Here's the verdict: We're exhausted!

The press corps will be glad when the trial is over.
By PATRICIA MEADE
VINDICATOR CRIME REPORTER
CLEVELAND -- Dance instructors who teach some kind of happy feet jig are asked to contact the press corps covering U.S. Rep. James A. Traficant Jr.'s racketeering trial.
Guilty, not guilty, a little bit guilty or hung jury is just around the corner.
Then it's JIG TIME.
We'll link arms, twirl and kick.
We think the 60-year-old congressman, known for his rhythm, will join us.
The display will be tasteful.
There's also a suggestion of adult beverages, preferably the kind that require popping corks.
We've seen enough of Cleveland and its 80-mile-an-hour frigid winds whipping off that lake behind the federal courthouse.
Among us now are two flus and one cold. Or maybe it's two colds and one flu. Anyhow, there's a lot of sniffling, raspy throats and coughing going on.
Traficant, on the other hand, shows no signs of ill health.
Despite swirling near-zero winds, driving rain or snow that falls by the foot, he wears no overcoat, hat, scarf or gloves.
His voice is a little hoarse, but that's from screaming in court.
Days go by: We set up camp on Superior Avenue around Groundhog Day. We've been here through Ash Wednesday, Valentine's Day, Presidents Day, St. Patrick's Day, the first day of spring and Palm Sunday.
Passover begins Wednesday. Friday is Good Friday. Next Sunday is Easter.
April 1 is -- no, won't even go there.
Wonder if we'll be here April 7 -- that's Daylight Savings Time.
No real rush. Can't learn a jig in one day.
So far, reporters who drive to Cleveland each day have racked up 44,500 round-trip miles.
Reporters staying in Cleveland have walked 3,000 round-trip miles -- in snow, sleet or rain, sometimes all three at once -- to the courthouse from apartments or hotels.
OK, those are slight exaggerations.
So far, photographers have taken 6,500 shots of the congressman entering the courthouse and 6,500 shots of him leaving it.
OK, that's a slight exaggeration.
We know the photos all look the same.
We've all been through the metal detector at least 24,000 times.
OK, that's a slight exaggeration.
Traficant, by the way, sets off the detector every morning. Usually it's his 2-pound belt buckle, probably won in a rodeo or WWF match.
Security: We sense that one or two of the court security officers would not be unhappy to see the last of our smiling faces.
They'll probably have their own verdict-day jig.
The rest of the security officers and U.S. marshals feel like family.
Once we're gone, the marshals assigned to keep an eye on us can go back to watching real desperadoes.
Nick, Traficant's personal guard, will miss us and we'll miss him. Nick came to the states three years ago from Romania.
Traficant, in what has become a daily ritual, bumps closed fists with Nick at the end of each day.
We'll sign Nick up for the jig lessons.
We've filled 1,400 notebooks with notes from the trial.
OK, that's an exaggeration.
At last count, the trial transcript had surpassed 3,500 pages.
That's not an exaggeration.
The guys at Starbucks have our regular order ready when they see us trudge in at noon. They've said "How's the trial going?" 6,500 times.
OK, that's an exaggeration.
Participants: The trial, now in its eighth week, is starting to take its toll on the participants.
At the beginning, U.S District Judge Lesley Brooks Wells gently scolded when Traficant stepped out of line.
Now, the congressman shouts at her each day and she shouts back.
Craig S. Morford, lead prosecutor, buries his head in his hands every day now, rubs his temples then his eyes. It's not all from sinus discomfort.
Tempers are short. Smiles are forced.
"This is not a sandbox!" Judge Wells yelled last week to break up an exchange between Morford and Traficant.
If anyone passes out photos of the reporters' verdict-day jig, look for the silver-haired lady in the black robe.
meade@vindy.com