Blind Justice by James Scott Bell

anymore. She was into some bad stuff, there’s people out there . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “I’m not talking anymore. That’s it.”
    “All right,” I said, then turned to Trip. “You got it?”
    “Got it,” Trip said.
    “Got what?” said Chip Delliplane. Triple C pulled the microcassette recorder from his pocket and clicked it off.
    “We’re going to transcribe this into a statement so you can swear to it,” I explained.
    Delliplane started shaking his head vigorously. “No way, man! I ain’t swearing to anything. I told you I wasn’t talking!”
    “You just did, Chip.”
    “I didn’t know you were recording me! You can’t do that! That’s illegal, or something!”
    Trip gave him his passive, Terminator stare.
    “Isn’t it?” Chip asked.
    I shook my head. “You’re hosed, dude.”
    “You guys are slime!” Chip said, and then he said a few things nice boys shouldn’t say. He finished by grabbing his board and declaring that he would never sign anything, he’d lie and say he was set up if it ever came to that, and he knew people who could hurt us. Then he ran away from us as fast as his surfer feet could take him.
    “Well, that was entertaining,” I said.
    “It was all I could do not to rip his curly hair out.”
    “What do you think he meant, about other people?”
    Trip shook his head.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    I FINISHED UP an eventful day by getting an earful about Satan.
    When Howie was brought into the attorney interview cubicle at the county jail, he looked like he’d been sweating heavily. His hair was matted to his forehead. His blue coveralls were stained. He seemed winded too, as if he’d run a sprint to get here.
    The moment he sat down, he put his head in his hands.
    “You want to tell me about it?” I said.
    “Get me out of this, Jake,” he said without looking up. “Help me.”
    “I can’t until you come clean with me. I don’t want any more dancing around. Did you or did you not stab your wife?”
    Raising his head, Howie seemed lost in a mental fog. “I don’t know, Jake. I just don’t know.”
    I heaved a sigh. Having a client who can’t remember is worse than having one who lies. You can pick out lies and confront them, but you can’t pick out what isn’t in the mind to begin with. “Start with the dreams, Howie. What is it about the dreams?”
    For a moment I didn’t think he would tell me. His face drained of color. Then he said, “The devil.”
    “What about the devil?”
    “Torture.”
    I waited.
    “Beelzebub.”
    “Come on—”
    “I have sinned.”
    “How?”
    “The devil prowls around like a lion. He is devouring me! I can’t sleep.”
    “The devil is in your dreams, is that it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Join the club. That still doesn’t answer my question.”
    Howie shook his head slowly. “I willed it, Jake. I willed her to die. I wanted her dead. I wanted her to die, and the devil’s purpose was accomplished.”
    “But did you stab her?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Do you remember holding the knife?”
    “I don’t know.”
    I slammed my hand on the table. “Come on, Howie! Get in the game with me. Did you, or did you not, stab Rae?”
    Short bursts of breath came out of his mouth rapidly, like his heart was racing. “I must have!”
    “Put yourself back in the room.”
    “No, Jake. Don’t make me!”
    “Do it.”
    “No!” He stood up, and his chair went flying backwards.
    A deputy sheriff opened the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.
    “It’s all right,” I said. “We’re finished.” I was not pleased. At that point I didn’t care about Howie or Lindsay or anything else about this crazy case.
    “Let’s go,” the deputy said to Howie. My client didn’t even look at me as he left the room.
    I headed back to the Valley and straight to Max’s. I took my usual table in the back and began the parade of beers.
    Taking stock, I looked at my case. It was getting weirder by the hour. Howie was