“But not libelous,” Oscar countered. “My bank is in the middle of the largest merger in this country’s history, and a sterling reputation is essential.”
Patrick turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I suggest that the passage I just read is only the opinion of the author and no intelligent reader could mistake it for a literal fact.” He turned back to Oscar. “Are there any other examples of libel in my client’s book?”
Oscar named the page, and Patrick once again flipped to the offending passage. His mouth twitched, but he fought back the laughter because Oscar had picked a rich one. He cleared his throat and read aloud.
“‘The Blackstones treat their employees worse than the pharaoh treated the slaves of Egypt.’ Is that the passage?”
“It is,” Oscar said. “We don’t know how the pharaoh treated his slaves, and Malone says we are worse than the pharaoh. We aren’t.”
“Do we know that?” Patrick asked. “Let’s see. I wonder if the pharaoh offered his slaves an eight-hour workday and a full thirty minutes for lunch. Blackstone-financed factories rarely do. I wonder if the pharaoh deliberately neglected to check the birth certificates of his slaves so he couldn’t be accused of exploiting underaged children. The companies you finance rarely confirm their youngest employees’ ages. So my hunch is that you and the pharaoh are giving each other competition in terms of raw exploitation.”
Laughter from the crowd prompted the judge to tap his gavel, but even Judge Rothwell was trying not to laugh.
The Blackstones’ attorney stood to object. “Your Honor, the defendant’s lawyer is making a mockery of the proceedings.”
“Mr. O’Neill?” the judge asked.
“I am merely being literal,” Patrick said. “If the plaintiffs use a literal interpretation of Mr. Malone’s text, it’s fair for me to use that same measure. In Exodus 1:14 we’re told that the pharaoh made his slaves’ lives bitter with hard service. I’ll warrant we can find some people in Blackstone-financed factories who could say the same.”
“Exodus says the pharaoh used his slaves harshly,” the Blackstone attorney said. “None of the people working for the Blackstones are slaves. They are free to leave whenever they choose.”
Patrick returned fire with good-natured aplomb. “While that may be true today, Mr. Malone’s experience with the Blackstones dates to 1870, when workers often had contractual obligations making it impossible for them to simply walk away. Sir, may I suggest you don’t want to debate about biblical interpretation with me?”
“You tell it to him, Father What-a-Waste!” someone yelled from the back row. A handful of people stood to clap and catcall.
Judge Rothwell banged his gavel. “Bailiff, escort those men in the back row out of the building. This is a courtroom! There will be no more such outbursts today.”
The bailiff scowled as he headed toward the disorderly men, who stood and funneled out of the room, catcalling the entire way down the aisle and out the door.
Patrick caught a glimpse of Mrs. Kellerman sitting stone-faced beside her grandfather. He couldn’t even send her a nod of compassion without risking the momentum of his attack.
“Continue,” the judge ordered, and Patrick asked Oscar for another libelous passage, which he dispatched with similar wordplay. Projecting casual charm while briskly deflating Oscar’s arguments was harder than it looked, but he kept it up until lunchtime, when the judge banged his gavel.
“Court is in recess for one hour. We’ll convene again at one o’clock.”
Patrick hid a smile. This morning had been a victory, and he expected to do just as well after lunch.
10
The morning had been torture for Gwen. Watching her family become the target of mockery was awful, and having it come from the charming Patrick O’Neill made it even harder. She sat between her grandfather and her cousin Edwin during the morning proceedings.
Actually, Edwin was a second cousin, but he was one of her more interesting relatives, having made a living buying and selling antiques he collected during his world travels. He was only two years older than she was, so they naturally paired up during family gatherings. With his floppy blond hair and lazy elegance, Edwin had always been one of her favorite cousins.
“Oscar is getting his head handed to him,” Edwin whispered to her during the hearing, and Gwen silently agreed. Wasn’t it strange how humor could be such a lethal weapon? Time seemed to drag as she watched Patrick smile and tease and laugh as he eviscerated Uncle Oscar all morning, and she braced herself for more after lunch.
At least Judge Rothwell began the afternoon session with a stern warning to the spectators.
“I won’t tolerate any more outbursts,” he said. “I am willing to clear the courtroom and hold the rest of the hearing behind closed doors. You have been warned.”
She could only pray the warning would have the desired effect as Uncle Oscar headed toward the stand and their attorney began questioning him about potential damages that could result from Malone’s book. It was warm in the courtroom, and her eyes glazed over as he delved into tedious financial details. Her attention wandered over the spectators behind the defendant’s table, who so far were better behaved this afternoon, but that probably wouldn’t last.
One man caught her attention. Instead of watching the proceedings like the others, he was watching her. He was a good-looking man despite the scar splitting one eyebrow, but his stare was so disconcerting that she immediately turned her attention back to Mr. Fletcher as he continued guiding her uncle through his testimony.
“Has Mr. Carnegie pulled out of the deal?” their lawyer asked.
“No, Mr. Carnegie knows we are a bank of faultless reputation,” Oscar said. “We are grateful for his support, but Carnegie Steel represents only a fraction of the proposed merger, and others could lose faith in the bank.”
The questioning continued, and she peeked again at the scar-faced man across the aisle. He was still watching her. His scrutiny kept shifting between her and her grandfather.
The way he stared was rude, and she lifted her chin, refusing to let him bully her into looking away. He was handsome in a rough sort of way, with dark hair that needed a trim. He had pale green eyes and reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t place him.
She elbowed her grandfather.
“What?” Frederick asked.
“There is a man in the third row on the opposite side,” she whispered. “He’s been staring at us.”
Her grandfather turned to look, then sucked in a quick breath.
“Your father,” he said. “That man looks like your father once did.”
Even in Gwen’s earliest memories, her father already looked old, worn down by grief and stress, but she’d seen pictures of him as a young man in his prime, and the resemblance to the man on the other side of the courtroom was startling. It was hard to guess the stranger’s age, but he looked about her age. William would be thirty-three if he had lived.
Her grandfather pulled on the knot of his tie. His hand shook, and his breathing was ragged.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I need air,” he said, and she stood to help him rise. Edwin did too. It was worrisome how heavily Frederick leaned on her as she guided him toward the center aisle. Others on the bench pulled aside to let them pass as she helped him out of the muggy room.