ONCE A HERO

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Minnesota ALG, as it became known, turned out to be highly effective. As patient survival rates improved, other surgeons clamored to get hold of the potion. Between 1970, when Najarian obtained permis-sion from the FDA to produce and use the compound on an experimental basis, and 1992, when the FDA shut down the operation, Minnesota ALG was shipped to 175 transplant centers around the world and was used by more than 50,000 patients. Along the way, it generated an estimated $80 million in revenues, enough to finance a $13 million production facility on the University of Minnesota's St. Paul campus.

Still widely regarded as one of the safest and most effective antirejection agents, Minnesota ALG is now Exhibit A in the controversy surrounding Najarian and his former colleague and co-defendant Richard Condie, who also pleaded not guilty. They stand accused of failing to tell the FDA about adverse reactions associated with ALG (including nine deaths); neglecting to recall one lot suspected of causing bad reactions; and concealing the fact that ALG, an experimental drug that was supposed to be sold at cost, was making a handsome profit. According to the indictment, the two co-conspirators were driven by a desire to enhance Najarian's power and prestige. The surgeon denounces that allegation as ludicrous. "I didn't need to enhance my power and prestige. I was one of the original transplant surgeons in the U.S. and, in fact, the world!"

Najarian's celebrated career began to implode on Aug. 13, 1992, when FDA officials marched into the office of University of Minnesota president Nils Hasselmo to announce that the agency had imposed a hold on clinical use of Minnesota ALG. The following month university auditors uncovered evidence suggesting that Condie, director of the ALG program, had been selling a by-product of the production process and pocketing the proceeds. In November the university hired two law firms and accountants Coopers & Lybrand to delve into the ALG program. And in December 1992 the U.S. Attorney's office in Minneapolis launched a grand-jury probe that subpoenaed 22 years' worth of records kept by Condie and Najarian.

As the investigations have proceeded, Najarian has suffered one blow after another. In 1993 he was forced out as chairman of Minnesota's surgery department. Last year he signed a consent decree with the FDA that prohibits him from conducting trials of experimental drugs. Then last February, shortly after a faculty panel found him guilty of academic misconduct, Najarian abruptly resigned his faculty post.

Now awaiting trial, Najarian has retreated into his private practice. At the University of Minnesota Hospital, where he still performs two or three transplants a week, the embattled physician can often be seen striding down corridors in his white coat and surgical greens or sitting behind his desk in his out-of-the-way office, musing quietly amid pictures of his adult sons. On the advice of his lawyers, Najarian is saying little about the charges he faces, but he makes no secret of his anger and sense of betrayal. "The university," he says, "turned on me because they were afraid they might be held culpable."