Murder in Boston (27 page)

After showing an exterior shot of the hospital’s emergency entrance, the scene shifted to Chuck, who was being carried from the car on a stretcher covered with what appeared to be a rough, brown woolen blanket. His shirt had been cut away to expose his upper torso. His hands were crossed peacefully across his chest. Contrary to early media reports that said Chuck was unconcerned about his wife, the
Rescue 911
cameras recorded the wounded man several times asking about his wife and what her condition was. At one point, just as he was about to be put under for what would prove to be a six-hour operation, he asked again about Carol. The attending physician, concentrating on Chuck’s wound, leaned over and said kindly, “We can’t keep an update on her, we’re taking care of you. Okay?”

Graphic scenes at the hospital showed Chuck, completely nude except for a sheet covering his genitals, being prepped for surgery. Needles were inserted into the inside of his elbows, and a mask connected to the anesthesia equipment was slipped over his nose and mouth. Just before that, as the cameras zoomed in for a close-up of his face, his lips were moving inaudibly. But two words he was trying to articulate were clearly intelligible: “my wife.”

The camera moved smoothly from one gowned hospital worker to another, anonymous except for the concern and urgency reflected in their eyes. Another scene depicted physicians examining hastily taken X-rays, one of which showed a clearly identifiable and undeformed slug resting just above some partially glimpsed organ. “His wounds are very significant,” a voice noted ominously. “They are life threatening.”

After being wheeled into the operating room, Chuck was not shown again until, several minutes later, his lifeless body was being hauled out of the Mystic River.

Two things about the October 23 film were particularly revealing. One was the clarity of Chuck’s mind, how he was aware of everything that was happening. His ability to respond quickly and intelligently was surprising. A policeman with a clipboard hovered over his head as he was being strapped into the ambulance.

“Did you see who did this? Who did this?” the officer asked excitedly.

“A black male,” Chuck answered weakly but with remarkable calm.

“What did he have on? Do you remember?”

“A black jogging suit…”

“Any stripes on it? What color?”

Chuck’s reply was inaudible to the camera. “Red?” the officer responded. Then, apparently after a nod from Chuck, “Red!”

The next question, “Did he have a mustache?” was followed by another moment of silence on the film. Then the policeman repeated what must have been Chuck’s answer, “You don’t remember.”

At that point the door of the ambulance was closed and the camera recorded nothing further of the interrogation.

The other thing that was startling about the film was that it showed clearly the location of Chuck’s wound. While hospital personnel, the district attorney’s office, and the police department have refused to release any details about the injury, scenes captured by the camera, at least once in close-up, revealed that the bullet entered Chuck’s body low on his right side, almost in the back, just above his kidney. It was no wonder that physicians later said they had no suspicion that Chuck’s wound was self-inflicted. To have shot himself in that spot, it appears that Chuck would have to have been a contortionist.

Afterword

One of the things that has made this story so compelling has been the labyrinthine but nevertheless well-defined stages of its development. It works as a good human-interest story on several levels. First there was the breathtaking way in which it became public: Chuck Stuart calling for help over a cellular telephone, the transcript of the conversation printed almost in its entirety; the fact that a film crew just happened to be on hand to record the dramatic scene in which the dying Carol and the badly wounded Chuck were removed from their car. Factor in the apparent randomness of the crime and the entirely believable scenario of a black drug user attacking a yuppie white couple deep in a bad section of town. This played on the fears not only of white Bostonians, but of white suburbanites everywhere, most of whom tend to look upon the inner city as a no-man’s-land. It didn’t have to be Boston; it could just as easily have been Detroit, Miami, Chicago, Atlanta, or Los Angeles.

But the story was pure soap opera. The murdered wife. The husband and the premature child struggling for survival. The child dying. The man writing a melodramatic letter that is read at her funeral. An outraged public. Police overreaction, compounded by the use of questionable stop-and-search tactics that infuriated the residents. Then came the announcement that there was a suspect, a black man with a history of senseless violence that included shooting a policeman. Witnesses came forth who were said to have confirmed the case against the black man, who was subsequently identified by the only surviving victim. Then, just when it appeared that the black man was going to be indicted, the case turned upside down.

That is powerful stuff indeed. Stronger than Sly Stallone. Stronger, even, than fiction. There were enough twists and turns in the case to make anyone dizzy, especially those who have tried to chronicle it.

Contributing to the confusion has been the fact that this is not just a crime story. It is a political story, too. And a story about the media; a story about race relations; about drugs; greed; friendship; psychology; morals; and family. Particularly family. Chuck Stuart came from such a tightly woven Irish family that two of his brothers would not turn him in even when they suspected that he had murdered his wife, a woman they had known for ten years, a woman they had accepted into the family and clasped to their bosom, a woman whose hospitality they had shared, whose meals they had enjoyed. It’s staggering.

In the end, one of them cracked, probably not because he felt guilty about what had happened, but more likely because he knew that if he did not go to the authorities, his girlfriend would. And what about Matthew? How deeply is he really involved? The story Matthew has told seems improbable. It would require Chuck to have shot his wife and himself at one location and then, while badly wounded, dispose of the car keys, drive to a second location to meet Matthew, drive to a third location with Matthew following, and then drive still further while on the phone with the State Police. It is conceivable that it happened this way, but it seems more likely that when all the investigations are complete, investigators will not be buying the story, at least as it has been reported to date.

So what do we know? Precious little. We know that Carol Stuart is dead because she was shot in the head; that Chuck Stuart is dead as a result of drowning; and that seventeen-day-old Christopher Stuart is dead because he never had a chance. That’s about it. We don’t know what Matthew knows, or Michael or Jack McMahon. As far as Willie Bennett is concerned, we don’t know why Flanagan has declined to rule him out as a suspect. Most of all, we don’t know for sure if Chuck was guilty or if he committed suicide.

One of the most frustrating experiences in writing this story has been the appalling lack of official information. In most true-crime stories there is a paper trail to follow: court records, depositions, transcripts of interrogations, statements from investigators and prosecutors, police reports, public records, and on and on. In this case there has been nothing. At the first sign of heat, the police retreated like spoiled children into their treehouse, pulling the ladder up after them; then they parceled out bits and pieces of questionable material to those who knew the secret code, those who were their favorites. The district attorney did the same thing, except more is expected from him. He is an elected official, a man supposedly responsive and responsible to the public. He is one man, not an anonymous department. He is a lawyer, a public servant, a
career
protector of the people’s rights. But Newman Flanagan apparently thinks that the less people know, the better off they are. The arrogance is mind-numbing.

Almost always in a criminal case
someone
is willing to talk. If not the prosecutor, then the lawyer for the defense. If not the police, then the defendant. In this case, everyone ran for cover. Everyone hired a lawyer; a small army of lawyers is currently, has been, or will be involved in this incredibly tangled case. When this was written, Willie Bennett had run through three lawyers. Matthew also had three, if you include the family friend he went to before he hired Perenyi. The Stuarts have a lawyer. The DeMaitis have a law firm. Janet Monteforte has a lawyer. Debbie Allen has a lawyer. Dereck Jackson has a lawyer. Jack McMahon had a lawyer. Eric Whitney has a lawyer. Alan Swanson had a lawyer. Only Chuck did not have a lawyer when he died (although he had one when he was in the hospital)—and not because he didn’t try. His hospital lawyer had severed the relationship, and he apparently had not found a new one, although he called
somebody
from his hotel room. If all of these lawyers came into a courtroom at the same time, the jury would have to watch the proceedings over closed-circuit television from another floor. Providing this case ever gets to that stage. If it does come to trial, they might have to hold it in Fenway Park.

To me, it has been amazing to watch this process in action. To see doors that should be open locked, bolted, and chained with a German shepherd at the portal. Even the most basic information usually available in cases like this—autopsy reports for example—are deemed out of public reach. That is because Massachusetts considers itself a bastion of liberty, liberalism, and individual freedom. In this case individual freedom is working to the detriment of the group. But no one seems to be making much noise about it.

The very ones who are supposed to be watching out for the people have, in this case, turned their backs. The police have done it. The district attorney’s office has done it. And the media, to a large extent, have done it as well. Reporters have fed happily on rumor, seemingly content to rush into print or on the air with the latest from the police locker room or the corner pub. And they think they have done a good job. The
Phoenix
’s media critic Mark Jurkowitz asked some of the principals at the two newspapers how they thought they had fared. A spokesperson from the
Herald
said the paper should get a B+ for its coverage; the editor at the
Globe
in charge of the Stuart case said, “From poor to excellent, I’d give it a good.”

Coming from the
Globe
, that is particularly ironic. According to Jurkowitz, the
Globe
is perceived by the average Bostonian as an elitist publication demonstrably more interested in what happens in Pakistan than in what occurs on Park Street. This seems to be a remarkably accurate assessment, at least judging from the
Globe
’s coverage in the Stuart case. Although
The New York Times
can get away with a certain amount of snobbishness because of the general excellence of its coverage, the
Globe
cannot. It does not have the
Times
’s reputation for comprehensiveness, probity, or accuracy. It may be more reliable, over the long haul, than the
Herald
, but the
Globe
is no exemplar of meticulousness. Instead, judging by its coverage of the Stuart case, it has a certain propensity toward hysteria, complicated by questionable judgment, a tendency to sensationalize, and an eagerness to rush into print without regard to accuracy. It not only seemed satisfied to let its star columnist (a man who is paid to have strong, biased opinions) double as a reporter in the Stuart case, it was smug in its stance, seemingly encouraging the practice by giving front-page play both to his columns
and
to the news stories he coauthored.

One other thing is more than passing strange. Throughout most of the Stuart affair, the
Globe
’s editorial page has been unusually silent. There were no editorials, at least none that I saw, complaining about the withholding of information or the police department’s derogation of responsibility in refusing to release precise, timely information regarding the progress of the investigation. Day after day the
Globe
chugged along attributing its Stuart information to anonymous sources, and the editorial page never thought it extraordinary.

Of course, that acceptance of glorified rumor has not been strictly a failing of the
Globe
. Seemingly, as far as the Boston media is concerned, Chuck shot Carol, then himself, then he jumped off the Tobin Bridge. End of story. I actually was surprised to read a
Globe
article on February 23 that referred to Chuck’s death for the first time as an “apparent suicide.” I’d very much like to know what was behind the change in wording. Did the newspapers’ lawyers tell the city desk to insert the qualifier, maybe because of the potential battle in probate court in which Chuck’s suicide or nonsuicide could be an issue?

But the Boston media were not alone. The television networks, the Associated Press, United Press International,
Time, Newsweek
, and, yes,
People
were part of the parade. Prior to the one example from the
Globe
, the only two newspapers that I have seen to use the word
alleged
when coupling it with
suicide
in talking about Chuck were
The New York Times
and the
Boston Phoenix
. And as far as the
Times
is concerned, the careful wording may be strictly a matter of habit. As Jurkowitz humorously pointed out in one of his media critiques, the
Times
reporters writing about Debbie Allen felt compelled to qualify their description of her beauty by noting that “friends say” she is an attractive woman.