“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