Whitey Bulger America's Most Wanted Gangster and the Manhunt That Brought Him To Justice (51 page)

He had also always vowed never to return to prison, and this was why. The hours without human contact were relentless, their toll inexorable. His freedom was gone, his woman was gone, his town was gone, his power was gone. All he had left was his mind, and he wondered how long he’d have that. Left alone so long, in a place where the lights never went off, Whitey found himself asking big questions, the kind that preoccupied the philosophers his little brother Bill had always been so fond of quoting. In the cell that was coming to feel like his tomb, Whitey Bulger asked, “How long does memory last?”
²⁶

Epilogue

W
hitey Bulger sits in his cell
on a round, stainless steel seat, loose-leaf sheets spread on a shelf that serves as a desk, taking stock of his life. His memoirs are contained in the assorted and sundry letters he sends his correspondents. His words wander into the margins, arrows and numbers directing his readers to the train of his thoughts. His mind races ahead and then loops back; he adds postscripts on smaller scraps of paper. Sometimes the postscripts are longer than the letters. He is running out of time to say what he wants to say.

Almost a year after he was arrested in Santa Monica, in a letter to Richard Sunday, Whitey amended his description of his time as a fugitive as “the happiest years of my life.” Now he included his first nine years—before his family moved to South Boston. By all accounts, the apartment in the Old Harbor project was more spacious and much better appointed than the series of cold-water flats the family had previously inhabited. Whitey had always remembered those apartments without fondness. Nonetheless, those first nine years represented a simplicity that eluded him until he found it again, with Cathy Greig, in sunny Southern California.

From his cell in Plymouth, Whitey’s missives range from sentimental (“A good woman is Heavenly”) to rebellious (“I’ll welcome the warmth of Hell if there is a Hell.”)
¹
But even as he scribbles furiously, the letters are only the prelude, his cell the green room, as he prepares for the biggest performance of his life. His final act. His trial, scheduled for the spring of 2013, is as keenly anticipated in Boston, and almost as hyped, as a royal wedding.

During the dog days of the summer of 2012, J. W. Carney Jr., Whitey Bulger’s attorney, caused a buzz at the federal courthouse in Boston when he stood up and announced that his client would be taking the stand in his upcoming trial. “The jurors will hear directly from our client. James Bulger will testify,” Carney said. “He will present evidence corroborated by others that he received immunity. He is going to tell the truth, if the judge permits him to. And we will show that James Bulger is indeed telling the truth.”
²
The news was entirely predictable. The idea that Whitey would just doodle on a yellow legal pad while prosecutors described him as a killer of women, an enabler of drug dealers and, worst of all, an informer was ludicrous. His pride would never allow it. He had grown laid-back in California, but he wasn’t going to lie down in Boston.

Testifying in one’s own defense is legally risky. The defendant is exposed to lines of questioning that are out of bounds if he simply exercises the Fifth Amendment right not to testify. But then Whitey Bulger would never consider himself a typical defendant. He relishes the prospect of exposing what he calls The Big Lie: that he had been what he professed to most despise, a rat. Whitey’s main line of defense—that he received permission from the FBI and the Justice Department to engage in all sorts of crimes, including murder—is a long shot. Actually, it is preposterous. Steve Flemmi failed in his claim of immunity, sought on identical grounds, and even he had acknowledged that the crimes he and Whitey were authorized to commit fell short of murder. But Whitey has nothing to lose.

That he believes he stands a realistic chance to clear his name speaks to hubris, self-delusion, or both. But then Whitey’s power to persuade is what bought him protection from the FBI. It’s what kept him alive in a lethal business. Most scoff at the idea that Whitey actually believes he had approval from the FBI to kill people, but why wouldn’t he believe that? The FBI, or at least John Connolly and John Morris, did, in fact, give him a pass. They did far more than look the other way when, in the murderous fifteen-month period spanning 1981 and 1982, Whitey’s machinations left four men dead, in Tulsa, Southie, and Miami. Whitey knew that others besides Connolly and Morris were looking after him. There were agents and supervisors, not just in Boston but in headquarters in Washington, who covered for him; who engaged in such blatant acts of denial and obstruction that Whitey could only have concluded that the FBI had his back and that the Justice Department was in cahoots. Over the years, Whitey was implicated in the murders of at least four FBI informants; businessman Roger Wheeler; and innocent bystander Michael Donahue. He had to believe that if these activities had troubled the FBI, the FBI would have gone after him or turned him over to the local authorities. Instead, the FBI did its best to mislead authorities.

That Whitey’s view of himself as government agent rather than government informant would follow him into his jail cell was in keeping with his tendency toward grandiosity. Robert Fitzpatrick, who, as the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s Boston office in the early 1980s, recommended closing Whitey out as an informant, thinks Whitey may have considered himself an assassin, as opposed to a murderer; that he came to believe he was killing in service to the government. “He saw actions by the government to protect him as special,” Fitzpatrick says.
³

There has always been a widespread belief that one of the reasons the FBI took so long to find Whitey is because they didn’t want to. They knew that Whitey had information that could take down many others, including those who ran him for the bureau. The truth is that while Whitey knows much, and can point fingers at many, he will have trouble proving his claims, much less making them stand up in court. Any act short of murder that Whitey accuses FBI agents or other corrupt law enforcement agents of committing will be well beyond the statute of limitations, and corroborating Whitey’s accusations may be beyond human limitations. The same goes for Whitey’s desire to help his old friend and handler. Whitey views Connolly as the only one in the FBI who stood by their deal. If, in his mind, he is the last guy standing, then Connolly is the last stand-up guy. Connolly risked all to keep the Bulger family from having to endure the ignominy of a Whitey Bulger trial. It was a gamble that cost Connolly his freedom, and which ultimately failed. Now the Bulger family, at the very least Bill Bulger, will have a front-row seat at the show Connolly had hoped to prevent.

Whitey has long been tired of others singing the opera that was his life. He is eager, in his testimony, to tell it on his terms. If they allowed soundtracks to be played in federal court, his would be Frank Sinatra’s “My Way”—maybe in the Sid Vicious version. In Whitey’s script, he isn’t a perpetrator; he is a victim, a victim of his own government, the man without a country. He has seen himself in that light from the day in Southie when he was a teenager and a drunken cop shoved a gun in his mouth, trying to force him to give up his friends, to the morning in the Atlanta prison when they injected him with the CIA’s LSD, lying to him about its true purpose, to the night when he shook hands with Connolly in the moonlight on Wollaston Beach, making a secret pact that the government reneged on when he was no longer useful. The government had always screwed Whitey. Now it would be his turn.

One problem for Whitey, of course, is that the government is just as committed to putting on a show, one that will not end in compromise or plea bargain. Letting Whitey cop a plea, even one that would keep him in prison for life, would smell of cover-up, the one charge the Justice Department, also tainted by its failure to rein in Whitey, cannot afford. Besides, the families of his victims will be there, and for them this isn’t theater. It is their only chance to listen to the man who ruined their lives. They hate him, but they want to hear him speak. Like so many, they are alternately repulsed and fascinated by Whitey Bulger. Tommy Donahue, for one, wants Whitey to identify the masked man who was in the backseat when they opened fire on his father and Brian Halloran on the waterfront in 1982. “Would I believe him?” Tommy Donahue asked. “I guess I would. I never thought I’d say that, but I think I would believe him on that.”

Whitey could very easily get up and say the masked man in the backseat was Pat Nee. Of all the books penned by Whitey’s former associates, Nee’s provides the most unflattering portrait of Whitey. The ultimate revenge against Nee would be to accuse him of murder, and there’s nothing to stop Whitey from doing so. The hard calculus for Whitey is that settling scores, while it might satisfy a desire for revenge, will do nothing to restore his reputation, the self-image that bears no semblance to his public image. His letters from jail suggest that he is especially anxious to refute the notion that he killed Debra Davis and Deborah Hussey. That is not surprising, because those crimes fly in the face of Whitey’s regard for himself as a gentleman. In the case of Debra Davis, it is his word against Flemmi’s. There were no other witnesses. But in the case of Deborah Hussey, Kevin Weeks, Whitey’s protégé, has testified repeatedly that he watched as Whitey wrapped his legs around her torso and his hands around her neck. To this day, Weeks retains a certain affection for Whitey, and he has no obvious motive to lie about what he saw. In the scheme of things, Weeks didn’t see that murder, or any one murder, as a big deal. He says Whitey told him he killed forty people.

On the nineteen murder counts, as in all the charges he faces, Whitey will be going up against the testimony of his former associates—Flemmi, Weeks, and John Martorano—who corroborate each other to varying degrees. It’s his word against theirs, and their word has already been accepted by various juries, in Massachusetts and Florida. But Whitey, to satisfy himself, doesn’t have to be believed. He only has to be heard. This is not about getting acquitted; this is about getting even. His ultimate revenge is the sound of his own voice, reasserting for the last time the myth that his family, friends, and lovers cling to: that he was a gangster, yes, but a gangster with scruples.

Beyond denying the murders of the women, Whitey has also long been anxious to expose the duplicity of John Morris. If he ever liked Morris, he grew to hate him after realizing it was Morris who told the
Boston Globe
in 1988 that he was an informant. In Whitey’s world, that was tantamount to offering a bounty for his assassination. In hindsight, it is hard to believe that none of Whitey’s criminal associates saw the evidence before a newspaper did. It is even harder to believe that none of them made a move on him in the six years between the newspaper’s outing of him and the tip-off from Connolly in 1994 that led him to flee. Perhaps it was simply, as various Mafia leaders once told their lawyer Anthony Cardinale, too far-fetched to believe that the FBI would get into bed with the likes of Whitey Bulger. Whitey was long gone and hard to find by the time Judge Mark Wolf forced the FBI to admit publicly that he was their informant. Not long after that revelation, Jerry Angiulo, the aging Mafia underboss, and Pat Nee, the Irish gangster from Southie, bumped into each other at the federal prison at Fort Devens, northwest of Boston. They reproached each other, and, without even mentioning Whitey’s name, it was obvious who they were talking about.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Angiulo asked accusingly.

“Why didn’t
you
?” Nee answered back.
⁴

There still are people quite willing and able to kill Whitey, but they are not criminals; they are sworn officers of the state. Even as preparations for Whitey’s trial in Boston proceeded, prosecutors in Tulsa and Miami were jockeying for the first crack at him. The authorities in both Oklahoma, where Whitey is charged with Roger Wheeler’s murder, and Florida, where he is accused of John Callahan’s murder, say they will seek the death penalty. Given Whitey’s reputation for extreme, shocking violence, it was always somewhat incongruous, if not slightly amusing, that he was deathly afraid of needles. Now he stands a good chance of dying by one. He hints in his jailhouse letters that he doesn’t fear the prospect of lethal injection, something he once thought too cruel even for euthanizing a dog. He says he actually offered himself up for that end if it meant leniency for Cathy Greig. A state execution, with all its attendant macabre ceremony, might be a fitting moment of final drama, a way to go out in infamy proportional to his fame. As for what comes after death, Whitey has thought about that, too. If he is executed at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, it’s just a half-hour drive to the grave in Daisy where he paid to have his old friend the Choctaw Kid buried. When they were in Alcatraz together, Whitey loved to listen to the Choctaw Kid’s stories of the afterlife. It gave him great comfort. The Choctaw people believe that most everyone goes to the good hunting ground, but that those who commit murder are condemned to remain just outside, close enough to hear the music and the laughter of those within.
⁵
For Whitey, that would be better than hell. It would even be familiar. It would be like those cool, crisp nights on Alcatraz, when the sounds of San Francisco, of women’s voices, drifted across the bay like ghosts; when there was always something to look forward to, no matter how bleak. No one ever escaped from Alcatraz. But if anybody could figure out how to sneak into the good hunting ground, it would be Whitey Bulger.

Notes

Prologue

1 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, March 23, 2012.

2 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, April 2, 2012.

3 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, April 11, 2012.

4 Ibid.

Chapter 1. The Lessons of Logan Way

1 Jim Sullivan,
South Boston
(Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2007), 79.

2 United States Circuit Court, Boston, naturalization record of James J. Bulger Sr., and the 1990 US Federal Census Record, the National Archives at Boston, Waltham, Massachusetts, vol. 442, 123.

3 William M. Bulger,
While the Music Lasts: My Life in Politics
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1996), 20. While he has given the
Boston Globe,
and the authors, interviews in the past, William M. Bulger refused to be interviewed specifically for this book. His 1996 memoir therefore is one of the few available sources on the Bulgers’ early family life.

4 Ibid.

5 Ibid., 22

6 Ibid., 32.

7 Thomas H. O’Connor,
South Boston, My Home Town: The History of an Ethnic Neighborhood
(Boston: Quinlan Press, 1988), 192.

8 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

9 O’Connor,
South Boston, My Home Town
, 190.

10 William McGonagle (Boston Housing Authority administrator), interview with the authors, February 2012.

11 George Pryor, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

12 “Oral History Interview of Robert F. Moakley and Thomas J. Moakley,” Moakley Archive and Institute, Suffolk University, April 29, 2003, 6.

13 Ibid., 10.

14 Ibid., 8.

15 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 1–2.

16 Patrick J. Loftus,
That Old Gang of Mine: A History of South Boston
(South Boston: TOGM-P.J.L., 1991), xxi.

17 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 3.

18 Loftus,
That Old Gang of Mine
, 504.

19 Robert Moakley, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

20 Will McDonough, interview with the authors, January 1995.

21 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 22.

22 Ibid., 2.

23 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

24 Jack Beatty,
The Rascal King:
The Life and Times of James Michael Curley, 1874–1958
(Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1992), 136.

25 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

26 O’Connor,
South Boston, My Home Town
, 191.

27 Ibid., 193.

28 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

29 “Oral History Interview of Robert F. Moakley and Thomas J. Moakley,” 4.

30 United States District Court, Boston, Presentencing Report for James J. Bulger Jr., 1956.

31 Ibid.

32 Lindsey Cyr, interview with the authors, October 2012.

33 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 31.

34 Ibid., 29.

35 Ibid., 31.

36 Joe Quirk, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

37 Sally Dame, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

38 Robert Moakley, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

39 Sally Dame, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

40 Ann McCarthy, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

41 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 32.

42 Ibid., 31.

43 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

44 Dick Lehr and Shelley Murphy, “Agent, Mobster Forge a Pact on Old Southie Ties,”
Boston Globe
, July 19, 1998, Part 1 of the
Boston Globe
Spotlight report in 1998 by Gerard O’Neill, Dick Lehr, Shelley Murphy, and Mitchell Zuckoff. All of the John Connolly interviews were with Murphy, one of the authors of this book.

45 Lehr and Murphy, “Agent, Mobster.”

46 William Bulger, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

47 John Connolly, interview with the authors, November 1985.

Chapter 2. Stick-up Man

1 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, March 23, 2012.

2 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 30.

3 Ibid., 33.

4 Report by the Classification Committee, US Penitentiary, Atlanta, February 4, 1959.

5 Charles Clifford (lawyer from Charlestown who represented bank robbers for many years), interview with the authors, October 2010.

6 George Pryor, interview with the
Boston Globe
Spotlight Team, 1988.

7 William McGonagle, interview with the authors, February 2012.

8 Kevin Weeks, interview with the authors, January 2012.

9 Annual Review, United States Penitentiary, Atlanta, 1956.

10
Pawtucket Evening Times
, May 17, 1955.

11
Providence Journal
, “Grim Trio Cows 19 in Branch of Industrial National,” May 18, 1955.

12 Presentencing Report for James J. Bulger Jr., 1956.

13
Hammond Times
, November 24, 1955.

14 Teletype from Miami Police Department to Boston Police Department, December 2, 1955.

15 Federal Bureau of Investigation report made by Special Agent Herbert F. Briick, July 13, 1956.

16 Ibid.

17 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, June 30, 2012.

18 Presentencing Report for James J. Bulger Jr., 1956.

19 “South Boston Man Gets 20 Years for 3 Holdups,”
Boston Globe
, June 21, 1956.

20 Betsy Drinan (niece of Father Drinan), interview with the authors, June 2012. The Drinans were not related to the family of the same name who lived in the same Logan Way building as the Bulgers.

21 Whitey Bulger, letter to Rev. Robert Drinan, June 23, 1956, part of Drinan’s personal papers stored at Boston College.

Chapter 3. The University of Alcatraz

1 Classification study, August 23, 1956. Inmate Case File AZ-1428, BULGER, James Joseph Jr., “Comprehensive Inmate Case Files, 19100–1988” (ARC identifier 622809). US Penitentiary, Alcatraz. Record Group 129, the National Archives at San Bruno.

2 Present Situation report, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, 1956.

3 Report in Inmate Case File says he was treated on the neuropsychiatric ward from October 24 to October 26, 1956, after complaining that other men in his cell got on his nerves.

4 Whitey Bulger, letter to Rev. Robert Drinan, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 26, 1956.

5 Federal Bureau of Prisons good conduct time regulations, 1956.

6 Special Progress Report, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 19, 1961.

7 Reports in Whitey Bulger’s prison file, the National Archives at San Bruno.

8 Bulger,
While the Music Lasts
, 77.

9 William Bulger, letter to US Penitentiary, Atlanta, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, July 30, 1958.

10 “Contract between Department of Pharmacology, Emory University School of Medicine and Human Volunteers at U.S. Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia,” Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, August 6, 1957.

11 John Marks,
The Search for the “Manchurian Candidate”: The CIA and Mind Control—The Secret History of the Behavioral Sciences
(New York: W. W. Norton, 1979), and “Project MKUltra, the CIA’s program of research in behavioral modification,” Joint Hearing before the Select Committee on Intelligence and the Subcommittee on Health and Scientific Research of the Committee on Human Resources, United States Senate, 95th Congress, August, 3, 1977, 3 and 4.

12 “Contract between Department of Pharmacology, Emory University School of Medicine and Human Volunteers at U.S. Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia,” August 6, 1957.

13 Whitey Bulger, letter to Jerry Lewis Champion Jr. from the Plymouth County Correctional Facility, postmarked August 26, 2011. Champion, a Florida-based author and Alcatraz prison historian, shared the previously undisclosed letter with the authors.

14 Ibid.

15 Richard Sunday, interview with the authors, January 2012.

16 Ibid.

17 Ibid.

18 Ibid.

19 “Out-patient Sick Call” card, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, entries dated January 8 and January 15, 1958.

20 Notation on Progress Report dated January 12, 1958, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, November 10, 1958.

21 “Contract between Communicable Disease Center-Public Health Service and Human Volunteers at U.S. Penitentiary, Atlanta, Georgia,” Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, November 29, 1958.

22 Annual Review, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, January 24, 1958.

23 W. H. York, associate warden, letter to Warden F. T. Wilkinson, Atlanta, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, January 6, 1959.

24 Letters from Bureau of Prisons director James Bennett to Congressman John McCormack and from Bennett to the Atlanta warden, National Archives at San Bruno.

25 Frank Loveland, Bureau of Prisons assistant director, memo to warden, Atlanta, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, March 16, 1959.

26 F. T. Wilkinson, letter to Director James V. Bennett, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 16, 1959.

27 William Bulger letter to Warden F. T. Wilkinson, Atlanta, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 1, 1959.

28 F. T. Wilkinson, letter to William Bulger, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 9, 1959.

29 F. T. Wilkinson, letter to William Bulger, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 22, 1959.

30 William Bulger, letter to F. T. Wilkinson, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 26, 1959.

31 Ibid.

32 F. T. Wilkinson, letter to Bureau of Prisons Director James V. Bennett, “Recommendation for Transfer to Alcatraz,” Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 16, 1959.

33 James V. Bennett, letter to Daniel O. Holland, counselor at law, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, November 13, 1959. Visit is referenced.

34 Jim Albright (former Alcatraz correctional officer), interview with the authors, February 2012.

35 Peter Fimrite, “Back on The Rock: Former Inmates Catch Up with Their Guards During Joyful Reunion on Alcatraz,”
San Francisco Chronicle
, August 14, 2000.

36 Whitey Bulger, letter to Richard Sunday, March 23, 2012.

37 Staff notes, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at Bruno; Richard Sunday, interview with the authors, January 2012.

38 Richard Sunday, interview with the authors, January 2012.

39 Ibid.

40 Exhibit, National Park Service , which maintains Alcatraz Island, now part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

41 Michael Esslinger,
Alcatraz: A Definitive History of the Penitentiary Years
(Carmel: Ocean View Publishing Company, 2003).

42 Richard Sunday and Kevin Weeks, interviews with the authors, January 2012.

43 A. G. Bloomquist, laundry foreman, letter to the Classification Committee, United States Penitentiary, Alcatraz, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, February 20, 1962.

44 Richard Sunday, interview with the authors, January 2012.

45 Robert Schibline, March 2012, and Richard Sunday, January 2012, interviews with the authors.

46 Whitey Bulger, letter to Rev. John O’Shea, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, January 6, 1960.

47 Misconduct report against Whitey Bulger, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 14, 1960.

48 T. A. Renneberg, “Informative Report” memo, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 26, 1960.

49 “Report of Good Time Forfeiture Hearing in the Case of Bulger, James J. Jr.,” Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, September 28, 1960.

50 Maurice Ordway, note to Associate Warden Olin Blackwell, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 9, 1960.

51 “Good Time Forfeited” report, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 18, 1960.

52 Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno.

53 “Out-patient Record” card, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, entry dated March 31, 1960.

54 Whitey Bulger, “Inmate Request to Staff Member” form, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, March 27, 1960.

55 Richard Barchard, letter, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, November 3, 1960.

56 Richard Sunday, interview with the authors, March 2012.

57 Annual Review, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, March 22, 1961.

58 A. G. Bloomquist, letter to the Classification Committee, March 22, 1961.

59 Whitey Bulger, “Inmate Request to Staff Member,” August 17, 1961.

60 Special Review, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, October 19, 1961.

61 A. G. Bloomquist, letter to the Classification Committee, February 20, 1962.

62 John Herring, celhouse-officer-in charge, Special Report memo, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, February 20, 1962.

63 Annual Review, Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, March 8, 1962.

64 Whitey Bulger, “Inmate Request to Staff Member,” September 18, 1963.

65 “Visitors Voucher,” Inmate Case File, the National Archives at San Bruno, January 16, 1964.