Free Betrayal: Whitey Bulger and the FBI Agent Who Fought to Bring Him Down by Jon Land, Robert Fitzpatrick Page B

worded, yet cautious exchange. Connolly and I sat down in matching leather armchairs set before Billy Bulger’s large desk, so new I found a sales tag taped to the arm’s underside. We could have used the office’s sitting area, but, from a body language perspective, Billy wanted me to know who was running the show here. I was a guest, that was all, and he was granting me an audience like a power broker might.
    The sun shined in over Billy, making his features seem even paler as he leaned back comfortably in his chair. “So what are your plans after the Bureau?” he asked me.
    “Haven’t given it much thought really.”
    “You should,” he said. “Plenty of your predecessors have gone on to bigger things.” His eyes twinkled, coming up just short of a wink above his cherubic cheeks. I knew he was talking about Dennis Condon, now with the Massachusetts Department of Public Safety, and Paul Rico, with World Jai Alai based at my old stomping ground of Miami. “We like to take care of our own here.”
    “I appreciate that, Mr. Bulger,” I replied, still unsure where this was going.
    “Billy,” he corrected. “Everybody calls me Billy.”
    We exchanged more small talk, but nothing of substance. The subject of his brother never came up, and I didn’t expect it would. Twenty minutes into the conversation Billy started checking his watch, a clear indication to Connolly that it was time to leave. And, like a dog on a leash, Connolly rose on cue. I followed, extending my hand across the desk to take Billy’s palm again.
    “Anything I can do for you while you’re in town, just call,” he said, the sun bouncing off his pearly white teeth.
    Connolly and I didn’t speak on the way back to the office. He had a smug look on his face the whole time, as if his point had been made: Whitey Bulger was not a man to be messed with and, thus, neither was he. I knew what it was like to be bullied, pushed around, and that’s the feeling that grabbed hold of my gut. Billy Bulger was a bully using power in place of his fists. And he wanted me to know I was alone, helpless against powerful forces I could neither control nor fully comprehend.
    Sitting in that office that one and only time brought back many memories, but mostly it made me feel like I was back in the Mount, a little boy trying to learn enough to survive in unfamiliar territory. Not knowing whom to trust. I remembered it so vividly that my meeting with Billy Bulger brought back all the pain and heartache.
    I had made the trek through city shelters to court for appropriate remands or petitions for neglect and destitute labels that had made me a ward of the State. At the Mount I was bunched with over sixty-six other kids in a cramped cottage, freezing in the winter and steaming in the summer. Privacy became a thing of the past. Affection vanished from my young life. No hugs and no familial intimacy. In other words, be and let be. There was plenty of pity to go around, but no love.
    Fear was everywhere—fear of the unknown, fear of failure. We had a word for failure: Nabut. This was the cop-out for “You know, I didn’t want it anyway.” Nabut meant you could promise yourself anything because the mental reservation you held meant you really didn’t have to do it. This was born of the many promises made to all of us and never kept. Lying and deception were part and parcel of the concept of Nabut. Many, if not all, of the children were promised things—food, security, and safety, among others—but they were never delivered. Promises became meaningless. Trust ceased to exist.
    Above everything else, I remember the constant loneliness and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that was there with every step and stray thought. In spite of all the abuse I witnessed on my mother’s part and the sadness left unresolved in me, I still wanted to be with her. At the Mount I let out my emotion; I kicked and screamed and cried but no one heard me. The realization that I