By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
When Fischer met Tony Bosch, he "was wearing a lab coat," Fischer recalls. "He says, 'OK, I think we can make this work. Where do you want to be?'"
Fischer thought for a minute and answered truthfully. "Well, in a perfect world, I'd like a Stallone body."
Bosch grinned, Fischer remembers, and said, "We can get you there."
Soon the HCG started working. Fischer's weight began sliding off. During the next visit, Bosch gave him another shot and suggested weightlifting. "I worked out like a fucking animal," Fischer recalls. He claims he never bothered to ask about the injections' ingredients.
In 2010, Bosch opened a new clinic called Biokem, tucked into a building near the University of Miami campus. He agreed to keep Fischer on the drug regimen for about $300 per month.
Then, on March 2, 2011, Fischer was out biking when a Jaguar slammed into him. After knee surgery, Fischer says, he received $35,000 in insurance money.
Fischer had begun hanging around the clinic—which changed its name to Biogenesis in 2012—after receiving his latest prescriptions, which by then included testosterone creams and anabolic steroids.
"I was starting to get seriously jacked up," Fischer says. Soon he proposed the idea of marketing Biogenesis. After all, the place didn't even have a sign out front. "I said, 'Look, I'll even pay for some of the advertising myself. I've come into some money,'" Fischer remembers.
Bosch later called with a proposal: Invest $4,000 and be repaid plus 20 percent interest via weekly installments. He'd also make Fischer a partner and marketing director.
Fischer agreed. Last October, he began working at Biogenesis every day, organizing records and assembling a marketing plan. "I was doing everything for free," he says.
Then, after almost two years on the drug regimen, Fischer finally began seriously researching what he'd been taking. He wasn't too worried. After all, Bosch was a doctor, right?
One day a co-worker approached Fischer. He claimed Bosch's main drug source wasn't a licensed doctor but rather "just a goddamn glorified steroid dealer."
"That's the first moment I thought, Oh, shit. I'm in the drug trade," Fischer says.
It's also the moment he began planning his exit strategy. The problem was, Bosch quickly abandoned his weekly payment plan. Pressed about the matter, Bosch claimed the clinic's income had fallen recently by $30,000 per month "because of Cabrera." (Bosch did eventually make two $600 payments to Fischer.)
Fischer went home and researched the name. Then-Giants outfielder Melky Cabrera had been suspended 50 games beginning in August for failing a drug test. It was then that Fischer learned of Bosch's alleged links to slugger Manny Ramirez's case.
"That's when I started documenting shit," Fischer says. "I [said], 'Look, if this motherfucker doesn't pay me, there's going to be collateral damage."
Fischer began discreetly taking Biogenesis records home. Bosch wasn't around much, perhaps because he was distracted by money woes—including thousands of dollars in unpaid child support he owed two ex-wives.
One day, Fischer grabbed four composition notebooks from Bosch's desk. The Biogenesis owner's name was written on the front, and they were packed with hand-scrawled notes about clients, drug formulas, and payments.
Finally, he confronted Bosch, who had returned from a trip to Detroit. (According to Fischer, the trip took place during last year's Yankees-Tigers playoff series, when A-Rod was benched for his ineffectual hitting. Bosch had been called to the slugger's side, Fischer claims, to help him right his swing.)
"I said, 'Hey, how was the trip? Where's my money?'" Fischer recalls. "Bosch looked me straight in the face and said, 'I don't have it. You're not going to get it. I'm Tony Bosch. What the hell are you going to do about it?'"
The way Fischer tells it, the frantic phone call came January 26, the Saturday before New Times's story about Biogenesis was scheduled to land. Fischer had told only a few people he'd been speaking to a reporter, including a friend. Rumors were running wild. After New Times had called every player named in the records for comment that Friday, someone leaked details of the coming bombshell to the New York Daily News and the South Florida Sun-Sentinel.
The friend sounded panicked.
Here's how Fischer remembers the call: "Porter!" he hollered. "I need to come over to your place now!"
Fischer was rattled. He checked his .32 Beretta and armed the alarm on his front door. Then he gave his friend his home address. That would be the first of several mistakes he made in the manic months that followed. Fischer would soon find himself burned by his friends, by Major League Baseball, and finally by state investigators.
The first betrayal came from that friend, who showed up around midnight, panting nervously with a simple message: "[One of Bosch's associates] will kill both of us," he claimed, unless the story was softened.
Fischer began to panic. "What can I do?" he asked. "I just want this to blow over now."
"Let me see the notebooks," the friend allegedly said.
Fischer thought for a minute. Then he went to the closet, grabbed the four handwritten notebooks in which Tony Bosch had kept daily records, and handed them over. His friend quickly announced he could get them back to Bosch, Fischer says, no questions asked.