“Keep driving, keep driving,” she shouted. Frightened, she didn’t want to meet these people, and Flannery did cruise on past the house. It was the least he could do. He circled around the block. By the time they returned the three men were gone, but now Stephen Rakes was standing at the curb, waiting for his wife to pull up. He wouldn’t even let his wife get out of the car. He handed her the paper bag and told her to go to her mother’s house. Right away, he said, and he was talking through clenched teeth.
“I am going to my mother’s house at this hour of the night?” Julie yelled, all upset. Stephen told her about the cash in the paper bag and repeated his demand. Just get out of here and take it to your mother’s.
“What is going on here? Why is this happening?”
Stephen could not help her with the existential.
Julie was confused, crazy. “I can’t go to my mother’s. It’s almost midnight. What are you talking about?”
Holding it together as best he could, he told Julie he’d already called her mother. She was expecting her. Get going. His voice and his body were rigid. His eyes were still wet from crying earlier. “Your mother is waiting for you.” He wore an expression that said, Do as you’re told.
The money, he said, was from Whitey Bulger. “It represents our investment,” he said, parroting Bulger’s angle. “We’re lucky to have got it,” he added, hypnotically.
Julie was off to her parents’ house on Old Colony Avenue. Her mother and father were waiting at the door, a stone-cold look in their eyes. They’d heard enough from Stephen to know that the couple were entangled in business with Bulger—new territory for Julie’s family, ground none of them wanted to occupy. Inside the bag was more cash than any of them had ever seen. Julie handed the bag to her mother. “Hide it.” Her mother took the bag and padded into her bedroom and tucked it away inside a hope chest. Hysterical and now inside her parents’ home, Julie broke down to her father.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, and she cried.
IT TOOK a few days for the Rakes family to fathom what actually had happened, to grasp fully that a bomb indeed had exploded in their midst. Part of the delay was likely due to certain stories, or myths, about Bulger. It was often spread around town that Bulger was supremely loyal to the people of Southie, that he liked helping people, that assisting the locals made him feel good. It was said that Bulger didn’t like bullies and he would put them in their place. It was said that Bulger, while not actually instructing anyone not to uphold the law, would encourage them to pursue their pleasure outside the neighborhood. Supposedly, if he heard that someone had burglarized a home in South Boston, he would grab the perpetrator and take him to school in Bulger Ethics 101—the first rule being that you could burglarize homes in swanky suburbs like Brookline and Wellesley but not in your own hometown. Men like Kevin Weeks were among the many who frequently promoted the Bulger propaganda, and the Rakeses had known Weeks for many years. The Rakeses, even if they didn’t know Bulger, knew this reputation. But now, firsthand, the couple knew it was not true—Bulger had ripped the liquor mart away from them.
The other reason for the delay was a kind of paralysis. First there was the shock of it all, the suddenness of Bulger’s takeover. Then came anger at the unexpected ambush. The next stage would have been acceptance—facing up to the reality that there was little they could do about their loss. But before their anger had a chance to settle into that kind of quiet despair, the Rakeses, especially Julie, decided to put up a fight. In hindsight, maybe she should have known better and been more clear-headed about facing up to the facts of life in South Boston. But no one, not the Rakeses, not their family, not anyone really, understood just how thoroughly Bulger had sewn up the neighborhood—and beyond, for that matter.
Soon after the midnight takeover, Julie and Stephen went to see her uncle, Boston police detective Joseph Lundbohm. Lundbohm, a veteran cop who’d joined the force in 1958, was now working in the homicide unit. He was Julie’s mother’s brother and lived in Quincy, just south of Boston, with his family. He’d attended Julie and Stephen’s wedding and saw them occasionally at other family gatherings.
Lundbohm already knew about the new store the couple had opened; the good news had spread through the family. But he didn’t know much else. He took his niece and her husband into his kitchen, and they all sat down. Mostly Julie talked, and she poured out her heart, telling her uncle, Lundbohm said, “about three men coming to her house and stating they were going to purchase the liquor store.” The narrative included the part about Flemmi and the little girl and the handgun, and Lundbohm bolted upright—the threat was unmistakable. Talking about it again upset Julie. Once she was done, Lundbohm let a few minutes pass to allow her to calm down.
Julie asked her uncle if there was anything he could do, if there was anyone they could talk to. Lundbohm replied that he knew someone whom he “trusted who was an FBI agent.” Lundbohm’s thinking was that this sort of extortion was a perfect fit for the FBI. After all, the federal agency had more resources, in terms of manpower and technical capability, such as fancy electronic surveillance equipment. Moreover, Bulger and Flemmi were organized crime bosses. The FBI, not the Boston police, specialized in developing cases against organized crime. The FBI was the big time, and best of all, the agent Lundbohm knew was on its Organized Crime Squad.
The Rakeses gave their okay and left.
Lundbohm soon called the agent. Within a few days the two law enforcement officials were seated at breakfast in a Boston restaurant—on the one side Boston police detective Lundbohm, and on the other FBI agent John Connolly.
Following some small talk, the agent asked what was on Lundbohm’s mind. He told Connolly everything—about his niece and husband having just opened this new business, and then the gun, the girl, and the money. Connolly listened. This was a crime that could not be justified, as others had been, as necessary for Bulger to maintain his position in the underworld in order to provide the FBI with intelligence about the Mafia. Bulger’s move on the Rakeses had nothing to do with the Mafia.
Faced with this dilemma, Connolly opted to go with what was now reflex. The FBI agent let the police detective finish and then said, “Would Rakes be willing to wear a wire?” Of all the available options, he’d thrown out the most intimidating. Connolly said nothing about wanting to bring in the Rakeses for a debriefing with FBI agents. Nothing about how the bureau might want to proceed cautiously to further investigate Bulger. He was playing hardball, as if the only option was the most dangerous and least likely to be enthusiastically received.