Mostly journalists are a good thing. We all have our special relationships—you throw your guy early tip-offs, he leaks whatever you want leaked and passes you anything you should know—but even with the rest, we usually get on grand: we all know the boundaries, no one oversteps, everyone’s happy. Louis Crowley is the exception. Crowley is a little snot-drip who works for a red-top rag called the Courier, which specializes in printing just a few too many details about rape cases, for readers who want more buzz of outrage or whatever else than they can get off the normal papers. His look is Poet
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