Tina Susman

WHITEY BULGER: 'Whitey' left his mark on South Boston

Everybody has a tale about the brutal mob boss brought home in cuffs after 16 years.

June 26, 2011

Tina Susman

DATELINE: BOSTON

There used to be a bar on the corner where an upscale furniture shop now sits, which isn't surprising. This is, after all, South Boston, where James "Whitey" Bulger held sway and where the streets are as unrecognizable today as the aged mobster who ruled them.

But gentrification has its limits, and no amount of shops, sleek taverns and family-friendly eateries can change the mind-set of a population attached to its past, even if that past was defined by a man now in federal custody and linked to 19 murders.

"He was just that tough guy, that guy that everyone here wanted to be," said Teresa Needle, summing up the conflicted feelings of longtime locals as she strolled up West Broadway on Saturday, three days after Bulger's arrest in Santa Monica after 16 years on the run.

"I think some people are very happy he's finally been apprehended, but I think others who are loyal to his past are kind of sad," said Needle, who declined to say which side she came down on.

But she added with a tinge of wistfulness: "He got caught. That wasn't his style."

Bulger, 81, was brought to Boston on Friday along with his longtime girlfriend, Catherine Elizabeth Greig, 60, who FBI agents said proved the key to his capture.

In Bulger's former neighborhood, horror at the crimes prosecutors accuse him of committing is mixed with a certain respect for his ability to evade justice for so long, and for the way he provided for loyalists. It's a feeling far more prevalent among longtime residents than the newcomers who are slowly turning the area around. Like law enforcement officials who hunted Bulger and his Winter Hill Gang, they wonder how it's possible to speak fondly of someone with such a brutal past.

"Most of those people never knew him or what he did," said Richard Baker, a retired FBI agent. Baker said there was a cult that grew up around Bulger but that wasn't around when he was running the Winter Hill Gang and ordering hits: "They didn't understand the evilness of the man."

Everyone in South Boston, it seems, has a Bulger tale. Taken together, they reflect the changes in the neighborhood, where new, glassy buildings occupied by young professionals and families soar above squat pubs and delis. On the streets, joggers stroll past weary-looking old-timers puffing on cigarettes and missing the old days, even as they acknowledge the bad parts.

Joyce Jones says Bulger had an eye for her younger sister when they were teenagers, and she swears she spotted him walking through a nearby housing project a few weeks ago.

Joseph Collins says he was a kid when Bulger was a grown-up gangster.

"He was quite a guy. I liked him," said Collins, who owns a bar on a corner that once housed a Bulger hangout.

Linda Castagna, who owns the upscale Urban Exchange furniture shop where a bar once stood, says her husband's brother's friend's father was killed by Bulger.

A woman from New Jersey named Jamie gave birth to a baby the day Bulger was arrested, watching the news in her hospital room with her husband.

They didn't move to Boston until well after 1995, when Bulger -- tipped off by a corrupt FBI agent -- vanished before he could be arrested. "But you couldn't not hear about him," she said while nursing her newborn daughter in the courtyard of an old stone church that is now a condominium complex.

For one thing, his brother, William Bulger, was a leading state politician and president of the University of Massachusetts. In addition, Whitey was considered the king of Boston's mobsters.

"He was kind of the only one, or the biggest one," said Jamie, whose husband signaled the ghost of Bulger's presence, even among relative newcomers, when he warned his wife against giving her surname.

The couple quickly went inside as a friend, Michael Whited, explained. "There's still a lot of fear around here," said Whited, though he wasn't afraid to express his disdain for the likes of the Winter Hill Gang.

"The murders, the drugs and absolute corruption," he said, attributing Bulger's ability to evade justice for so long to officials who were afraid that he would spill the beans on their corrupt dealings. "Everyone knew someone who got something."

Maybe so, but that's why Bulger had fans, explained Jones.

"Let's say I needed something. He'd get it," said Jones, a self-described project girl who spent her youth hanging around outside the rough-and-tumble public houses on D Street. Whitey was a generation older and held court at a deli nearby.

To hear Jones tell it, Bulger liked young women and lavished gifts on them: a Coach bag, Prada shoes. Jones says he provided a washing machine and dryer for her first apartment, even though she never dated him.

"We just knew them as regular people," Jones said of the gang. "We didn't know they were killers and thugs."

Collins, sweeping the sidewalk outside his bar, doesn't pretend to have been ignorant of the past. He just preferred to stay out of the fray and remain on Bulger's good side.

Like other old-timers, Collins credits Bulger with preventing South Boston from being flooded with heroin in the 1960s.

"If he found out you were dealing, you were going to pay," Collins said, referring to the myriad ways the Winter Hill Gang was known to thrash its enemies, including strangulation and stomping them to death.

Others say Bulger merely controlled the heroin trade and steered it toward other areas.

"He had such control over this community," said Castagna, who said no matter how many horrible things you heard about Bulger, there was always someone with a "nice" story to tell about him.

Such as the time Bulger overheard a young thug bragging about having stolen computers from a school. Shortly afterward, he took the kid for a ride in his car.

"And next thing you know, all those computers were back in school," she said, repeating Bulger lore that may or may not be true.

Whatever the truth, Collins said some things are clear. "A lot of guys wanted to be just like him but didn't have the guts," he said. "It made life really interesting in South Boston."

 

NIAGARA FALLS: A stunt to make Niagara Falls rise

The long-struggling New York city wants to revisit its daredevil past to boost its economy, and it's aiming high.

July 27, 2011

Tina Susman

NIAGARA FALLS, N.Y.

There is no shortage of legends surrounding the cat that went over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

Some say it survived, proving the barrel was sturdy enough to carry humans down the falls. Some say it died. Some say it rode shotgun with Annie Edson Taylor when she became the first person to survive a barrel roll over the falls in 1901.

Mark DiFrancesco of Niagara Falls' Daredevil Museum offers another twist on the tale.

"Legend has it the cat was black going over the falls but came out of the barrel white" from fright, he said, straight-faced, as Independence Day visitors eyed the museum's yellowed newspaper clippings, old photographs, bashed-up barrels, tattered life vests and a dented jet ski.

That the legend of the cat lives on 110 years later says something about Niagara Falls' passion for its daredevil past, which seemed as dead as its economy until state lawmakers latched onto the idea of using that death-defying spirit to try to boost the city's finances.

High-wire artist Nik Wallenda approached officials recently with a plan to cross the cataract on a wire the width of a nickel. The performance would be featured in "Life on a Wire," a Discovery Channel show expected to begin airing this year. To clear the way for the spectacle, legislators last month approved a one-time exemption from a 50-year-old ban on daredevil acts at the falls.

Gov. Andrew Cuomo has not indicated whether he will sign the bill, which has won support from local tourism officials and most city leaders. Backers say that even though the city wouldn't profit directly, visitors who come to watch Wallenda would spend money in its restaurants and other businesses, and the television show could trigger a long-term surge in tourism.

But not everyone is sold on a made-for-reality-TV event as the solution to the city's economic problems, especially one that could end in tragedy.

"Are we that desperate?" local historian Paul Gromosiak asked the Niagara Falls City Council this month.

Some think so. Council members voted 4 to 1 to endorse the wire walk.

--

Once synonymous with romantic honeymoons, burgeoning industry (Nabisco made Shredded Wheat here) and Hollywood glamour (Marilyn Monroe played a murderous wife in the 1953 hit "Niagara"), the Rust Belt city has struggled for decades.

A few blocks from the shady parkland surrounding the falls, dilapidated neighborhoods speak to the city's decline. Crumbling brick and boarded-up windows mar streets lined with once-gracious homes. Derelict storefronts haunt Main Street. Low-slung motels and vacant lots stand in sharp contrast to the high-rises, colorful cafes and manicured gardens across the Rainbow Bridge in Niagara Falls' likewise-named Canadian sister city.

There, officials spent decades building a bustling tourist industry while their New York counterparts banked on factories and plants -- now gone -- to pay the bills.

Since 1960, the city's population has fallen by more than half, to 50,000. Though tourism officials say more than 8 million people visit each year, they don't necessarily stay the night. The city's hotel occupancy rate this year is 51.7%, its best in years but still lagging behind the national average of 59%, according to Smith Travel Research. Hotel revenue last year was about $76 million, compared with $420 million for hotels on the Canadian side.

Last month, the city's school district announced a halt to night games for varsity sports teams, to save money on stadium lighting.

"We're very depressed here," said tour guide Michele Brundidge as she led visitors through the Daredevil Museum -- actually a convenience store whose heat-and-serve burritos, ice cream bars and cold drinks share space with artifacts left by those who tried to conquer the falls.

When tourists glimpse the Canadian skyline with its giant Ferris wheel and hotels overlooking the falls, they ask, "Can't we go over there?" Brundidge said.

If the prohibition against daredevil acts is eased, Wallenda would have one year to perform his feat, which would take him across the Niagara River in front of Horseshoe Falls. At more than 170 feet high and 2,200 feet wide, it is the biggest and most spectacular of the three cataracts that make up Niagara Falls. The wire would be attached to cranes on either side of the gorge; Wallenda's representatives say there would be no bolts or other damage to the environment.

Some key players -- including parks commissions in New York and Ontario, Canada -- have yet to embrace the idea. Skeptics such as Mayor Paul Dyster of Niagara Falls, N.Y., worry about copycats.

"We're concerned about that, but we're also concerned about our first responders who would have to go and rescue people," Dyster said.

Even on a hot summer day, gusty winds and sheets of cold spray wash over visitors on viewing platforms, hinting at the harsh conditions Wallenda would face. His path would begin on the U.S. side, take him across to Canada and then perhaps back again, depending on conditions, said Winston Simone, a friend of Wallenda's and one of the producers of "Life on a Wire."

--

If sanctioning potentially deadly behavior to boost a moribund economy sounds ghoulish, Simone and state Sen. George D. Maziarz, whose district abuts Niagara Falls, emphasize that it isn't an invitation to others to try their luck on the falls.

Maziarz drafted a bill after Wallenda and his representatives asked about bringing the high-wire act here.

"It has been many years since anyone has been able to follow in the footsteps of the Great Blondin," the legislation says, referring to Jean-Francois Gravelet, the first high-wire walker to cross the falls, in 1859. He made the trip several times, once stopping midway across to cook and eat an omelet. "In the meantime, tourism in Niagara Falls has declined. ... [Wallenda's feat would] give the city a much-needed shot in the arm."

The Niagara Tourism and Convention Corp. agrees. "People today still come here and ask questions about the daredevils," said spokesman Nick Mattera. "They want to know about their history."

And if Wallenda falls?

"It would certainly be a tragic end to an exciting attempt," Mattera said, before adding: "He's a pro. He's a seventh-generation wire walker, and we have all the confidence he'll be able to achieve this."'

So does Simone, who refuses to use the word "daredevil" to describe Wallenda and says the 32-year-old is "in perfect physical condition."

"He takes the art form incredibly seriously," Simone said.

Wallenda's great-grandfather, Karl Wallenda -- founder of the famous Flying Wallendas -- fell to his death in 1978 while walking between two towers in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The family blamed the accident on poor rigging of ropes that were supposed to hold the wire taut.

But drama is part of the draw, said Bill Bradberry, a Niagara Falls civic leader. He has no desire to watch Wallenda's walk. "Are they crazy?" he said of the men and women who have gone over the falls and through the rapids in everything from huge bouncy balls to pickle barrels.

But if it takes Wallenda to bring visitors back, so be it, he said as he showed a visitor Civil War graves at the city's Oakwood Cemetery.

"This area has a very, very, very rich history," said Bradberry, who is the local NAACP leader. Slaves fleeing to Canada via the Underground Railroad passed through the area, and the Niagara Movement, a precursor of the National Assn. for the Advancement of Colored People, was founded here.

The cemetery also holds remains of some of the falls' stunters, including Annie Edson Taylor.

Like today's lawmakers, Taylor saw the falls as a way out of financial trouble, and on Oct. 24, 1901, she became the first person to successfully ride them in a barrel. But fame and fortune never came, and when Taylor died penniless 20 years later, the Oakwood Cemetery Assn. gave her a grave.

On a scorching Sunday, a beer stein engraved with "Annie" and adorned with an artificial flower sat atop her grave. Beside Taylor lies Carlisle D. Graham, the first person to ride a barrel through the raging rapids below the falls, in 1886.

Down the row is Capt. Matthew Webb. He was the first person to swim the English Channel in 1875. He died eight years later trying to swim the Niagara rapids.

"This is where our history is. Right here," said local historian Michelle Kratts, adding that the city owes much to its daredevils. "These are the people who are going to bring us back."

 

GAY MARRIAGE: Gay couples line up to wed in New York

Same-sex marriage advocates hope the occasion resonates on a national level

July 25, 2011

 By Tina Susman

There were the usual wedding-day jitters, tears and hiccups. One groom's leg twitched nervously. Rings had to be squeezed onto fingers swollen to sausage-like proportions from the heat and humidity. A name or two got jumbled, and witnesses were corralled at the last minute to validate some of the ceremonies.

There were even a few objectors, but none loud enough to be heard by hundreds of gay and lesbian couples Sunday as they married in chapels and courtrooms, beneath chuppahs and shade trees, even alongside Niagara Falls as New York became the sixth state to recognize same-sex weddings.

From the satin gowns and tailored tuxedos to the jangled nerves and champagne toasts, those marrying and those officiating said the ceremonies showed that gay, lesbian, transgender and bisexual love is no different from anyone else's. But nobody could deny that these vows signified more than just weddings. They were the beginning of what gay rights advocates hope is a renewed push for marriage equality now that New York has become the most populous state to legalize same-sex marriage.

"It was a privilege to be part of this achievement in civil rights," said New York City Clerk Michael McSweeney, who presided over the city's first same-sex wedding, between 76-year-old Phyllis Siegel and 85-year-old Connie Kopelov.

The white-haired couple arrived in blue button-down shirts and trousers, Kopelov in her wheelchair. To take her vows, she stood and leaned on a walker. Siegel stood beside her, her right hand covering Kopelov's left, which clutched the walker. After McSweeney declared them married, he and their witnesses erupted in loud applause. Siegel wiped away tears.

Minutes later, the couple exited the clerk's office onto the street, where Kopelov triumphantly displayed their certificate of marriage. Asked how long they had been together, Siegel replied, "Twenty-three years, and we're looking for 23 more."

Hundreds of other couples stood three deep in a line that stretched down a city block, waiting their turn inside the marble-floored lobby of the clerk's office in Manhattan. Altogether, the city issued 659 marriage licenses Sunday in all five boroughs, officials said.

Those waiting their turn in Manhattan included Dave Lewis, who grew up in Long Beach, and Adam McKew, originally from West Covina. They dressed in traditional kilts and Prince Charlie jackets, with ermine-fur bags on their hips, to pay tribute to their shared Scottish heritage.

Sunday was their seventh anniversary as a couple. "So we're very excited," Lewis said.

The men had hoped to be legally wed in New York two years ago, when the state Senate debated a same-sex marriage bill. It failed then but passed this June 24 by a slim margin, prompting opponents of same-sex marriage to vow to target lawmakers who approved it. Scattered protests Sunday drew hundreds or handfuls.

The Rev. Anthony Evans of the Washington, D.C.-based National Black Church Initiative, a coalition of black and Latino churches that opposes same-sex marriage, warned that New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo would face problems when he and his fellow Democratic legislators seek reelection. "You're going to need the black church," Evans said at a Manhattan protest. When Cuomo "went against God ... we have a moral right to go against him."

The protests did not disrupt any weddings, nor did they faze couples like Daniel Hernandez and Nevin Cohen, who exchanged rings in 2001 on a beach in California, Hernandez's home state. He had moved to New York to live with Cohen, and on Sunday, the pair wore yellow orchids in their matching navy sport coats as they tied the knot.

"Love just transcends hate," said Hernandez, his voice breaking, as a small group of protesters yelled from a distant corner.

Maggie Gallagher of the National Organization for Marriage, which called protests in Manhattan, Buffalo, Syracuse and the state capital, Albany, said the group wanted a referendum. "We want to let the people of New York decide the future of marriage," she said.

But there was no indication that New York would follow the path of California, where voters in November 2008 ended gay marriage after the state Supreme Court had legalized it. The passage of Proposition 8 halted six months of same-sex weddings but did not invalidate the 18,000 marriages that took place in California during that time. A federal judge has declared Proposition 8 unconstitutional; that decision is under appeal.

New York voters are overwhelmingly Democratic, and they elected Cuomo last year after he made same-sex marriage a centerpiece of his campaign. The state is home to about 65,000 same-sex couples, according to the Williams Institute of UCLA, which studies gender-based law and social policy. Its estimate is based on 2010 U.S. census figures.

For the couples in New York City, the celebration carried special significance in light of President Obama's decisions last week on two key gay rights issues.

On Tuesday, he endorsed a bill sponsored by Sen. Dianne Feinstein (D-Calif.) that would repeal the 15-year-old Defense of Marriage Act, which defines marriage as between a man and a woman and denies federal benefits and protections to gay couples who wed in states that recognize their unions. And on Friday, Obama certified Congress' repeal of the ban on gays serving openly in the military.

Despite all the celebrations Sunday, advocates of gay marriage said overturning the Defense of Marriage Act was crucial. As long as it remains in effect, even couples married in states that recognize same-sex marriage are denied things such as Social Security benefits when their spouses die. Other places recognizing same-sex weddings include Massachusetts, Iowa, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut and Washington, D.C.

"Right now, I'm just thinking about this moment. That will be the next step," Elizabeth Rosario said of the battle for federal recognition, after she married Tina Marie Torregrossa in Brooklyn. The couple's 16-year-old son, Roberto, carried the rings, which proved more difficult than anticipated to slip on.

"I just want you to know that this has happened to every couple so far -- swollen fingers," the pastor said good-naturedly, blaming the heat wave as the couple, clad in white shirts and white pants, forced their rings on.

Later, Rosario said the couple initially had planned to have a ceremony with family and friends, but that would have taken time to arrange.

"My gut just told me it was time," said Rosario, after she and Torregrossa posed for pictures beneath a rainbow-colored arch at the Brooklyn borough hall. "We decided we wanted to be part of history."

GAY MARRIAGE: Wedding Planner Makes Dreams Real

A wedding planner's task is rarely easy, but specializing in same-sex marriages brings unique challenges and rewards

July 22, 2011

By Tina Susman

As a wedding planner, Bernadette Coveney Smith does a bit of everything for her clients.

She tracks down vegan wedding cakes. She hunts for venues that welcome flower-bearing dogs. She helps body-conscious brides find the perfect dress -- and sometimes even the perfect tux.

Smith's specialty is same-sex marriages, a business that can be as complicated as love itself as a wedding day draws near.

"Anyone can plan a party. What I'm doing is completely different," said Smith, who opened the country's first gay-focused wedding planning business, It's About Time, in Boston in 2004 after Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage. When New York last month became the sixth and most populous state to do the same, Smith launched plans to move the business here. She now calls her company 14 Stories, for the 14 original plaintiffs in the groundbreaking Massachusetts lawsuit.

In many ways, Smith, 34, sounds like any other wedding planner as she recites some of the do's and don'ts of successful ceremonies: Don't make guests stand in long lines for the bathroom or the food; do choose uplifting music; don't put guests to sleep with lengthy, preachy nuptials. She speaks from experience, as a former events planner for a Boston nonprofit. One of the weddings she has planned since then was her own, to Jennifer Coveney, in 2009.

But Smith also has things to worry about that don't faze your typical wedding planner, such as screening florists, caterers, limousine services and venues to ensure they are gay-friendly. Otherwise, clients would have to do it themselves and be forced effectively to "come out" each time they approach a potential vendor, Smith said.

That's one reason Claire DeMarco and her then-fiancee, Meg, sought out Smith to help plan their July 2010 wedding in Boston, which included seven bridesmaids, three male attendants, and one flower dog -- their Boston terrier, Lexington. There were 75 guests and that vegan wedding cake, which Smith helped find. Smith also guided them through their decision to switch from a church wedding to a pet-friendly neutral venue after the couple -- both Catholics -- concluded that finding a gay-friendly church would be a challenge. They married at the Fairmont Battery Wharf Hotel in Boston.

"One of my goals ... was to avoid vendors for whom a same-sex wedding would be a first -- some sort of novelty, or worse, something offensive," Claire De Marco said. "I specifically searched for a wedding planner who was explicitly inclusive of same-sex couples and could help preserve the fairy tale ... keeping any potential bigotry at bay."

Smith helps her clients find the right celebrant, or officiant, to perform the ceremony. She helps brides who were once grooms, and grooms who were once brides, find the right dress or the perfectly fitted tux.

In short, she orchestrates an event that to Smith and her clients is more than a wedding.

"There's a different type of weight to a legal gay marriage ceremony," Smith said. "The energy is different because there's this feeling of triumph, this feeling that finally, we can be married."

With the planning comes a recognition that some guests might be offended if the ceremony is too over-the-top. After all, it's one thing to place a ring on your beloved's finger before scores of friends and relatives, and quite another to put a leash on his neck, as two of Smith's male clients wanted to do.

"My clients can tell me that, and I'm not going to flinch," Smith said. "Can you imagine having that kind of a conversation with a straight wedding planner?" Heeding the couple's concerns about sharing their fetish with those who might find it disturbing, she organized a private collaring ceremony.

"It was smaller, but it was for them," Smith said.

Even ordinary tasks, such as finding the right dress, might carry special challenges. A transgender bride who was one of Smith's clients previously had lived as a man, complete with a beard and a wife. With her broad shoulders and tall stature, the would-be bride was nervous about dress shopping until Smith went with her. Together, they chose an ivory, strapless A-line gown with beaded detail and a sweetheart neckline.

"It was amazing, seeing her become the bride she always wanted to be," Smith said. "I felt like I was giving her a gift."

The woman was marrying another woman (who had previously been married to a man), underscoring another complication that Smith helped resolve: finding a tux to fit and flatter a female form. In this case, it was a custom-made black tux with an ivory bow tie, a red vest, and a white rose tucked into the lapel.

More than 1,000 same-sex couples lined up at city halls across Massachusetts the first day they could legally marry seven years ago. In California, 18,000 gay and lesbian couples wed during the six months that same-sex marriage was legal there, between May and November 2008. The passage of Proposition 8 ended legal same-sex marriage in the state but did not affect the validity of those that had already taken place. New York, which has an estimated 42,600 same-sex couples, is expected to send thousands to the altar beginning Sunday.

At least one public servant, the clerk in the upstate town of Barker, resigned rather than sign same-sex wedding licenses, a reminder that for all the celebratory comments that flew across websites such as gayweddings.com and theknot.com after New York's approval of same-sex marriage, it remains a divisive issue. The National Organization for Marriage, which opposes same-sex marriage, has vowed to protest outside city offices in Manhattan, Buffalo, Rochester and the state capital, Albany, when weddings begin.

But many cities are making special efforts to accommodate gay couples. Niagara Falls is hosting a mass same-sex wedding ceremony Monday near the brink of the famous waterfall. New York City is among a handful of municipalities that will open city offices Sunday for couples wanting to marry right away.

But it will be months before the carefully managed, high-end weddings that Smith specializes in begin in New York.

Generally, she likes to have six months to plan an event, which is not unusual for wedding planners of any ilk, said Kathryn Hamm of gayweddings.com, an online boutique and resource for same-sex couples searching for vendors, planners and other advice. That helps explain the rush of business that gayweddings.com saw in California in 2008, when couples wanting big weddings knew they needed to hurry because of efforts to get Proposition 8 on the ballot, she said.

"Couples were recognizing that the window might close, so they were without a doubt saying, 'Let's hurry up before this gets overturned or challenged,' " Hamm said.

Although 14 Stories offers less lavish services, such as an "elopement package," Smith's ideal clients are couples with a healthy budget and attention to detail, from the song they choose for the procession down the aisle -- one pair of grooms chose the dance hit "Finally" -- to the number of aisles in their ceremony. Lesbians often opt for two aisles, with the brides meeting at the altar.

Earlier this month, Smith was in New York to meet with potential vendors, financial planners and others who could help spread the word about her business here. They included Tulis McCall, a celebrant who has been performing weddings since 2004.

For Smith, the celebrant is key to making guests cry. "It's very important for me," said Smith, who wants spectators to be as carried away by emotion as she often is at weddings. "It's very powerful to be in the back of a room and hear a couple pronounced legally married."

McCall agreed. "That's the nut of the ceremony," said McCall, explaining that her goal is to "touch the gooey center" of listeners.

"My job is to get to that," McCall said. "To have it open like a flower, and have the guests all go, 'Ooooooooo.' "