But once you’re behind the large aluminum doors, not getting thrown out of the building is an entirely different beast.
The dozen or so police officers patrolling the dull, wood-paneled courtroom appear hellbent on making an example out of someone.
You mustn’t touch your phone. Don’t you dare eat, talk, laugh or breathe for that matter.
I’m threatened with eviction for saying “no worries” when a reporter apologizes for leaning over me to get a better view of the Republican nominee.
“There’s no commenting, there’s no outbursts, nothing, remain quiet in the audience”, bellows a stocky officer whose mustache traces his lip line slightly too far, making him look perpetually unhappy.
When Mr. Trump strides down the aisle of the courtroom, trailed by his entourage of lawyers and secret service agents, everyone stops and stares.
Was that a wink? The scowl? What’s another word for “orange complexion”?
My hot scoop is I think he carries a tin of mints in his right pocket which rattles every time he swooshes past me. Hold the front page.
“Come to order, Part 59 is now in session”, another stern-looking officer shouts.
I’ve sat in the same seat almost every day of the trial – a few rows behind Manhattan district attorney Alvin Bragg.
