OUR BOSTON: Writers Celebrate the City They Love -- excerpt

7/27/2019 OUR BOSTON: Writers Celebrate the City They Love -- excerpt

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W r i t e r s C e l e b r a t e C i t y t h e y l o v e

Edited by

a n d r e W b l a u n e r

Our Bsn

James Atlas Mike Barnicle

Madeleine Blais

Bud Collins

Kevin Cullen

Hugh Delehanty

Leslie Epstein

Israel Horovitz

Pico Iyer

Pagan Kennedy

Dennis Lehane

Bill Littlefeld

Charles McGrath

Tova Mirvis

Lesley VisserLeigh Montville

Susan Orlean

Robert Pinsky

George Plimpton

Katherine A. Powers

Nell Scovell

Susan Sheehan

David M. Shribman

Shira Springer

Sally Taylor

John Updike

Fr vrycpy ld, HMHwll dnt $5 t

Andr Aciman

George Howe Colt

Neil Swidey

Carlo Rotella

David Michaelis

Jabari Asim

Scott Stossel

Jessica Shattuck

Joan Wickersham

E. M. Swit


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A Mariner Original

Mariner BooksHoughton Milin Harcourt

boston new york

2013

Our Boston

Writers Celebrate the City

They Love

edited by

Andrew Blauner


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Copyright 2013 by Andrew Blauner

All rights reserved

For inormation about permission to reproduce selections rom this book,

write to Permissions, Houghton Miin Harcourt Publishing Company,

215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhbooks.com

Library o Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Our Boston : writers celebrate the city they love /

edited by Andrew Blauner.

pages cm

isbn 978-0-544-26380-2

1. Boston (Mass.) Literary collections. 2. American

literature 21st century. I. Blauner, Andrew.

ps509.b665o96 2013

810.8'035874461 dc23

2013027063

Printed in the United States o America

doc 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Credit lines and permissions appear on pages 35455.


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Contents

Running Toward the Bombs 1

Kevin Cullen

Walking on American Avenue 30

Mike Barnicle

Pride or Prejudice 40

Andr Aciman

The Former Legends 46

E. M. Swit

A Boys Boston 58

Charles McGrath

Things in Threes 66

Madeleine Blais

Getting Over Boston 78

George Howe Colt

Accents, or The Missing R 88Susan Orlean


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Bonre o the Memories 91

David M. Shribman

A City Not on a Hill 102

Joan Wickersham

Our Chowder 108

David Michaelis

Boston, 1972 123

Katherine A. Powers

Transplants 132

Jabari Asim

Diamonds (and Dugouts) Are a

Girls Best Friend 147

Lesley Visser

Next Stop: Back Bay 157Hugh Delehanty

Medora Goes to the Game 169

George Plimpton

The Everything Bagel 185

Leslie Epstein

Wounded, Bostons Heart Remains Strong 188

Bud Collins

So You Want to Be in Pictures 194

Nell Scovell

Americas Brain 205

Israel Horovitz

In the Long Run 209

Shira Springer

x Contents


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Messing With the Wrong City 218

Dennis Lehane

Boston la Carte 222

Susan Sheehan

The Athens o America 233

James Atlas

Bothering Bill Russell 239

Leigh Montville

From Somewhere 250

Tova Mirvis

Boston Marriage 259

Pagan Kennedy

Reading Around Boston 268

Scott Stossel

Souvenir o the Ancient World 280

Robert Pinsky

Boston Sports: Something or Everyone to Love

and Complain About 282

Bill Littleeld

The Landscape o Home 290

Carlo Rotella

Thinking Locally, Acting Globally 301

Neil Swidey

Jamaica Pond: My Walden 306

Jessica Shattuck

Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu 314

John Updike

Contents xi


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The Classroom o the Real 332

Pico Iyer

This Is the Way I Point My View 336

Sally Taylor

Acknowledgments 338

Contributors Biographies 343

xii Contents


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Dawn broke clear and clean over Boston on Patriots

Day 2013, and Dan Linskey was up beore the dawn.

He walked down Boylston Street, near the nish line o the

Boston Marathon, as he does every Patriots Day, because this

is his town and this is his baby. Dan Linskey is the chie o the

Boston Police Department. And he owns every big outdoor event

in the city, rom the raucous celebrations that ollow the cham-pionships o Bostons sports teams, which seem to happen every

other year, to the star-spangled estival when the Boston Pops

serenades the city every Fourth o July.

His was not an idle walk. As chie o the department, Linskey

had drawn up several disaster scenarios, and the reality is that

in the post-9/11 world, the marathon, like every other outdoor

event in Boston, was a target or terrorists.Still, there was nothing on this sunny morning that led Lin-

Running Toward the Bombs

Kevin Cullen


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skey to believe it would be anything other than the day it usually

is, the people lined along Boylston, ve deep, cheering the run-

ners on those last ew hundred yards, toward the nish line at theBoston Public Library.

Patriots Day is a holiday in Boston recalling the shots red at

Concord and Lexington, just outside the city, when a bunch o

armers took on an empire and won. The trac is light. Out o

the corner o his eye, Dan Linskey spied a woman who had set up

camp on the corner o the Ring Road, blocking it. The Ring Road

was an access point or emergency vehicles to Boylston Street.Maam, you cant stay here, Dan Linskey told the woman.

This being Boston, she gave it right back to him, inorm-

ing him that she had got up early to stake out a prime spot on

Boylston and she wasnt giving it up, no matter what he said.

Dan Linskey, a cop or twenty-seven years, a Marine beore

that, can be nice when he has to be. But he can also be rm. With

this woman he was rm, and soon she had begrudgingly de-

camped to a place arther down Boylston. She was angry, urious

actually. But in moving, at Dan Linskeys insistence, that woman

unwittingly saved many lives.

Bill and Denise Richard told the kids the night beore that they

were heading into town rom their Dorchester home to see themarathon. Their children Henry, nine, Martin, eight, and

Jane, seven were excited. It was a amily tradition, and like all

amily traditions, it was something cherished.

Bill and Denise were what some suburbanites would call

homesteaders. From the 1970s right through the end o the

twentieth century, many people had let Boston in what the de-

mographers dubbed white ight. The Richards were the otherside o the coin. They chose to live in the Ashmont section o

2 k e v i n c u l l e n


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Dorchester, which like a lot o neighborhoods in Bostons inner

city had seen something o a decline in the second hal o the

twentieth century.But the Richards were part and parcel o Ashmonts revital-

ization. They sent their kids to the local charter school. They, like

others, saw things changing or the better when Chris Douglass,

one o the citys premier restaurateurs, opened a high-end place,

the Ashmont Grill, right in the middle o the neighborhood in

2005. And the Richards were prime movers in getting the state

to invest heavily in rebuilding the Ashmont train and bus station.The Richards were among those who breathed new lie into an

old neighborhood, giving it endless possibilities.

The Richard kids were giddy with excitement, leaning against

the metal barriers, watching the runners, who were diferent col-

ors, like the ags o all the worlds nations lining the last portion

o the marathon route.

Standing there, enraptured by the sights and sounds o peo-

ple nishing the last steps o twenty-six miles, the cheering sus-

tained, neither the Richards nor anyone else noticed as a nine-

teen-year-old Chechen kid named Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, wearing

his baseball cap backward like many other kids in the crowd,

approached rom behind. Tsarnaev placed a backpack right be-

hind eight-year-old Martin Richard, then continued to walk upBoylston Street.

They call the re station Broadway, even though its in the South

End, a mile away rom the real Broadway in South Boston. It

houses Engine 7 and Tower Ladder 17, and it is one o the busiest

rehouses in the city.

On Patriots Day, as the runners passed the nish line onBoylston, the men rom Engine 7 were around the corner, at an



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apartment building on Commonwealth Avenue, Bostons grand-

est boulevard. A group o college students had managed to put a

gas grill on a narrow balcony to cook hamburgers and hot dogswhile they partied Patriots Day away.

Two reghters, Benny Upton and Sean OBrien, looked at

each other, thinking that however smart these kids were to get

into college, they couldnt be that smart.

Do you guys know how dangerous this is? Upton asked

them.

The college kids were ofering sheepish apologies when therewas a boom rom around the corner.

Upton, a ormer Marine who had done three combat tours,

knew exactly what had happened.

Bomb! he yelled, and he and the men rom Engine 7 and

Tower Ladder 17 were soon running at ull clip up Exeter Street,

right into the belly o the beast. They had only just begun run-

ning when they heard a second explosion.

Jesus Christ, Tommy Hughes said to himsel as he ran. Like

Upton, he was a ormer Marine and could only imagine what lay

around the corner on Boylston.

Actually, he later told me, he couldnt imagine it. It was worse

than anything he saw in the military. Acrid smoke hung in the air

and people lay scattered across the sidewalk. There were pools oblood, body parts. It was, at rst, eerily quiet and the reghters

instinctively ran to the sides o the wounded.

Upton, like the other reghters, knew it was terrorism, and

they assumed they were running into secondary explosions,

and perhaps a biochemical attack. But they, like their brother

and sister police ocers and paramedics and EMTs, ran toward

the bombs anyway, because thats what they do.Tommy Hughes was almost immediately aced with a Hob-



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sons choice. Two children, one a boy, the other a girl, both miss-

ing a leg, lay on the sidewalk, like sh out o water, wriggling

helplessly. Hughes reached down and picked up the boy, whowas closer to him, but his guilt was assuaged immediately be-

cause another reghter picked up the girl.

The little boy was as much in ear as he was in pain. Tommy

Hughes hugged him as much as he carried him.

Its OK, buddy, Tommy Hughes whispered into his ear. Ive

got you. Its OK, pal.

Sean OBrien, a reghter rom Engine 7, was almost asstunned as the victims, because when he rounded the corner he

came ace to ace with Bill Richard, a riend rom the neighbor-

hood in Dorchester.

I cant nd Denise! Bill Richard yelled to Sean OBrien. Bill

Richard was clearly in shock, his ears numbed by the explosion.

It was a short-lived blessing, because he did not ully compre-

hend, in that moment, that his amily lay scattered around him:

his son was dead, his daughter was missing a leg, his wie had

shrapnel in her eye.

OBrien pushed his emotion aside and his training kicked in.

But his task was Herculean. He looked down and saw young

Martin.

I knew Marty was gone, OBrien told me a day later.Sean OBrien was not just looking at a little boy. He was look-

ing at a little boy who was kind to everyone, including OBriens

daughter, who was in the same third-grade class. OBriens heart

ached so badly that he almost keeled over. But whatever eelings

he had or little Martin Richard, Sean OBrien orced himsel to

try to save others. The best way to honor Martin, he later told me,

was to save others.In act, almost every reghter rom Engine 7 and Tower Lad-



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der 17 knew the Richard amily. Many o them were Dorchester

guys. The daughter o Kevin Meehan, the chaufeur reghter

lingo or the engine driver babysat the Richard kids. Thedaughter o Eddie Kelly, who was of duty but raced to the scene

ater watching his wie cross the nish line, was in the same Irish

step dance school as Janey Richard.

All that coincidence underscored that Boston was the smallest

o big cities in America. But i the reghters and police ocers

and paramedics and EMTs who anned out across the battleeld

that was Boylston Street recognized some o the injured, theytended to strangers with the same ervor.

Benny Upton ound a homeless man, his ragged clothes made

more ragged by the bomb, propped against a wall. The mans oot

dangled, held on by a thin shred o esh.

I looked him in the eye and asked i he was OK, Upton said.

But he was in shock. He couldnt talk.

Shrapnel had pierced Denise Richards eye. Her son lay near

her, dead. Her daughter, Jane, had lost a leg. Bill Richards legs

were shredded by shrapnel. Only Henry escaped physical injury,

but his soul had been shredded by shrapnel too.

Benny Upton came across a woman, a bone protruding rom

her leg, her emoral artery pumping out a deep red ooze. He put a

tourniquet around her leg and saved her lie. And then he movedon to the next person.

Tommy Hughes continued to whisper soothing words into the

ear o the terried little boy as he and a paramedic rom the citys

Emergency Medical Services tried to tie of the boys leg. There

was so much blood that the tourniquet kept slipping. They nally

got it tight, and Tommy Hughes and the paramedic hoped or the

best as the ambulance carrying the boy sped away.Moments ater the second bomb exploded, Lieutenant Joe

Roach and the reghters rom the Boylston Street rehouse



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were wading into the sea o injured. Mike Materia, a reghter

rom Ladder 15 who looks like an NFL linebacker, reached down

and swept up a woman named Roseann Sdoia, whose leg wasseverely injured.

Youre gonna make it, he told her as he ran toward the medi-

cal tent that had instantly become a triage center. Youre gonna

make it.

She believed him.

When the rst bomb went of, many o the people gathered atthe nish line instinctively ran away. Like the reghters and

the police ocers, including all o the emale police ocers rom

Station 4 in the South End, Carlos Arredondo ran toward the

bombs.

Carlos was born in Costa Rica, and was a so-called illegal im-

migrant when his son joined the Marine Corps. When his son

was killed in action in Iraq in 2004, Carlos was so overcome with

grie he tried to kill himsel. He eventually took that grie and

turned it around, committing himsel to work not just as a peace

activist but as an advocate or military amilies.

Even beore the second bomb exploded, Carlos ew over the

barriers. Like other rst responders, he pulled down some o the

ags o the various countries that lined the route to get to thewounded. Those ags lay in the middle o Boylston Street, scat-

tered like so many victims. Somehow, Carloss cowboy hat stayed

on his head.

Carlos went to the side o a guy named Jef Bauman, whose

legs were a bloody pulp. Baumans lie was seeping through a

ruptured emoral artery. Carlos reached down and pinched the

artery and held it tight. They loaded Jef into a wheelchair andraced down Boylston Street. Carlos held on or dear lie, and in

doing so saved Jefs.



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Carlos wasnt alone. I the bravery o the cops, reghters, and

EMS workers who ran toward the bombs was breathtaking, the

similar reaction o ordinary people like Carlos Arredondo waseven more extraordinary. They were ollowing a higher calling,

risking their own lives or total strangers.

Some o them were ex-military. Others had some rudimentary

rst-aid training. And still others were like Rob Wheeler, a col-

lege kid who could not stand idly by. Wheeler had just nished

the marathon when the bombs went of. He ran back toward the

explosions and heard Krystara Brassard screaming or someoneto help her ty-one-year-old ather. Ron Brassard was lying on

the sidewalk, blood pouring out o the severed artery in his leg.

Wheeler, twenty-three, pulled the sweaty shirt rom his back and

tied of Brassards leg, saving his lie.

The smoke was still rising over Boylston Street when Detective

Sergeant Danny Keeler realized what had happened.

Keeler, a ormer Marine known or his take-charge, no-

nonsense approach at crime scenes, uncharacteristically began

screaming.

Keep those roads open! he shouted into his radio. We need

to get ambulances in here!

Most cops rst instinct would be to hop out o their cruisersand wade in to help. But the ones on the ground were already do-

ing that, and Keeler would be damned i he was going to let well-

meaning cops clutter the access roads with abandoned cruisers.

Danny Keeler saved untold lives by being Danny Keeler.

Dan Linskey heard Keelers screams over his radio and knew

immediately that it was bad. Keeler screamed only when abso-

lutely necessary.Im not sure what we got, boss, Linskey said into his cell



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phone to Police Commissioner Ed Davis. But I think its bad.

Im hearing multiple amputations.

Daviss heart sank when he heard those words: multiple am-putations.

Boston Police Superintendent Billy Evans, like Linskey a

member o the brass whose oce was the street, was relaxing in

his native Southie, having run his eighteenth marathon. He was

at the Boston Athletic Club, in the whirlpool, resting his ty-

our-year-old bones, when one o his cops burst in.

Super, the cop said, there were just two explosions at thenish line.

Having already run twenty-six miles, Evans ran some more,

back to his house, where he put on his uniorm and raced to the

scene.

When he got there, he couldnt believe what he saw. He and

Chie Linskey and Commissioner Davis set up a command cen-

ter at the Westin Hotel, around the corner rom the nish line.

In the Back Bay, people opened their doors to runners who

couldnt get back to their hotels because the entire neighborhood

had been sealed of as a crime scene.

The citys EMTs and paramedics were extraordinary in their

proessionalism, as were the doctors and nurses, some o them

still wearing their running togs rom the race, at the citys nu-merous hospitals. They took on battleeld injuries with skill and

aplomb.

Dr. Barbara Ferrer, head o the Boston Public Health Com-

mission, told me they moved ninety seriously injured people

to the hospital in thirty minutes, an unprecedented efort that

saved an incalculable number o lives.

We had a plan, she told me. It was chaotic ater the bomb-ings. But it wasnt chaos. We had a plan. And, to a large part, it



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was Dan Linskeys plan, with all o the other city agencies chip-

ping in, so that when this happened, we were ready. But beyond

planning, it comes down to the extraordinary work o individu-als.

Individuals like a young doctor at Childrens Hospital named

Natalie Stavas. She was running the marathon with her ather

when they and thousands o other runners were stopped by po-

lice ocers a hal mile rom the nish line.

Stavas normally respects authority, but she knew there were

wounded up ahead, so she leapt over a barrier and raced downtoward Boylston Street even as the cops told her to stop.

Im pretty ast, Stavas allowed.

She came across a woman whose thigh was torn wide open.

She screamed or an ambulance and ashioned a tourniquet out

o a belt a man handed her. Then Stavas ran thirty more eet

down Boylston and ound a woman in a similar state.

Stavas was positively heroic, but when I talked to her a week

ater the bombing, she shook her head.

I wish I could have done more, she said, racked with some-

thing the psychologists call survivors guilt. I should have done

more.

Natalie, I told her, everyone you went to help lived. You

saved lives.She nodded, accepting the truth o that, still struggling with

what she saw.

In the hours ater the explosions, I sat at my cluttered desk in the

Boston Globe newsroom and tried to write a column. I called my

wie and said Id be late. I didnt have to explain.

It had started out, as Lou Reed might put it, a perect day. Dryand seasonable, not hot like the previous year, which had given



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the Arican runners an advantage, as i they needed it, because

the Aricans always win the Boston Marathon.

Those Aricans, especially the Kenyans, have become adoptedBostonians. We love them. And they love us back. They are hum-

ble and gracious winners.

Four days beore the bombs went of, the elite Arican runners

visited Tom Keanes third-grade class at the Elmwood Elemen-

tary School in Hopkinton, the town west o Boston where the

marathon begins. For the past twenty years, the elite runners,

most o them Kenyans, all o them black, have visited the Hop-kinton kids, almost all o them white.

The kids serenade the Kenyans in Swahili, and the Kenyans

smile and hug the kids.

You know something, said Wesley Korir, who won the 2012

marathon, it makes me eel very loved.

And it was thoughts like those that washed over me as I sat at

my desk and tried to take in the enormity o what had just hap-

pened.

Patriots Day is, ostensibly, a celebration o nationalism, re-

calling the rst shots o the Revolutionary War. But in Boston,

it is not a day we turn inward. Just the opposite. It is the day

when Boston, an international city, is at its most international, as

we welcome people rom all over the world to run or watch ourmarathon, to drink in our peculiarly provincial internationalism,

to listen to our ridiculous accents, and to carbo-load in the North

End, our Little Italy.

The Boston Red Sox, the baseball team that alternately woos

us and drives us crazy, always play a morning game on Patriots

Day. Its timed so that when the game lets out, the crowd can

leave Fenway Park and meander through Kenmore Square to-ward the marathon route in Back Bay.



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On this Patriots Day the crowd was jubilant, because Mike

Napoli had just kissed a ball of the Green Monster in the bottom

o the ninth, sending Dustin Pedroia scampering home all theway rom rst base, giving the Red Sox a walk-of win.

But just as the Red Sox ans began mingling with those who

had been lining the marathon route or hours, a perect day

morphed into something viscerally evil.

The location and timing o the bombings appeared sinister

beyond belie, done purposely to maximize death and destruc-

tion. But the bombers ailed in one crucial respect: they put thebombs near the nish line, where a group o doctors and nurses

were assembled in a medical tent that was quickly converted to a

MASH-style triage unit.

I we had lost our innocence twelve years earlier, on a similarly

beautiul September morning, the Patriots Day bombings had

robbed o us any notion that wed always be sae in our city. It was

a psychic wound. Deep and proound.

And so I sat at my desk, stunned like the rest o our town,

wondering who might have done this and then concluding that

it didnt matter who did it, because the murderous ideology,

whether oreign or domestic, was irrelevant. There was no un-

derstanding anyone who would do such a thing.

In my column, I wrote about watching in awe as Lisa Hughes,an anchor at WBZ-TV, the CBS aliate in Boston, did her job

at the nish line with such uninching proessionalism. Since

2005, Lisa has been married to Mike Casey, who lost his wie

Neilie on one o the planes out o Boston that crashed into the

twin towers.

I ound out that Bostons mayor, Tom Menino, who had been

being treated or a series o ailments, ignored his doctors adviceand signed himsel out o the hospital ater he heard about the

bombings.



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I dont care what you say, doc, the mayor said, lowering him-

sel into a wheelchair. Im going.

And I took some comort rom knowing Tom Menino did that.Boston was knocked down, but, like Tom Menino, it got right

back up. Slowly, painully, and with some efort. But it got back

up.

I nished my column and was heading home when I spon-

taneously got of the Southeast Expressway and headed to the

Eire Pub in the Adams Village section o Dorchester. My purpose

was twoold: I knew there would be some cops and reghtersthere, because there always was, and a lot o the regulars, and

even some o the bartenders, like Kevin Kelly and Pat Brophy,

run the marathon every year.

Besides, I was starving and craved a corned bee sandwich

and a pint o Guinness.

As I walked toward the pub entrance, I noticed Joe Finn, a

deputy chie and one o the best reghters in the city, standing

on the sidewalk. He was talking on his cell phone and motioned

me over with one hand.

He ended the call and said, I was trying to get Sean OBrien

to come out, just to talk. Im worried about him. I hope hes going

to be OK.

I knew Sean, so I said, What happened to him?He was there, Joe Finn said. He was there with the little boy

who died.

Thats when I rst learned o what happened to Martin Rich-

ard and his amily.

I elt sick to my stomach. I went into the pub and said hello

to Joes wie, who knows the Richards. I asked or Kevins and

Pats race times. I said hello to a couple o reghters and a copI knew who worked at headquarters and who looked like he had

just gone through hell, and then I realized I had to go home.



21/36

That corned bee sandwich I had craved just minutes earlier,

I never ordered.

In the days that ollowed, we took a measure o the dead and

injured.

Besides Martin Richard, the bombs had killed Lu Lingzi, a

twenty-three-year-old Chinese graduate student at Boston Uni-

versity, and Krystle Campbell, a twenty-nine-year-old restaurant

manager who had grown up in the town next to where I grew up.

At hospitals across the city, more than two hundred peoplewere being treated. Many had lost legs to the bombs, which were

primed to do just that, kill and maim.

Inside the FBI oces across rom city hall, investigators be-

gan poring over images taken rom the various surveillance cam-

eras at the restaurants and stores that line Boylston. Homeland

Security agents stood in Logan Airport and politely asked travel-

ers i they had any video on their cameras or smartphones that

might be useul.

Investigators eventually narrowed their suspects down to a

pair o young men in baseball caps, one o them turned back-

ward. By Wednesday, FBI analysts had produced clear photo-

graphs o the two men.

One o them, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, seemed unazed by havingkilled and maimed so many. Im a stress-ree kind o guy, he

tweeted shortly ater Tuesday turned into Wednesday.

He might have elt more stress had he known that investiga-

tors were approaching the bedside o Jef Bauman, a man whose

legs had been lost to the bombs but whose lie was saved by Car-

los Arredondo.

Thats them, Bauman said, pointing at the photos o Tamer-lan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. Those are the guys with the back-

packs.



22/36

Those backpacks contained pressure cookers packed with

ball bearings and nails and a hatred that seemed incongruous

given that the United States had given the Tsarnaev amily sanc-tuary, had given them ree health care and benets, had given

Dzhokhar a scholarship to attend college.

But Tamerlan had embraced a radical orm o Islam, so ex-

treme that he criticized people who let their children read Harry

Potter books. When the imam at his mosque compared Martin

Luther King Jr. to the prophet Mohammed, Tamerlan exploded

in a t o rage, accusing the imam and others at the mosque obeing kars, unbelievers.

Tamerlan inected his little brother up to this point a ully

assimilated American kid who liked to smoke marijuana and

goo on his riends, black and white, at Rindge and Latin High

School in Cambridge with a hateul ideology that called or

killing innocents because American orces had gone into Iraq

and Aghanistan.

Tamerlan styled himsel a devout Muslim, but he had smoked

marijuana and drunk alcohol or years. He also beat his girl-

riend. A trained and skilled boxer, he saw no contradiction in his

sel-proessed undamentalism and his hypocritical liestyle. He

was in the vanguard, and people would die, and so, too, would he.

On Thursday morning, three days ater the bombings, Boston

Police Superintendent Billy Evans set the alarm clock in his

South Boston home or 3:30 a.m.

President Obama was due in town later that day, and Evans

wanted to get in a quick run. He was on the job by 4:30 a.m.

Obama stood on the altar at the Cathedral o the Holy Cross

and, in tones that suggested Arican-American preacher as muchas commander in chie, said that Bostons response to the atroc-

ity visited upon it had been a lesson or everyone.



23/36

Thats what youve taught us, Boston, the president said.

To persevere. To not grow weary. To not get aint. Even when it

hurts. Even when our heart aches. We summon the strength . . .and we carry on. We nish the race.

Tom Menino, the mayor, summoned the strength to drag him-

sel out o the wheelchair and stand up on the altar. In doing so,

a mayor whose oratory skills are sometimes used to deride him

made his critics look small and petty: Menino had come to em-

body the new battle cry, Boston Strong.

That evening, the images o the Tsarnaev brothers ashedacross TV screens around the world.

They knew their time was running out. Tamerlan decided they

would go out with a bang.

Unortunately, they would take a wonderul young police o-

cer with them.

Sean Collier was born to be a cop.

When he was six years old, his mother, Kelley, took him and

his little brother Andy to a Papa Ginos or some pizza.

Sean noticed a woman sitting in a nearby booth, crying.

Mum, he whispered, youve got to talk to that lady.

Kelley looked over at the woman and tried to reassure Sean.

Sean, she said, Im sure she just wants to be alone.Maybe she has no one, Sean replied. Youre a nurse, Mum.

Please go talk to her.

Her conscience tugged by a six-year-old, Kelley walked over

to the woman and asked i she was OK.

Andy looked up to his big brother. Once, when Andy went to

step on an ant, seven-year-old Sean Collier stopped him.

You cant kill it, Sean told his little brother. Its a living thing.Pick it up with a napkin and put it outside.

Jen Lemmerman was always close to her brother Sean, but



24/36

they became especially tight during a summer when Sean was

in high school and Jen was in college. They shared a job typing

medical records into a computer system. The work was tedious,and to pass the time they listened to the radio, and at one point

the station they listened to had a undraiser or the Jimmy Fund,

the Red Sox charity that helps kids with cancer. Sean was trans-

xed by the stories o young survivors.

Sean was so prooundly afected by those stories, Jen told

me. He went home that night and made a donation. He was in

high school. He didnt have any money, but he set up an auto-matic withdrawal rom his account. He had that automatic with-

drawal until the day he died.

He died that Thursday night, when the cowardly Tsarnaev

brothers crept up on him as his Massachusetts Institute o Tech-

nology police cruiser idled outside a building on the MIT campus

in Cambridge. They shot him ve times, twice in the head.

They wanted his gun, but they were too stupid to gure out

how to unasten his holster.

I just killed a cop, Tamerlan boasted as he climbed into the

back seat o a black Mercedes-Benz SUV driven by a twenty-six-

year-old Chinese guy named Danny.

Danny had pulled over to check a text message. Thats when

the Tsarnaev brothers carjacked him.You know about the Boston Marathon bombing? I did that,

Tamerlan snarled. Dont be stupid.

For the next seventy-ve minutes, a terried Danny drove

around the Brighton section o Boston, as well as the neighbor-

ing communities o Cambridge and Watertown. The bombers

wanted more than the $45 Danny had in his wallet. They talked

about driving to New York. They had more bombs they wantedto use in New York City.

But they needed money to make the next stop on their bomb-



25/36

ing tour work. Tamerlan pointed the silver handgun at Danny

and demanded his ATM card. The younger Tsarnaev got out o

the car and withdrew $800.When Dannys cell phone rang, Tamerlan pointed the gun and

said, Answer it. I you say a single word in Chinese, I will kill

you.

Where are you? Dannys roommate asked in Mandarin.

Im gonna sleep in my riends place tonight, Danny replied

in English, staring at the gun. Im sorry, I have to go.

They were short on gas, so they pulled into a station of Me-morial Drive in Cambridge. As Tamerlan umbled with a GPS,

his little brother got out to buy gas with Dannys credit card.

Danny decided to make a run or it. He elt Tamerlan grab at

his jacket as he jumped out o the SUV. He ran at an angle, hop-

ing it would make it harder or Tamerlan to shoot him. He ran

across to a Mobil station and burst into the store.

They want to kill me! Danny shouted.

The clerk, a orty-ve-year-old Egyptian immigrant named

Tarek Ahmed, called the police and waited or the gunman to

come. But he never came.

The bombers ed, and when the police came to the Mobil sta-

tion they smiled when Danny told them he had let his cell phone

in his car, which also could be traced through its GPS system.The net was closing, ast.

Police traced the car and were able to gure out the brothers

were somewhere in Watertown.

Joe Reynolds, a Watertown police ocer, was into the rst

hour o his midnight shit when he heard the dispatcher say,

OK, the vehicle is now in Watertown, in the area o 89 Dexter,a neighborhood o duplexes and single-amily homes.

Im right behind that vehicle, Joe Reynolds radioed back.



26/36

Sergeant John MacLellan, the patrol supervisor, didnt like

Reynolds being alone.

Dont stop the car until I get there, MacLellan told Reynoldsover the radio.

But it was too late. Tamerlan pulled the Mercedes over. His

brother pulled over a green Honda Civic he had picked up ear-

lier. The bombers got out and suddenly Joe Reynolds had bullets

bouncing of his cruiser. He threw his cruiser into reverse and

came to a stop just as MacLellan rolled up in a police Ford Expe-

dition.MacLellan then did something right out o the movies: he got

out o the vehicle but kept it in drive and let it roll toward the

bombers.

Tamerlan Tsarnaev emptied his weapon into the empty police

car as it inched toward him. His little brother reloaded the gun

or him and handed it back.

At the same time, the brothers began throwing bombs at

MacLellan and Reynolds, who returned re. One o the bombs

landed right next to MacLellan as he used a tree or cover. Mac-

Lellan rolled himsel up, certain he was going to be killed by the

bomb. But it never exploded.

At that moment, Sergeant Jef Pugliese, a thirty-three-year

veteran o the Watertown orce, pulled another scene right outo the movies. Instead o driving into the reght, he went up a

side street, parked, and raced through a series o yards so that he

would get the drop on the bombers, approaching rom the side.

Pugliese began ring at Tamerlan, who turned and red back.

Not surprisingly, Pugliese, his departments chie rearms in-

structor, was a better shot. He hit Tamerlan several times, and

the bombers knees buckled.When Tamerlan realized he was out o bullets, he threw his

gun at Pugliese. The gun bounced of his arm, and Pugliese



27/36

rushed Tamerlan and tackled the terrorist. Other Watertown o-

cers and cops rom other departments rushed to help Pugliese

subdue Tamerlan. As they converged on him, they heard the rev-ving o an engine. In the conusion, Dzhokhar had climbed into

the Mercedes and was barreling toward them.

The cops rolled of Tamerlan, who was run over by his little

brother, his body dragged down the street beore it popped out

rom under the chassis, a bloody mess.

Dan Linskey, the Boston police chie, was a ew blocks away asthe reght unolded. Then, over his radio, he heard what no cop

wants to hear.

Ofcer down! Ofcer hit! We need an ambulance!

In the crossre, a Transit Police ocer, Dic Donohue, was

shot in the upper thigh and was bleeding out. It was most likely

riendly re, but that was irrelevant at this point.

Linskey knew that plaintive voice calling or help or an o-

cer down. It was Ricky Moriarty, one o his best street cops.

Both Linskey and Moriarty are ormer Marines, i there is such a

thing. They are close riends, and Linskey started running, yell-

ing into his radio.

Ricky! Please, please, let me know where you are!

Moriarty strained a ligament in his hand while doing CPR onDonohue and pulled of in agony. Another Boston cop, Walter

Suprey, jumped in seamlessly. Moriarty gathered his breath and

spoke clearly into the radio.

One Forty-our Dexter! he yelled to his chie. One Forty-

our Dexter!

Linskey ran up to the knot o ocers giving Donohue rst aid.

Then he turned and saw one o his cops, Jarrod Gero, holding thehandcufed Tamerlan across the street.

Be careul, Jarrod, Linskey yelled, he might be loaded.



28/36

Linskey ran over and he and Gero began ripping Tamerlans

clothes of, risking him or an explosive device. They ound

none.Linskey radioed or an ambulance or Tamerlan, someone he

knew had killed and maimed men, women, and children.

Thats the diference between us and them, Linskey told me

later.

At that moment, two Watertown reghters, Pat Menton and

Jimmy Caruso, arrived at Donohues side in a paramedic unit.

When Pat Menton heard Ocer down! all he could think owas Dont let it be Tim. His brother Tim Menton is a Water-

town police ocer.

When the two reghters jumped out o their ambulance

truck, they realized the poor cop was not Tim Menton but a tran-

sit ocer. Chris Dumont, a state trooper trained as a paramedic,

had helped keep Donohue alive, along with a pair o Harvard

University cops, Mike Rea and Ryan Stanton, who had ashioned

tourniquets.

But Donohue had lost so much blood, Menton and Caruso

thought he was a goner. They yelled or the cops to put Donohue

in the back o the truck, and they jumped in the back along with

Dumont. Caruso used all his strength to clamp the pulsing emo-

ral artery, rom which Donohues lie was ebbing away.We need a driver! Pat Menton hollered. We need a driver!

Menton couldnt see, but his brother Tim jumped in the driv-

ers seat. Tim Menton didnt have the rst clue o how to operate

it, but he got it going.

Protocol called or them to go to the trauma unit at Beth Is-

rael, at least ve miles away.

Well never make it, Pat Menton said.Well never make it, Jimmy Caruso agreed.

Go to Mount Auburn, they yelled to the unseen driver, who



29/36

had been joined up ront by Donohues partner. Mount Auburn

Hospital was less than two miles away.

They came to a screeching halt at the hospital, and Pat Men-ton and Jimmy Caruso went right into the ER with Donohue be-

ore turning him over to a team o waiting doctors and nurses.

Pat Menton and Jimmy Caruso were covered in blood but

were relieved as they walked back to the parking lot and their

waiting truck. They had given Donohue a ghting chance. As

they approached the truck, they saw Tim Menton standing there.

What are you doing here? they asked.I drove the rig, Tim Menton said, indicating the boxy ambu-

lance truck with his thumb.

Then they all stopped and snifed. There was an awul, metal-

lic odor in the air.

Tim Menton didnt know how to disengage the emergency

brake. They had driven the two miles with the metal grinding all

the way.

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev got away, but not or long.

The police cordoned of an area in Watertown and began a

house-to-house search. The authorities asked people in Boston,

Cambridge, Watertown, and a ew other surrounding towns to

stay indoors, and many complied.The search went on all day Friday. By early evening, Dan Lin-

skey was standing in the command center at a mall in Water-

town. Hed been working more than orty hours straight when he

elt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Ed Davis, the police commissioner.

Linskey didnt want to go home, but he could barely stand,

and besides, orders were orders.He shook a ew hands, wished his comrades good luck in their

search or the remaining bomber, and began walking to his car.



30/36

Linskeys good riend Eddie Kelly, the reghter rom Tower

Ladder 17 whose daughter was in the same Irish step dance

school as little Janey Richard, headed toward him.Youre not driving your car, are you? Kelly asked.

No, Linskey replied, tossing him the keys. You are.

Kelly drove him home, where he and Linskeys wie, Michelle,

led him to the couch. Michelle handed her husband a beer and

asked him to get some rest. Beore he even took a sip, the phone

rang: they had cornered Dzhokhar Tsarnaev in a boat stored in a

backyard in Watertown.There, the chaos and drama continued. While the police sur-

rounded him, the nineteen-year-old bomber wrote a hurried,

rambling maniesto, explaining that he didnt like to kill inno-

cents but it was reprisal or American orces killing Muslims in

ar-of lands.

At some point, a police ocer saw something he perceived

as a threat: the tarp on the boat was raised. Ocers had been

warned that the suspect might still have explosive devices or a

gun. In act, he had neither, but an ocer opened re, leading

several others to do so.

Billy Evans, the marathon-running Boston police superinten-

dent who had taken over at the scene ater Linskey was relieved,

jumped orward.Hold your re! Evans shouted. Hold your re!

Moments later, a wounded Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was taken into

custody. The Transit Police comrades o Dic Donohue were given

the honor o slapping the cufs on him, and it was over.

But or the victims, and the rest o Boston, it was just begin-

ning.

The Richard amily sent the police their congratulations, witha somber reminder to all. None o this will bring our beloved

Martin back or reverse the injuries these men inicted, the am-



31/36

ily said. We continue to pray or healing and or comort on the

long road that lies ahead.

Jerry Foley, who runs the abled South End tavern J.J. Foleys,

cleared a table just a ew hours ater they pulled Dzhokhar Tsar-

naev rom that boat in the backyard in Watertown.

Detective Sergeant Danny Keeler, still wearing a blackSWAT

uniorm, led a group o young cops in the back door and they

sat down heavily. They were exhausted. They werent even there

or the beer, though most o them raised their hands when Foleyasked i anyone wanted one. Mostly, they wanted to unwind in a

place where they didnt have to train their guns on anybody.

Keeler was there when it all began, screaming into his police

radio to keep the access roads open so the ambulances could

erry the wounded rom the bombing sites to the hospitals. Now

he was there when it all ended.

Keeler was a Marine, but he can be a sophisticate. While the

young cops ordered beer, Keeler asked Jerry Foley to bring him a

glass o red wine.

The cops held their glasses alot, to a job well done.

Then they raised their glasses again.

To Sean, Danny Keeler said.

To Sean, the young cops replied.Sean Collier, the murdered MIT cop, had learned just beore

he died that he was going to be hired by the Somerville Police

Department, ullling a lielong dream. Collier was a beautiul

person and the prototype young police ocer. When a young

woman was assaulted on campus, she was reluctant to press

charges. Collier literally held her hand, and she identied her as-

sailant, and he was later convicted.Many o the students at MIT are rom Third World countries

where the police are not trusted. On the tribute page the univer-



32/36

sity set up so students and others could ofer remembrances o

Collier, one student wrote: I am brown and a oreigner so usu-

ally American police make me a little nervous, but I recall pass-ing by you one time and deciding that I liked you, because you

looked unusually nice and trustworthy.

Back inside J.J. Foleys, another toast.

To Dic, Danny Keeler said.

To Dic, the young cops replied.

Dic Donohue had almost died, but he was a Navy vet and he

was made o tough stuf. He would recover, and no doubt thattoast at J.J.s helped.

They were in the police academy together, Sean and Dic,

a young cop told me, shaking his head. What are the odds o

that?

Eddie Kelly, who a ew hours beore had given Dan Linskey a

ride home, came in the back door o the bar and started shaking

hands with the cops. He put his hands on Danny Keelers shoul-

ders and said to the table, This is one o the nest days in the

history o the BPD.

The cops nodded in appreciation.

Kelly came over to me.

You see those guys? he said. Some o those guys were with

us at the nish line ater the bombs went of. And they were theretonight, taking the bomber in. They didnt kill him. They brought

him to justice. I couldnt be more proud o our guys.

It was an early night. A couple o beers, a red wine or Keeler,

and they were out the door.

Brendan Walsh, a great young cop, was walking toward the

back door o the bar when he stopped and shook hands with a

young EMS paramedic. They shared a word, Walsh patted theparamedic on the back, and then Walsh was out the door, back to

a home he hadnt seen in almost a week.



33/36

You see that kid Brendan said hi to on the way out? Kelly

asked me. That kid and his partner were with us on a call this

morning. We had a jumper.While the worlds media were ocused on Watertown, and as

Dan Linskey, Danny Keeler, Brendan Walsh, and all their com-

rades were looking or a bomber, a distraught man was threaten-

ing to jump of the Washington Street Bridge in Boston, onto the

Massachusetts Turnpike.

The cops, reghters, EMTs, and paramedics who assembled

to save some poor souls lie ormed a reunion o the people whohad run toward the bombs on Boylston Street just a ew days

beore: the cops rom District 4, the EMS trucks out o the South

End, the reghters rom Engine 7, Tower Ladder 17, and Fire

Rescue 1.

They talked the poor guy down, another lie saved, ar rom

the cameras in Watertown, ar rom the madding crowd.

When Roseann Sdoia walked out o the Spaulding Rehabilita-

tion Hospital a month ater the bombing, she was missing her

leg. But she couldnt miss the re engines out ront.

Mike Materia, the reghter who saved her, was standing

there, and she went toward him, her crutches moving madly. He

lited her of the ground and she hugged him tightly.Whats this? she said when he put her down, indicating the

re engines.

We brought you in, Materia told her. Were taking you

home.

Sdoia put her crutches to the side and was helped up onto one

o the engines. The reghters drove her back to her home in the

North End.Like so many others wounded and maimed by the bombs,



34/36

Sdoia aces a long struggle, physically and nancially. The lat-

ter issue will be made easier by the One Fund, which is helping

victims o the Patriots Day bombings and to which the proceedso this book are going.

The amilies o the dead struggle too. In China, Lu Lingzis

riends and amily still cant comprehend that a beautiul girl

who loved the opportunities in America could be killed by two

nihilistic young men who spurned all the opportunities that had

been handed them.

The University o Massachusetts at Boston established ascholarship in the memory o Krystle Campbell, who was so well

loved by her riends that she had been a bridesmaid seventeen

times beore she turned twenty-nine.

The Richard amily, meanwhile, mourned Martin even as they

worried about Janes recovery and the impact the trauma was

having on the oldest sibling, Henry. Bill Richard remained a rock

or his amily, and Father Sean Connor, their parish priest, did

his best to comort not just them but their Dorchester neighbor-

hood.

The bombings created lielong riendships among people who

otherwise would never have met. Ron Brassard and his wie and

daughter drove down rom New Hampshire to attend the gradu-

ation rom Framingham State University o Rob Wheeler, the kidwho ripped his shirt rom his back to tie of Ron Brassards gush-

ing leg.

I the bombers intent was to bring out the worst in people, it

had just the opposite efect, including the strangers rom all over

the world who donated money and ofered prayers and thoughts

to the dead and the injured.

A couple o weeks ater it was all over, even as we all knewthat or the survivors it was just beginning, I was sitting in the



35/36

Eire Pub, eating that corned bee sandwich I had abandoned the

night o the bombings. Kevin McCarron, one o the bartenders,

put a pint o Guinness in ront o me.Hey, Kev, I protested, I didnt order this.

Kevin pointed over to a table, and it was Sean OBrien, the

reghter who stood over Martin Richards body that terrible

day, the reghter who couldnt come out o his house or a pint

that rst night, so distraught was he at what he had witnessed

and waded through.

I went over and sat with Sean and his wie Patty or a while.Sean said he was doing a lot better. His wie gave me a little head

nod, to let me know he wasnt just telling me what I wanted to

hear. He really was doing better. The old Sean was back. Hes a

great reghter, and a better man.

Katie Couric wants me to go on her show, Sean told me. Do

you think I should do it? I dont want to look like a glory hog, but

I want to talk about all my brothers and sisters on the job, the

cops, the EMTs, the paramedics. I dont want to talk about me. I

want to talk about them. I want to talk about the courage o the

victims, the survivors, all the people still living with what hap-

pened that day.

Like all o the rst responders, Sean OBrien, like Dr. Natalie

Stavas, the young pediatrician who saved lives at the nish line,will probably wonder i they could have done something more.

They will unairly second-guess themselves, like that scene in

Schindlers List when Liam Neeson, playing Oskar Schindler,

wonders i he could have done more, to save more lives.

I you remember that scene, the Schindler Jews surrounded

him and hugged him and comorted him.

And we in Boston will do that to our rst responders. We willsurround and comort the people they saved, the maimed and

grievously wounded. And in the process we will dey the people



36/36

who tried to hurt us, who tried to kill us. By our actions, they will

know that they will never win.

They tried to make us look weak, but they only revealed theirown weakness, and in doing so showed our strength.

In their pathetic cowardice, they showed our strength.

They unwittingly introduced a new phrase into our lexicon:

Boston Strong.

And Boston is strong. Stronger than a bomb. Stronger than

hate. Stronger than a devastating injury. Strong enough to put on

the biggest marathon ever, in 2014.Count on it.


OUR BOSTON: Writers Celebrate the City They Love -- excerpt

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