Window blinds were reeled down, lights were snapped out in the crowded courtroom of a Philadelphia Quarter Sessions Court one day last week. On an improvised cinema screen flashed the images of a detective, a stenographer, a glum young man. The young man's lips moved. A loudspeaker blatted: "This summer I robbed 25 homes on my milk route. The loot I got was worth $10,000. . . I have not been beaten nor forced to make this confession."
On came the lights. Near the screen in person sat the...
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