Where the Bodies Were Buried by T. J. English Page B

could be self-righteous in the manner of New York’s Rudolph Giuliani, another crusading federal prosecutor during this same era. Over the years, through hearings and trials and the accounts of participants, it became clear that O’Sullivan was far more central to the DOJ’s relationship with Bulger and Flemmi than he had ever been willing to admit publicly.
    To the defense, O’Sullivan was the Wizard of Oz, and since he was dead and not around to defend himself, he was a convenient target. Much could be implied about his actions; he served as an attractive receptacle for any conspiracy theory the defense could imagine.
    Carney was fully aware of the importance of O’Sullivan to their defense. If, at this early stage in the trial, he were shut down by Judge Casper in this attempt to make O’Sullivan a relevant factor in the case, the prospects for laying out the defense he and his co-counsel had in mind would be severely disabled.
    Hafer also seemed to understand the importance of the moment. “I reiterate, this is not relevant, Your Honor,” he said forcefully to Casper. “It does not go to this witness’s credibility, does not go to any material issue.”
    â€œYes,” said Judge Casper, “it’s beyond the scope. I’m not going to allow it to go any further.”
    Carney did not take no for an answer; he continued to argue in favor of establishing O’Sullivan as a primary co-conspirator.
    â€œI made my ruling,” said the judge.
    Walking back toward the podium to continue his cross-examination of the witness, Carney couldn’t help but look defeated. His shoulders wereslightly slumped, and, as he resumed his questioning of former state trooper Bobby Long, his voice was meek. His strategy for steering the evidence in a direction that would illuminate the defense he had in mind had been strangled in the crib. It was going to be a long trial.
    THOMAS J. FOLEY was another retired statie with a tale of woe to tell. Whereas Bobby Long had seen his three-month-long investigation of the Lancaster Street garage fall prey to sabotage from within Boston’s law enforcement fraternity, Foley entered the courtroom with the hope of fulfilling a dream deferred. The dream was to put away James Bulger for the rest of his natural life; the deferral was the consequence of a creeping realization, years ago, that the system to which he had taken an oath of service was riddled with corruption and deceit.
    Fred Wyshak, the prosecutor who stood to lead Foley through his direct examination, had an interesting task. As with Trooper Long, Foley had realized over time and with mounting dismay that his attempted investigation of Whitey Bulger was sabotaged by the FBI and the U.S. attorney’s office. But Wyshak had nothing to gain by going over this with the witness. Since he worked for the U.S. attorney’s office, it was not in Wyshak’s interest, or the interest of the case, to wallow in past transgressions of the very office for which he plied his trade. The entire subject was a land mine to be avoided. In many ways, it was a crystallization of the main difficulty that the prosecutors had: how did they convict Bulger without collaterally tarnishing the reputation of the system they represented.
    On the witness stand, Foley projected the same aura of integrity for which he had become known in his years as a state trooper. He was Irish American, a redundancy that would become more evident as the trial progressed. There were an unusually high number of Irish American cops and agents in Boston, which sometimes made the trial of Bulger and his mostly Irish American gang seem like a donnybrook between contrasting sides of the Hibernian identity.
    Foley had sensitive blue eyes and spoke in a calm, soothing tenor. He had the look and demeanor of a Catholic priest, another profession in which he might have found himself dismayed or disillusioned by the failings of