Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

Lazlo laughs—not cruelly, it must be said, but with a certain wry, institutional amusement. “The guy in the cell next to you?” he says. “Know who he is?”

“We haven’t met,” I admit. In fact, I haven’t seen any occupant of the other cells.

“You remember, I think it was 1983?” Lazlo says.

“Not very well,” I say.

“There was a guy drove his car into the mall and opened up with an automatic weapon? Killed fourteen people?” he says.

I do remember that. Everyone in Miami, whatever their age, remembers. “I remember.”

Lazlo nods at the cell next to mine. “That’s him,” he says. “Still awaiting trial.”

I blink.

“Oh,” I say. “Can they do that to me?”

He shrugs. “Sure looks like it.”

“But how?”

“It’s all politics,” he says. “The right people squeeze the right place and…” He makes a whaddaya-gonna-do gesture that I am sure I saw on The Sopranos.

“I think I need to see a lawyer,” I tell him.

He shakes his head sadly. “I retire in a year and a half,” he says. And with this apparent non sequitur our conversation is over and I am buttoned securely into my cell once more.

And as I arrange my toothbrush yet again I reconsider: Perhaps they actually can keep me here forever. That would avoid all the fuss, bother, and expense of a trial, with its accompanying risk of Freedom for Dexter. That would certainly be the tidiest solution for Anderson and the department. And later, as I sit down in the afternoon rain once more, I ponder that. Forever seems like a very long time.

But everything must end, even Eternity. And one fine gray institutional day, indistinguishable from all the others, my unending routine ends, too.

As I sit in my cell, alphabetizing my bar of soap, I hear the metallic sounds of my cell door opening. I look up; it is eleven-thirty-four a.m., too soon for my au naturel shower in the Yard. That makes this a unique event, and my eager little heart goes pitter-pat with anticipation. What can it be? Surely it must be a reprieve, a last-minute stay of tedium from the governor—or perhaps even Deborah at last, triumphantly clutching my release papers.

Time slows; the door swings inward at a slothful pace that defies possibility—until finally it comes to rest in the full open position to reveal Lazlo. “Your lawyer’s here,” he says.

It gives me pause. I did not know I had a lawyer—which is to his benefit, since I would otherwise have sued him for neglect. And I have certainly not had the chance to get one, either. Could it be that my one small comment to Lazlo has caused him enough uneasiness with the vast injustice of Justice that he arranged this?

Lazlo gives no indication, and no chance for me to ask. “Come on,” he says, and I need no further urging. I leap to my feet and let Lazlo lead me on a long and wondrous journey across ten full feet of floor. It seems a nearly endless expedition after the tiny cell—and also because I have become convinced that Freedom Awaits. And so I trudge forever across the floor and arrive at last

at the large, thick slab of bulletproof glass that is my window on the world. On the opposite side sits a man in a very cheap-looking dark gray suit. He is thirtyish, balding, bespectacled, and he looks weary, harried, and hassled beyond measure. He is gazing down at a stack of official-seeming papers, flipping hurriedly through them and frowning, as if this is the first time he has seen them and he does not like what he sees. He is, in short, the very picture of an overworked public defender, a man who is engaged in principle but having trouble maintaining interest in specifics. And since I actually am the specifics in this case, his appearance does not fill me with confidence.

“Siddown,” Lazlo says, not unkindly.

I sit in the chair provided, and eagerly lift the old-fashioned telephone receiver that hangs to one side of the window.

My lawyer does not look up. He continues to flip through the papers until, at last, he comes to a page that seems to surprise him. His frown deepens, and he looks up at me and speaks. Of course, I do not hear what he says, since he has not picked up the phone, but at least I can see his lips moving.

I hold up my phone and raise my eyebrows politely. See? Electric communication. It’s wonderful! You should try it sometime—perhaps now?

My lawyer looks slightly startled. He drops the wad of paper and picks up the phone, and almost immediately I hear his voice.

“Uh, Dieter,” he says.

“Dexter,” I tell him. “With an ‘X.’?”

“My name is Bernie Feldman; I’m your court-appointed attorney.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I tell him.