(The author is a Wellesley junior from Ohio who transferred from Northwestern last fall.)

UNLIKE most Wellesley girls who spent the semester break skiing at Stowe or visiting boyfriends at Yale or Princeton, my ten-day intercession found me at Northwestern University. Evanston, Illinois, on Chicago's North Shore, is commonly known to Easterners as the oldest and strongest enclave of Black Power and Greek Power.

After wasting much time running from sorority to fraternity visiting old friends, an inspiration came to me. I could not spend ten days in Chicago and then return to Boston without visiting the city's major entertainment attraction-namely, the Chicago Conspiracy Trial.

My first attempt at gaining admission to the trial proved both disappointing and interesting. After an hour's ride on the "El," I was outside Chicago's Federal Building on a Wednesday moring. I immediately saw that my situation was hopeless.

About 80 people were already in a single-file line which ran the length of the building and continued around the block down Dearborn Street. The admittance procedure was explained to me. At about 8 a. m. thirty-five spectators would be allowed into the lobby of the building. The first twenty-five of these were certain to see the trial, and the last ten were standbys. If any spectator left the courtroom, his seat would be given to one of the standbys. When 10 a. m. arrived, these select thirty-five would be corralled into elevators and taken to the twenty-third floor of the building, a step closer to the trial itself. Finally, at 10:15 the courtroom door would open, and they would enter in single file to find seats in the rear of the courtroom. A similar procedure would admit an additional thirty-five to the afternoon session of the trial.

After deciding to return (muchcarlierl) the next day, I was about to leave when a stately-looking black woman, briefcase in hand, appeared at the door of the Federal Building. She arrogantly tried to attract our attention by young, "You people-quit wasting your time here! I'm a lawyer and I was just up in the courtroom and I know that you'll never get in! Why don't you come over to the Civic Center and give support to Sidney Peck? He case is being tried there and you in just walk in."

By the questioning look on everyone's fa?? I could tell that I was not the only member of the group who was un??e of the identity of one Sidney Pe?? Courageously, I confronted her. "V??o is Sidney Peck, anyway?"

"What does it matter? He's a member of the peace movement, so if you really want to do some good, you'll support him," she answered, offering no further information.

It is approaching 11 a. m. Having no h??e of getting into the building nor any interest in Mr. Peck's case, I returned to Evanston.

AF??ER much persuading, I conned a f??ernity man into accompanying me into Chicago the next day. Promptly 5 a. m. Thursday morning Day and I entered the subway station at ??vis Street in Evanston. Our only supplies were a roastbeef sandwich sm?ggled from the fraternity house and my small sack of Marshall Field chocolate chip cookies procured the day before.

At 6 a. m. nearly a hundred people were already lined around the Federal Bulding. Given my memories of the day before and some quick mental a?rihmetic, I estimated that we would

not get in.

"Are you as ruthless as I feel?" injured Dave.

"Yes!"

Without questioning the morality of our action, we guiltily marched to the front of the line and sat down amongst a group of blanketed students. We quickly learned that the kids still inside sleeping bags (nearer to the front) had deposited themselves there sometime between 10 p. m. and midnight the night before.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in our "ditching" attempt, we struck up conversations with fellow would be spectators, explaining that we had been in line since 2:30 a. m. but had just returned from a short tour of the city.

Nonchalantly, Dave pulled out a deck of cards to interest people in a game of hearts. The idea was quite popular. People were eager to relieve the boredom and get their minds off the cold. I got a few curious glances when I innocently announced that we needed some more decks to accommodate all of the eager participants.

By 7:30 the sidewalk was getting too cold for card games, and we abandoned that pastime in favor of more rigorous activities. Some people were doing calisthenics. Free coffee was being passed out by an anonymous benefactor. I offered my treasured cookies to our card-playing friends, and Dave and I relaxed. We had illegally made our way into line without a major conflict.

WHAT type of person would spend a night in the cold street to witness a ludicrous trial? Many people were familiar from the previous day. Several greeted me as if we were old friends. One fifty-year-old woman, somewhat reminiscent of Bette Davis in Apple Annie, sat down behind me in line. She was willing to talk to anyone and everyone about her many experiences at the trial. An ardent follower of the defendants, she summed up the whole business as "a bunch of bullshit."

She also explained to us that cameras were not allowed within the courthouse. It was even illegal for anyone to take pictures of our group outside the Federal Building. Minutes later a man drove up alongside the building, stopping about twenty fect away. There was a flash from a camera, and two policemen converged on the car. A verbal confrontation followed, and the man drove away.

Snow was just beginning to fall around 8 a. m. when the marshal allowed the first thirty-five people to enter the lobby of the building. We were again seated on the floor-but at least this time we were warm.

Now for our first set of instructions. A handsome suited man stood before us. His hands were clutched behind his back, and he paraded before us with the stern face of an army sergeant. Rules and regulations. We were to remain seated; we could not sleep, play cards, or go to the bathroom.

"Why can't we play cards?" Dave asked the marshal.

"Yesterday some kids were playing cards and they spilled cokes and made a mess."

Therefore, we could not play cards today . It was all very logical.

Finally we were given numbered passes and led to the twenty-third floor. In order we were assigned seats in the outer part of the courtroom, and given further instructions concerning conduct at the trial. We were again cautioned against sleeping. Other illegal actions included laughing, talking, and leaning forward in our seats. We were finally given free access to the restrooms and cafeteria facilities, but were warned to return within twenty minutes or lose our place in line.

Before entering the courtroom, we were divided into groups by sex. The girls were asked to empty their purses and the guys emptied their pockets. One girl's comb, considered a potential weapon, was confiscated. We had been warned earlier that we could be frisked, but I certainly hadn't believed it. Fortunately, I was carrying no concealed weapons on my person.

I had envisioned that the courtroom would be something like Boston Music Hall, allowing for many spectators. In fact, it was a scant thirty by forty feet, with stylish wood paneling and an attractive skylight overhead. Two long rectangular tables, to be used by the prosecuting and defense attorneys, sat at right angles to the judge's desk, filling the center of the room. The jurors' plush swivel chairs lined the left wall. The seats against the right wall were for the press. In the back of the room, four rows of pew-like benches were reserved for spectators.

Abbic Hoffman, wearing his almost angelic smile, wandered freely in and out of the room. His hair style reminded me of the line from Hair, "And he wears his hair tied in a small bow at the back."

Another of the defendants that I recognized from pictures was Jerry Rubin. His bushy Afro cut, full beard, and colorful attire made him look much like a clown, sort of setting the stage for the circus to follow. The orange and blue striped T-shirt that he wore almost glowed when juxtaposed with his bright kelly-green pants. Like the other defendants, he beamed continuously, thoroughly enjoying his predicament.

ALTHOUGH the judge entered and everyone stood in proper respect, the room never quite possessed the docorum usually attributed to a court of law. Hoffman and Rubin continued to wander around at will, amusing themselves and the spectators with their anties.

The first official court business was the showing of three films made in Chicago during the convention. The defense wanted to have these entered as evidence, and it was necessary to submit them to the judge before allowing the jury to see them.

In an ordinary court of law it would seem that marshals of the court would be responsible for setting up the projector and screen equipment, I laughed as Tom Hayden entered the courtroom with the screen rolled up under his arm. A young woman wearing black pants, a work shirt, and a big black floppy hat took charge of running the projector.

Defense exhibits 351 and 352 were films of interviews with various movement leaders who stated that they were not planning a revolution and had tried to gain protest permits but were turned down. The third film was actually made a short time after the convention; it showed interviews with Rubin and Dillinger which explained some of the philosophies of the socalled subculture, and included a few highlights on women's liberation.

Much debate followed on the admissibility of the three films. The prosecution objected to the first two because they could have been manufactured before the convention for the sole purpose of covering up the defendants' true intentions. The defense argued that the defendants were charged with using national radio and TV to incite a riot. And these films were, in fact, shown on national TV at the time of the convention, which countered the charges against the defendants. But it was "Objection sustained," and the films were thrown out.

The third film was also thrown out as evidence on grounds of irrelevancy. The defense submitted to another "Objection sustained," but pleaded with the judge that this film was truly relevant, if only for the fact that "it showed the state of Jerry Rubin's beard"- a former point of contention. The judge agreed to allow as evidence one frame of the film which showed the jury that valuable fact.

"Trial by peers" was certainly far from the case at the Chicago Conspiracy Trial. The jurors paraded in, and I could not help wondering if any of the defendants had a hope of winning the case. All but one of the jurors were women. They all looked like over-the-hill matrons who could not possibly understand the motivations or feelings of the defendants.

The defense attorney rose to call his first witness of the morning. Through a side door a black man with an Afro haircut entered the room. His friends, the defendants, immediately rose and joyfully shouted, "Bobby!" Bobby Seale, former defendant, was back in the courtroom, this time as a witness. His manner was mocking in its overpoliteness, and he managed to interject a few comic remarks despite the close observation of the judge and prosecution.

AT FIRST he was almost too quick to answer the question put to him. He began replying even before objections were made by the prosecution (and sustained by the judge). The judge explained to Seale that he should not be so quick to answer. "Well, would you say I should wait maybe three seconds before answering?" quipped Seale.

"Yes, that would be fine," agreed the judge.

One question that Scale was asked (and one of the few that raised no objection) concerned his occupation. "I'm chairman of the Black Panther Party," he explained.

"And what does that job entail, Mr. Scale?"

"Well, I'm a comedian," was part of his answer.

It was approaching 12:30 and lunchtime, so the judge excused the jury with the usual warning that they should not read newspapers or magazines or talk among themselves about the case. He then turned to Scale, who was still on the witness stand. "Mr. Scale, I also caution you against communicating with any person whatsoever."

Leaving the courtroom, we purchased tickets to Hair , ate lunch at Plato's Place, and walked to the subway station. On the way, Dave wondered whether he really wanted to go to law school, and I hoped that flying standby back to Boston would be no problem.