Another Opening Day for Bonds
Jonathan Littman is a veteran journalist and the author of seven books. As a contributing editor for Playboy, he has written extensively about the government's undercover steroids operation targeting Barry Bonds.
SAN FRANCISCO – "Come on in!" says the smiling man in the blue shirt, as he unlocks the thick, heavy door to Courtroom 10. The time is 8:02 a.m., and I am the first person to walk into what for the next nine months or longer will be the chamber in which Barry Bonds will be either vindicated or convicted.
My eye is drawn to the grand dais behind which Judge Susan Illston will preside, a huge seal of the U.S. District Court anchoring the wall, a U.S. flag to the side. Five rows deep, the courtroom is wood paneled with a high ceiling. But this is what you really need to know – in Courtroom 10 there are no windows, just like the place Bonds will go if the government finds him guilty.
I wasn't the first in line outside the federal building. That honor belonged to Larry Bailey, a self-employed baseball fan who went to Notre Dame and waited before dawn. Though Bailey sells mattresses on Craigslist, he hopes to study law one day. "Giambi and Sheffield and other baseball players have been in the public eye for a long time, but nobody's gone to court," says Bailey. "Twenty to 50 years from now, this may go down as one of the biggest sports cases ever."
If the case against Bonds was a baseball season, this would be opening day. There is a lot of ball to be played. At 7:43 a.m. I watch two burly U.S. Marshals in the locked and darkened courtroom scour each bench and seat with tiny flashlights. Outside the door, Joan Lynch, a dour courtroom artist in a black suit, walks up with her sketch pads. Her pens and pencils hang around her neck. No cameras will be allowed in the courtroom. Minutes before I enter, eight marshals huddle behind the door. Downstairs are dozens of video and print photographers, satellite trucks and a couple of women shivering in bikinis using the occasion to proclaim the virtues of a vegan lifestyle.
Over the next 50 minutes, reporters and marshals argue over the rules, which at some level is what the Bonds case is all about.
Can you send text messages from the courtroom? Type on your laptop? At 8:25 a.m., a chunky marshal announces to widespread groans, "It's all by hand." One anguished reporter claims not to have brought a traditional writing instrument, commonly known as a pen. "That's what's going on," growls the marshal to the protests.
But minutes later, I overhear from another marshal that the judge may be of another mind. "They're hashing it out," he tells a compatriot. Fifteen minutes before the hearing begins, the marshals reverse course: No cell phone calls. No transmissions or recordings. But typing is allowed. Another marshal chuckles and says to a reporter, "If you're a quiet typist, that's better. Pounding the keys with your fingers. That's bad."
A bald guy walks in from a side door, taking a seat in the front, in the belly of the court. It's Barry Bonds' nemesis, Jeff Novitzky, the IRS agent who famously rifled through BALCO garbage, escorted Bonds to his fateful grand jury hearings four years ago and attended BALCO proceedings. Tall, wearing a dark suit, Novitzky looks straight ahead.
A couple minutes before nine, Bonds enters, surrounded by his attorneys. His dark suit is of a better cut than Novitzky's, hanging easily off his thick, broad shoulders. Wearing a navy blue shirt and tie, Bonds stands, hands in pockets, and chats at the defense table with his long-time BALCO attorney, Mike Rains. After a couple of minutes Bonds sits, rolls his head back and takes in the crowd, gazing around with a relaxed expression. The time is 8:59. A minute later, Rains has him laughing. A short, intense blond woman pats him on the back – Cristina Arguedas – the latest addition to a legal team big enough to fill an infield, six so far.
The clerk walks in, announcing Magistrate Maria-Elena James presiding in the U.S. vs. Barry Lamar Bonds. James asks the attorneys on both sides to introduce themselves and the defendant to step forward. She asks his name.
"Barry Bonds," he says in a hushed voice.
The magistrate runs through the routine. The prosecutor explains that Bonds could get a maximum of 30 years. The defense says the plea is not guilty. Then the prosecutor asks Bonds to surrender his passport.
The magistrate's expression sours.
Allen Ruby, the new lead of Bonds' legal team, eases his bearish frame over a few steps and addresses the magistrate. Ruby looks and sounds like a big friendly grandpa. He says Bonds has no problem with the $500,000 bond and other requests. Parking his passport is another matter. "He wants to be free to practice his profession," Ruby says, "a profession he's practiced the last 22 years."
The magistrate gives short shrift to the government, bluntly denying their request to restrict Bonds' travel. You have to wonder about the failed move. In a case where the government is already accused of singling out Bonds, why make an outrageous request even before the trial judge is in the courtroom?
After the magistrate exits, the stately Judge Susan Illston enters. Bonds waives his right to a speedy trial, meaning there is no legal requirement to hold the proceedings within a limited time period. A status hearing is set for February 9. The government suggests there might be a conflict in the fact that the defense council has represented others brought before the BALCO grand jury. This is the first indication that a trial could easily be delayed for months by legal wrangling over the admissibility of certain evidence.
Judge Illston peers over her glasses and leans toward the defense table. "Are you concerned about discovery being delayed?"
The prosecutor begins to interrupt and Illston gently cuts him off: "I was asking defense counsel." A low chuckle ripples through the court.
Big Grandpa rolls over and answers the judge matter-of-factly. Then he casually mentions that the defense "may well bring a motion to dismiss the indictment for facial defects."
The entire show doesn't take more than half an hour. Bonds is done for the day – he'd been fingerprinted and had his mug shot snapped a day earlier. Fifteen minutes later in front of the federal building, a phalanx of cameras circle Ruby, Arguedas, Rains and other members of the defense counsel. Grandpa grabs the mike. He speaks slowly and quietly, reporters cupping their ears to hear. "Barry Bonds has confidence and trust in the justice system," he says. "He is innocent."
Twenty minutes later, Grandpa is still surrounded by cameras and reporters on the crowded street corner. Arguedas is taking care of business, trying to get them the hell out of there, calling their driver on her cell. Up close, she appears to be a female version of Rains, an attorney known for his toughness. Arguedas may prove an intriguing counterpart to the gentle giant Ruby. On the sidewalk, Rains says he predicts the trial not taking place until the fall or winter of 2008 – 9-12 months away and after the upcoming baseball season.
The car arrives, and Arguedas calls out firmly, "Let's go Allen."
This story, as they say, has legs. I first talked to the undercover agent sent into Bonds' gym to build a case against the home run king more than four years ago. I have followed the fascinating case ever since, and plan to continue.
The case of the U.S. versus Barry Lamar Bonds has just begun.
