Five Feet from the Most Wanted Man in America

For 16 years the phrase "Where's Whitey?" always conjured up lots of conversation. Was he in Europe? Was he dead? Who was helping him avoid justice? Everyone had an opinion on Whitey Bulger and there was an endless supply of facts, opinion, theories and legends.

Like many, I have been somewhat intrigued by the story of corruption, murder and coverups that cast a bright light on South Boston's darker side. I would follow along with the Herald's coverage of the Whitey saga and I read a few of the numerous books on the topic. It is a gangland story with lots of bad guys, not enough good guys and a blurry haze separating the two.

 I woke up to the news of Whitey's capture on the local news last Thursday. Did I hear the update correctly? Caught in Santa Monica? In a modest apartment? Without incident? Given the prior history, I am pretty sure that this is not how anyone expected it to go down.

 On Friday it was "All Whitey, All the Time" coverage. I actually wasn't all that interested in this chapter of the story. I suppose I wanted to hear what Whitey said when the FBI finally brought him in. I definitely wanted to see his new mug shot. Other than that, I just figured that the legal process would play itself out in a tedious manner over the coming months and years.

 That all changed in the course of about five minutes last Friday evening. I was driving home from work on the Southeast Expressway in fairly heavy rush hour traffic somewhere between Dorchester and East Milton Square. I looked up at one of the overpasses and I noticed a man standing looking down into the roadway and he had his cell phone in his hand extended towards the traffic as if taking a picture or recording video. I remember thinking, "that seems a little odd."

 As I continued to inch along I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. I looked in the rearview mirror and off in the distance I could make out flashing lights. I moved out of the left lane and things really started to slow down as the already heavy traffic attempted to clear a path for the emergency vehicles. As the vehicles got closer I could see it was more than just a couple of motorcycles. It was a motorcade. I tried to think if any dignitaries were in town. Nothing came to mind.

 Then it hit me. One of the most notorious fugitives in US history was being transported from the courthouse to his first night in captivity in Massachusetts.

 The convoy inched along as the cars ahead struggled to clear a path. From what I recall there were three motorcycles followed by at least two State Police SUV's. Then there were three totally blacked out US Marshall's Department vehicles. They were ominous. I couldn't be completely sure which vehicle Whitey was in. Even still, I tried to comprehend that for sixteen years the government was pursuing a man who was now no more than five feet away from me. I was looking over at him, and I had to believe he was looking over at me. Then I started to think of the crimes that he is accused of. Nineteen murders. Nineteen victims.

 Taking it even one step further, I couldn't help but try to imagine what he was thinking. He was travelling through the very area where many of his alleged crimes were committed, where some of his alleged victims were found buried. It was all a little too much to absorb.

 Unable to pinpoint how I felt, I looked up at the next overpass. A lone individual looked down and pointed two middle fingers like daggers at the procession. Ultimately the police were able to make some progress down away from us. I switched the radio to a news station to confirm what I already suspected, they were heading to the jail facility in Plymouth.

 That evening I witnessed the reaction of two individuals watching Whitey Bulger go to jail. One recorded video. One expressed anger and disgust. As I continue to watch this memorable case unfold I have to ask myself which of the two I most resemble.