Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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REPORTER ' S ROUTINE by Simon Alpert Hey Crawford, bawled the city editor of the Evening Dispatch above the din in the local newsroom. C ' mere. Coming, Mr. Nelson. At the far end of the noisy room a tall, flaxen-haired young man, drawing from his typewriter a sheet of copy paper, tossed it with several others on the nearest copyreader ' s desk. Then he threaded his way rapidly among the rows of littered desks with their knots of typewriter-pounding news- papermen, and hurried up to the desk of the city editor. Here I am, Mr. Nelson, he announced. The city editor grunted a final goodbye into a telephone beside him, turned to Crawford and barked, How ' d your copy come out? Okay, column and a half, said Crawford. Um. Awright. Now then scoot over to General Sessions. Stewart ' s sentencing that convicted killer at two. Routine stuff, but something might come of it. Hurry up! All right. How much? Two columns, with a long tie-in. Slug it killer. If you get anything good, just telephone in and I ' ll get the rewrite men to work • 1 It on IT. Okay, Mr. Nelson, Crawford said, and as the city editor turned impatiently to the clamoring telephones, Crawford strode out of the local newsroom. Six minutes later, at 1:44, the newspaperman was on the downtown express. And at exactly three minutes to two Crawford entered Judge Stewart ' s General Sessions court in the Criminal Court Building and took a seat up front with the other news- papermen and photographers. Anything, new here? he asked Brittman of the Clarion, who sat near him. Nope. Everything ' s as quiet around as a mouse on the night before Christmas. Thanks. Crawford leaned back on the hard wooden bench and looked around at the crowded courtroom. Then as the door NINETY-THREE

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him to the morgue, tied a tag on his toe, and stretched him out on a long white slab. The tag flapped whenever they opened the door to admit another accidental death. He was buried in September without benefit of pomp. Even in death he was ordinary, just a pine box and a space in Potters Field. The attendants didn ' t look twice. They lowered the box and kicked in some dirt. Rest in peace. Bud. Amen. C sf i-g NINETY-TWO

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to the judge ' s chambers swung open and Judge Stewart entered, he stood up with the rest of the hushed spectators. Judge Stewart opened court; they sat down again and Crawford scribbled some descriptive background as Judge Stewart said gravely: Will the prisoner please rise? To the accompaniment of flashlight flares from the photographers, there stepped up before the judge ' s dais a squat, heavy jowled man with sullen lips. A fit pawn for the chess game of law. Have - you - anything - to - say - why - sentence of this court shall not be passed upon you? the judge intoned mechanically, with the rapidity which years of routine had given him. Sulkily, with a shake of his head, the prisoner vetoed the judge ' s request. And Judge Stewart looked down at the convicted killer and remarked without further preamble: It is the order of this court that you be taken to the New York State Prison at Ossining, and there be put to death during the week of July 17 in the manner provided by the laws of this state. The condemned man snarled under his breath. The crowded courtroom rustled. And Crawford took down verbatim the condemna- tion, rode back to the office, where he played up the story in a two- column spread with a long tie-in, as per orders. Then he slugged each page killer and carted his copy over to the city editor, who dropped it after a glance on a copywriter ' s desk. All right, Crawford, he said. Here ' s something else. Kennedy, our best man In Fire Headquarters, phoned in about a fire in Coney Island. Look into it, will you? Okay, Mr. Nelson. A few minutes later Crawford plunked another nickel into a subway turnstile and rode to the outlying district where the fire had been reported. And fire it was. The usual jostling crowd, the usual blazing structure and the usual blinding heat, the usual number of — wait! there were one-two-three — yep! four hook and ladder companies there! Must be something important. He asked his neighbor, What ' s the building that ' s burning? Do you know? The neighbor turned. The building, he shouted to Crawford NINETY.FOUR