Howie Carr (29 page)

Q. Is it painful to have this distance with your brother, given your respective positions?

A. I don’t create any distance...

Q. Do you think your brother admires you?

A. Yeah.

Q. And you he?

A. There is much to admire, and...

Q. He’s supposed to be just the toughest guy...a very, very determined, formidable person.

A. I hope that the fact is that there is no reason for anyone who cares about him to be apprehensive....I just hope that that’s the case. That there’s no reason to be apprehensive...so I am hopeful.

Whitey went ballistic over the series. He knew instinctively who had ratted him out: John Morris. The
Globe
hadn’t actually named him in print as an FBI informant. But they had come very close, mentioning the “special relationship” between Whitey and the feds. The
Globe
wouldn’t have gone even that far without at least one inside source, and Whitey knew it was neither Zip nor any of the hapless SACs (special agents in charge) who were rotated through Boston every couple of years.

It was Vino, and as Stevie Flemmi later recalled, Whitey was deeply hurt.

“I felt for Mr. Bulger,” Flemmi said. “I felt that he was— maybe he was betrayed...I mean, he was upset generally for the whole article.”

But Morris wasn’t through talking to the
Globe
yet. He wanted to take down Billy too.

On November 5, 1988, the last Saturday before the election, Zip was married for the second time, to Elizabeth Moore, another secretary in the FBI office. Among the other agents in attendance: Nick Gianturco, John Cloherty, and Ed Quinn.

John Morris was not invited.

Three days later, on November 8, Dukakis lost forty states to George H. W. Bush. By then the Spotlight Team was deep into research on its next story—75 State Street. During their investigations for the first series, the
Globe
reporters had become suspicious of the sources of Billy’s income. In one of his later filings for Brown, Silverglate included as evidence a story in the series, with two highlighted paragraphs about a bulge in Billy’s income that he reported in his 1986 filing with the State Ethics Commission.

Whoever sought out whom first, by Thanksgiving Silver-glate and the newspaper seemed to be operating on the same wavelength. In early December, as Billy prepared for a vacation in Europe, the
Globe
called with an urgent request for an interview. In Billy’s plush, newly redecorated State House chambers, reporters Gerry O’Neill and Dick Lehr asked Billy if he was aware of the $500,000 that Finnerty had been paid by Brown.

“I don’t know that, that I am aware of,” Billy responded. “Let me double check. I think I would have remembered that. He may have spoken about it in the office, but I think I would remember if he had. I would think.”

Billy mentioned his upcoming vacation. Would the
Globe
be so kind as to hold off on publication for two weeks until he and Mrs. Bulger returned from the Continent?

What the
Globe
may not have known is that Morris, the head of the public corruption unit, had reverted to form, closing down the investigation into allegations of bribery by Billy and Finnerty. If a press release announcing that the probe had been ended without indictments could have been rushed out, and given to the entire media, then the
Globe
’s “scoop” would have been virtually meaningless.

And it would have all happened while Billy was in Europe, unavailable for comment.

What had happened to make Morris give up what seemed to be such a promising investigation? For one thing, as he later testified, under a grant of immunity, he wasn’t thinking clearly. He had just separated from his wife and moved in with his longtime girlfriend from the office, Debbie Noseworthy. He was drinking more than ever. Morris was, as he later testified, somewhat in awe, if not in fear, of Zip Connolly. And Zip was, as always, lobbying heavily to deep-six any and every investigation against either of the Bulger brothers. Perhaps most importantly, Morris was extremely concerned that Whitey knew where his family still lived in Lexington.

But before the FBI had an opportunity to officially exonerate Billy, the
Globe
rushed the story into print. Billy and Mary were in Brussels when the story broke on Sunday, December 8, in a slow news period after the presidential election. The headline was “The Deal Behind a Skyscraper” and the lead laid it all out: “Senate President William M. Bulger has benefited from a trust bankrolled with money that a Boston real estate magnate claims was extorted from him in 1985 by Bulger’s long-time associate in a downtown law practice.”

Jack Cloherty was the spokesman for the Boston FBI office. He lived in Southie and liked to brag that his ancestors came from the same village in County Galway as Zip Connolly’s. As late as 2005, two of his siblings remained on State House payrolls controlled by Billy’s political allies. In a few months, Cloherty would be retiring from the FBI, and the master of ceremonies at his farewell dinner would be Billy Bulger. Cloherty quickly issued a statement totally clearing Billy: “This investigation failed to develop any evidence of a violation within the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

The state attorney general, former Congressman James Shannon, also took a pass. But it was too late to put the genie back in the bottle, especially once the Boston media learned that Billy had never even been interviewed by the authorities.

Billy returned from Europe “terribly depressed,” as he later wrote. But he issued no public statements; he was confident that in the end, it would all blow over, the way it always did for him and Whitey. And indeed, events did seem to be moving in his direction. Harold Brown suddenly decided to settle out of court with Finnerty for $200,000—$1.1 million less than Finnerty had claimed he was still owed. It has always been assumed that someone, namely Whitey, made Brown the proverbial Godfather-like “offer that he couldn’t refuse.” Brown has steadfastly denied this, and his then attorney, Harvey Silverglate, has also maintained silence, citing attorney-client privilege.

In a final press release, Silverglate blasted the FBI and the state attorney general for the collapse of Brown’s lawsuit, saying that their “extraordinary public announcements . . . seemed calculated toward, or at least had the appearance of, undermining Mr. Brown’s position.”

It just didn’t pay to cross anyone named Bulger.

But 75 State Street wasn’t quite over. In late January, the interim U.S. attorney, Jeremiah O’Sullivan, decided, under great pressure from the media, to reopen the case. The investigation was tossed back into Morris’s lap. Billy retained R. Robert Popeo, one of the city’s top criminal defense attorneys. Zip Connolly went to work immediately for his mentor, Billy.

Even though Zip knew that Morris had leaked Whitey’s informant status to the
Globe
, he still sought him out once the federal probe was restarted. Business was business. And as much as Zip liked Whitey, he loved Billy. Zip had no qualms about soliciting Morris’s aid on behalf of Billy.

“They’ve asked him to submit to an interview,” Connolly told Morris. “What do you think?”

“He should do it,” Morris told him. “The case against him isn’t very strong. I don’t think he hurts himself. He does it and that’s the end of the uproar.”

Just to make sure, Zip sought out one of the assistant U.S. attorneys on the case, Jonathan Chiel. He begged Chiel to join him for lunch at Zip’s personal table at the landmark North End restaurant, Joe Tecce’s.

As soon as Chiel climbed into Zip’s car, Connolly started in on him.

“The Senate president is a great man, a special person,” he said. “This is crazy. I don’t know what they think they’re doing.”

The lobbying continued once they arrived at the restaurant, but Zip’s entreaties were undercut somewhat when owner Joe Tecce wandered over to greet Zip and made a crude anti-Semitic remark. Chiel was Jewish.

In his book, Billy later told a far-fetched story about how the $240,000 he accepted from Finnerty was a “loan” pending his payment for legal representation in a civil case he had been brought into by Richard McDonough, another of Sonny’s sons. McDonough was a former state employee who had quit to become a lobbyist. His clients were two brothers named Quirk, and the case involved a real estate dispute in a town that Billy has variously identified as Maynard or Sudbury. At the time, Billy wrote, he was nearly broke, and when the case was settled quickly, in favor of the Quirks, Billy claimed he dreamed of buying a new car for Mary and getting a new roof.

In fact, he invested the money in the Fidelity Tax-Free Bond Account. Billy Bulger, who liked to brag on St. Patrick’s Day that he could slap a tax on a galloping horse, apparently didn’t much like paying those taxes himself.

Billy’s interview took place February 28, 1989, in Popeo’s fortieth-floor office overlooking the harbor. Present, in addition to the assistant U.S. attorneys, was Billy Bulger Jr., who after four years at two different law schools had lately been working at the Plymouth County district attorney’s office for Finnerty’s handpicked successor.

A memorandum of the interview was written in 1991 by an assistant attorney general, David Burns. According to Burns’s report, when asked about his partnership with Finnerty, Bulger was beyond vague, saying that they had an “oral agreement” and that he “could not be any more specific regarding this agreement.”

He also said he had “no documentation” to support the fee he charged the Quirk brothers. And he told the investigators that while he had “a sense” that he had other investments with Finnerty, he couldn’t actually name any of them.

Burns addressed other questions raised by Billy’s tangled financial relationship with Finnerty, and included Billy’s responses:

• “Bulger advised that he is still confused on how he paid for his share of ownership in this property [that he owned with Finnerty].”

• “He did not know the source from which the funds originated other than it came from Finnerty’s account.”

• “He borrowed another $15,000 from Finnerty for an investment opportunity. Bulger could not recall what investment the $15,000 was used for by him.”

The interview had been conducted secretly, but the
Globe
heard about it. They needed a second source, and so O’Neill went back to his original FBI source, Morris, who immediately confirmed it for him. It was not, Morris later said, an attempt to discredit Whitey’s brother.

It didn’t take long for interim U.S. attorney O’Sullivan to announce that there would be no indictment. There was no evidence, O’Sullivan explained. The joke around Boston became, if you want to hide something real good, just stick it in one of Jerry O’Sullivan’s law books. Before O’Sullivan made the announcement, Popeo got a heads-up, and Billy vanished from the State House. The
Globe
wanted a photo of him, and Billy was determined not to play ball. He’d cooperated on “The Bulger Mystique,” and they’d croaked him, and then again on 75 State Street. He didn’t like the
Herald
either, but this time, he would punish the
Globe
by giving its tabloid competitor the photo everyone wanted. A picture of a grinning Billy standing outside his East Third Street home in the dark appeared next morning on the front page of the
Herald
.

Another Bulger had dodged another federal bullet. But the press had tasted blood, and nothing would ever be the same for Billy again.

CHAPTER 17

I
N
F
EBRUARY
1989, Michael Dukakis announced he would not seek a fourth term as governor the following year. It was another terrible tactical decision, tipping his hand so far in advance of the 1990 elections. As Sonny McDonough had always said, “Lame duck is my favorite dish.” Even before the Duke’s announcement, he had already largely lost control of state government.

During the campaign, Billy had been only too happy to move into the vacuum of power, but now he too was wounded, by 75 State Street. Every day the papers—especially the Rupert Murdoch–owned
Herald
, which unlike the
Globe
had no stake in preserving the Democratic hegemony—were full of stories about government mismanagement and patronage run amok. Everything in state government had gone out of control. Howie Winter even returned briefly to the headlines—during his incarceration, the Dukakis administration had paid for his hair-transplant treatments. Suddenly it was open season, not just on Dukakis, but on Billy Bulger. Seemingly overnight, he had gone from Teflon to Velcro. Now everything stuck to him.

Embarrassing stories that would have once rated at most a mention in the papers’ Sunday political notes columns became major revelations. His 1968 partnership with Tom Finnerty, among others, to purchase surplus land in Winthrop had gone unnoticed on the public record for more than twenty years. But suddenly the Finnerty connection made Billy’s first financial score front-page news. For days the
Herald
front-paged Billy’s radio station holdings in a company owned by Henry Vara, the gay-bar owner who was a cousin of the Martorano brothers. Billy tried to adjust to the new reality, “amending” his State Ethics Commission forms to include the investment, more than seven years after he purchased the stock. But Billy’s feeble explanations for his partnership rang hollow.

In 1989, as always, copies of invitations to Billy’s birthday fund-raiser at Anthony’s Pier 4 were slipped to the papers. But reporters now noticed for the first time that the Bulger Committee shared an address and a phone number with Tom Finnerty’s law office. The letter was signed, as always, by a mysterious John J. Sullivan, who did not work at Finnerty’s firm. The significance of the Finnerty address was unclear, but it gave the press a chance to rehash 75 State Street again.

Dukakis seemed paralyzed, blaming his woes on radio talk show hosts as he demanded again and again that the legislature raise taxes to deal with his increasingly unbalanced state budget. The more Dukakis complained about the press, the harder he was hit, and his complaints in fact became reality. The radio talk shows, along with the
Herald
, soon were dominating the agenda. And after Dukakis himself, no one made a better piñata for the media than Billy Bulger.