{"product_id":"the-trial-isbn-9780440419860","title":"The Trial","description":"\u003ci\u003eImagine you are Bruno Richard Hauptmann, accused of murdering the son of the most famous man in America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a compelling, immediate voice, 12-year-old Katie Leigh Flynn takes us inside the courtroom of the most widely publicized criminal case of the 20th century: the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh’s baby son. And in doing so, she reveals the real-life figures of the trial—the accused, the lawyers, the grieving parents—and the many faces of justice.“As Katie says, ‘When a man’s on trial for his life\/isn’t every word important?’ Bryant shows why with art and humanity. Extraordinary.”\u003cbr\u003e–Michael Cart, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, StarredJen Bryant has published poetry, biographies for young readers, and picture books. \u003ci\u003eThe Trial\u003c\/i\u003e is her first novel for children. She grew up in the same New Jersey town where the Lindbergh kidnapping trial took place many years before.\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFLEMINGTON   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve lived in this town my whole life \u003cbr\u003eand I can tell you . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003enothing\u003c\/u\u003e ever happens.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach week, the farmers bring their chickens and eggs to market \u003cbr\u003eand the grain trucks dump and load up \u003cbr\u003eat Miller’s Feed Store on North Main. \u003cbr\u003eThe streets are wide and clean,\u003cbr\u003ethe shop-keepers are friendly, \u003cbr\u003eand all the children walk to school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Christmas, Santa comes to the bank and gives out\u003cbr\u003ecandy-stuffed stockings, and on Halloween \u003cbr\u003ethere’s a big parade at the courthouse \u003cbr\u003ewith cider and donuts \u003cbr\u003eand prizes for the Prettiest, Funniest, and Scariest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith all this, you’d think I’d be happy as a clam here in Flemington, \u003cbr\u003eand why that’s not so, \u003cbr\u003eI may never really know–\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut I \u003cu\u003edo\u003c\/u\u003e know that whenever I read\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003eNational\u003c\/u\u003e \u003cu\u003eGeographic\u003c\/u\u003e or \u003cu\u003eTime\u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor look through one of my uncle’s travel books–\u003cbr\u003ethe ones with pictures of glaciers and deserts,\u003cbr\u003epalm-treed islands and busy cities–\u003cbr\u003eI’m always wishing myself \u003cbr\u003einto them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re restless, Katie Leigh, just like your father was”\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eis Mother’s explanation, but since\u003cbr\u003ehe left us so long ago \u003cbr\u003eI guess that’s another thing \u003cbr\u003eI’ll never really know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTHE PHOTOGRAPH \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the photograph, we don’t\u003cbr\u003elook a lot alike:\u003cbr\u003ehis hair dark brown\u003cbr\u003e(mine is black),\u003cbr\u003ehis eyes hazel gray\u003cbr\u003e(mine are dusky green),\u003cbr\u003ehis nose long and thin,\u003cbr\u003e(mine small and wide, a few scattered freckles \u003cbr\u003ealong each side),\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut then . . . \u003cbr\u003ethere’s that full lower lip \u003cbr\u003e(I have that)\u003cbr\u003eand his dimpled chin\u003cbr\u003e( I have that too)\u003cbr\u003eand the way his head tilts just a little to the left,\u003cbr\u003elike he’s about to ask a question\u003cbr\u003eor trying to get a different perspective \u003cbr\u003e(Mother says I do this all the time).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI guess I believe he’s a part of me, \u003cbr\u003ethough I wish I had more \u003cbr\u003ethan a five-by-seven photo\u003cbr\u003eto prove it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eAT THE RAILYARD\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I watch the train men turn engine, \u003cbr\u003ewatch the box cars unhitch and recouple, \u003cbr\u003ewatch the forklifts load the flatbeds \u003cbr\u003eand the fireman shovel coal. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I try to remember my father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, when there’s nothing else to do,\u003cbr\u003eI stay all day until the last train leaves, \u003cbr\u003eand all I can see is a thin line of steam, \u003cbr\u003eway off in the distance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSULLEN\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the tracks, I usually find Mike, his back against \u003cbr\u003ethe big wooden box\u003cbr\u003ewhere the station master keeps his rain cape \u003cbr\u003eand his tools.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe don’t talk much. \u003cbr\u003eBut once in a while, we talk \u003cbr\u003ea lot.\u003cbr\u003eMike told me his mother died when he was five and his father\u003cbr\u003ehas been drinking too much\u003cbr\u003eever since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn sunny days, I bring a book and read it while he\u003cbr\u003ewhittles oak sticks into animals \u003cbr\u003ewith his pocket knife, \u003cbr\u003eor with his hands, shapes faces from \u003cbr\u003eand pieces of clay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I bring leftovers from the kitchen \u003cbr\u003ehe tries to refuse, but when I \u003cbr\u003estart chewing, he does too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe borrows my books, and I know \u003cbr\u003ehe’s smart because\u003cbr\u003ehe asks me all these questions\u003cbr\u003eabout the characters\u003cbr\u003ethat I never thought about before,\u003cbr\u003eand I have to go home and think on them\u003cbr\u003ebefore I can answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMike is not like\u003cbr\u003ethe other boys I know . . . he’s not\u003cbr\u003estuck-up or loud-mouthed or silly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt school, he’s real quiet. He sits \u003cbr\u003ein the back row so no one will notice\u003cbr\u003eif he falls asleep \u003cbr\u003efrom staying up late waiting \u003cbr\u003efor his father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teachers all say he’s “sullen,”\u003cbr\u003ebut if you tell him a good joke, he laughs\u003cbr\u003ethe kind of laugh that makes you join in, \u003cbr\u003emakes you forget \u003cbr\u003eyour troubles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce, when he walked me home, \u003cbr\u003ehe stopped before the big blue house on the corner \u003cbr\u003eto watch the family inside at supper: \u003cbr\u003ethe mother  serving the soup, the father \u003cbr\u003ecarving the bread, the children chattering–\u003cbr\u003ethe neat white plates,\u003cbr\u003ethe yellow curtains on the windows,\u003cbr\u003ethe warm steam rising \u003cbr\u003efrom the bowls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWHEN SOMETHING HAPPENED . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eActually, something \u003cu\u003edid\u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ehappen here\u003cbr\u003eabout two years ago–\u003cbr\u003enot in our town exactly, but just \u003cbr\u003eten miles away, in Hopewell, N.J. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething happened \u003cbr\u003eon March 1st, 1932, between 7:30 and 10 pm,\u003cbr\u003eat the home of Colonel Charles Lindbergh,\u003cbr\u003ethe first man to fly across the Atlantic Ocean\u003cbr\u003ealone, \u003cbr\u003eour bravest and greatest pilot, an American hero.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething happened\u003cbr\u003eon that stormy night, \u003cbr\u003eas the wind howled outside his house on Sourland Mountain,\u003cbr\u003ewhile the Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh \u003cbr\u003ewere reading and sipping tea\u003cbr\u003eand Wahgoosh, their terrier, laid curled at their feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething happened\u003cbr\u003eto the their little baby–Charles Lindbergh, Jr., just 20 months old–\u003cbr\u003ewhile he was sleeping in his upstairs room, \u003cbr\u003ewhile the butler was polishing silver \u003cbr\u003eand the maid was doing dishes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone climbed \u003cbr\u003einto a second-floor window\u003cbr\u003eand pulled Little Charlie out of his crib\u003cbr\u003eand carried him outside to a ladder\u003cbr\u003eand climbed down holding him\u003cbr\u003ewhile the wind groaned and a car waited. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone kidnapped \u003cbr\u003eCharles Lindbergh’s first-born son, leaving only \u003cbr\u003esome muddy footprints,\u003cbr\u003ea broken ladder,\u003cbr\u003eand a ransom note.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd no one saw\u003cbr\u003ewho did it.","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300048163045,"sku":"NP9780440419860","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440419860.jpg?v=1767741911","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-trial-isbn-9780440419860","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}