Patrick could already tell that Liam Malone was dangerous by the way he controlled the crowd tonight. Patrick could either risk the anger of the crowd by throwing Liam out . . . or he could join forces with him.
It was ten o’clock before the gathering dispersed. Patrick loitered against the grainy brick wall of the cellar as he watched Liam shake hands and swap stories with people from other states. He needed to speak with the welder privately. Tomorrow’s hearing was going to be the most important case of his career. Having a little wind in his sails from a sympathetic audience would help, but he couldn’t let it get out of hand.
Finally, the last of the workers began funneling upstairs, and Patrick followed closely behind Liam. As others dispersed on the darkened street, Patrick pulled Liam aside.
“I’m not going to let you turn tomorrow’s hearing into a protest against U.S. Steel.”
Liam’s face tightened a little. “It already is,” he said. “Two hundred people didn’t leave their homes and families to help my uncle sell more books.”
Patrick stepped in front of Liam, forcing the other man to stop walking. “You need your uncle Mick to sell those books. If this case dies tomorrow, the books get destroyed in a bonfire. Right now, no one outside of New York City even knows about this book. Go ahead and whip up a little steam among your followers, but let me steer it in the courtroom. If we win, copies of that book will make people all over the country think twice about letting the Blackstones get a controlling interest over the steel industry.”
A gleam of respect lit Liam’s pale green eyes, and he offered a calloused hand. “We have a deal.”
Patrick shook Liam’s hand and breathed a sigh of relief, because Liam Malone was not a man he wanted as an enemy.
9
Patrick arrived early at the courthouse to review his notes ahead of the most important hearing of his career. Judge Rothwell hadn’t arrived yet, and the jury box was empty, for this wasn’t a trial. It was only a hearing to see if the court would halt distribution of a book before publication, and Judge Rothwell would decide the verdict on his own.
The Blackstones’ lawyer sat at the plaintiff’s table, but Patrick was too nervous to sit. He paced before the gallery, eyeing the spectators who filled the seats, most of whom were Mick’s crowd. They wore homespun clothes and carried lunch pails. They were better behaved than last night, but he could sense their excitement simmering just beneath the surface.
There were only a few Blackstones here. Gwen Kellerman sat beside an elderly man who was probably Frederick Blackstone. Patrick couldn’t meet her eyes because he was about to defend Mick’s slurs about her family, and the prospect gave him no joy. He was grateful for his spiffy new suit because there were a lot of eyes on him today, and he adjusted his freshly starched cuffs while pacing before a row of seats reserved for the journalists.
The law was on his side today, but he had plenty of strikes against him. His Irish accent tended to come on strong when he was nervous. The opposing counsel was Eugene Alden Fletcher, a Harvard-educated attorney who spoke with the clipped accent that upper-crust New Englanders had mastered generations ago.
The bailiff entered the courtroom. It was a good thing he had a hefty build that could stand up to a little rough-and-tumble, because it might get rowdy soon.
“All rise!” the bailiff intoned, and the crowd stood.
Judge Rothwell entered the room, his black robes swaying as he mounted the steps to the raised dais holding the judge’s desk. He tapped his gavel and bid the crowd to sit.
Patrick took a seat beside Mick and his publisher at the defendant’s table. The judge wasted no time in starting the proceedings.
“In the case of Blackstone vs. Carstairs Publishing, we are deciding if the plaintiffs have sufficient cause to prevent the publication of the defendant’s memoir. The burden of proof lies with the Blackstones, and it is a high bar. Freedom of speech is one of this country’s most cherished liberties. The plaintiffs are thereby required to prove serious and libelous intent in the memoir.”
A low murmur rose up from Mick’s crowd, but a single tap of Judge Rothwell’s gavel caused it to fade. The rules of the court required an expert to testify on the plaintiff’s behalf, and Oscar Blackstone had been chosen to explain the damage the memoir could cause the Blackstone Bank. He had a tough, battle-scarred appearance as he limped toward the witness stand. He leaned heavily on a cane and wore an eyepatch, all mementos of the hostility directed at the Blackstones.
The plaintiff’s attorney made the most of his client’s injuries. “Are you able to see me, sir?”
Oscar gave a curt nod. “As well as any one-eyed man can see.”
“How is it you came to have only one eye?”
Patrick stood. “Objection. Former crimes against the Blackstone family have no bearing on the case today.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Please proceed, Mr. Fletcher.”
The Blackstone attorney asked several questions regarding the importance of a bank’s reputation in conducting business, and Oscar easily answered them. Mind-numbing testimony about financial details dragged on for over an hour as the witness outlined how his bank forged alliances to fund large-scale corporations. The nation’s other largest bank, controlled by J.P. Morgan, would partner with the Blackstones to finance the creation of U.S. Steel, and that alliance could falter if the reputation of the Blackstones took a severe hit.
Patrick assumed a polite expression when it was his turn to cross-examine Oscar Blackstone. He rose and approached the witness box. “Mr. Blackstone, the success of your bank goes without question, but you have claimed that my client’s book libeled you. I must ask for specific examples in which my client unfairly defamed your family.”
Oscar raised his chin. “Page thirty-five, the second paragraph.”
Patrick slipped on a pair of clear glass spectacles. He didn’t need them, but they made him look smart. He opened the book, quickly spotted the insulting passage, and read it aloud for the court.
“‘Frederick Blackstone is the spawn of the devil, and his son is his sulfur-breathing henchman. My sainted grandmother used to tell me tales of demons that haunted the hills of Ireland, devouring the innocent and spitting out their bones after sucking the blood and marrow from their lifeless bodies. That’s who the Blackstones remind me of.’” He looked up at Oscar. “Is that the offending passage?”
“It is.”
“And are you the sulfur-breathing henchman referred to in the first sentence?”
Muffled laughter rose from the gallery, but Oscar maintained his dignity. “I assume so, yes.”
“This passage is Mr. Malone’s opinion, is it not? He merely states that you remind him of a terrifying demon.”
“It’s insulting and an outright lie,” Oscar said.
“A lie that you remind him of a blood-sucking demon? Others have gotten the same impression over the decades.”
Another spurt of laughter and stamping of feet came from the audience. The judge banged his gavel, and once again the crowd settled down.
“That’s why I’m here,” Oscar responded. “To stop this sort of insulting press.”
Patrick took a long and pointed look at the journalists in the front row. They were his best allies this morning. “Insulting press?” he asked. “Surely members of the press are entitled to their opinions, even if those opinions are unflattering.”