I have covered four death penalty trials in that courthouse. Each time the verdict comes down my stomach turns inside out. This time was no different. When the judge said, "death," my heart stopped beating for two seconds.

Little brother's breathing didn't change. I still felt his nerve endings on the back of my neck. He was so close and he was so dead to what I had just heard.

Then it occured to me...he doesn't know. He can't hear what I just heard. He can only see the close-up picture of his big brother's emotionless face.

As part of my trial ritual, I always make a quick note in my notebook just before the verdict comes down. VERDICT--.

When I hear the magic words, I write GUILTY, NOT GUILTY, LIFE, DEATH.

I started writing...D-E-A-T.

I felt little brother shift and stopped writing. I turned over my notes and looked at the wall in front of me. Then, on the screen, big brother's face turned to an unseen family member and mouthed the words, "Mama, I'm all right."

Little brother spoke, "Did they read the verdict?"

I couldn't talk. I nodded.

"What was it?"

Then I turned to the man, looked him in the eye, and told him his big brother was going to South Carolina's death chamber.

That was more than three hours ago. Since that time I've watched the murderer's 23-year-old son scream in agony as he ran at a dead sprint down the courthouse hallway. I've watched a dozen grown men twist themelves into a cacophony of rural South Carolina, gut-wrenching sobs. I've watched women nearly collapse into their own spilled tears.

Little brother never said anything. He stood up and walked away. I didn't see where he went.

I stopped doing my job long enough to lean against the courthouse wall and wonder if I would ever again have to tell a man his brother was going to die.

It is now 1:30AM and I'm sitting at my office desk, tie knot pulled down to my sternum, sleaves rolled up, back in a twist of spent nerves and emotion. I can't make myself go home. My wife is asleep and if I go home I'm going to have to talk. There is a part of me that wants to sit here until the workday begins in eight hours.

I have discovered tonight...Insomnia's coy games of sleeplessness have nothing on the effects of a long, hand-in-hand walk with death's living victims.