FOLEY, THE RED-FACED, uniformed deputy on duty inthe hall, peeked through one of the glass ovals inset inthe leather-covered courtroom doors and said: "Hey, the jury's comin, out!" A concentrated and irritable sigh from the group ofnews-photographers lounging in the hall greeted the announcement.There was an intangible flurry of movement,a casual shifting of stances. Brant, of the News, sighed wearily. "Boy, it's abouttime." Tobacco smoke, the residue of a four-hour harvestfrom an apparently inexhaustible supply of cigarettes,choked the air with a stale stuffy smell and hung suspendedin a hazy, pale-blue blanket that shrouded thearched ceiling. Cigarette butts, matches, crumpled paperholders littered the ash-strewn floor. Cameras and bulkyblack plate-cases were stacked in a row along one wall. Foley said: "It won't be long now," and kept his eyeglued to the little glass window. Brant sighed again. Coughlin and Weinstock, who had been matchingnickels for the past hour, continued, unimpressed. 'Til bet he gets it," Kesler said. He looked around asthough waiting for a challenge. "Who wants to bet Girard ain't guilty?" "Girard's waiting to hear it," Foley announced. Coughlin said: "That's four bits you're in me. A buckor nothing." Weinstock nodded silently and flipped hiscoin. Coughlin said: "Nuts!" and fished a crumpled billfrom his pocket. "It looks like an acquittal," Foley said. "Girard is" He broke off in sudden alarm and jumped aside. Inthe next instant the swinging doors slapped outward;Purdy, of the Evening Standard, bucked through theopening. Without breaking his stride, Purdy called: "NotGuilty!" and pounded down the marble floor in his race for a telephone. Foley growled: "Hey, you! Quiet!" Then the rest ofthe reporters swarmed out of the courtroom and he wasforgotten.[from Chapter 1]