C. J. Hunter, Jones’s ex-husband, stayed in touch with Graham through all this. His positive drug test had effectively ended his career, and at one point he proposed to Graham that he become the track club’s strength coach. Then, in the spring of 2003, Hunter showed Graham a syringe about one quarter full of a clear liquid. Hunter said this was a “magic potion” he’d gotten from Conte. Other top athletes “are all passing the tests and this is what they are using,” Hunter told him. Hunter suggested Graham try it.
By this point Graham was furious with Conte, jealous of his relationship with Montgomery, and suspicious that Conte was behind his breakups with his star clients. Graham called Gene Cherry, a copy editor for the
Raleigh News & Observer
who’d written about illegal drug use in sports. Graham said he had information on steroid use by some top track stars on the West Coast that he wanted to convey to anti-drug authorities. Cherry referred him to Rich Wanninger, a spokesman for the USADA in Colorado. When Graham and Wanninger spoke, Graham implicated Conte, describing his operation in detail and his connections to West Coast track stars while making no mention of his own connections to Conte.
Graham also revealed he had a syringe containing one of Conte’s undetectable steroid compounds, which he sent to Wanninger by overnight mail. Wanninger, in turn, sent it to a UCLA laboratory, which identified it as a previously unknown testosterone derivative. The scientists named it tetrahydrogestrinone, or THG. It was indeed a steroid, one that testers couldn’t identify because they didn’t know what to look for. UCLA scientists raced to create a testing protocol before the U.S. Track & Field Championships at Stanford that July, with several of Conte’s clients competing. All the athletes’ urine samples were held in reserve until the UCLA scientists completed the test. When they did, four athletes tested positive. All had won their events and were national champions. All were BALCO clients.
A
s prominent sports celebrities began streaming into San Francisco’s Phillip Burton Federal Building, a hulking 1959 office building next to the Civic Center, the press staked out the building’s entrances every Thursday, which was the day the BALCO grand jury was in session. Tim Montgomery arrived on November 4, hiding his face to avoid the photographers.
Unlike many of the athetes, Montgomery was disarmingly frank, perhaps because of his falling-out with Graham. Montgomery explained to the grand jury that C. J. Hunter had been married to Marion Jones, whose track coach was Graham. “And Trevor Graham is–he wanted to be known as the mastermind in chemistry also. So, before they had this real chemist, he was the person that provided–”
“Had the stuff,” a grand juror interjected, according to the transcript of Montgomery’s testimony.
“That had the stuff,” Montgomery agreed. “And C.J.’s coach didn’t, because everyone is not going to be willing to give you stuff or able to get the stuff. But Trevor had a connection to get the stuff. So C.J. had a relationship with Trevor–Trevor coaches sprinters, not shot-put.”
“What do you think Trevor Graham’s connection to getting the stuff was before he knew Victor Conte?” the grand juror continued. “Because if he hadn’t had a relationship with Victor . . .”
“It was Memo had sent–a guy named Memo out of San Antonio.”
Prosecutor Jeff Nedrow took up the questioning. “And when you say Memo, that’s what you knew him as, M-E-M-O, is that correct?”
“Yes . . .”
“And how do you know that Memo was the connection for Mr. Graham?”
“Because I traveled out to San Antonio, Texas, myself.”
“And did you meet Memo?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What does he look like?”
“Heavyset Mexican guy.”
“And based on your trip out there, did you get any information about where Memo would get whatever this stuff was that would come through to Trevor and then be given to the athletes?”
“Yes. His daddy was a horse doctor at a university. He was a teacher at a university over in Mexico. . . . He was, I guess, a veterinarian for the university or something. And so, most steroids, people use them on horses. And so he would get it in Mexico, send it over, send it to Trevor. And that’s how it was.”
According to Montgomery, Graham, far from the whistle-blower he appeared to be when he turned over the syringe to the USADA, had been importing and distributing steroids entirely apart from Conte. This added a whole new dimension to the case.
Later in his testimony, Nedrow returned to the subject of Conte.
“Did Mr. Conte ever give you or talk to you about norbolothone [a steroid]?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hear . . .”
“I heard a name, but he never said that he had made a new thing. All I know about is the trenbolone.”
“Did Mr. Conte ever provide you with human growth hormone?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Okay. And how–approximately how often or how many times did he give you human growth hormone?”
“He would send you four vials a month.”
“Okay.”
“Each vial would last you one week.”
“Okay. . . . Did he give you human growth hormone every month that you were working with Mr. Conte, the whole time?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And so the totality of that time frame is about, let’s see, you said . . .”
“Eight months. . . .”
“And the human growth hormone again is the banned stuff that’s injected with a syringe actually in your body, correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And did you take that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What about this EPO [the hormone erythropoietin] stuff, did he give you that stuff?”
“No. We had . . . decided that sprinters wouldn’t need EPO due to the fact that you’re not running as far. If I was running 200, then it may be good for me. But my hematocrit [the proportion of the blood consisting of red blood cells] was already good. So, he decided . . . He had sent it and I sent it back to him because we decided not to do it.”
Prosecutors didn’t ask Montgomery point-blank if he knew whether Jones was taking steroids, the “clear,” or other performance-enhancing drugs, presumably out of deference to the fact that they were in a relationship and were new parents. But the same day that Montgomery was appearing before the grand jury, Marion Jones, accompanied by her lawyers, met Novitzky at a conference room in the Fairmont Hotel in San Jose, far from any reporters or TV crews. Like the other athletes appearing before the grand jury, Jones had immunity from prosecution as long as she didn’t make any false statements.
Novitzky pulled out a plastic bag containing a vial of what looked like light olive oil. Had Jones ever seen or used it? No, she replied. Novitzky asked her again. In that moment, the
New York Times Magazine
later reported, she “thought about her years of training and her successes. She thought about her money, her sponsors, her family.”
“No,” she repeated.
According to Novitzky’s subsequent report of the interview, this was just one of a series of categorical denials Jones made that day. Jones “stated, in sum and substance, that: (a) she had never taken athletic performance-enhancing drugs; (b) she had never seen and ingested a performance-enhancing drug, referred to as the ‘clear,’ and (c) she had never received any such items from Trevor Graham.”
A
month later, on December 4, Novitzky arranged to rendezvous with Barry Bonds, his lawyer, and a bodyguard about a mile away from the federal building and drive them into a parking garage in the building in an unmarked car. Bonds was wearing a well-tailored light gray suit and a silver tie. As they waited for traffic to get into the building, a few photographers managed to get a shot of Bonds in the car, which irritated him. More photographers were on the seventeenth floor, waiting outside the grand jury room.
Bonds and his entourage arrived about 10:30 a.m. for his scheduled 1:00 p.m. testimony. As they waited, Gary Sheffield was in the room, testifying under a similar grant of immunity. Benito Santiago was coming in right after Bonds. It was a full day for the prosecutors, Jeff Nedrow and Ross Nadel.
Before going in, Bonds met briefly with the prosecutors, with his lawyer Rains present, and they explained his immunity grant, stressing that nothing he said could be used against him as long as he told the truth. Then they went into the grand jury room and Rains had to wait outside, where he was joined by Bonds’s wife and mother.
Nedrow reviewed Bonds’s rights and went to some lengths to make sure that he understood the conditions of his immunity. “Now, there’s an exception to what I just said,” Nedrow continued. “And so let me make sure that that exception is clear. And that exception is that if it were to be the case that you were untruthful today–and I have no reason to think that you would be today, but I say this to every witness who comes in here–if there were a prosecution for perjury, false declaration, false statements or otherwise failing to comply with this accord, that would be a circumstance where these statements could be used against you. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Bonds replied.
Nadel added, “Is there anything that you’re unsure of with regard to the use of the immunity order compelling you to testify that we need to clear up?”
“No, none at all,” Bonds said.
“What would you describe as . . . the athletic achievement you’re most proud of?” Nedrow asked.
“My draft,” Bonds answered without hesitating. “When I was drafted in 1985. There’s no better achievement than fulfilling your goal.”
It seemed odd that Bonds hadn’t mentioned his home run record.
“You also in 2001, I think, set the single-season home run record, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Mr. Bonds, I want to ask you some questions about the individuals we identified as the targets of this investigation. And let’s start with Greg Anderson. How long have you known Greg Anderson?”
“Since we were children . . . fifth grade, sixth grade, somewhere around there.”
“Besides providing you with advice on weight lifting systems, did Mr. Anderson provide you with anything else in connection with your working out with him?”
This was the first real test of Bonds’s candor.
“Vitamins and protein shakes,” he replied.
When pressed, Bonds acknowledged that Anderson had asked him for blood and urine samples, which he sent to BALCO, in order to “figure out what you’re deficient in and be able to supplement that with vitamins or food intake. And I thought it was just a neat idea.”
“Did you provide the blood samples directly to Mr. Anderson?” Nedrow asked.
“Yeah, I had my own personal doctor come up to draw my blood. I only let my own personal doctor touch me. And my own personal doctor came up and drew my blood and Greg took it to BALCO.”
“What about the urine samples?”
“Same thing. Come to my house, here, go.”
Nedrow asked the question again: “Did you ever get anything else from Greg besides advice or tips on your weight lifting and also the vitamins and the proteins that you already referenced?”
“At the end of 2002, 2003 season . . . my dad died of cancer, you know, and everyone knows that.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about that.”
“And everyone tries to give me everything. You got companies that provide us with more junk to try than anything. And you know that as well. I was fatigued, tired, just needed recovery, you know? And this guy says, ‘Try this cream, try this cream.’ And Greg came to the ballpark and he said, ‘This will help you recover,’ and he rubbed some cream on my arm, like, some lotiontype stuff, and, like, gave me some flaxseed oil, that’s what he called it. Called it some flaxseed oil, man. It’s like, whatever, dude. And I was at the ballpark, whatever, I don’t care. What’s lotion going to do to me? How many times have I heard that? ‘This is going to rub into you and work.’ Let him be happy. We’re friends. You know?”
This sounded remarkably like the “clear” and the “cream”–both of which Anderson had told Novitzky he never gave Bonds.
“When did this happen for the first time?” Nedrow asked.
“Not until 2003, this season.”
Bonds described what the “flaxseed oil” looked like, adding “and you would get, like, two drops underneath your tongue.” Bonds opened his mouth, demonstrating. “Like this, you know, like, you ain’t taking this whole thing.” He pointed to the plastic vial. “It was this little bit right in here. And, you know, to me it didn’t even work. You know, me, I’m thirty-nine years old. I’m dealing with pain. All I want is the pain relief, you know? And I didn’t think the stuff worked. I was, like, dude, whatever. But he’s my friend. You know?”
Of course, the “clear,” assuming that’s what it was, didn’t relieve pain. It was a steroid, not a pain reliever. “Okay,” Nedrow continued. “Had you ever taken flaxseed oil, by the way, before?”
“I never asked Greg. When he said it was flaxseed oil, I just said, ‘Whatever.’ It was in the ballpark. . . . You know, in front of everybody. I mean, all the reporters, my teammates. I mean, they all saw it. I didn’t hide it. I didn’t hide anything.”