Well, Excuuuuuuuuuse Me

Thursday, June 12
Dear Diary: Aaaaaahhhoooooowwwww.

Friday, June 13
Dear Diary: I'm back. The court clerk called me at home yesterday when I was trying to sneak out to the pool with my newspaper. I thought it was that nice lady from upstairs calling, so I said I was feeling much better.

But just when they started to go over those terrible numbers again Dowd asked if the lawyers could all talk to the judge alone. I thought they might be talking about ME, because I was humming "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" for a while. Calamari and Tic Tacs.

Tuesday, June 17
Dear Diary: I hardly heard a word they said. I am so glad I'm not a professional juror. I don't know why they don't want jurors to read the papers or watch TV. I've been doing it all along and it's not prejudicing me at all. That Mark Flatten from the Tribune is a genius. I say "Amen" to everything he writes and I'm more convinced with each passing day that Fife did not kill JonBenet. Shepherd's pie.

Wednesday, June 18
Dear Diary: Not much to report today. I really wasn't paying attention because that nice Mr. Cockerham is still talking about numbers. I think it's a terrible injustice to make older people serve on these long juries. Stir fry.

Chuck came by this evening with his tall friend. I think his name is Jay. They both said they're not that interested in the trial, but they seemed to know quite a lot about it. That dapper dandy Jay laid his hands on my arm and said a prayer, but it didn't help much.

Thursday, June 19
Dear Diary: Cockerham finally confessed! He says it's his fault that Fife is in trouble because Fife was so busy with the big picture, which I assume was hanging in his office. You know, Fife majored in Dutch art history at Harvard. Cockerham just never got around to telling him that he might be doing something wrong. Caught a ride home with George Leckie. That man can't drive a lick. Reuben.

Friday, June 20
Dear Diary: The other jurors were so excited today because some young man made a big deal out of how poor Fife didn't tell his bank how much money he really had. Or didn't have. Or something like that. When are they going to get on to something more interesting, like the DNA? Moo goo gai pan.

Tuesday, June 24
Dear Diary: A woman who works for something called FIB was upset because Fife didn't tell her everything she wanted to know about everything even though she never asked him about anything in particular. Shingler seemed thrilled and there was much buzzing from the public seats. Dowd looked bored. Fife's wife looked up and smiled at me. I don't trust the FIB lady. She reminds me of the lady who takes the lunch orders. Egg salad.

Wednesday, June 25
Dear Diary: I can't understand why Shingler keeps saying nasty things about Fife when that shifty New York banker admitted hiring a private investigator to tail the governor because he thought Fife was hiding money. So he's hiding some money? Since when is that a crime? It's not his money, anyway. It's his wife's or mother's or some sort of trust-fund deal. I think I'll write to Ed Meese and have him fire Shingler. Garden burger.

Chuck brought over some old issues of the Arizona Republic along with some peanut brittle this evening. He read me a 1991 article before bedtime about Fife saying he was going to hunt down Gestapo agents working for something called the Arty Sea. Fife's such a brave man. Reminds me of Van Johnson.

Thursday, June 26
Dear Diary: Today was horrible. I forgot my smokes and Juror 79 brushed me off when I tried to bum a Camel. Things only got worse when fancy boy Shingler called another accountant to the stand, some lady named Cooper Wrigley. She's all high and mighty and says Fife's network suddenly changed after he was elected governor. Of course it changed. Why wouldn't it? Did I say "network"? I meant net worth. He's the governor. This is all so ridiculous! Ordered lentil soup, got chili.

Friday, June 27
Dear Diary: Dowd says Fife's Arizona missions were innocent mistakes that his navigator failed to catch before everything crashed. I figured this whole thing could be easily explained. Fife had doodled some number on a sheet of paper they keep flashing up on the tube. This somehow caused so much confusion that a big firm with eight employees needed millions of dollars to find a new pathway to slimmer government. Percocets.

Tuesday, July 1
Dear Diary: So much fingerpointing. Cooper Wrigley claimed Fife put wrong numbers into her calculator, which screwed up the size of Fife's biggest Arizona mission under construction at 24th Street and Camelback. Roast beef sandwich and fries.

Wednesday, July 2
Dear Diary: Hot damn! That Thomas Washburne is quite a dashing old codger. He seems to know a lot about Fife's mother--I wonder what was really going on there? He told Fife that his wife needed a project SLIM. He's right. Diet coke.

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