Writer Jonathan Littman (jonlittman@earthlink.net) reports on Barry Bonds's day in court:

“Come on in!” welcomes the man in the blue shirt with a smile, as he unlocks he thick heavy door to Courtroom 10. The time is 8:02 a.m. as I walk in, the first into what for the next nine months to a year will be the chamber that will either vindicate or convict Barry Bonds.
 
My eye is drawn to the grand dais behind which Judge Susan Illston will reside, 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 in San Francisco. That honor belongs to Larry Bailey, a self-employed baseball fan who went to Notre Dame and waited before dawn. Though Bailey now sells mattresses on Craigslist he hopes to one day study law. “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 fifty years from now, this may go down as one of the biggest sports cases ever."

 
If the case against Bonds is a season of baseball, one could think of this as 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 still locked and darkened courtroom scour each bench and seat with tiny flashlights. Outside by the door, Joan Lynch, a dour courtroom artist in a black suit rolls 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 hawk the cause of vegan food.
 
The next fifty minutes reporters and marshals argue over the rules, which at some level is what the Bonds case is all about.
 
Can you text in 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 actually claims not to have brought a traditional writing instrument, otherwise 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 calls. No transmissions or recordings. But you can type. Chuckles another marshal, “If you’re a quiet typist that’s better,” he says to a reporter. “Pounding the keys with your fingers. That’s bad.”
 
A bald guy walks in about now – from a side door on the right, taking a seat in the front, in the belly of the court. It’s Barry Bonds’ nemesis, Jeff Novitzky, the IRS agent who has been ever present – riffling through BALCO garbage, escorting Bonds to his fateful grand jury hearings four years ago, attending 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, Barry stands for a while, chatting easily at the defense table with his long-time BALCO attorney, Mike Rains. Bonds’ hands are in his pockets. After a couple of minutes he sits, rolls his head back and takes in the crowd, gazing out with a relaxed expression. The time is 8:59.  A minute later, Rains has him laughing. A short, intent blond woman pats him on the back -- Cristina Arguedas -- the latest addition to a legal team big enough to fill the infield – 6 so far.
 
The clerk walks in, announcing Magistrate Maria-Elena James presiding versus 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 Bonds could get a maximum of 30 years. The defense says the plea is not guilty. And then the prosecutor asks Bonds to surrender his passport.
 
The magistrate’s expression sours.
 
Allen Ruby, the new lead of Bonds’s legal team, eases his bearish frame over and addresses the magistrate. Ruby looks and sounds like a big friendly grandpa. He says Bonds has no problem with the half-million dollar bond and the other typical requests. Parking his passport is another matter. “He wants to be free to practice his profession,” says Ruby, “ a profession he’s practiced the last 22 years.”
 
The magistrate gives short shrift to the Government’s reply – bluntly denying the attempt. You have to wonder about the failed move. In a case where the government is already accused of singling out Bonds, why pile on 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. A status hearing is set for February 9th. The government vaguely suggests it may see a conflict in the fact that defense counsel has represented others brought before the BALCO grand jury. This might delay the turning over of certain testimony.
 
Judge Illston leans over her glasses toward the defense table. “Are you concerned about discovery being delayed?”
 
The prosecutor begins to reply, and Illston gently cuts him off: “I was asking defense counsel.” A slight chuckle ripples through the court.
 
Big Grandpa rolls over and answers the judge. Grandpa doesn’t appear worried in the least. He casually mentions the defense “may well bring a motion to dismiss the indictment for facial defects.”
 
The whole show doesn’t take more than half an hour. Bonds is done – he was fingerprinted and had his mug shot snapped the day before. Fifteen minutes later in front of the federal building, a phalanx of cameras circle Ruby, Arguedas, Mike Rains and the other 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 Mike Rains, an attorney known for his toughness. Arguedas may prove an intriguing counterpart to the gentle giant Ruby. On the sidewalk, Mike Rains says he sees the trial not happening till the fall or winter of 2008 – 9 to 12 months away.
 
The car arrives, and Arguedas calls out firmly. “Let’s go Allen.”
 
This story, as they say, has legs. I first spoke with the undercover agent who was sent into Bonds’s gym to build a case against the home run king more than four years ago.
 
But the trial of Barry Bonds has just begun.