Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger's Irish Mob
Kevin Weeks, Phyllis Karas
I grew up in the Old Colony housing project in South Boston and became partners with James "Whitey" Bulger, who I always called Jimmy.
Jimmy and I, we were unstoppable. We took what we wanted. And we made people disappear—permanently. We made millions. And if someone ratted us out, we killed him. We were not nice guys.
I found out that Jimmy had been an FBI informant in 1999, and my life was never the same. When the feds finally got me, I was faced with something Jimmy would have killed me for—cooperating with the authorities. I pled guilty to twenty-nine counts, including five murders. I went away for five and a half years.
I was brutally honest on the witness stand, and this book is brutally honest, too; the brutal truth that was never before told. How could it? Only three people could tell the true story. With one on the run and one in jail for life, it falls on me.
he liked to read books about Adolf Hitler, and whether schizophrenia ran in her family, she screamed back, “You should have questioned how my son was tortured.” When the lawyer said she was only doing her job, Emily said, “Your job is justice. Your type of justice destroyed my life.” When she was instructed to look at a document, she screamed, “You have to forgive me, but all I see is a cut-out tongue.” I can say for certain that McIntyre was never physically tortured. Lipscomb tried to show
although I certainly knew he was a member of the Winter Hill mob, and had been involved in the gang wars of the 1960s and 1970s. My friend gave the two of them a hard time at the door and told them the club was closed when the owner recognized Jimmy and Stevie and immediately let them in. But that was not the first time I’d seen Jimmy. Six years earlier, when I was thirteen and sitting next to my brother Billy, who was driving my father’s car down Burke Street in the Old Colony projects, I had
away and let Kevin explain everything about the coke and the guys in the bar. Later that night, when Kevin and I were standing at the bar with Jack, Stevie and Jimmy walked in, and we told them about the fight and Spelios’s plan to have me killed. The next day, the two of them went to see Spelios and explained I was with them and that his kid was wrong. “Yeah, well, my son ended up with a fractured skull and the other kid got a broken jaw,” Spelios began to tell Jimmy and Stevie. “Listen,” Jimmy
rather that the agents had been obvious and we had been aware. Yes, they had succeeded in bugging the apartment and the car, but we never said a word about business in either of those two places, so the bugs did them no good. Jimmy and I always talked outside, never in any enclosed place. No matter how important something was that we had to tell each other, it could wait until we were able to take a walk or go to a place we considered secure. The agents had taken everything into account, except
classes, to sports, and to just being around one another. But one year later, it was like Beirut. You were just waiting for the next fight to erupt. Kids from South Boston weren’t running scared, though. South Boston High was their home, and no one was going to come in and take their home from them. It was horrible for the black kids, but just as horrible for the poor white kids, too. Both groups of kids had to walk the corridors, which were now lined with the Tactical Patrol Force in full riot