business are spacious
and well appointed. Its corridors are ample, and marble. The elevator
service is of the best. But the courtrooms are stuffy little dens, illy
ventilated, awkwardly placed, and with the poorest of acoustics. They
seem especially designed to add to the depressing effect that invariably
attends the administration of "law and order." The court of Judge
Ronald, like many other courts in the land, is admirably designed for
the bungling inefficiencies of "justice." Yet it was in this theater,
thru the medium of the Everett trial, that the class struggle was
reproduced, sometimes in tragedy and sometimes in comedy.

To reach the greatest trial in the history of labor unionism, perhaps
the greatest also in the number of defendants involved and the number of
witnesses called, one had to ascend to the fourth floor of the court
house and line up in the corridor under the watchful eyes of the I. W.
W. "police," C. R. Griffin and J. J. Keenan, appointed by the
organization at the request of the court. There, unless one were a
lawyer or a newspaper representative, it was necessary to wait in line
for hours until the tiny courtroom was opened and the lucky hundred odd
persons were admitted to the church-like benches of J. T. Ronald's
sanctum, where the case of State versus Tracy was on trial.

Directly in front of the benches, at the specially constructed press
table, were seats provided for the representatives of daily, weekly and
monthly publications whose policies ranged from the ultra conservative
to the extreme radical. Here the various reporters were seen writing
madly as some important point came up, then subsiding into temporary
indifference, passing notes, joking in whispers, drawing personal
cartoons of the judge, jury, counsel, court functionaries and
out-of-the-ordinary spectators,--the only officially recognized persons
in the courtroom showing no signs of reverence for the legal priesthood
and their mystic sacerdotalism.

Just ahead of the press table were the attorneys for the prosecution:
Lloyd Black, a commonplace, uninspired, beardless youth as chief
prosecutor; H. D. Cooley, a sleek, pusillanimous recipient of favors
from the lumber barons, a fixture at the Commercial Club, and an
also-ran deputy at the dock on November 5th, as next counsel in line;
and A. L. Veitch, handsome in a gross sort of a way, full faced, sensual
lipped, with heavy pouches beneath the eyes, a self-satisfied favorite
o