“You said there wasn’t anything libelous in Mick’s book,” Raymond challenged the moment Patrick walked into his office. With his slicked-back hair and thick mustache, Raymond looked like an angry bulldog.
Patrick held up his hand. “That memoir has plenty of libel in it, but it’s presented as Mick’s personal opinion and not a statement of fact. That gives him the pass he needs. We’ve got the freedom of the press on our side.”
Raymond rubbed his palms together so hard that his knuckles started cracking. It seemed he enjoyed the prospect of a trial. “This’ll be a lesson the Blackstones will never forget. They’re going to lose and be humiliated by what I’ve got planned. Actually, what Mick has planned. This is all his idea.”
The first hint of misgiving took root. “What’s Mick’s idea?”
“Follow me,” Raymond said with an enigmatic smile as he left the office. “We’re heading down to the brewery on Orange Street.”
“A brewery?” Patrick asked in confusion.
Raymond nodded. “It’s got a cellar big enough to hold everyone, and no windows. We don’t need an audience for this sort of meeting. Mick’s got a plan to whip up a little pretrial publicity.”
The brewery was in an old brick building that was locked for the evening, but a thick-necked man in a bowler hat let them in through a side door.
Noise from a dense crowd rose from the basement, and Patrick’s unease grew as he headed down a narrow, twisting staircase. Dank smells mingled with sawdust and the yeasty scent of hops. He ducked to avoid smacking into the low beams over the steps, but once he was downstairs, the space opened up to reveal a huge underground cellar. The ceiling was vaulted like the undercroft of a church, with domed archways and brick walls. Wooden barrels as large as a man covered most of the floor, but crammed in among them were hundreds of people.
“Lord have mercy,” he muttered as he got a glimpse of the crowd. Most looked like plainly dressed workingmen, but there were plenty of women with babies and a handful of children in the mix. They were packed shoulder to shoulder around the wooden barrels. The rough-looking men from Mingo County were here, clustered near the back alongside men wearing coveralls and work boots.
“Quite a turnout,” Raymond said with pleasure. “Some of these people came all the way from Ohio to join in the protest.”
“What are they protesting?” Patrick asked, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach.
“For a start, the Blackstones’ attempt to silence Mick Malone. They’ll be in court tomorrow to help balance the scales. This is your army, Mr. O’Neill!”
This wasn’t the sort of army he wanted to command. If they were angry enough to travel across the country to protest against the Blackstones, they would be hard to control. Rowdy, undisciplined, and seething with resentment, these weren’t the sort of people who could influence a court hearing in a positive manner.
Mick Malone caught his eye and angled through the crowd, his face swathed in good cheer. “Quite a gathering, isn’t it, Patrick my man! Let’s get this meeting underway.”
A pair of workers hoisted Mick onto the top of a barrel of beer. The crowd soon settled down, and Mick began speaking.
“Thank you for coming all this way to support a man’s freedom of speech,” Mick said. “A special tip of the hat to you folks from Carnegie Steel,” he said with a nod to a silent group of men nearby. “And hello to my good friends from the Baltimore rail yards. Who else have we got here tonight?”
“Boilermakers from Dayton,” someone bellowed.
“Six roustabouts from Allegheny Oil,” another said.
“Four welders from the Philadelphia shipyard,” a clarion voice called in a tone that sailed over the crowd.
Mick’s humor evaporated. He straightened to look at the welder from Philadelphia, a tough-looking man with a scar splitting one brow.
“No one invited you, Liam,” Mick said to the man, who lifted his chin at the cold welcome.
“I invited myself, Uncle Mick.”
The men locked challenging stares, but Mick broke the tension by sending a wink and a salute to the younger man. “Welcome to my nephew Liam and the other welders from Philly,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eye. Liam grinned and saluted back, and the introductions continued.
The range of workers here was astonishing: miners, ironworkers, men from shipyards, and women who worked in the woolen mills. All of them worked for companies financed by the Blackstone Bank, and all of them had a simmering resentment toward the Blackstone family. Most of them looked like they’d already been drinking.
Mick was enjoying himself as he stood atop the barrel and gave instructions to the crowd. “As my fine lawyer makes his case in court tomorrow, your job will be to voice approval when warranted and provide some good, healthy disagreement when things aren’t going my way.”
A clamor of stomping feet and a rumble of approval met Mick’s announcement.
Patrick was appalled. Preliminary court hearings rarely had spectators, and if this crowd showed up, it would be a disaster. Courtrooms weren’t the place for a labor rally.
He shouted a warning over the din. “The judge will throw you out of court if you misbehave.”
“That’s the plan,” Mick said as he rubbed his hands together. “Let the authorities try to toss out the hardworking people who toil for the Blackstones, the Carnegies, and the Rockefellers. I want people who have dirt beneath their nails and sweat on their brows to be heard. We’re the people who made America great, not Frederick Blackstone and his ilk. The people gathered in this cellar are the heart and soul and muscle of this country, and we will be heard!”
