Bonds arraignment held amid circus atmosphere

SAN FRANCISCO – As circuses go, Barry Bonds' arraignment here Friday would have disappointed Barnum & Bailey. No fire-eating lawyers. No barking-mad defendants. No chaos like the O.J. Simpson murder trial or the Michael Jackson molestation trial, both of which put the "frenzy" in media frenzy.

But there was good news, and by that I mean bikini-clad women braving the frigid weather to pass out "steroid-free turkey'' sandwiches.

Yes, let's start with the bikini-clad women and those steroid-free turkey sandwiches.

Barry Bonds and his six attorneys – doesn't everybody need a good half-dozen barristers these days? – looked prepared for everything they faced in the courtroom. They sailed through a 25-minute hearing, during which Bonds pleaded not guilty to charges of perjury and obstruction of justice that stemmed from his denying before a grand jury that he knowingly used steroids. But the lawyers had no idea what was about to come next.

See, exiting the Phillip Burton federal building, Bonds went one way and his lawyers went another. Pretty slick move. It allowed Bonds to make a relatively clean getaway because most of the media was assembled outside the courthouse waiting for the attorneys to appear at a news conference. But it'd be inaccurate to call the lawyers slick, especially after what took place.

When Bonds' legal team exited at about 10 a.m., the attorneys encountered the two women PETA had dispatched to protest, according to the news release from the animal-rights group, "the growth-promoting drugs given to chickens to make them grow faster than Barry Bonds' hat size.''

Trust me, fellas, no matter how you feel about PETA and growth-promoting drugs in your chicken, this was a demonstration you could've appreciated.

Enduring blustery winds, the two women wore bikini tops and bottoms designed to look like lettuce. Get it? Skimpy lettuce bikinis naturally appeals to vegetarians and, it turns out, to some sportswriters. But to lawyers? Well, that was hard to tell.

As the five men and one woman that comprise Bonds' legal team walked toward microphones, one of the bikini-clad women approached with a girl-next-door look and a plateful of those sandwiches.

"Would you like a steroid-free turkey sandwich?'' she asked, and asked again, and asked again and …

Michael Rains, one of Bonds' attorneys, finally answered, "I think we'll pass,'' wearing a smile as taut as those Lettuce Ladies.

This was not altogether bad news for PETA, considering dozens of TV cameras filmed Rains rebuffing the offer and clips of the bikini-clad protestors are sure to appear during newscasts from TV stations that take seriously their obligation to keep viewers informed. But there were other things worth seeing between waiting on Bonds' arrival and watching his departure on Arraignment Day.

A mattress-seller beat Bonds and nearly everyone else to the courthouse, which helped secure him the first place in line among those vying for 30 passes required for courtroom seats issued on a first-come, first-served basis. The 60 seats reserved for the media had been allotted earlier in the week, which didn't keep some enterprising reporters from tucking their notebooks out of sight, acting like John Q. Public and snatching up one of the seats reserved for non-reporters. (Hey, it was only done to serve you, dear reader.)

Standing sixth in line, five spots behind the bed-mattress salesman, four spots behind a rumpled-looking legal analyst and one spot ahead of your enterprising reporter (wink, wink), was Vitaliy Musiyenko, a 21-year-old nursing student at the College of Marin. He and his buddy had driven to the courthouse in hopes of watching Bonds go through the arraignment and, well, who knew?

"You think he'll be signing autographs?'' Musiyenko asked. "Maybe he'll be hugging babies and signing autographs on his way into the courtroom.''

The sight wouldn't have been totally farfetched considering what was happening outside the courthouse less than two hours before the 9 a.m. arraignment.

First of all, who says Barry Bonds has no admirers? One of them, "Candlestick Rich,'' was standing on the plaza outside of the courthouse and attracting attention in a grim reaper get-up and a sign that read, "Welcome to the Geo Mitchell Witch Hunt.''

That would be George Mitchell, the former senator who is leading an investigation into the use of steroids in Major League Baseball. The report is due out before Jan. 1, and heaven forbid it includes allegations that Bonds used steroids and Sen. Mitchell and Candlestick Rich bump into each other at a New Year's Eve party.

Without Mitchell around, Candlestick Rich lashed out at a TV reporter.

"This witch hunt is sponsored by ESPN,'' he snarled.

An ESPN reporter uttered a few words in defense, then wisely walked away.

The rumpled-looking lawyer who'd already snagged his courtroom seat looked taken aback by Candlestick Rick's attack.

"That's not nice,'' he said.

Yet a heavily-bearded man standing nearby almost swooned at the sight of the snarling Bonds' defender.

"Isn't it great to have that kind of support?'' the bearded man said, apparently oblivious to the fact Candlestick Rich looked like he might go postal on anybody who worked for ESPN, George Mitchell or, it turned out, MLB commissioner Bud Selig. ("He's the one who should be on trial,'' Candlestick Rich harrumphed, referring to Selig.)

The bearded man said his name was David London and that people often assumed he's homeless even though that isn't the case. He said he was in the middle of his morning constitutional when he stopped in front of Candlestick Rich, who was still heckling the ESPN reporter.

"I support theater people, showgirls,'' London said, his calm disposition contrasting with Candlestick Rich's like a pit bull would a golden retriever. "Whatever a fan is for, that's what you should stick up for.''

But Candlestick Rich had trouble holding everybody's attention because of what a PETA press release referred to as its "Sexy Lettuce Ladies.'' The women in the lettuce-print bikinis were passing out sandwiches made of tofu and wheat gluten that, remarkably, tasted a lot like turkey. So maybe The Clear really does taste like flaxseed oil, but we digress. At 8:40 a.m., it was nearly show time.

On the opposite side of the courthouse, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up. From the way the photographers rushed, you would've thought it was the Sexy Lettuce Ladies. But it was Barry Bonds, and his wife, and his bodyguard, and his legal team and, sadly, despite the hopes of the kid from the College of Marin, there was no time for Barry to hug children and sign autographs on his way to Courtroom 10 on the 19th floor of the federal building.

But Barry did wave to a handful of people stationed by the elevators and greeted baseball's home run king with applause.

Anyone looking for bluster should have stayed outside, where the winds eventually died down but the action picked up. Though the lawyers successfully sidestepped the Lettuce Ladies and their steroid-free sandwiches, they struggled to escape the press. At the end of the news conference, every time the two lead lawyers moved, a pack of reporters moved with them. It looked as if the press was trying to keep the lawyers caged, which isn't an altogether bad idea.

At one point, Cristina Arguedas, the lone woman and apparently most determined of the Bonds legal team, ducked as if she were going to try to escape by squeeze through the legs of reporters. She ducked once. Then stood up. She ducked again. Then stood up.

Suddenly she wore a look of resignation and bemusement.

Today, there would be no ducking the media – or PETA – on hand for the Barry Bonds Arraignment Day circus.