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, August 15
Dear Diary: We took some votes on a few counts this morning and I got all mixed up. They kept asking me, "Mary Jane, what did we just vote on?" And I held my tongue, which is real slippery. At the end of another vote, they asked again, and I said in a real tiny voice, "Transit tax?" Everyone started making barnyard sounds. I stood up and said I'd made up my mind on all the counts, NOT GUILTY, so we might as well just acquit Fife and go get some PowerBall tickets, 'cause I wasn't budging. And so they wrote a note to Judge Strand. They read it to me, but I was having a nicotine fit and didn't really get it, except for the part where they said I was an "obstruction." Judge Strand wrote something back about how I had to follow jury obstructions. And I said, "Obstruct this!" Eggplant parmesan.
Monday, August 18
Dear Diary: Over the weekend, Chuck and a new friend came and his chum turned out to be a hypnotist. I said I'd always wanted to try it and so he put me under. He said I wouldn't be able to remember what he'd told me. But my mind works in mysterious ways, so I do remember it clear as a bell. He kept saying, "Fife is innocent, and you are rational" over and over in a spooky voice. And I was sad that my friend Chuck nudged him and said, "Make her act like a chicken, c'mon, just once."
During deliberations today, I was calm and rational most of the time, but once when I meant to say Fife is innocent I broke out clucking instead. I also couldn't eat my Chicken McNuggets. I'm starting to think Chuck is a cad.
Tuesday, August 19
Dear Diary: Well, it was D-Day for yours truly. I was dumped. The rest of these satanic jurors wrote another note to Judge Strand and said I wasn't participating in deliberations and seem confused. Well, how would you feel being surrounded by a bunch of commie devil worshippers who are sacrificing small animals in the jury room and drinking their blood? Really--they did it all through the trial. I'd repressed the memories, but they're all becoming clear now.
I got called into Judge Strand's chambers and all the lawyers were in there, too. And they asked me if I knew about the note, and I told them they'd all better repent. Someone said something about me talking in non sequiturs and I said I could speak a little Spanish. Then all the rest of the jurors went in one at a time and probably took possession of Judge Strand because he said he was dismissing me from the jury. I expected him to spit green pea soup at any moment. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
I got a ride home, and guess who was waiting for me there with Chuck--that nice Flatten boy from the Tribune. He asked me about what was going on in the jury room, and I spilled my guts. It was so therapeutic. Mark stayed a long time, and after a while he said he was hungry and thirsty. I didn't have much in the house but he drank a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and ate a brick of Velveeta and then said he had to go. He forgot his notebook.
Wednesday, August 20
All the journalists want to talk to me. Chuck moved out.