The older man smiled at the reference. "Too sticky. That would have smelled to high Heaven."
"Not a bit stickier or smellier than this." Roger now took a step forward, as if to insure the aim of his words through the unexpected aperture of the other's momentary honesty. "The only difference is, that you can put this over without publicity. The smell would never get beyond the office. No one would whiff the rotten legal juggling that's going to take away those poor beggars' homes. The Morgan Gravel Company has literally blasted away dozens of laborers' homes, of foreigners mostly, in the last ten years, and now that they've come up against a few fighting Irish, the last stand on the Hill, they're going to daub over their proceedings with a coat of white-wash."
"Goldwash," Lowell corrected with a grin. "You seem to forget that these people are going to be paid for their property—whatever the judge decides is fair."
"His imagination may reach to one hundred. McLaughlin may prod him to one hundred and fifty."
"They'll take it."
"Of course they will, because Morgan will take the land out from under them whether they accept the money or not."
"They can appeal. There's always more law."
Roger Barton's shoulders hunched. His thick, dry, blond hair seemed to rise like an angry dog's. Without his moving, Anne felt that he had crossed the space between himself and the other. Her small hands clenched, and she nibbled her lower lip as she always did in moments of forced repression.
"Yes," Roger said quietly, "there is always the law, more law, for the rich, the crooked, the morally rotten. There is always the perversion of justice, the farce of an appeal, the hypocrisy of a judge, the pitiful sight of the 'twelve good men and true.' There is always more law to quibble and distort the truth."
"No doubt." The smile deepened at Roger's vehemence. "Only we lawyers don't usually express it so frankly."