The capture of Whitey Bulger, the alleged commander and chief of the Irish mob in Boston, is being treated like a visit by the Pope.
The hoopla surrounding Bulger’s arrest and return to Boston had the close-up effect of an M-80 going off. It made the recent Stanley Cup celebration, by comparison, look like a sparkler.
In the North End, and in Boston wherever men and women think reasonably, it is difficult to believe that Bulger could have lived in the same apartment in Santa Monica for 15 years without the aid of the FBI.
And so the FBI has been repeatedly trying to assuage a disbelieving public, but to little or no avail.
The dredging up for public consumption of Bulger’s alleged 19 murders – stranglings, beatings, stabbings, shootings – is enough to turn stomachs.
By all appearances, Bulger was an animal, a cold hearted, cold blooded killer.
Now 81 and residing in a cell in the lock-up in Plymouth, Bulger now meets his destiny, which is incarceration of one form or another for the remainder of his days.
His life may very well be in danger with the FBI guarding him, many many people believe.
Many, many people are predicting he will suffer a sudden, fatal heart attack or simply expire suspiciously and that his sudden death will be the work of the FBI.
We all must remember that this supposed head of the Irish mob, this alleged killer was for all intents and purposes, a rat, the biggest rat in Boston at the time he was running his Irish mob.
He was the FBI’s most valued informant.
Think of it – the Irish mob’s heart and soul and leader – an FBI informant for nearly all the time he ran the mob.
Now we are going to hear the modern legal babble by which we have come to live.
Can Whitey get a fair trial? Is there enough real evidence for a jury to find him guilty?
In other places, the Whitey Bulgers of this world would be taken outside and hanged or shot and justice would be done.
We’re going to pay for his lawyers and for the trial – perhaps as much as $5 million.
Whitey’s back – but once we get over the fact he was caught – there’s really not much to cheer about.