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.”