Redeem the Lines, page 1
PRAISE FOR REDEEM THE LINES
“As a middle-aged man born and living in Ireland. I can attest that the story line, with fascinating detail about Nate and Patrick, almost mirrors in reverse the journey of many Irishmen to the USA. Mike Murphy tells a gripping story of underworld situations as well as life in rural and urban Ireland in the 1990s.
Reading some of the sections took me back to bars and nightclubs I visited and historical family situations I experienced.
The story is descriptive and superbly crafted and provides honest backdrops for a changing and historical period in transatlantic travel and the situations people faced to try build a better life and livelihood.”
—NIALL CULL, CEO, DLR Leisure, Dublin, Ireland
“Redeem the Lines is an eye opening and inspiring read. The friendship of Patrick and Nate occurs during a time of troubled cultural lines in 1990s Boston. Through Patrick and Nate’s differences, their souls bond and show how human relationships can grow through conflict resolution and open minds.”
—CHENOA MAXWELL, livelimitlessly.com
“Michael Murphy has expanded the saga of Patrick and Nate from the neighborhoods of Boston to the far reaches of Connemara, Ireland. Their exploits are at times bleak, often darkly humorous, and always compelling. Redemption comes in different ways, and Murphy weaves a complex tale of old loyalties challenged in a more modern world.”
—CHRISTOPHER MURRAY, Boston Attorney
“Redeem the Lines is an engaging sequel to Neighborhood Lines, the story of Nate and Patrick, two young men coming of age in a city with strong racial and economic boundaries. As they transition into adulthood, the excitement doesn’t slow down on this thrilling ride through the inner city of Boston.”
—CORNELL MILLS, Roxbury, Boston, Massachusetts
“Redeem the Lines is a compelling story and a must-read. It tells the story of two young men from working class backgrounds whose lives intertwine over the years. The battle to overcome their inner demons is a war against themselves. Reading Murphy’s book has left me reflecting about my own existence and about Dublin in the 80s.”
—COLM PIERCE, colmpiercephotography.com, Dublin, Ireland
“Nate and Patrick, the lead characters in this story, have pushed me to think about what I truly stand for, as well as what I have come to tolerate in my world. Michael Patrick Murphy couldn’t have written such an insightful tale had it not been for his own personal transformation.
Growing up Irish Catholic, I recall Father Sean Walsh as the only clergy member who didn’t threaten me with damnation for my sins. He told me that redemption was a power to change for the better that I could find inside myself.
After reading Redeem the Lines, it dawned on me that the more things change, they do not have to stay the same. As such, I have befriended the characters in this story, and they inspire me to be the change that I truly want to see in the world.
The colorful people and riveting events make this book hard to put down. Pick it up—there may very well be something inside of this story that is meant for you.”
—JAMES MCPARTLAND, founder, Access Performance International
“I am part of a family that participated in the METCO program, and I can attest that this is a riveting story that reveals that friendships can be forged despite being from different neighborhoods during the desegregated 1990s Boston. Murphy perfectly captures Patrick and Nate’s challenges in their respective worlds as they both struggle to do what’s right for their city, their families, and themselves.”
—FRED FORSGARD, thespian, Boston, Massachusetts
This is a work of fiction. Although most of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in the novel are based on actual historical counterparts, the dialogue and thoughts of these characters are products of the author’s imagination.
Published by River Grove Books
Austin, TX
www.rivergrovebooks.com
Copyright © 2023 Michael Murphy
All rights reserved.
The following images are reproduced under license from Alamy, Inc. All rights reserved.
Page vi: Paul Revere monument at Paul Revere Mall in the North End of Boston. Massachusetts. Sean Pavone/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 6: Funeral for victim of police beating. Jim West/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 10: Jail cell at American Police Hall of Fame Titusville, Florida. Ilene MacDonald/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 89: Roundstone, Co Galway, Ireland, the harbour with a regatta and a traditional pub. Design Pics Inc/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 128: Quay Street, Galway, Ireland. Fabrizio Troiani/ Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 163: The Clarence Hotel in Dubling owned by U2 band members Bono and The Edge. Tim Cuff/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 216: China Town in Boston. Enrico Della Pietra/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 225: 1980s Combat zone adult entertainment area Washington Essex Boston Massachusetts USA. ClassicStock/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 251: Boston skyline with outdoor basketball courts and baseball field in the foreground. Alan Myers/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 309: Photograph taken during the aftermath of the London Docklands bombing. The London Docklands bombing (also known as the South Quay bombing or erroneously referred to as the Canary Wharf bombing) occurred on 9 February, 1996, when the Provisions Irish Republican Army (IRA) detonated a powerful truck bomb in South Quay (which is outside Canary Wharf). World History Archive/Alamy Stock Photo.
Page 183: This image is reproduced under license from Colm Pierce, www.colmpiercephotography.com
The following images are reproduced under license from Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Page 16: Democratic presidential candidate Bill Clinton. Tim Clary.
Page 18: The Eire Pub. Rick Friedman.
Page 30: Irish Boxers work out at the Petronelli Brothers gym in Brockton. Midea News Group/Boston Herald via Getty Images.
Page 33: First day of ceasefire in Northern Ireland. Mathieu Polak.
Page 52: Press conference displays cache of arms transported by Valhalla Boat. Boston Globe.
Page 99: Ireland starts easing level 5 COVID-19 restrictions. NurPhoto.
Page 105: Mountain sheep, Od Bog Road, Connemara, Ireland. Tim Graham.
Page 130: Boston police department anti-gang violence unit. Boston Globe.
Page 132: Jury studies Tiffany Moore Crime Scene. Boston Globe.
Page 133: Boston Mayor Menino tours neighborhoods impacted by gang violence. Boston Globe.
Page 183: James J. “whitey” Bulger named to FBI Ten Most Wanted fugitive list. Boston Globe.
Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright law. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Distributed by River Grove Books
Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group and Kim Lance
Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group and Kim Lance
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
Print ISBN: 978-1-63299-643-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63299-644-2
First Edition
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1:REBORN FREE
2:A BOSTON CHURCH
3:NEW BEGINNING
4:THE EIRE PUB
5:JOB HUNT
6:CATHEDRAL
7:THE DIRTY DEED
8:IRELAND MISSION
9:VISITING SUFFOLK PRISON
10:SEND-OFF PARTY
11:O’RILEY’S
12:DUMB LUCK
13:IRELAND
14:UPSIDE DOWN
15:THE REVEREND
16:GALWAY
17:COMMUNITY
18:THE HOSTEL
19:BLUE HILL AVENUE DINER
20:RECEPTION
21:REUNION
22:EAST DUBLIN
23:OLD FLAME
24:DROP MISSION
25:THE OG
26: STREET BOXING CLUB
27:SEARCH AND RESCUE
28:BARN BRAWL
29:LAST NIGHT
30:CHINATOWN
31:BOSTON HARBOR
32:BPD RUN-IN
33:HOUSE VISIT
34:THE STOOP
35:MALCOLM X PARK
36:COURT
37:HELL HOUSE
38:PUG’S PUB
39:TAKEOVER SCHEME
40:FAMILY BREAKFAST
41:INTEL
42:BEATDOWN
43:DOCKLAND BOMBING
44:BACK TO PRISON
45:BOSTON MEDICAL CENTER
46:SCRAPYARD
47:UP IN FLAMES
48:SOMETHING HAD GONE WRONG
49:A WHOLE NOTHER LEVEL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
* * *
NATE SITS IN A DULL GRAY QUESTIONING ROOM INSIDE THE Boston PD headquarters on Tremont Street as a short, stalky Black cop he doesn’t know and Sergeant Daly from the Irish neighborhood—a large, bald White cop—enter with suspicion plain on their faces. Daly drops two photos of a building going up in flames. A sign on the roof of the building that reads “Scrapyard” is engulfed by the inferno.
The Black cop sits down in front of Nate, stares him in the eyes, and says, “We know you were involved and you know something. But what
Nate leans back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
He glances at his interrogator and then at Daly and chuckles. “So, Daly, you haven’t let him in on the history yet, huh?”
Daly paces back and forth with beads of sweat dripping off his skull. He pounds his fist on the table. “I knew you two were up to something,” he says. “I told you two to keep your noses clean after all you been through lately.”
“I haven’t seen him since that night in the hospital with you, so let’s stop wasting all of our time here. You wanna know what our connection is?” Nate asks, turning back to the Black cop.
“I met this White kid on the first day of school, the first day fifty Black freshmen entered a hundred-year-old White Irish school for the first time ever, back in ’88. We shared most of our classes, and at the end of the first week, we had to do a project together. There we were, me a Black kid from Roxbury, and Patrick a White Irish kid from South Boston, walking the historic Freedom Trail and taking notes. Up downtown crossing, by the statehouse and Faneuil Hall, we had to follow a tourist map in our own city. By noon, we were just about done with the project, with only one more statue to visit. We were both uncomfortable being seen with the other on the streets. Standing at the edge of Faneuil Hall, we hesitated, looking down into the unchartered territory in the all-Italian neighborhood called the North End, where the Paul Revere statue stood tall—the last stop on the Freedom Trail.
The Paul Revere statue in Boston’s North End
remains a symbol of the birth of America’s freedom
“Beside that powerful horse statue was an empty basketball court with a set of dunk hoops. I pulled my ball out of my backpack to slam a few dunks. Patrick grabbed a rebound and took a few shots, so we played a little one-on-one.
“After a few minutes, we heard a few strange noises, like a faint blast of air had passed by our heads. Patrick scanned the area but didn’t see anything, so he prepared to drive the lane. We heard the noise again, and I fell to the ground, an excruciating pain in my shoulder.
“Patrick dropped over me and started digging at the holes in my shoulder blade.
“I winced. ‘What are you—?’
“‘You’ve been shot,’ Patrick said in a harsh whisper. ‘I’m trying to get the pellets out.’
“He turned and yelled, ‘What the fuck!’ up to the window where the shot must have come from.
“Five Italian teenagers walked onto the court, swiftly approaching us.
“Patrick leaned into my ear and said, ‘Follow my lead. Get ready.’
“He stood up and said, ‘What the fuck? You could’ve took an eye out! We’re leaving now, okay?’
“One of the biggest Italian kids said, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, bringing a n∗gger in our neighborhood?’
“Patrick walked right up to him and blasted him right in the chin, knocking him out cold. Then he turned to me and said, ‘Run, as fast you can. Let’s go!’
“We ran all the way to South Station, never looking back. On the Red Line train home, I asked Patrick why he’d done that.
“‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he said. ‘I should’ve known better. My father once said never to back down from injustice, and when you’re outnumbered, to pick the meanest, biggest guy and take the best shot you can.’
“From that day on, I knew he was a different type of White boy, that’s for sure. So, yeah, we got history—a lot of it. He has only been out of prison for a minute, but, from what I can see, if he had anything to do with this, he did the city a solid!”
Chapter 1
* * *
REBORN FREE
“YOU READY TO GO YET, KID?”
Inside the eight-foot-by-eight-foot cell, Patrick jumped to his feet.
Across the tiny space, Choppa, Patrick’s cellmate, slowly stood up. He was a White man much older than Patrick, maybe in his fifties, although they had never talked about it. He was barrel chested, with intimidating, massive arms and a collection of Irish tattoos all over his skin, including a shamrock on his earlobe.
A guard let Patrick out of a holding cell where he had changed out of his jumpsuit and found that his old jeans still fit reasonably well, but his shirt and coat were way too tight. Four years of weightlifting had transformed his torso from a men’s medium into an extra large. His shoes fit, although he knew already they would be dated when he put them on. So the first order of business was going to be getting some new clothes. For a few weeks now, Patrick had known he would be stepping into a changed world.
The guard opened up the cell.
“We’re gonna let Choppa walk you out to the last gate.”
Patrick stepped into the narrow corridor as the guard also waved Choppa out, closing the door behind them. As the clang of the door echoed, Patrick felt the emotion running deep between the two of them. They had become family.
“This gonna be an adjustment, kid?” Choppa started.
Yeah, the past four years has been an adjustment, Patrick thought. He put a smile on and said, “I’m just so pumped for a fresh start.”
Patrick watched Choppa’s face take on a glare of dead seriousness, and Patrick held his gaze on him for what he knew would be one of the last times.
“When you first walked in here, you were a boy three months out of high school. Now you’re a man, and the world’s a different place. Everyone in the neighborhood knows now you’re a stand-up guy that can handle the worst life can throw at you. But no matter how tough it gets out there in the real world as an ex-con . . . don’t ever come back here again!”
“I won’t, but I got no regrets,” Pat said. “At the end of the day, I’m not a rat.” That was what had gotten him in here to begin with—not turning in his best friend. But even being in prison was better than being a rat. Everyone knew that.
The guard walked Patrick and Choppa through the grounds toward the front gate. He couldn’t help turning the events of the past five years over and over in his mind, from the night of his graduation party through the almost four years of days and nights in prison for something he hadn’t done.
IT HAD ALL STARTED WHEN THEY’D STEPPED OUT TO GET SOME fresh air. Pat had been walking the streets of South Boston late at night with his buddies Walsh and Sean, a good buzz going for all three of them. Sure, they saw the four Asian teens near the phone booth, but they didn’t think anything of it. Sean instigated them as they passed, tapping one of the kids on the back. Sean was such an asshole. It was funny. At first, that seemed like the end of it.
But shit got out of control fast. The Asian kids came back in a car a few minutes later, intending to finish what Sean had started. They leapt out and started ripping antennas off cars parked nearby, whipping them around as weapons.
It was then that Patrick and the boys knew they were in deep shit. They raided the nearby dumpster to find weapons to counter. They only had a few seconds to grab anything that could hurt—an iron, a broken bottle, a shower curtain rod.
It was a total melee, everyone whaling on each other. By the time the cops showed up, one of the Asian kids was bleeding out on the sidewalk from his abdomen. Patrick and the other boys scattered, but he got caught.
The cops spelled it out for him back at the station, telling him in no uncertain terms that if that kid died, he’d be an accessory to murder—unless, of course, he spilled what had happened.
Patrick knew it was Walsh. He’d been defending himself with the broken bottle when the kid got injured. And Patrick knew that, if he told the cops, he’d get off easy. But Walsh was one of his best friends. And even if he weren’t, no fucking way was he going to break the code of silence and rat someone out. He recalled the conversation he’d had with his mother, who knew the history of the neighborhood well.
“You think going to prison’s bad?” Pat had told her. “Being a rat is like being excommunicated. I’ll never get respect from anyone ever again. To cops, criminals, friends, and enemies, I’ll be nothin’. Honestly, I’d rather be in prison.”
“Hard as it is for me to hear,” she’d replied, “I know that’s your only choice.”
