The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “Second, I stood up for the MBTA in last year’s budget, by providing them a sixty-five million dollar increase in state subsidies. No other Massachusetts agency received such a generous increase. However, this additional funding was not used for its intended purpose—an upgrade of the T’s infrastructure to prevent the types of breakdowns and interruptions in service we have seen this winter,” said Governor Baker. “When the people’s money is mismanaged, there needs to be an accounting. As the highest elected official in this state, I’m willing to take ownership of the problems facing the T. But towards that end, I did empanel a committee of experts to examine the operations, which necessarily includes all of its contracts—including those with its unions.”

  Governor Baker called on another reporter.

  “Mac Daniel, Boston Globe,” said Governor Baker.

  “Thank you, Governor,” said Daniel. “James O’Brien, president of the Boston Carmen’s Union said, and I quote, ‘He’s no Scott Walker.’ He’s obviously referencing the Wisconsin governor’s success against the teachers’ union. Are you trying to break the unions at the MBTA?”

  “The Carmen’s Union is one of the oldest and largest in the city,” said Governor Baker. “But the T’s financial situation and past union contracts are more than problematic—they have made the T nearly insolvent. This cannot continue, and Mr. O’Brien knows this.”

  Sciacca muted the television. Julia looked at her notes and then immediately towards her editor.

  “Julia, what do you have on this?” asked Sciacca.

  “Joe, my sources tell me the governor has swatted a hornet’s nest,” said Julia. “Union leaders around the country are concerned about the campaign rhetoric of certain Republican presidential candidates. Governor Walker’s victories over the teachers’ union in Wisconsin had a devastating effect on union influence and power across the nation. I’m told by contacts within the union that Governor Baker’s action will have serious, potentially ugly repercussions.”

  “Did they expand on the meaning of repercussions?” asked Sciacca.

  “I asked the same question and the response I received was Vegas,” said Julia.

  Julia had been at ground zero during the Las Vegas incident. She and Sarge survived Saturday night unharmed, but the rest of the city didn’t fare so well. By the time power was restored on Monday evening, one hundred and eight citizens of Las Vegas had been killed by the power outage, with more than two thousand injured. Property damage from fires and vandalism was conservatively estimated to top five hundred million dollars.

  “Your source obviously alludes to the walkout of the CU 226 and the SEIU during the power outage,” said Sciacca. “Has there been any connection between the power outage and the work stoppage?”

  “Official statements from the FBI and Homeland are noncommittal. Based on anonymous statements by hotel management, the FBI believes an orchestrated walkout occurred. There has been no official word on the root cause of the blackout…” she said, trailing off.

  “But?” asked Sciacca.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but hotel IT personnel suspect a cyberattack,” she said.

  “I don’t like the sound of this. Your union source knows more than he or she will admit—and they’re playing with fire,” said Sciacca.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised they would cite Vegas as a model for repercussions. It’s tantamount to murder,” she said.

  “Please don’t repeat that outside of this room,” said Sciacca. “All right, let’s hear from Sandra on the interest rate story.”

  Ordinarily, Julia would tune out at this point, but the Federal Reserve had just increased the rates by another half point—a move that had repercussions across all departments.

  “The fed funds rate—the rate at which one bank lends to another bank—has risen substantially over the last six months,” said Gottlieb. “It now stands at three percent. This is news, because the Federal Reserve chairman stated earlier that no additional rate hikes would be necessary in the near future. The Friday announcement came as a surprise, magnified by the size of the increase. This represents a three hundred percent increase over the last six months.”

  “Have your contacts at the Boston Fed weighed in on this?” asked Sciacca.

  “Unofficially, yes,” said Gottlieb. “The Fed appears to be concerned with inflation.”

  “We’ve experienced inflation in this country before,” said Sciacca. “What’s different?”

  “My sources tell me that Yellin waited too long to begin raising rates,” said Gottlieb. “In addition, economic growth is stagnant, hovering around two-tenths of one percent annualized. Of course, the velocity of money is increasing.”

  “Velocity of money?” asked Sciacca.

  “We are dangerously close to a hyperinflationary scenario,” said Gottlieb. “Despite a stagnant economy, inflation has increased dramatically. High velocity means banks, foreign governments and large institutional investors are dumping dollars and buying up hard assets like real estate. If this continues, coupled with the continued devaluation of the dollar, there could be a major meltdown in global financial markets.”

  And that was why Julia tended to listen when Sandra Gottlieb spoke about interest rates.

  Chapter 40

  March 17, 2016

  St. Patrick’s Day

  South Boston, Massachusetts

  Marion La Rue had the perfect vantage point from his hotel room at the Renaissance Boston Waterfront Hotel. His unobstructed view of South Boston, across the Seaport District, allowed him to take in the afternoon festivities, without getting close. The St. Patrick’s Parade held in South Boston was the second largest parade in the country, viewed by nearly one million people and countless more on live television. The parade took a year of planning. La Rue’s plan comprised eight hours of phone calls. He reviewed the notes taken during the calls.

  MBTA South Station, the closest transit station to South Boston, was the largest railroad and intercity bus terminal in Boston. On this day, it typically moved a half-million passengers. The Red Line route was the busiest north-south transportation line, and the Gray Line serviced all of the downtown area before heading east to Logan International Airport. The two lines intersected at South Station, where hundreds of specially dedicated MBTA buses stood by to transport partygoers to Southie for the festivities.

  Like clockwork, the parade kicked off at 1:00 p.m. at the Broadway T Stop. The parade route meandered easterly along Broadway, which would be packed with green-clad revelers—regardless of the weather conditions. For the next two and a half hours, floats, bands and local dignitaries would brave the damp, chilly Boston afternoon, steadily heading east on Broadway, toward the end of the parade route at Marine Park.

  By 2:00, parade planners would instruct a parade of T buses to depart Gillette Park and take a northerly route to the back of Marine Park, to pick up parade-goers and return them to designated parking areas near South Station. Not today.

  At 1:55 p.m., transit police received an anonymous call reporting a suspicious package at the corner of East First Street and Summer Street. Within moments, a second suspicious package was reported at the intersection of A Street and Summer Street. While the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority dispatch center descended into chaos, a third report surfaced, identifying an unattended backpack package on Summer Street—at the entrance to Marine Park. Transit police quickly determined that the suspicious packages were located along the return MBTA bus route and requested Boston PD’s Special Operations Unit. SWAT and EOD teams quickly descended on the packages. Before the specialized units arrived to assess the situation, Captain Richard Kavanaugh, South Boston district commander, ordered an evacuation of the route.

  A few minutes after Captain Kavanaugh issued his order, an MBTA Transit police officer reported smoke billowing out of the red line tunnels—at both entrances to the South Boston station. Amidst blaring fire alarms, MBTA personnel and transit police struggled to evacuate the complex
, multilevel station, emptying buses and hustling passengers onto Atlantic Avenue.

  Within minutes of the ordered evacuations, the Boston Carmen’s Union ordered their employees to leave their jobs and seek safety at home, stranding several hundred thousand rowdy parade-goers—as snow began to fall.

  La Rue turned on the television and found WHDH, the local NBC affiliate. Adam Williams, one of WHDH’s evening anchors, stood next to an unruly crowd of young men gathered near the abandoned reviewing stand. Thick snowflakes pelted Williams as he nodded at the camera, waiting for the intoxicated group behind him to finish their drunken cheer.

  “I want to repeat this for our viewers. There have been multiple reports of suspicious packages left along the MBTA route between Gillette Stadium and the pickup point for parade participants and attendees. We’ve also received reports of an evacuation at the South Boston station due to a possible fire. At this time, we don’t know if the two events are connected. As you can see, the snow is falling heavily now, which is certain to complicate matters,” said Williams.

  La Rue’s cell phone rang. He answered and listened intently for a moment.

  “Thank you sir. Yes, sir, anytime you need me,” said La Rue.

  Chapter 41

  March 17, 2016 (St. Patrick’s Day)

  Gillette Stadium Parking

  South Boston, Massachusetts

  Elijah “Pumpsie” Jones had spent his entire life in Boston. His mom and dad were longtime Red Sox fans, naming their youngest son after the first black Red Sox player, Elijah “Pumpsie” Green. Few were surprised when he took a job as an MBTA bus driver, spending the next thirty plus years driving around the city he loved. Naturally, he joined the Boston Carmen’s Union when he was hired in 1982. Like today, union membership was the only way to “stay competitive” in the rank-and-file MBTA organization. Nonmembers tended to quit or get fired at two to three times the rate of union members. The decision was a no-brainer for Elijah, and despite the tense work strikes, he had few complaints about the organization that had kept his pay competitive year after year. He put two children through college and had a nice pension to show for his career—an uncommon accomplishment in the recent era of vanishing corporate pensions and annual downsizings.

  A year ago, he retired and accepted a part-time position as the transportation coordinator for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade—a perk that helped pay for two season tickets to Fenway Park. One for him and one for his grandson Levon. Pumpsie could barely afford the grandstand seats, but stretching his budget was worth it to spend time with Levon. Since Pumpsie’s wife, Leticia, had died from a stroke, Levon had become his life. Family had always meant everything to him. Levon and his grandpa sat in the outfield grandstand for fifty-six of eighty-one home games in 2015—school was the only thing that kept Levon from making every game.

  With thoughts of family on his mind, he pulled a well-worn Little League baseball card of his grandson out of his shirt pocket—Levon Jones, Little League All Star. He replaced the card and scanned the cold families. He couldn’t let them stand around fighting for the few taxicabs that might straggle by South Station in all of the confusion. Especially given the circumstances.

  When Pumpsie received reports of suspicious packages along the St. Patrick’s Day pickup route and smoke billowing out of South Station, he prayed that the city hadn’t been targeted again. A terrorist attack against the overpacked station would be devastating. The illusion of an attack rapidly cleared when the drivers poured out of the terminal en masse. The “suspicious package” thing had been orchestrated to justify a union walkout. For the first time in thirty years, he felt ashamed to be an honorary member of the Boston Carmen’s Union. Playing on Boston’s fears of another terrorist attack was unforgiveable.

  Pumpsie surveyed the endless rows of MBTA Transit buses and patted his pocket.

  “C’mon, Levon, let’s go help some kids and their folks get home,” he mumbled.

  He reached the first bus in line pointing towards Summer Street and shook his head. The driver hadn’t bothered to shut the door. Out of habit, Pumpsie walked the seats, searching for unauthorized riders. Every now and then, a vagrant would slip inside a bus and try to ride all day. Anything to get out of the cold. If they didn’t smell too bad and looked generally presentable, he might turn a blind eye to the unpaid fare. Finding the bus empty, he slid his stout frame around the safety bar and settled into the ample driver’s seat. Pumpsie caressed the oversized steering wheel like a prized relic. Just like old times.

  He started the bus and let it run for a few minutes, pulling the lever to close the double doors when he was ready to roll. With his hands wrapped around the wheel, he eased forward and drove to the gated bus entry. Pumpsie activated the windshield wipers to combat the heavy snow melting against the massive front windows. It was going to be nasty out there!

  Pumpsie passed Drydock Avenue, the bus rumbling over the Reserve Channel Bridge as it approached the FedEx shipping center. The road was empty, still blocked off for the fleet of buses that would never arrive.

  Pumpsie wheeled the bus left onto East First Street, immediately slowing when he spotted a swarm of people headed in his direction. By the time he reached the first MBTA-designated St. Patrick’s Day pickup, less than a block away, his bus was swarmed by a sea of green-covered Bostonians. Pumpsie brought the bus to a halt, the air brakes squeaking, then exhaling air. He decided to offer seats to the elderly, children and one of their parents first. It was a start.

  He opened the door, expecting to be greeted by a relieved crowd of Bostonians, but was instead treated to angry accusations of MBTA incompetence, unspeakable vulgarities and racial-charged slurs. Instead of boarding the bus in an orderly manner, the green mob jammed into the doors. The women, kids and elderly he imagined would board first were nowhere to be seen; long ago discarded by the unruly jackals squeezing onto his bus. Within a minute, the bus had swallowed far more passengers than it was authorized to carry. Pumpsie shouted at the crowd trying to enter.

  “Please everyone, this is the only bus running. I can’t leave with this many people onboard!” pleaded Pumpsie.

  “That’s bullshit,” yelled one man.

  “Why don’t you people do your job?” shouted another.

  Pumpsie stood to block the entrance, but was immediately pressed against the handrail as more people shoved their way into the bus. Shrieks filled the air as the people in the back of the bus were squeezed together in the aisle.

  “That’s it! No more! No more!” yelled Pumpsie, reaching for the door lever.

  “I’ll drive this fucker myself,” screamed a man, who grabbed his arm and slung him into the people trying to push up the bus steps.

  The crowd ripped at him, pulling him through the tangled mass of people until he was out of the bus. Once on the sidewalk, he was shoved and punched by the drunken horde, his body bouncing back and forth like a pinball between angry, faceless hooligans. When the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke mixed with the scent of blood, Pumpsie’s survival instinct kicked into high gear. He started swinging his arms wildly, punching in every direction. The mob reacted by grabbing all of his limbs and tossed him head first into the side of the red brick building.

  Barely able to move from the jarring impact, he painfully rose up on his hands and knees—only to be kicked in the stomach by a man passing by. Flattened on his stomach, he lowered his head into a widening pool of blood and stared blankly toward the Little League fields caddy-corner to the MBTA stop. Beyond the chain-link fence separating the street from the fields, he caught a glimpse of a little boy holding a green leprechaun balloon. Pumpsie’s hand dug between his chest and the cold cement, finding the Little League All Star card. He slid his hand next to his face and smiled at his beloved Levon as his vision faded.

  Chapter 42

  March 18, 2016

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Steven stood and watched the continued coverage of the St. P
atrick’s Day disaster on the televisions in Sarge’s living room.

  “Sarge, did you want to see this?” asked Steven.

  Governor Charlie Baker was about to make his first statement concerning the events from his press room at the State House.

  “Yeah, hold on,” replied Sarge.

  “Don’t tell me to hold on; it’s your boy Baker who’s about to speak,” said Steven.

  Steven left politics to Sarge and the others. He turned up the volume as Governor Baker spoke.

  “My fellow Bay Staters and Bostonians, I am speaking to you as more than just the governor of the great state of Massachusetts, but as a dejected, sorrowful human being. The senseless acts of violence in South Boston sadden me to my core. Nineteen people have died in the past twenty-four hours. Victims of the cold. Victims of violence. Victims of the Boston Carmen’s Union.

  “I have spoken to many of the families who lost loved ones, to express my condolences. To express our city’s condolences.

  “In particular, I spoke with young Levon Jones, the grandson of Elijah Jones, and assured him that his grandfather was a hero, and that the people responsible for his grandfather’s death would be brought to justice.”

  “It’s bullshit what happened to that old man,” said Steven. “One good guy in a sea of cowards.”

  “After what we saw in Las Vegas, I’m convinced that the cowards far outnumber the good guys,” said Sarge.

  “I have patiently waited nearly twenty-four hours to make this statement because I wanted to have full reports from the Boston Police Department, the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority Police—and from the special commission appointed to review the operations of the MBTA. While I recognize this investigation is still ongoing, certain facts have become abundantly clear.”