The Boston FBI agents nodded and took notes, but never asked any follow-up questions—about Connolly, about Bulger’s role in the Halloran and Barrett murders, or about anything Murray had to offer about the crime boss.
Clark later described his assignment that day as if he were a mere stenographer, not a seasoned FBI interviewer. In his view, he was there to just listen to what Murray had to say and pass it on to somebody else who would evaluate it and decide whether any further action was warranted. Clark said he even thought to himself that Murray would “make a terrific informant.” But instead of being cultivated, Murray was returned to his cell in Danbury. Clark said he was not asked to follow up on anything Murray said.
Meanwhile, Jim Ahearn and his deputies took Clark’s typewritten report and forwarded it to headquarters, urging the top brass to slam the door shut on any further challenge to Connolly. The cover letter dismissed Murray’s comments as “rumor and conjecture” and concluded: “Boston recommends that this inquiry be closed, and no administration taken.”
It was done. The paperwork was buried—like Halloran’s and Barrett’s corpses—and the negative Connolly talk was rerouted into FBI oblivion. Yet another mere inconvenience.
CONNOLLY, Bulger, and Flemmi seemed to have a growing sense of entitlement: the city was theirs. Thus, Bulger was absolutely put out one day at Logan Airport when he and his girlfriend, Theresa Stanley, were detained as they were boarding a Delta Airlines flight to Montreal.
It was around 7:10 P.M. Using cash, Theresa had paid for two first-class tickets. Bulger, dressed in a black jogging suit, was carrying a black leather garment bag. Inside the bag was at least $50,000 in cash he was attempting to smuggle out of the country. But as the bag passed through the X-ray machine a security guard noticed several unidentified lumps. Zipping open the bag, the guard spotted bricks of cash—all $100 bills. Believing the amount was well over $10,000—federal law required the reporting of cash amounting to more than $10,000—the guard told Bulger and Stanley to step to the side; she would have to advise the state police.
“Fuck you,” Bulger told the female security guard.
Bulger picked up the bag of cash and began walking quickly away. He handed the parcel to another man, saying, “Here, Kevin, take this.” Kevin Weeks hurried out the door, climbed into a black Chevy Blazer, and raced off. Bulger stuck his foot in a revolving airport door to slow a second guard who had taken up the chase after the bag of money.
Bulger was arguing with guards when plainclothes trooper Billy Johnson of the Massachusetts State Police’s airport barracks arrived. No one recognized Bulger, who was sneering at the guards, Theresa at his side.
“Hey, you, get over here,” Johnson shouted.
Johnson identified himself, and one of the guards began to explain the situation, but Bulger interrupted and pointed at the guard. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. “You’re a liar.” Johnson demanded identification, and Bulger produced a license: “James J. Bulger, 17 Twomey Court, South Boston.”
The guard tried a second time to talk to Johnson, but Bulger again interrupted. “Shut the fuck up.”
Johnson turned to Bulger. “You shut up.” He pinned Bulger back against the wall, one of the few men who probably ever put his hands on the gangster. “One more word out of you, and I’m going to lock you up.”
Bulger didn’t back down. “That how you treat citizens?” he snapped. “That how you treat citizens?” Bulger shouted. Johnson ignored him. The trooper seized $9,923 in cash that Theresa Stanley was carrying. Customs officials were notified, but the amount was just below the reporting requirement. Eventually, after conferring with other agents, Johnson realized that he had no reason to detain Bulger. Maybe he could have tied him up on a disorderly conduct charge, but he decided that would be a “cheap pinch.” He let Bulger and Stanley go. Bulger stormed off, hailed a cab, and was gone.
Life uninterrupted. Flemmi was now often taking a break from the crime beat—indulging in a passion for parachuting by attending army reunions and joining the International Association of Airborne Veterans. He began traveling worldwide to jump from planes—to South Africa, East Germany, Thailand, Israel. He renewed friendships with other Korean War vets. Meanwhile, John Connolly’s world was also humming along—a new marriage, a promotion to supervisor of a drug task force, and the prospect of retirement. Following the celebrated Mafia induction ceremony taping in late 1989, FBI director William Sessions traveled to Boston to personally congratulate the Boston agents, singling out Connolly for his handling of informants. Connolly was moving up and out—literally. In 1990, he sold his Thomas Park home and moved briefly into a South Boston townhouse, a six-unit complex where Bulger and Weeks also owned units. But Connolly now had his eye on the North Shore suburbs, and he soon purchased land in Lynnfield and built a large, two-story red-brick home.
Even though Jim Ring had instructed Connolly to quit meeting his informants inside his home, the get-togethers continued, if simply relocated to agent John Newton’s house, or Nick Gianturco’s. Gianturco once invited two star FBI agents from the New York office in town for a few days. Joseph D. Pistone, retired from the bureau, had written a book, Donnie Brasco: My Undercover Life in the Mafia. The book, published in 1987, became a best-seller and eventually was made into a movie starring Al Pacino. Joining Pistone was Jules Bonavolonta, a veteran Mafia fighter who eventually would write his own book too. Gianturco cooked up the meal, and Connolly proudly introduced Bulger and Flemmi to the out-of-town guests. “It was obvious,” Bonavolonta recalled, that “Bulger and Steve were friends of Connolly’s.” Connolly began talking about how someday he’d like to write a book about his FBI triumphs.
Morris was now persona non grata. He was busy defending himself in 1989 against an internal inquiry into leaks to the Globe regarding the 75 State Street investigation. He refused to take a polygraph and was scrambling to lie his way out of trouble, writing up false reports and denying to the FBI brass that he was a leak, and all the while Connolly was leading the charge for his former friend’s scalp. “He was suspicious of me,” Morris said about Connolly. But Morris would survive the internal scrutiny with a censure and fourteen days of unpaid leave.
In back rooms at their liquor mart and the variety store next door, Bulger and Flemmi conducted the dirty work of their underworld empire, hauling in recalcitrant debtors for meetings, perhaps pulling out a weapon to illustrate a point they were trying to make about the price of tardiness. Out front, at holiday times, FBI agents showed up to pick up their Christmas cheer. “Dick Baker, Friend of John Connolly,” was the note scribbled onto a receipt for the $205 in booze that agent Baker bought in 1989.