Where the Bodies Were Buried: Whitey Bulger and the World That Made Him
T. J. English
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The New York Times bestselling author of The Westies and Paddy Whacked offers a front-row seat at the trial of Whitey Bulger, and an intimate view of the world of organized crime—and law enforcement—that made him the defining Irish American gangster.
For sixteen years, Whitey Bulger eluded the long reach of the law. For decades one of the most dangerous men in America, Bulger—the brother of influential Massachusetts senator Billy Bulger—was often romanticized as a Robin Hood-like thief and protector. While he was functioning as the de facto mob boss of New England, Bulger was also serving as a Top Echelon informant for the FBI, covertly feeding local prosecutors information about other mob figures—while using their cover to cleverly eliminate his rivals, reinforce his own power, and protect himself from prosecution. Then, in 2011, he was arrested in southern California and returned to Boston, where he was tried and convicted of racketeering and murder.
Our greatest chronicler of the Irish mob in America, T. J. English covered the trial at close range—by day in the courtroom, but also, on nights and weekends, interviewing Bulger’s associates as well as lawyers, former federal agents, and even members of the jury in the backyards and barrooms of Whitey’s world. In Where the Bodies Were Buried, he offers a startlingly revisionist account of Bulger’s story—and of the decades-long culture of collusion between the Feds and the Irish and Italian mob factions that have ruled New England since the 1970s, when a fateful deal left the FBI fatally compromised. English offers an authoritative look at Bulger’s own understanding of his relationship with the FBI and his alleged immunity deal, and illuminates how gangsterism, politics, and law enforcement have continued to be intertwined in Boston.
As complex, harrowing, and human as a Scorsese film, Where the Bodies Were Buried is the last word on a reign of terror that many feared would never end.
bones of the individual.” Said prosecutor Wyshak, “Showing you what’s been marked five-six-two for identification, I ask you if you recognize what that is.” Once again, Mires held up a claddagh ring, the Irish symbol of friendship and eternal love worn by many South Boston gangsters. It would be another month, in October, before they found the remains of Debra Davis. Her grave site was found nearer the river, in an area that was often underwater. The skeleton was found encased in a plastic
whatever circus he intends to perform today—” Carney jumped in: “Your Honor, I object. I object. There’s—Mr. Boozang—I don’t think he is aware that he is prohibited from this kind of commentary instead of just providing legal argument. I know he doesn’t understand it. And—” Casper cut off Carney, saying to Boozang: “Counsel, obviously, just focus on the arguments.” “Certainly, Your Honor,” said the lawyer. He was hopped up and had come to the courtroom ready to rumble. Judge Casper sought to
my sister Debbie.” Davis became overwhelmed with tears, struggled to get out the words. “This man has built up so much hate in my heart. I’d like to strangle him myself. The son of a bitch should have to look in the eyes of his victims.” Davis yelled at Bulger: “You piece of shit, look at me!” Whitey glanced up briefly, then looked away. Davis ended by saying, “I hope Whitey dies the same way my sister did, gasping for breath as he takes his last breath.” The daughter of Bucky Barrett stepped
creating their story of what had taken place that night and identifying Salvati as the getaway driver, they learned that there was an eyewitness identification from a Chelsea police officer: he had seen the getaway driver from behind, and the man was bald. Joe Salvati, of Sicilian extraction, had a full head of black hair. So a detail was added to Barboza’s confession that Salvati that night had worn a bald wig. All six of the men named by Barboza were arrested and indicted for the murder of
again—slowly? I wanna get every word,” to which jurors and spectators again burst into laughter. When Carney asked Capizzi about whether Al Notarangeli made his living from bookmaking forty years ago, he responded, “Forty years ago? Who remembers a lot of what we did forty years ago? He probably gambled like the rest of us.” Then Carney got specific: “Were you involved in any way in illegal bookmaking?” Capizzi gave the lawyer a hard stare, the kind he may have given to late-paying gambling