The Press: Under The Crabapple Tree

Three hundred newspaper men and women sat in a curving, triple arc of chairs facing the judge's bench, the witness stand, the jury box, of a tiny courtroom in Somerville, N. J. The air was stuffy. An angular court crier (John Bunn by name) intoned in a creaky voice, "Hear ye. . . ." The reporters' pencils moved rapidly, their eyes searched the faces of the witnesses, the defendants, the lawyers. Occasionally a truck rumbled through the street outside. In here, a certain Mrs. Frances Stevens Hall and her brothers, the Messrs. Henry...

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