Waiting for a jury is a unique kind of purgatory. The courtroom is empty, almost all the life and tension drained out of it, a mostly vacant set for now. Empty judge's bench. Empty witness stand. Empty jury chairs. Empty tables where the prosecutors and defense attorneys used to sit.

The pool television camera pointed at a wall, earpiece hanging free, no one staring into its viewfinder. The American and Washington State flags: still as droopy and silent as ever. The computer monitors: mostly asleep.

All the evidence has been packed up, much of it sent with the jurors into a private room blocked by a sturdy wooden door. The autopsy notes. The crime scene photos. The alleged murder weapon used by Isaiah Kalebu. It's all out of here, which somehow makes the air more breathable. (And makes one wonder what the air feels like in there.)

The bailiff must stay in the courtroom during deliberations. She's the jury's guardian, and its link to the outside world.

She lets them in and out of their room, counts them, makes sure they get to the elevators without any interference. With her in the courtroom now are a few people like me who want to try to be on hand when the verdict arrives. We walk in and out. We sit under the fluorescent lights, on wooden benches we now have to ourselves, and stare at the floor tiles—an uninspired checkerboard of light brown marble and dark brown marble. We talk about easy subjects. We walk around some more. We sit some more.

We note when the jury comes and goes, as they did earlier for lunch. After they go to eat, we go to eat too. At the time they're set to return, we return. Sometimes a smoke break is taken, and we wonder if that means anything or nothing. But we don't talk with—or even make sustained eye contact with—the jurors. We're not supposed to interact.

This is a purgatory with strict limits on communion. We all know we have to stick tightly to our roles until it's over. Or else, potentially, it starts all over again.