Times Insider delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how news, features and opinion come together at The New York Times. In this piece, Julie Bosman, a national correspondent in the Chicago bureau, describes The Times’s coverage of the sentencing of J. Dennis Hastert.

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J. Dennis Hastert arrived at the Federal District Court in Chicago on Wednesday. Credit Charles Rex Arbogast/Associated Press

The Chicago bureau of The New York Times covers 11 states, a vast region that includes the remote American Indian reservations of South Dakota, the Ozarks of Missouri and the picturesque lakes of northern Minnesota.

On Wednesday, all three of our reporters — myself included — were focused on a single place: the Federal District Court in downtown Chicago.

This was the day of reckoning for J. Dennis Hastert, the Illinois native and former Speaker of the House who was set to be sentenced for the obscure federal crime of illegal bank structuring. The case, however, sprawled far beyond structuring — Mr. Hastert was accused of molesting boys that he had coached on the high school wrestling team in Yorkville, a small town in farm country west of Chicago. The cash withdrawals that got him into trouble with the F.B.I. were hush money intended for one of his victims.

We had prepared, with what felt like military precision, to triple-team the hearing. I arrived at the courthouse and waited in a single-file line of anxious, impatient reporters in a hallway outside the 14th-floor courtroom, hoping for a seat that would give me a clear view of Mr. Hastert. Monica Davey, the Chicago bureau chief, was at the helm in an overflow courtroom, where an audio and video feed would give her a glimpse into the proceedings. Mitch Smith, another reporter, was outside the courthouse by 7 a.m. to witness Mr. Hastert arrive in a wheelchair, surrounded by a phalanx of cameras and reporters.

Federal courthouses can be tricky, nerve-racking places to report from. Wi-Fi is nonexistent, and cell service can disappear entirely. Don’t even think about photographing or streaming video, which will get you kicked out. Judges sometimes ban the use of electronics in the courtroom altogether, forcing reporters to rely on their own scribbles on a notepad.

I was armed with a backpack full of the usual 21st-century reporting tools: an iPhone, a laptop and a MiFi, so that I could create and use my own Wi-Fi signal inside the room. I wanted to live-tweet the hearing, given the intense interest in Mr. Hastert’s fate, and to keep in touch with my editors and fellow reporters over email. But who knew whether I would be able to?

Just before 10 a.m., minutes before the hearing was scheduled to begin, a stern-looking bailiff said that we could enter the courtroom.

The room was small, with only a half-dozen wooden rows for spectators. My heart sank when the bailiff ordered me to sit in the back row, a good 20 feet from where Mr. Hastert would be seated. (Longtime members of the Chicago news media — whom the bailiff greeted warmly by their first names — were ushered into the cushy seats in the jury box. Newcomers like me have to earn those spots.)

I improvised a better seat by folding up my long, bulky coat (it was still quasi-winter in Chicago) and sitting on it, which probably made me look slightly ridiculous but gave me a crystal-clear view of Mr. Hastert. And, to my immense relief, the bailiff announced that we were allowed to use phones and iPads during the hearing, and my MiFi signal transmitted perfectly.

The next two hours were painful and riveting. Mr. Hastert, who is 74, was confronted by a sexual abuse victim, a man now in his 50s, and the sister of another victim who died in 1995. Rising out of his wheelchair with difficulty, the man who was once second in line to the presidency stood before a federal judge and admitted molesting his former students. The judge, who spent most of the hearing eviscerating Mr. Hastert, sentenced him to 15 months in prison, well above the federal guidelines for his financial crime.

Twitter became my notebook. I ended up posting more than 60 tweets, full of quotes and color, while Monica wrote and updated the online story from the other courtroom. Seconds after court adjourned, I was concentrating on my laptop so intently that I didn’t realize the bailiff was standing over me, frowning.

“Miss,” he said. “Time to go. Now.”

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