Here everything was up for grabs and nothing was too small to steal....In our politics there seemed to be a depthless cushion of street-corner cynicism, a special kind of tainted, small-time fellowship which sent out a complex of vines and shoots so interconnected that even the sleaziest poolroom bookie managed, in some way, however obscure, to be in touch with the mayor’s office or the governor’s chair.”
Or both.
The police, by and large, were just as compromised as the politicians. As in most large urban areas, many of the cops had grown up on the same street corners with future Mob kingpins. Long before Whitey Bulger perfected the use of law enforcement as both witting and unwitting tools of organized crime, gangsters in Boston had been using them in similar ways.
Anything could be fixed—absolutely anything. Frank Salemme, Stevie Flemmi’s early partner, recalled for a congressional committee in 2003 a time when two Boston cops witnessed one of Stevie’s brothers, “Jimmy the Bear,” murder another man in a car.
“Jimmy Flemmi got out of the car and left, and they [the police] took the car and pushed it out of their division so it would be in another division and they wouldn’t have to investigate it.”
Then the cops returned to the South End, hunted down Stevie Flemmi, and demanded $2,500 in return for not turning in his brother. Stevie didn’t quibble over the amount.
“That’s the era it was, anything for money, even murder,” Salemme said. “It wasn’t considered illegal to do that kind of thing, as crazy as that may sound today.”
If, by some unimaginable bit of bad luck, you were arrested by an honest cop, and you couldn’t fix the case in the district attorney’s office, or bribe a juror, other options remained even after you were in jail.
You could buy a pardon or a commutation from the Governor’s Council, the way Raymond Patriarca, the first boss of the Mafia in New England, had done back in 1938, when a governor’s councilor even composed a letter from a nonexistent priest, attesting to Patriarca’s stellar character.
The council had been around since colonial times, and consisted of eight members whose primary responsibility was confirming the governor’s judicial nominations, as well as his commutations and pardons. Their only real power was their ability to stop someone from getting something he had already paid someone else, either the governor or a legislator, to obtain. Therefore, in order to keep business, and payoffs, flowing smoothly, the governor needed to have a majority of the eight councilors permanently on his side. Whoever the governor was, Democrat or Republican, rogue or reformer, he would almost always be willing to toss a few bones their way—judgeships and clerkships, as well as the occasional pardon.
When Billy arrived at the State House, the governor’s councilors were making the real money rubber-stamping pardons. A couple of the councilors had even printed up what amounted to rate cards—a pardon for, say, manslaughter, naturally cost more than one for an armed robbery, with rapes the second most expensive pardon to purchase, behind only murder.
The prime shopping season for pardons was Christmas, because then they could be justified, or at least rationalized, as acts of Christian charity. The transactions took place in the lobby of the old Manger Hotel, next to the Boston Garden. In the lobby, several of the councilors stationed bagmen who would sit in the hotel’s overstuffed easy chairs, an open satchel beside them, into which the friends or relatives of convicted criminals would drop their cash-filled envelopes. In his day, Governor Jim Curley had called the council a “hock shop,” but it was worse than that.
In 1961, the longest-serving member of the Governor’s Council was from Billy’s own district. Patrick “Sonny” McDonough was an old-time rogue who in many ways was the original Billy Bulger, both in personality and
Or both.
The police, by and large, were just as compromised as the politicians. As in most large urban areas, many of the cops had grown up on the same street corners with future Mob kingpins. Long before Whitey Bulger perfected the use of law enforcement as both witting and unwitting tools of organized crime, gangsters in Boston had been using them in similar ways.
Anything could be fixed—absolutely anything. Frank Salemme, Stevie Flemmi’s early partner, recalled for a congressional committee in 2003 a time when two Boston cops witnessed one of Stevie’s brothers, “Jimmy the Bear,” murder another man in a car.
“Jimmy Flemmi got out of the car and left, and they [the police] took the car and pushed it out of their division so it would be in another division and they wouldn’t have to investigate it.”
Then the cops returned to the South End, hunted down Stevie Flemmi, and demanded $2,500 in return for not turning in his brother. Stevie didn’t quibble over the amount.
“That’s the era it was, anything for money, even murder,” Salemme said. “It wasn’t considered illegal to do that kind of thing, as crazy as that may sound today.”
If, by some unimaginable bit of bad luck, you were arrested by an honest cop, and you couldn’t fix the case in the district attorney’s office, or bribe a juror, other options remained even after you were in jail.
You could buy a pardon or a commutation from the Governor’s Council, the way Raymond Patriarca, the first boss of the Mafia in New England, had done back in 1938, when a governor’s councilor even composed a letter from a nonexistent priest, attesting to Patriarca’s stellar character.
The council had been around since colonial times, and consisted of eight members whose primary responsibility was confirming the governor’s judicial nominations, as well as his commutations and pardons. Their only real power was their ability to stop someone from getting something he had already paid someone else, either the governor or a legislator, to obtain. Therefore, in order to keep business, and payoffs, flowing smoothly, the governor needed to have a majority of the eight councilors permanently on his side. Whoever the governor was, Democrat or Republican, rogue or reformer, he would almost always be willing to toss a few bones their way—judgeships and clerkships, as well as the occasional pardon.
When Billy arrived at the State House, the governor’s councilors were making the real money rubber-stamping pardons. A couple of the councilors had even printed up what amounted to rate cards—a pardon for, say, manslaughter, naturally cost more than one for an armed robbery, with rapes the second most expensive pardon to purchase, behind only murder.
The prime shopping season for pardons was Christmas, because then they could be justified, or at least rationalized, as acts of Christian charity. The transactions took place in the lobby of the old Manger Hotel, next to the Boston Garden. In the lobby, several of the councilors stationed bagmen who would sit in the hotel’s overstuffed easy chairs, an open satchel beside them, into which the friends or relatives of convicted criminals would drop their cash-filled envelopes. In his day, Governor Jim Curley had called the council a “hock shop,” but it was worse than that.
In 1961, the longest-serving member of the Governor’s Council was from Billy’s own district. Patrick “Sonny” McDonough was an old-time rogue who in many ways was the original Billy Bulger, both in personality and
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