By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
By Pete Kotz
By Monica Alonzo
By New Times
Friday, May 23
Dear Diary: Fancy boy was making such a tizzy over Fife wanting to help Mrs. Reebok with her legal bills. Really, a man just cannot be a gentleman anymore in this practically correct world. And, of course, if the secretary had done her job a little better, would he be in any legal trouble? I don't want to cast aspirins, but I don't think so.
At least, that's what I told Chuck when he came over this evening for tea and cookies. I said, "Chuck, if the governor can't take care of his employees, who can he take care of?" Chuck said I was restoring his faith in our justice system. Toasted cheese sandwich.
Tuesday, May 28
Dear Diary: Fancy boy is just picking on Joyce. He says she's a liar! It's pure trash. Joyce is a secretary!
Dowd's got his knickers in a knot. Joyce said SHE was responsible for the Arizona missions. It's all so confusing. She's not a nun. Anyway, none of this is Fife's fault! If I were a wealthy man and paying for all these people in the office, I would sign anything they put in front of me. My lunch wasn't what I ordered, AGAIN!
Thursday, May 29
Dear Diary: There's too much going on for me to pay attention. I'm trying to filter all this stuff. Reading the newspaper isn't even helping anymore. Dowd got a bee in his bonnet. Turkey dumplings.
Friday, May 30
Dear Diary: Paper, paper, paper! God, the time it must have taken to get this paper together! Juror 69 told me I'm supposed to file it in my notebook. This much paper--that's how fires start.
We're like a family here, but Fife looks sad and his smile I know is fake. His partner Boyce talked today. He went broke. And it was his fault that Fife almost lost the election. Hah, Fife ate up Eddie Basha like a loaf of crusty bread. But I like Eddie OK. Bargain boosters! Salmon patties.
Tuesday, June 3
Dear Diary: An exciting day. Missy Oddo figured it all out! It was Coopers & Lybrand's fault!
Egg salad today. But I ordered chicken ranchero salad. Juror 206 is acting like it's MY fault. Whippersnapper.
P.S. I did a dumb thing this weekend. I got my feet all tangled and as I was going down I thought don't hit the spine or the hip so I landed on my hand. So I broke my arm instead. The doctor at the emergency room gave me a big bottle of Percocet pills, which are recommended highly by Cindy McCain. While he was fixing my arm, I told the doctor all about the trial and how Fife is getting railroaded. He said I probably shouldn't talk about it. Chuck took me to Good Sam, and that's what he is, a good Samaritan--although I think he's probably Irish.
Wednesday, June 4
Dear Diary: I don't remember anything from today, other than I really, really like the Percocet. I saw my chivalrous new neighbor Chuck in the audience. I waved to him and he shook his head real quick-like and scowled. I'm sure he didn't want to distract me from my important work. One of the nice clerks is helping me to fill out my lunch order. I'm sure I got what I wanted, but I can't remember what it was. You take Percocet with food, you know.
Thursday, June 5
Dear Diary: Oh sure, as though Mr. Symington is going to lie to Mr. Hirsch, the millionaire. That Mr. Paul Meyer, the lawyer for Hirsch, is cruel. He looked right at Fife and said, "The governor's share of the Esplanade was worth ZERO!" It's ironic he said that, since the Japanese financed the Esplanade. Fife turned so red I thought he would combust. Dowd says Mr. Hirsch is greedy. You see that a lot. Dairy products.
Friday, June 6
Dear Diary: Dowd was wound up tighter than an 8-day clock. Mr. Cockerham, one of those office people Fife hired, complained about something. Fife did some number-crunching and Coopers & Lybrand didn't have anything to do with it so I think it was probably good work. I made some Percocet brownies for all the jurors and the bailiff, and we all had a swell time. Chicken pot pie.
Tuesday, June 10
Dear Diary: I just couldn't take it anymore. Another day of numbers. Numbers, numbers, numbers. I may just scream if I hear one more NUMBER! Mystery meat of some kind.
After we recessed today, I went and saw Ana, that nice woman who has been helping the jury, and I told her that on Thursday I have to go to the doctor so he can rebreak my arm. Guess I didn't break it good enough the first time. I wonder if they'll make me fall down again. I'm sure they'll make me talk to the judge and no matter what he says, I'm going to take a few days off. You know what they say about the wheels of justice.
Wednesday, June 11
Dear Diary: I was right. That Judge Strand hauled me into his office and sat me right down in a chair. I insisted I had to go this Thursday. But I didn't want him to think I wanted off the jury. I just need a break (ha ha). It's been five weeks already of that whiny Shingler and poor Fife has hardly gotten to say a word yet. I told the judge I can take a lot of pain because it builds character, but I didn't mean this kind of pain! Quiche.