The Wazee Supper Club was located at the corner of Fifteenth Street and Wazee. The place wasn't fancy, but the beer was always cold and the pizza always hot. The owner of The Wazee, whom I had long regarded as a friend, had recently passed away and, for the time being, his wife was carrying on the tradition.
I managed to find a parking place on Fifteenth Street. When I walked in, the jukebox was playing an old Dave Brubeck song. Bruner was already there, sitting upstairs near one of the restaurant's best-known furnishings, a custom-made dumbwaiter that transported food and drinks up to the balcony area.
Bruner called down to me from his perch upstairs. The slight slur in his words suggested he'd already gotten a head start on the beers. I trekked up the stairs to join him. "Celebrating?" I asked, as I pulled one of the metal-backed chairs up to the table. I practically had to shout to be heard over all the background noise.
"You bet! I'm a free man."
A waitress sidled up to our table. "Would you like something from the bar?"
I nodded. "Scotch and water."
"And you sir?"
Bruner said, "I think I'll have one more beer."
The waitress nodded and left us.
With sudden emotion, Bruner blurted, "God, I hated it there in jail! I can't tell you what a relief it was when they told me I could go home. I was beginning to think I was stuck there for good."
"I can imagine," I sympathized. "Are you married?"
"Yeah. I didn't tell my wife I was getting out. I just called a cab and showed up at home. She was so glad to see me, we both stood there bawling like a couple of little kids."
"How did she handle your being in jail?"
"Oh, she was great. She knew I didn't kill that bastard Scadman. She didn't even have to ask. She just knew. So how about you? Are you married?"
"I nearly got married once, years ago." There was something disarming about Bruner. Without intending it, I let something slip that I had so far kept from everyone else who knew me. "Somewhere out there, I have a son I've never even laid eyes on. It's the one true tragedy of my life."
"Really? Have you tried--"
Instantly regretting my lapse in judgment, I made a halting gesture. "Oh, believe me, I've tried. It's a long, sad story..."
He understood I wanted to change the subject. "Aren't they all?" he asked philosophically, giving me a lopsided smile. "I understand you've withdrawn as Josie Ballantine's attorney. Conflict of interest?"
"Conflict," I agreed, "but more a question of disinterest. She's decided the relationship doesn't suit her any more."
"Women!" he snorted as though that said everything that needed saying. "I just assumed you'd withdrawn because of the second lawsuit. That's too bad, too. It would have been nice having you try this case with us."
"Thanks. What about you? Are you still representing the painters?"
"Yeah. Our client insisted on waiving the conflict of interest. He's just a small businessman. He can't afford to go out now and hire a new lawyer. As if he could even find one the week before trial..."
The waitress returned with our drinks. I took a healthy swig of scotch. "Josie decided to cast her lot with Kit Newcomb. He tells her they can't lose."
He shrugged. "Then he must know something I don't know. I've never seen a case you couldn't lose. My client is pretty worried, although not worried enough--or able--to pay the kind of money Quinlan is demanding."
We listened for a while to the music from the jukebox, which was loaded with old jazz and swing recordings. Someone had selected one of the Tommy Dorsey tunes, "She's Funny That Way." Finally, the waitress returned to take our food order. We decided on pizza, with onions, green pepper and sausage.
Bruner took a sip of beer. "So are you still trying to figure out who killed Scadman?"
"Trying is the operative word."
"No clue?"
"Oh, I have some vague ideas, but I doubt they'll lead anywhere. There are a few points that have me completely stymied."
"What kind of points?"
"Well, the biggest one is this: I'm assuming that when Scadman was killed, he was arguing with someone. Then the killer slipped out of the library, past Laurie Fenner, and walked out the side door into the main building hallway. But Fenner told me the killer came out of the library only thirty seconds before I came wandering around the corner."
He frowned. "Why is that important?"
"Because I had just looked into the library right before I bumped into her. Scadman wasn't in there. Neither was the murderer."
"Maybe it's the beer, but I'm having trouble following you. Hadn't he just slipped out the side door?"
"Not if the court reporter had the timing right. I admit, she could have been off by a few minutes--or just plain lying--which would explain why I didn't see the murderer. But I can't figure out why I didn't at least see Scadman. He must have already been lying dead on the floor of the library."
"And you're sure it wasn't the court reporter who killed him?"
"Based on the fact that she was murdered by someone who bashed her over the head, I'm eliminating her as a suspect. Especially since it happened while she was telling me about her 'friend' who had killed Scadman."
"Some friend," he commented. "But she didn't tell you who it was?"
"No. She probably would have, but he got to her first."
"Well, if it was someone at the deposition, that means Byron Richardson, Audrey Winters, and Kit Newcomb."
"Or, of course, Quinlan or Josie."
He stared at me. "Do you think one of them could have done it?"
"At this point, I can't eliminate anybody. Except, I think, you."
He took a big swig of beer. "You know, it would really piss me off to think any of those people stood by and let me go to jail for something I didn't do."
"Well, I wouldn't advise you to confront them about it just yet. I have no proof of anything against anyone."
He nodded. "I hear you. Besides, I have to work with them at least through the trial next week. After that, too, come to think of it, since we still have that second lawsuit to deal with." He shook his head in disbelief. "Could Sandvern actually believe the group of us conspired to kill Scadman?"
"He doesn't believe it at all, Matt," I said. "Before I withdrew from the case, I had a talk with him. He so much as told me the second lawsuit was just a ploy to force a settlement in the fire case. He may or may not pursue it, depending on what happens in the trial next week."
"It would sure be nice if the whole thing went away. In my opinion, the fire case ought to settle, too. It's going to be one of those trials where the plaintiff puts on his case and watches gleefully while the defendants spend the rest of the trial pointing their fingers at each other. It's not so much a question of whether he'll win. We're just fighting about limiting his damages to what he's actually entitled to, and then figuring out who's liable for which portion."
"Including Josie?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Who knows? From everything I've heard so far, the case against her is pretty weak. The problem is that Quinlan's demands are still astronomical. Even if the jury only finds her slightly negligent, the exposure could be huge. The rest of the defendants have put together a pot of seventy-five thousand dollars, which is all we can muster so far. And Sandvern's made it very clear they're not interested in seventy-five thousand."
"And Josie's carrier hasn't offered anything?"
He shook his head. "Not a penny. Not even defense costs. Newcomb says she won't consent to settlement. God knows what he's told her. Under different circumstances, we'd press him to kick in some money, but as long as Sandvern and his client are at well over seven hundred thousand, what's the point? We're so far apart that anything her carrier could come up with would just be a drop in the bucket." He lowered his voice. "I don't know about Newcomb, though. He's awfully cocky. I don't think the jury is going to like him."
"I know I sure don't," I said. I realized the conversation was making me glum. Josie knew better than to place her fate in the hands of a novice like Newcomb.
What on earth was she thinking?
After a while, the pizza arrived. As we talked, Bruner told me about his experiences playing hockey for the University of Minnesota, including his favorite war story about a playoff game against the University of Denver.
Eventually, the waitress returned up to our table. "Would you guys like another round?"
Bruner looked at me, a question in his eyes.
"No, I think I'll pass."
"Me, too," he said. "I'm headed back to the office. I've got a ton of work to do before next Monday. Jury instructions, voir dire and pulling together all of our exhibits. I'll be working on it all week. Probably all weekend, too."
I gulped down the last of my drink. "I'm sorry I'll be sitting this one out."
"Yeah, me too. For a lot of reasons. If Newcomb screws something up, it could hurt the rest of us, too."
"Won't one of the partners from his firm be there?"
"Apparently not. They had some sort of scheduling conflict. Newcomb's on his own with this one."
Our waitress brought the check. I reached for my wallet, but Bruner grabbed the bill off the table. "No way! This is on me. I insist. My way of saying thanks."
I decided not to argue the point. "All right. I'll get the next one. Do you need a ride back to your office?"
"If you don't mind, I think I'll walk. These days, I'm savoring my right to walk around as a free man."
We both stood up. "Good luck in your trial."
"Thanks," he said. He let out a sigh. "I'm afraid we're going to need it."