911," he says, his eyes full of despair and surprise. "I think I'm having a heart attack."

The words tumble out like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. I'm dying, he thinks. Then something worse: I can't move. I can't talk—I'm paralyzed.

A Federal Case

This is the story behind the investigation into the illegal drug habits of elite athletes and a company known as BALCO (Bay Area Lab Cooperative)—a landmark case that Agent White helped build from the ground up. The BALCO case would eventually attract the highest levels of government. In February 2004 the top lawman in the country, Attorney General John Ashcroft, announced the indictment of four men—including trainer Greg Anderson and BALCO founder Victor Conte—for money laundering, possession of human growth hormone and conspiracy to distribute steroids. Accompanying the indictment was a 52-page affidavit backing up the charge that BALCO had been supplying performance-enhancing drugs to professional athletes.

A month earlier President Bush had attacked steroid use as a plague upon the land in his State of the Union speech—a huge gesture in a campaign year. Combining federal, state and local authorities, the BALCO investigation was unprecedented in size and scope. So too was its focus—not addicts or dealers on the streets but some of the biggest names in pro sports, including Bonds.

Few people, even in law enforcement, know of Iran White's existence. He has never before spoken to the media about Bonds and BALCO. This article is based on extensive interviews with White, the case's key undercover man, and on more than 60 interviews with dozens of sources during six months of reporting, from which a picture emerges of how the government assembled its case against BALCO, Conte and Anderson. It's the story of a highly motivated IRS agent who, according to White, was determined to expose the home run king as a cheater. It's a story that strikes at the heart of American athletics, with twists and turns compounded by the intersection of fate and human failings. And it's a story that marks a turning point in how we judge record-setting celebrities whose exploits, attitudes and bodies defy logic.

Going Under

California's Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement, or BNE, is one of the country's oldest and most respected drug agencies, ideal for a talented cop like Iran White. He came of age in the war zone of north St. Louis, where his mom had bought him martial arts lessons. After moving to California he became an instant success working undercover with Stanford's department of public safety and the Santa Clara sheriff's office and was soon recruited by the BNE. Few undercover assignments exceed two or three years, but White had been assuming identities and upending drug dealers since 1987. He could play the thug or the suave dealer, and he intimidated people with his strength and his martial arts skills. What kept him alive was his uncanny ability to act cool at the point of a gun.

White worked crack, heroin and meth cases with drug task forces and did 10 major operations with the FBI. He talked a drug lord into fronting him 20 pounds of meth with no money down. He also teamed with U.S. Customs and the Drug Enforcement Administration. In 1997 the FBI drafted him to bust a ring of computer-chip hijackers led by a gang of Crips. On that case White teamed with an IRS agent named Jeff Novitzky, and they grew, friendly. No paper pusher, Novitzky was part of the agency's Criminal Investigation group, a position that allowed him freedom and leeway in choosing assignments. He was respected for his persistence and his signature move—rifling suspects' trash for evidence.

The hijackers' prosecution lasted nearly two years, running through 2000, and White met with Novitzky several times at court hearings. Novitzky had played basketball in college, and he and White, another ex-jock, who had run the 100 in under 10 seconds as a teen in Palo Alto, passed the time by talking sports. Novitzky, assigned to the San Jose IRS office, belonged to Bay Area Fitness in Burlingame and often saw Anderson and Bonds there. He told White he was astonished by Bonds's seemingly unnatural size and strength.

To White, Novitzky—who did not participate in this article—seemed to have an unusual interest in the ballplayer. He mentioned Bonds frequently after a sighting or a Giants game. One day at court Novitzky struck up a conversation with White that went beyond the usual talk-radio banter.

"That Bonds. He's a great athlete," White says Novitzky told him. "You think he's on steroids?"

White took a moment before replying, in his bourbon-and-cotton voice, "I think they're all on steroids. All of our top major leaguers."

Novitzky seemed to care only about Bonds. "He's such an asshole to the press," he said. "I'd sure like to prove it."

To the average fan, cheating in sports is worse than lying in politics. To men who believe in law and order it's particularly galling. Bonds's possible steroid use became a frequent topic of conversation between the tax man and the undercover agent during the next two years. They were hardly alone. Bonds was the major sports celebrity in San Francisco, the high-flying, in-your-face $90 million man; whether he used steroids had become a local obsession. By 2000 Bonds, after embarking on a strength-training program under Greg Anderson at Bay Area Fitness, was putting up some of the best numbers of his career. He looked as if he had added 25 pounds of pure muscle since his rookie year. Something didn't seem right.

Novitzky began to make formal requests to put White undercover on a steroid case that involved Bonds's associates. White's superiors resisted; their unit focused on street narcotics that were more dangerous than Schedule III drugs such as steroids, which carried low penalties and got scant attention for a bust. But Novitzky persevered. He had been given information from a three-year probe by the San Mateo Drug Task Force on allegations of steroid distribution from Bay Area Fitness. He had also gathered intelligence on the business practices of a sports-medicine lab called BALCO, which Bonds had used since the winter of 2000. Inspired, Novitzky continued to apply pressure.

His politicking paid off. Novitzky's appeals to senior BNE men, federal prosecutors and his own bosses—always with Bonds as the lure—culminated in a deal for a complicated sting operation involving agencies at the federal, state and local levels. By February 2003 White's superiors had given the green light. White was handed a new identity and a new driver's license. He began to hit the iron in preparation, bringing his compact five-foot-seven frame up to a muscular 200 pounds. He was going undercover. This would be the 46-year-old agent's final case, and he was determined to make it work.

The Cheaters

Ever since the East German women's swim team used a spectrometer to evade steroid detection in 1976, a black-market network of coaches, chemists and athletes has developed to facilitate doping at the highest levels of sports. In this high-tech cat-and-mouse game, the stakes get bigger every year. The goal for dopers is simple: improved performance without getting caught. This basic premise has driven cheaters to search for new designer drugs and masking agents that will help them avoid detection. And their resources—fueled by ever-inflating salaries—are considerably greater than those of the scientists trying to catch them.

The archenemy of the elite American sports doper is the United States Anti-Doping Agency; based in Colorado Springs, Colorado, the USADA is charged with drug testing, research and adjudication for U.S. Olympians and other top athletes. Until the BALCO case, the most athletes had to fear was the humiliating loss of their reputation and income. Governance came from within the sport itself and was open to second-guessing by players' unions and international bodies—and the penalties were rarely severe (see sidebar, previous page).

Signs of cheating abound in baseball. Dr. Charles Yesalis, a Penn State University epidemiologist and the nation's top expert on the subject, calls steroid use in the major leagues an epidemic. Steroids build larger muscles, but they are also believed to create strain on ligaments and joints, increasing the risk of such injuries as hamstring and rotator-cuff tears. From 1997 through 2001 the total number of days players spent on the disabled list increased by 20 percent, leading to the adage that there are now three major leagues in baseball: the AL, the NL and the DL. Though he later backed down, former MVP and admitted steroid user Ken Caminiti once claimed that at least half of the bigs were doping.

After Canadian sprinter Ben Johnson was stripped of his 1988 Olympic gold medal for testing positive for the steroid stanozolol, Congress passed the Anabolic Steroids Control Act. It enacted more stringent controls and serious criminal penalties—five years for possession and intent to distribute—for steroids and human growth hormone, and it established them as Schedule III drugs. Even so, government agencies have never considered steroids a priority. The only headlines since the act was passed involved two low-profile NFL players swept up in a 1992 Atlanta steroids ring and a failed 1994 attempt to prosecute a weak case against Vince McMahon for allegedly distributing steroids to WWF wrestlers. Until now the government has turned a blind eye to steroids, despite their long-term and short-term risks, and has never truly monitored their spread.

Iran White and Jeff Novitzky had no idea what they were about to turn up.

The Trainer

White opens a dossier to a Department of Motor Vehicles photo of a smiling Greg Anderson. "This is the guy," says a fellow agent on the drug task force. "He lives at the gym. He's pals with Bonds."

White and three other agents are meeting at a crowded office on the San Francisco peninsula. The date is April 17, 2003, and White is about to go under. Considerable resources have been assembled: Jeff Nedrow, an assistant U.S. attorney, has been assigned to head a complex multiagency investigation. White has been lucky while working with Nedrow before; he feels good about his selection. At the federal level Novitzky will handle an IRS support network and direct the operation. He has already enlisted Dr. Don Catlin, the doping expert who heads UCLA's Olympic Analytical Laboratory, the premier testing lab in the nation. Dr. Catlin has given Novitzky a primer on steroids and drug cheating. White represents the statewide BNE, and local law enforcement will complement his work. The core group of investigative agents will remain small and secretive. Their goal: to infiltrate BALCO and Bay Area Fitness, find out if Bonds is taking steroids and, if he is, discover how he's been beating the system.

Agents hand White $300 to open a six-month gym membership and give him an electronic wire to record Anderson and other suspects. He notes Anderson's (continued on page 78) The Big Guy (continued from page 70) 1966 birth date—making him 37—and shakes his head at his 225 pounds. "He looks like a big boy," White says.

Anderson's role in beefing up Bonds has been known since the 2001 season. After breaking the home run record, the superstar thanked his trainer before a packed stadium. If you want Bonds, the agents reason, start with Anderson. Three years earlier small busts in San Mateo revealed that individuals were selling steroids out of Bay Area Fitness. If Anderson is supplying Bonds, agents conjecture, he is getting the drugs from another Burlingame operation—BALCO.

White's supervisor points to a photo of a trim, proud man with a receding hairline: Victor Conte. "This guy is the owner of BALCO. We think he's the guy supplying the steroids." White scans head shots of the gym's owner and the front-desk girl as he gets the rundown.

The empire of the 53-year-old Conte consists of two parts: a medical testing lab for athletes, BALCO; and a nutritional-supplement company, SNAC, which licenses and markets a vitamin supplement called ZMA. (Apparently little more than zinc, magnesium and B6, it sells for $25 a bottle.) According to his website, Conte, a former musician with no formal training in chemistry, began offering athletes blood-test analyses in 1984. Using an "inductively coupled plasma spectrometer," he claims he can study the mineral levels in elite competitors' blood and theorizes that "magnesium supplementation" might significantly improve athletic performance. Conte also claims to do mineral analysis and custom nutritional supplementation for Olympic sprinters Tim Montgomery and Marion Jones. Bill Romanowski, the notoriously violent Oakland Raider, was one fan of the popular ZMA. (Conte later tells the San Francisco Chronicle that SNAC earned $10 million over the years from the sale and licensing of ZMA.)

To White it sounds like quackery.

The specter of steroids hovers above Conte. One of his prominent clients, Olympic shot-putter C.J. Hunter (then married to Marion Jones), flunked tests for the steroid nandrolone at the 2000 Sydney games, and Conte rushed to his defense. During a 1999 prescription-drug probe in Colorado, Ro-manowski's wife claimed that BALCO had given him human growth hormone (she later said she meant ZMA). Conte, who took on Barry Bonds as a client the winter before Bonds's huge 2001 season, uses his website to claim that ZMA helped the slugger shatter Mark McGwire's single-season home run record with 73. And then there is Barry Bonds, who does things unheard of for a 37-year-old, belting homers farther and more often than he ever had before. The payoff is huge: In 2002 the Giants signed Bonds at double his previous yearly rate—$90 million, spread over five years. He responded to the suspicions about him with pure arrogance. When a Sporting News reporter asked about steroids, Bonds replied, "You can test me and solve that problem real quick."

A few weeks after the April 17 meeting, White, Novitzky and a handful of other agents meet at the San Jose Federal building. According to White, Novitzky names Bonds, Jason Giambi and other major leaguers as targets of the investigation. Cracking down on BALCO just for money laundering would never merit such energy from law enforcement, but a connection to Bonds would launch it into headlines around the country. Prosecutor Nedrow sets the tone. "Gentlemen, this case is going to have to be done by the numbers," he says. "With all of the attorneys and the athletes, everything and everybody will be under scrutiny."

Freak Scene

Within minutes of walking into Bay Area Fitness, White has concerns. The local police academy sends its recruits to the gym, and it's not unusual to see 20 or more of them there. One innocent wave could blow his cover.

During his first few trips, however, White doesn't run into any familiar cops. It isn't hard to spot Anderson. Seven or eight pumped-up roid boys hover around him. Their exaggerated grunting, squared-off chins and premature baldness betray signs of too much testosterone. They all cater to Anderson, and just like their guru, they are sheathed in sweats. They hang on his every word.

White goes about his business, waiting for a natural opening. The perfect opportunity comes as he's eating his pre-workout meal of chicken teriyaki. Anderson walks in, trailed by a woman nervously probing him about her exercise routine. White decides to make his move.

"You must be a trainer here." White says, rising from the table. "You sound like you really know what you're talking about."

The opening line takes. He talks easily for a bit before he makes his pitch.

"If it's okay, I'm going to come and ask you for help," he says, "just to tweak my workout."

"No problem," says the trainer. "Anytime."

It's only a matter of weeks before he gets tight with Anderson. White doesn't push it. The next three times he sees Anderson he just casually waves. Before long Anderson flaunts his connection to Bonds.

"I'm not here certain times," the trainer says as he helps load iron. "I'm not here when there's a game. I'm gone for an hour or two."

"Why?" asks White.

"I train a professional athlete."

"Who?"

"The big guy."

"You mean Bonds?"

Anderson just smiles and shrugs his bulky shoulders.

"Shit, you're pretty heavy."

The Balco Connection

Anderson isn't the only suspect being watched. The IRS has a court-ordered tap on Victor Conte's e-mail. BALCO's founder corresponds with an A-list of international sports stars and coaches who are surprisingly transparent about their involvement with performance-enhancing drugs. Some professional athletes ask Conte relatively straightforward questions about supplements but then suddenly turn secretive. Romanowski openly e-mails Conte about his vitamins. "Then it would get vague," says an agent. "He'd shift gears." Some of the players use single letters such as L, C and S as substitutes for drug names.

The e-mail contains rumors about new doping tests in track and field. In one e-mail to an elite track coach, Conte lays out how testers caught wind of athletes cheating with norbolethone, a never-marketed steroid from the 1960s. Conte tells the coach not to worry: "We already have a new one we're working on that should be available in a couple of months." Conte's communications to track stars and coaches include schedules for when athletes should take certain substances. Conte and the athletes speak of cream, a traditional steroid rubbed on muscles and joints, and a liquid drug called clear. In an e-mail to a top track athlete Conte declares, "Cream is the safest form to use, because it will not cause a spike in the testosterone level." Chances are that Conte's cream is cut with a masking (continued on page 142) The Big Guy (continued from page 78) agent called epitestosterone. Dr. Catlin informs Novitzky that sports dopers often take epitestosterone right before a drug test.

As White grows closer to Anderson, Novitzky continues his late-night trash runs. In the back alley behind the small BALCO offices, located in a commercial strip 100 yards from Bay Area Fitness, he opens a big green Dumpster with his gloved hands, swipes the trash and drives away to scour his take. From among the soiled lunch remains he pulls out papers indicating that Conte is shipping more than mineral supplements. Though routine ZMA supplements are mailed to athletes such as Romanowski at their home addresses and under their real names, other packages go out to players via Fed Ex under colorful pseudonyms.

Novitzky also issues a subpoena for the medical waste pickup from BALCO Labs. Several loads of medical castoffs reveal a treasure trove: dozens of used syringes containing clear, oily substances; vials of nutropin, a human growth hormone; and vials of epogen and epocrit, drugs favored by cyclists and longdistance runners to improve endurance.

The forensics lab at the San Mateo County sheriff's office tests the syringes and quickly identifies traditional steroids such as testosterone and stanozolol. The testers are stumped by three or four other samples, though.

One day Novitzky scores a revealing piece of paper. "A blood test was done at an outside laboratory, Quest Diagnostics in L.A.," alleges White. "It was labeled B. Bonds." Shortly thereafter investigators retrieve correspondence from BALCO to the lab about a reputed error. The notice explains how B. Bonds's bloodtest results should have been labeled as Greg Anderson's.

When Novitzky shares his find with the undercover men at one of their periodic meetings, they laugh in triumph. Now why would BALCO want Bonds's blood work changed to Anderson's?

Anderson Opens Up

By May White is part of the gym's inner circle, and the undercover cop is facing the physical test of his life. The third member of his training group is a six-foot-seven behemoth of a college lineman. Anderson is deadly serious about lifting, and if White wants to get to Bonds, he's going to have to keep pace with the big boys.

Anderson does his reps, grunting and breathing, and then they follow along. It's nonstop, except every once in a while Anderson's cell phone rings and he steps a good 15 feet away. From the trainer's body language it's clear these are business calls.

Even this close to Anderson, White finds it hard to guess his bulk. He knows he's bull-strong, but his long sleeves and sweats mask his build.

"Do me a favor," Anderson says to White one day after finishing a lift.

"Yeah?"

"Get rid of your short sleeves."

White understands. Old-school bodybuilders don't let others see how ripped they're becoming in the gym.

The role Anderson and the gym play in the BALCO scheme gradually becomes clear. Anderson doesn't just run a business by phone; elite international athletes come to the gym. One afternoon in the cafe White notices a black man with an imperious attitude and a British accent conferring with Anderson. Later White's fellow agents say the man is Dwain Chambers, the European 100-meter champion, here from Britain to train with Remi Korchemny, a Russian coach with ties to Conte. For all Chambers's visits, White never sees him work out.

Little by little Anderson opens up to White, who catches everything on his wire. Soon he confides how he trains several major league players. White casually asks how he can train so many different athletes during the day, and Anderson replies that he often counsels them "over the phone." Those words, White knows, could be the legal basis to support an application for a wiretap.

Agents keep Anderson under a microscope. White tracks him in the gym; when he leaves, drug agents and Novitzky have him under surveillance. Mostly he's a gym rat, but the agents tail him on his frequent forays to Pac Bell Park and notice that he is waved into the secured players' parking lot—often for just a 30- to 45-minute visit. When Bonds is at bat, Anderson can often be seen in the tunnel behind home plate.

Time to Move

One day in late May White climbs wearily into his black Pontiac, still wearing his wire. He utters his closing bit of dialogue to himself—"This is Special Agent Iran White—the time is..."—and switches off the recording device.

He drives to the designated rendezvous at the rear of a nearby building. As White rolls out of his car he overhears Novitzky talking excitedly to one of the drug agents about a book deal. They've brought White a copy of the new June 2003 issue of Muscle and Fitness, which to their amazement features a cover story linking their three suspects—Bonds, Anderson and Conte. They can't believe it.

"You're in on him!" exclaims an ecstatic Novitzky. "Buy some drugs from that fucker and I'll buy you a steak."

"Don't worry," whispers White.

White hands his wire to the drug agent and takes a look at the magazine article. "I'm just shocked by what they've been able to do for me," Bonds declares in the article without a hint of irony. "I visit BALCO every three to six months. They check my blood to make sure my levels are where they should be.... Maybe my zinc and magnesium intakes need to increase and I need more ZMA."

White looks up from the article and drawls, "Do you have a problem with me going to the park with this guy?"

"To see Bonds?" asks Novitzky.

"Yeah."

"Hell, no."

Down and Out

White never gets his chance to go to Pac Bell Park. The night of June 7 he wakes up paralyzed. His wife calls for help, and within seven minutes two firemen are standing in his bedroom. In the intensive care unit of San Jose's Kaiser Hospital doctors tell White he's had a stroke.

Three hours after the incident he slowly begins to revive. He can move his limbs slightly, though he feels as if he just ran a marathon. I'll be back in the gym by Tuesday, White thinks. It can't be that serious. Then he slumps back in the bed, stricken again.

Terror sets in. He's trapped inside his body and feels as if he is underwater. He can see his family and doctors. He can even hear them exhorting him to hang in there. But he can't move the right side of his body or speak. His mother anoints him with holy oil.

He lies in his hospital bed, wondering whether he'll ever be able to move again. Hours blur into days. On the fifth day, Friday, June 13, White wiggles his right toe. A little later he manages to shift his leg ever so slightly. By the eighth day he can move most of his body and speak.

White has been moved to Kaiser's rehabilitation center in Vallejo. He refuses a walker. Slowly balancing on his stronger right leg, he begins to shuffle along. Doctors tell him he must have torn a muscle while lifting, and the blood clot traveled up his left side and lodged in his brain. They show him an X-ray of the stroke, a dark spot a little bigger than a poker chip.

Two weeks have passed, and the task force is in shock. It's become clear that White won't be able to return to the case. The drug investigators push for a new undercover agent, but the IRS wants to bring in its own operative. When a couple more weeks slip by, the investigators repeat their request. They even offer to get someone from out of state. No, says Novitzky, the IRS has someone.

The tap on Anderson's cell phone is never initiated. There are no intercepted calls of what the trainer had described to White as his "consultations" with all sorts of star athletes. The IRS says it won't support a wiretap application, a response that stuns the investigators. A request to bring in the FBI or the DEA to sponsor a wiretap is denied—Novitzky doesn't want to bring in another federal agency. Given no explanation, the agents remaining on the case begin to feel squeezed out.

Then there's a plain old-fashioned screwup. The swiped BALCO trash finds its way to another company's Dumpster, leading to a complaint from that company. BALCO replies that it didn't move the trash and files a report with the Burlingame police department. Agents fear Conte has been tipped off to the entire investigation.

Decoding Compound

While White is in the hospital, the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, the drug tester of U.S. Olympians, receives in the mail a cardboard box containing a nearly spent syringe. An anonymous whistle-blower—a high-profile track-and-field coach—calls to say the substance is an undetectable anabolic steroid that came from BALCO.

On June 13, the day White manages to move his right toe, the mystery substance arrives at UCLA's Olympic Analytical Laboratory, and Dr. Don Catlin begins his detective work. A graduate of Yale and a former Army major, Catlin pioneered athletic drug testing in the U.S., launching the nation's first sports lab in 1983. Catlin's team runs a droplet of the mystery drug through a sophisticated test, but the substance breaks down, avoiding detection. Compound X, as they dub it, clearly belongs to the steroid family, but that is about the limit of their knowledge. By late August, however, they've cracked the chemical code and developed a test for the drug they christen THG, or tetrahydrogestrinone. "We didn't know what we were dealing with at first," says Catlin. "We kept adding people to the team as it became apparent we were into something complex. It kept escalating. Then we got it on paper. It was a big moment."

Months before, the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency instructed Catlin to retain the hundreds of samples collected at the June USA Track and Field Championships at Stanford University. On retesting for THG, several samples test positive. Cadin informs the USADA of the results. Doping regulations require that the USADA must dispatch letters informing athletes that they have tested positive for steroids. Their samples will be tested again two weeks later, and athletes and their representatives must be allowed to attend the second test. But the letters also imperil the secret investigation.

On August 19 Novitzky and another investigator fly out to USADA headquarters in Colorado Springs to see how much time they have left. They gain insight into the likely motivation behind the man who sent the syringe—an apparent feud between two gurus. The BALCO garbage runs produced torn versions of a letter Conte had addressed to the USADA and the International Association of Athletics Federations. In them he alleges that a celebrated track coach has been providing his athletes with steroids; the USADA tells the investigators the letter was never received. Amazingly they believe that the man Conte was about to report is the same coach who mailed the tainted syringe. The case has come to a breaking point.

"The time had come to toss Conte's office and see what we could come up with," says White. They would have to move before any evidence could be destroyed.

Conte's Clients

Shortly before noon on September 3, 2003, helicopters pound the air over BALCO's tiny offices. A pack of unmarked sedans surrounds the building. In a move other agencies would later question, IRS agents are told to place IRS placards on the dashboard of their cars. Nearly two dozen agents, several in black IRS flak jackets, along with a doctor the USADA has sent, crowd through BALCO's front door. Down the hall is a refrigerator for blood samples and a machine that resembles a mass spectrometer. A gym is farther back, its walls covered with framed signed jerseys of Bonds, Jones and other athletes.

Inside Conte starts talking and won't stop. As investigators start laying out the evidence against him he stresses that he isn't in it for money. He is doing a public service, he says—helping athletes use performance-enhancing substances in a healthy way. He cites Arnold Schwarzenegger as a case of a bodybuilder now suffering physical ailments because he took steroids. Conte also points to Lyle Alzado, who died of a brain tumor, as a steroid casualty.

"When Arnold and Lyle were shooting steroids," Conte allegedly tells agents inside BALCO, "they were shooting recklessly. I've added all sorts of supplements. [My clients] are all at safe levels." Conte has a stamp with a doctor's signature to order blood samples drawn at a nearby hospital "to see if the substances his clients were taking were going to be detected," says White. Quest Diagnostics in southern California also tested clients' blood samples for steroid levels.

Then Conte begins to give up his clients, the track-and-field athletes and major league baseball players he says he supplied with juice. "He started naming the athletes on THG," says White. Conte names a few Yankees and some current and former Giants, including Benito Santiago. (David Cornwell, Santiago's attorney, says Santiago "gave truthful testimony about what he thought he was taking for nutritional supplements and what he subsequently came to learn had been provided to him by Greg Anderson.")

Conte turns on Anderson, too, telling cops the trainer is supplying baseball players with testosterone cream and THG. He agrees to take investigators to a storage locker across the freeway, where they find THG, cream, human growth hormone, other steroids and files on athletes. As Conte leaves the BALCO offices a wave of news cameras and reporters engulfs him.

"Are these TV cameras?" he asks, clearly stunned. "How did this happen?"

Many agents—everyone, in fact, who doesn't work for the IRS—are angered by the publicity. The search of BALCO, which was supposed to remain secret for countless investigative reasons, now resembles an episode of Cops. Members of other law enforcement groups are furious at the publicity stunt. The search was designed as a pressure tactic, not as the end of the investigation; there are no plans to arrest Conte, who walks free.

There is also a more immediate concern. The jig is up, and Anderson has yet to be served with a search warrant.

Investigators find Anderson two days later at Bay Area Fitness and present him with a search warrant for his residence and vehicle. (The IRS has to return lamely a couple of days later with a second warrant to get the laptop listing Anderson's clients.) Agents escort the trainer to his nearby condominium, where they find the steroids and a safe in the kitchen holding $67,000. In a box on the mantle is a ring that makes cops gasp: a massive gold piece with the magical number 73 glittering in diamonds. It was a gift from Bonds. They interrogate Anderson in his bedroom, and he is at first reluctant. He changes his mind and offers a list of players identical to Conte's.

He is asked about Bonds.

"Big Man's my friend," says Anderson. "I'm not saying anything."

Coda: Perp Walk

Lying in bed at home, recovering from his stroke, White is startled to see the faces of three fellow undercover drug agents exposed on television. The made-for-TV searches trigger an avalanche of media coverage. Then the news breaks that some notable track-and-field athletes have tested positive for THG: U.S. sprinter Kelli White, hammer thrower John McEwen, shot-putter Kevin Toth and Regina Jacobs, who at 39 had recently shocked fans by breaking the 1,500-meter indoor world record. Dwain Chambers also tests positive but claims he took only legal BALCO supplements.

Although the NFL refuses to comment publicly on whether it is retesting urine samples, the league notifies four Oakland Raiders that they have tested positive for THG. Three of the players—Romanowski, Barret Robbins and Dana Stubblefield—are starters on the 2003 AFC champion team. In mid-November, after testing players for steroids for the first time, Major League Baseball announces that five to seven percent tested positive during the season, triggering the weak 2004 regular-season testing. Major League Baseball doesn't retest a single player for THG, however.

In October 2003 a grand jury convenes to hear secret testimony from dozens of former Conte clients, including Marion Jones (three Sydney golds), Gary Sheffield and Barry Bonds.

As the testimony plays out, leaks from the grand jury reveal that some athletes have testified under oath that they used clear and cream.

"The lower-profile athletes are forthright," says a source close to the proceedings. "The higher-profile athletes have been more vague and guarded."

Some athletes are also naive about any trails they might have left behind. This being an IRS investigation, money is key. Several athletes paid for steroids with checks, and at least one football player was foolish enough to write Conte one for $6,200. Many others paid for their steroids in cash.

In February 2004 the grand jury subpoenas baseball's drug-test records, catching league officials, including commissioner Bud Selig, off guard. No one had dreamed the federal government would order the league to turn over the names of doping athletes. A few days later the grand jury produces a 42-count indictment charging Victor Conte, BALCO vice president James Valente, Greg Anderson and track coach Remi Korchemny with illegal steroid distribution and money laundering. Though many of these carry penalties of five years or more, lengthy prison time is unusual in a steroid case. And the amount of money alleged in these instances is not large for a money laundering operation. (From January 2000 to September 2002, for example, Conte withdrew less than $500,000 in cash from his personal and business accounts.)

The investigative star of the groundbreaking case is Jéff Novitzky, whose 52-page search warrant affidavit for BALCO is unsealed on September 3, 2003 and quickly becomes front-page news. Novitzky documents in painstaking detail evidence found in BALCO's garbage and medical waste. The warrant is unusually long, but there is no mention of Iran White, the undercover investigation or the rest of the team. Missing is evidence Novitzky found to suggest that Bonds was being tested for steroids—the paperwork mentioning that "B. Bonds should read G. Anderson." Indeed, missing in the affidavit and the indictment are the names of any athletes. Another affidavit is released the following week, and a copy later sent to The New York Times inadvertently mentions that the Yankees' Gary Sheffield had sent mail to the supplements lab. A day earlier Sheffield's agent, Rufus Williams, had told Playboy, "There is no connection between Victor Conte and Sheffield."

These days White wonders whether political headlines weren't grabbed over the possibility of larger and broader charges. Was Novitzky's intent to shape his investigative exploits into a book? Or did ego and one federal agency's desire to control the investigation determine the focus of what now plays across TV screens?

By February 2004 White seems fully on the mend. He hopes that for all the BALCO investigation's human failings, the case will send a stern message to kids and young athletes. "If Bonds took THG, he shouldn't have," says White. "He's a phenomenal athlete. He probably would have broken the home run record anyway."

To the average fan, cheating in sports is worse than lying in politics. To cops it's particularly galling.

Outlaw, Legalize or Look the Other Way?

The Straight Dope on How Major Sports deal with Drugs

Major League Baseball

Substances: The league lists 27 banned steroids, but until recently it focused on recreational drugs such as cocaine and LSD.

Testing: Last season the league tested all players for steroids for the first time (the test could not detect THG, however). If overall use had been found to be below five percent, testing would have been suspended. But five to seven percent of the players tested positive.

Consequences: The first positive test result for steroids places a player on a "clinical track," according to the league's Joint Drug Prevention and Treatment Program. Penalties for subsequent infractions involve some discretion on the part of league officials. Generally a player faces a one-year suspension or a $100,000 fine after five positive tests. Suspensions are unpaid.

National Basketball Association

Substances: The league has a separate (and fairly lenient) penalty for marijuana use. The penalties are much harsher for steroids, as well as for cocaine, PCP, speed, LSD and opiates.

Testing: Veteran players can be subjected to testing once a year, during training camp or the first 15 days with a team. Rookies are subject to a slightly more rigorous regime.

Consequences: One positive test for recreational drugs (except marijuana) results in disqualification for no less than two years (one for rookies); the first positive test for steroids brings a five-game suspension, the second a 10-day suspension and the third a 25-day suspension. Pot use? The first positive means treatment, the second a $15,000 fine and the third a five-game suspension.

National Football League

Substances: There have been several high-profile steroids cases, including ones involving Bill Romanowski and three other Raiders who tested positive for THG. Steroids, growth hormones, ephedrine, stimulants and masking agents are all banned, but the cat-and-mouse game continues.

Testing: All players are tested at least once a year. Random tests are conducted weekly during the season and periodically during the off-season. The league can also test players who've had prior infractions or who exhibit behavioral evidence of steroid use.

Consequences: The first failure results in a four-game suspension, the second in a six-game suspension and the third in a minimum one-year suspension. Players are not paid during drug suspensions.

National Hockey League

Substances: The league does not maintain a list of banned substances.

Testing: None. "It's not part of the collective-bargaining agreement," says the NHL. That agreement is up in September, and some sort of drug policy may be part of the negotiations for a new agreement with players.

Consequences: There is "no chapter and verse," according to a league spokesman. Drug use is addressed through an employee assistance program, which focuses less on performance enhancers than on helping players deal with alcohol, recreational drugs and emotional or mental problems. Players can enter the program voluntarily or at the request of team doctors.

Olympics

Substances: The most notorious are human growth hormones (think East Germany) and steroids (Ben Johnson's juiced 1988 gold medal 100-meter run), but the banned list includes stimulants, anti-inflammatories and masking agents. Five world-class track-and-field athletes were implicated in the BALCO THG scandal.

Testing: Testing is complicated by being conducted by many different bodies, including national—rather than international—agencies that don't want to see their athletes disqualified.

Consequences: Nearly all Olympic sports' governing bodies have signed on with the World Anti-Doping Agency's landmark guidelines, which enforce a two-year ban for any athlete who tests positive for listed substances.

When a reporter asked about steroids, Bonds replied, "You can test me and solve that problem real quick."