The final entry.

We sat in edit city. A makeshift camp of cables and cameras, laptops and telephones where television crews and print reporters huddled in front of San Antonio's Federal courthouse. It was our home away from home and this mix of national and local journalists had become a family in the shadow of the Allen Blackthorne trial.

We had prepared ourselves for another long day of deliberations. Federal Judge Ed Prado predicted a verdict wouldn't come before Friday. Then in a single second life went from a lazy breeze through edit city to a mad dash for notebooks and equipment and a scramble for a coveted seat in the courtroom.

At 11:29 the note came in from the jury, "We have reached a verdict."

I landed in the front row between fellow reporters and the small contingent of friends supporting Blackthorne's wife, Maureen. My spot on decision day brought me a few feet from Blackthorne, who walked into the courtroom wearing a strained smile for his wife. It seemed like we waited forever.

At 12:17 Texas time Judge Prado opened the small slip of paper and read the message that sent shock waves across the courtroom. In less than a minute Blackthorne went from a millionaire to a convicted criminal labeled guilty of hiring a hit man to kill his ex-wife and the mother of two of his two daughters, Sheila Bellush.

Guilty on Count One murder-for-hire and guilty on Count Two interstate domestic violence.

Judge Prado polled the jurors to make sure each one concurred with this unanimous decision. The panel of eight men and four women who seemed to waiver behind closed doors for more than four days were suddenly confident and a little openly hostile towards the man whose fate they had just decided without a doubt.

The sweet, young face of Stephanie Rogers, the young wife in the front row of the jury box, hardened with disgust. She didn't take her eyes off Blackthorne. She was proud of her verdict.

Directly behind Rogers in the second row sat James Horgan. He claimed he didn't watch much news during jury selection and could render a fair decision in the case. Horgan practically shouted his "Yes" when asked if this also was the verdict he wanted for the Defendant.

The jury didn't want to talk after the verdict but I would imagine we will hear from them at some point and we may discover the long deliberation had little to do with guilt or innocence and more with doing a good job of sending Blackthorne away for good.

Blackthorne turned around twice and told his wife, "Don't worry ... it's OK." Maureen Blackthorne merely looked straight ahead avoiding others eyes in the courtroom.

Meanwhile, Bellush's mother, Gene Smith, could hardly contain her joy. She put her hands together in prayer as if to say "thank you" to someone who couldn't answer. But she says her God and her daughter did answer from above in the form of the guilty verdict. She says she has never heard them clearer.

The scene that followed was a strange one. Smith walked to the podium with a broad smile and a much lighter step than normal. After a few words she burst into song, belting out "The Lord's Prayer," with an almost angelic, inspirational voice surprising everyone including her. (She says she hasn't sung in 23 years.)

In stark contrast, Maureen Blackthorne walked to the microphone alongside her husband's attorney Richard Lubin who announced a "Grave injustice occurred here today ... it's very sad, its very sad." Maureen Blackthorne appeared shaken but I never saw her shed a tear. Maybe shock and disbelief or just fear for the two young sons who now will most likely grow up without a father.

There are no winners in this story. But on Thursday there were some happier people. As five Federal Marshalls escorted a shackled Blackthorne to a car, across the parking lot prosecutors and investigators gathered to soak in their success. Hugs, pats on the back and firm handshakes replaced the once serious faces that seemed afraid to smile. They had done it. They had beat Allen Blackthorne, a man who had begged them for 2-1/2 years to give it their best shot. It was a knock out.

Now the courthouse is quiet, edit city has vanished and the family of journalists forced to disband and return to more mundane, routine lives. Every day at the large, round John H. Wood courthouse promised emotional testimony during the trial and then anxious disbelief during drawn out deliberations. As my new friend and brilliant author, Ann Rule, once said, "The rest of life was never so dependably bizarre."