Before we begin, this episode contains some offensive language and descriptions of violence. It may not be appropriate for all listeners. It is so good.

To see you. It's good to see you, baby. How are you? It's wonderful to see you. This is wonderful.

To see you. This is the glow.

This is the glow. I know, it's not. This is the new glow. This is my former colleague, Eilidh MacNamare. We've worked together for years.

I love the fact that you're a fucking podcaster. What do you mean?

Don't.

It's hilarious. Eilidh is a legend here in Boston and at the globe. She started in the '70s and rose from newsroom secretary to Pulitzer Prize winning columnist. She was a Metro reporter in 1989 when Chuck Stewart made his fateful 911 call and turned the city upside down.

It was frankly, a level of hysteria about this shooting that struck me right away as different. You just could feel it in the room. I had delivered my two children at Brigham and Women's, the most recent one, only months before the shooting. I think that for a lot of white people in Greater Boston, this story resonated. We'd all parked in that parking garage. We took childbirth classes. We learned the Lamar's method at the Brigham and Women's Hospital.

It.

Was personal.

Aylin understood the visceral way people responded to Carol's murder, but she was also a skeptical reporter.

My notion is if the pack, the journalistic pack, is going north, it's a really good idea to go south.

While every other journalist in the city was chasing the news of the Stewart shooting, Aylin paused for a second and wondered, Is there anything we're missing?

I had no idea whether anybody else had been killed in Boston that night. I just said, I'd like to check and see if somebody else died that night that we may be overlooked.

Well, somebody else did die that night. A black man named James Moody. He was murdered, and no one was talking about him. So she went out and found his loved ones. I would like you to read, if you would. I'd like to take a little snippet of your story.

I will if you let me put on my glasses.

I get my head to do this.

There were no cameras clicking, no mini cams rolling at the city morgue when Sandra Williams identified the body of the man who shared her apartment near Franklin Park. James Moody, 29, was shot to death only a few hours after a robber attacked Carolyn Charles Stewart outside Brigham and Women's Hospital Monday night. But no calls were heard at the State House for tougher sentencing practices. No news conferences were convened to mark lone black men's passing. No mayor called about my loss, William said, as she waited yesterday for Moody's mother to arrive from Memphis to take her son's body home.

Aylin's story appeared on the front page of the Boston Globe just a few days after the Stewart shooting.

I didn't know enough about James Moody to know all of his life story, but I thought if we actually believed that a life is a life, it would have been interesting if we had bothered to record it. And we didn't. The Boston Globe did not record his death at the time that it happened. That tells you something obvious. His life didn't have the same value that Carol DeMaisy Stewart's life had. It simply didn't.

The blowback was swift. People hated her story. They were deeply offended by her comparison of Carol DeMaisie Stewart to James Moody. Black Boston got it. White Boston was pissed.

It was a comparison that just simply could not be made.

It wasn't just readers that were angry. Other reporters were furious, too. Eilidh had come into the newsroom early on the day her story ran, and by lunchtime, she couldn't stand the barrage of criticism anymore. Her editor, Greg Moore, took her to lunch.

I believe the lunch was liquid by and large because he had really spent the day answering the telephone, having people scream at him. Illian, for running the James Moody story. I had spent the morning listening to people yelling at me for writing that story.

Eilidhne wasn't the only person who recognized the hypocrisy. Carroll's murder was tragic, and her pregnancy made it more so. But there were lots of tragedies in Boston.

By 1990, Boston had over 150 homicides annually, almost half of which involved someone 18 or younger.

Neil Sullivan was Mair Ray Flint's right-hand man. He remembers Flint's whole staff being annoyed that the Mair had gone on TV the night of the murder and called for every available detective to join the hunt for the killer. It wasn't a good look. Neil reached out directly to Boston's Police Commissioner, Mickey Roach.

I called Mickey the next morning and I said, It ain't hard. Find me a black man who got killed last night and assign as many detectives to that case as you're assigning to Damayne Stewart. It's our only defense.

Voters had elected Neil's boss, Mary Flint, twice on his platform to heal Boston's notorious racial divide. It was a tall order, but after six years in office, Neil felt like they were finally starting to make progress. Under pressure, they had desegregated the city's public housing projects, fought racist redlining by banks, and cracked down on racial violence.

We were feeling pretty good about our ability to do most anything to conquer most any issue.

Then all of a sudden….

We're on national television with a 911 call with a man saying in his dying breaths that his wife had just been murdered and a black man did it.

Neil worried that this would resurrect the racial tribalism of Boston's not too distant past. A black man, a defenseless white woman, pregnant, no less.

It was the thing we feared most. This could be the spark that lit the fire again. The whole narrative that we had fought so hard to suppress was about to explode.

Over here, folks, we can see, of course, the old.

State House.

Boston is a city that is very proud of its history. You can't walk through downtown without seeing some dude dressed up like a Revolutionary War hero, leading a flock of tourists along the Freedom Trail.

Now, you.

Can also see.

That balcony there. The balcony there.

Where the Declaration of.

Independence was.

First read.

To the people of.

Boston on the 18th of July in 1776.

This is the city where abolition has conspired and where Harriet Tubman came to raise money for the Underground Railroad. Frederick Douglas gave landmark speeches just down the street from the globe's newsroom. Martin Luther King preached, lived, and fell in love here.

And the estrangement of the races in the North can be as devastating as the segregation.

Of the.

Races.

In the South. That's him addressing state lawmakers. He also led a march to the Boston Common at the height of the civil rights movement. There's another uglier history here, too, and that's the one we're going to tell you about now. Because all the people you're hearing from in this podcast, this is the history that shaped them. It was still very much alive on the night Carol Stewart was murdered. Fifteen years earlier, race had ripped the city apart. It all stemmed from efforts to desegregate the city's schools. Yes, you heard that right. Until 1974, Boston still had white schools and black schools. When a federal judge ordered the city to start bussing black kids to white schools and white kids to black schools, white parents revolted.

East Boston said no. East Boston said no. East Boston said no.

East.

Boston.

Said no. This was a.

White protest with.

White.

Americans clinging to their patriotism. The speakers said it was the judges that had sold America down the river.

Screaming crowds of white adults whipped rocks at schoolbuses full of black children. There were stabbings and shootings and marches on City Hall. A lot of parents, white and black, stopped sending their kids to school altogether. This era here goes by one word, bussing.

Why.

Boston, of.

All places? Why did the greatest resistance to school bussing happen in a city that is the epitome of liberty, justice, and the equality of man?

Bussing was a slap in the face to every black person.

And everyone knew those videos. Black kids on.

Busses surrounded by incredibly.

Angry.

White people. That's seminal to everything that has happened in this town since.

When I came to Boston in the '80s, there were two things I knew about the city: birthplace of the American Revolution and bussing. In my globe columns, I've called it Boston Civil War. That's how intense the battles were between white people and black folks. The TV footage of the conflict changed how America thought about Boston, and it changed the way Boston saw itself.

We always thought we got along. We thought this was a good place. Had no idea how deeply they hated us until '74.

It is the definition of race in Boston, and it is a legacy which cannot be denied. And when it is denied or not understood, then everything that happens afterwards doesn't make a lot of sense. So we start there.

Indeed, we need to start there. These are the raw nerves that the shooting exposed. Carol Stewart's murder hit at the heart of Boston's most bitter divisions and reopened a wound that was just barely beginning to heal. I'm a speaker part. I'm Adrian Walker, and this is Murder in Boston, the untold story of the Charles and Carol Stewart shooting. Episode three, Boston's backstory. Everybody's heard of Brown versus Board of Education, the 1954 Supreme Court decision that deemed segregated schools unconstitutional. This decision produced some of our most iconic images of American racism. Like that photograph of Ruby Bridges, a tiny black six-year-old in shiny Mary Jains and ankle socks being escorted by US marshals into an all-white elementary school in Louisiana, or Alabama Governor George Wallace physically blocking the doorway of the University of Alabama to keep Black students out.

Segregation now, segregation tomorrow.

And.

Segregation forever. There were no scenes like that in Boston, but it wasn't because the city had peacefully integrated its schools. It was because Boston just didn't bother to desegregate.

Twenty years after the historic Supreme Court decision ruling, Segregated schools unconstitutional, a US government report shows most of the all-Black schools in the US are in Northern cities.

In Boston, segregation wasn't the state of law of the land, but it was absolutely a fact on the ground. The schools for the Black kids were just plain terrible. Black parents were pissed. They wanted better for their children.

My whole life has been pointed in that direction and the improvement of education for black kids.

Ruth Batzen was a mother of three from a mostly black neighborhood of Boston. She was instrumental in the fight to desegregate the city schools. In 1963, she and other activists have brought their concerns to the Boston School Committee.

Where there were a majority of black students, there was not concern for how these kids learned that there were crowded classrooms, temporary teachers, not enough books, and supplies were low and all of that thing. Even physical.

Conditions.

Were poor. These kinds of basic things were missing. We went before the school committee and we said to them that this condition that we were talking about was called de facto segregation.

The all-white Boston School Committee had resisted desegregation for many years at that point, and this time was no different. Ruth and her fellow activists were completely ignored. Black parents were at the end of their rope. So in 1972, the Boston chapter of the NAACP sued.

To some extent, this whole thing is about an effort to complete the Civil War that politically was resolved. But in.

Terms.

Of all of the attitudes and behavior patterns.

It's never ended. This is Tom Atkins, a lead lawyer for the NAACP.

People do not understand that, for the most part, Black communities are totally unwilling, totally unwilling to accept anything less than full participation in this society.

This was a lawsuit that would lead to bussing. The court case lasted for two years, and when it was over in June of '74, a federal judge named W. Arthur Garrett Jr, ruled in favor of the NAACP. He said the Boston school committee had been running a dual school system, one for Black kids and one for White. He found it systematic, intentional, and illegal. Garrett's solution, plus Black kids to White schools and White kids to Black schools.

Because whenever you drop a bunch of Black kids in the White neighborhood, it's going to be some problems.

Ron Bell was 11 when the bussing decision came down. He was in the sixth grade in Mission Hill, and he was bused to a White school in a White neighborhood called Brighton.

We went through the Arab rocks being thrown at us by adults. It was a terrible time.

18,000 kids crisscrossed the city in yellow school busses. But your bus wasn't getting rocked or anything like that?

My bus got rocked and the white boys spit on me.

Black and white students of Ron's new school might have shared a building, but it didn't bring them any closer together.

During bussing, they would ring the fire alarm. We would go out, fight, what have you. And then I had to go in with all the white kids.

This rage, it permeated everything.

It trickled down even in the neighborhoods, the classrooms, wherever you was at, that racial tension was there.

Ron couldn't even escape it when he went home at the end of the day. The racial divisions had always been stark in Mission Hill. The white kids lived in nice houses at the top of the Hill, and the black kids lived in the housing projects below.

There would be racial attention and fights going on in this community. So that was just the whole atmosphere in the city of Boston.

As Ron passes the tavern on Trimmond Street, he slows down.

That bar there, that's just too shine in that one. This would be the hitching post here.

There's another bar. It's the Puddingstone Tavern. This childhood is marked by memories like this one. At this bar, he used to walk by on his way to the cub Scouts, where the white men would spit on him.

Even when I'm walking down here, when I tell you about going by that bar, you can still feel that, man. We would say my country tears at the sweet land of liberty, but I'm smelling of liquor and spit every Wednesday as a child.

Fall of '74 was brutal. At first, the worst of the violence was in South Boston, or Southey, as everybody calls it. For a lot of people outside Massachusetts, when they conjure up an image of Boston, they're picturing Southie. It's this little closed fist of a neighborhood. Southie was working class and poor with its own all white projects, and Black people simply did not go there. Bro, you didn't want to go to the damn Southeast. All I got was the message that we all get. Whatever you do, don't go to South Boston. If you go to Southeast.

Something bad might happen. You never went to Southeast.

You couldn't go to Southeast without Pierre.

Getting hurt. You really wasn't hanging.

Out on D Street in South Deep. But now, Black kids are being bused in mass to attend Southeast neighborhood schools.

No one.

Will give you.

The discus, you're going to be arrested.

If you're not going to.

Discus.

You're going to.

Be arrested.

Nowhere is bussing fought harder than in the Catholic neighborhoods of Boston. When the busses arrived, the black students ran into the school under a hail of verbal abuse. The violence, of course, came in the afternoon when the busses were stoned and black children injured. They were throwing eggs at the window and try to hit people.

With them. We were in school.

That were.

Throwing glass at Black people and.

Little kids. Are you going back to school for us? No. No way. We'd go to the bathroom to catch a smoke before we go to class. All of a sudden, White girls coming from all directions in the bathroom. They jumped us. I had bruises all over my chest. My lip was way out here. My forehead, my knee was busted.

Black parents agonized over whether to keep sending their kids to school.

Blood is blood. There's no such thing as a blue blood. Everybody has red blood. Nobody wants to see it flowing. My child bleed and your child bleed. When my child hurt, I hurt. When her child hurt, she hurt.

So did white parents. Let us go to our neighborhoods where our kids are safe. We won't let.

Our kids take us. We won't let our kids take us. I'm not for this. I don't care.

I will not go to school.

But it's tearing them apart. In early December, three months into bussing, a Black student stabbed a White student inside Southey High. Until this moment, it had been hard to imagine the crisis could get worse. But when news of the stabbing got around Salfie, and thousands of adults, including a hoard of picketing long-short, left their jobs in the middle of the day and gathered in front of the school. They waited for the school busses that would carry the black kids home. They vowed to attack. Police sent decoy busses to the front of the school. The rioters shattered the windows and flun cans and bottles at the cops while the black students were whist out the back door. They ran us all on the busses and they ran us out to.

School and everything. We're just all trying to hurt out. And so another school day ends here at.

South Boston High School with the.

Black kids taking back to the.

Neighborhoods with police.

Escorts, and busses. In fact, the whole place looks more.

Like a concentration camp with armed guards, more so than a school. But this was not the end. Not by a long shot. The violence spread through the city, and this went on for years.

The modern history of Boston really begins with bussing. Those images of those white parents, that's where it really starts. I mean, Boston was Boston before that in a lot of ways, but my uncles and my parents used to say all the time, We never knew how much they hated us until then.

Howard Bryant is a journalist and author born and raised in Boston.

There are black people around this country who always viewed black Bostonians as really snobbish compared to other black people. And the reason was because black people in this region had accomplished so much. Our station had been pretty good compared to the other stations of black people around the country. My family was proud of being here. My family talked about the Boston schools at first. My mother went to Burke, my cousins went to school in the city, and my grandparents talked about how this was a place that gave you chances to do things. That history, black people carried with them until bussing.

It wasn't until bussing that the truth became clear.

Every black person in Boston found out that you're still black, as we used to say. You must have forgotten. All of us had forgotten in so many ways.

There is one image from this time that is impossible to forget. It's a Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph taken directly in front of Boston City Hall, about two years into the strife of bussing in 1976. It shows a black lawyer in a three-piece suit being viciously attacked by white teenagers. And it belongs alongside those photographs of Ruby Bridges and Governor George Wallace in the dark pantheon of depictions of American racism. The man in the photo is Ted Landmark.

I was on my way into City Hall. The meeting was at 10:00, and I was running late, and so it was about 10:10. And because I was late, I really wasn't paying a lot of attention to the circumstances around me. Ted had moved to.

Boston from Harlem just a few years earlier. He wasn't directly involved in any bus and litigation, but he watched as his new city convulsed with fear and hatred. Where were you headed that day? You were walking.

Across the plaza. Ironically, I was on my way to a meeting at the city's planning agency to advocate on behalf of increasing the amount of employment of people of color in neighborhoods of color, in public projects in Boston.

So Ted was in a rush, and he didn't really register the white anti-bussing protesters were swarming City Hall Plaza. Remember, this is two years in. These demonstrations were part of the daily scenery. But Ted was a flashy dresser, so much so that a white lawyer at his firm had pulled him aside and told him, Watch yourself.

I was shopping in the discount store, fileen's Basement, and buying very nice and well-cut Italian suits at a deep discount. And he advised me to begin to wear more traditional Brooks Brothers suits so that I wouldn't stand out too much as among my lawyer peers.

Ted didn't want to dress down.

Because once I got out of the projects and got exposed to other things, it struck me that I wanted to have a few of the nice things that wealthier people had.

And so as Ted hurried across the plaza in his wool suit, he attracted the attention of some teenagers in the white crowd.

Then a couple of them started shouting. There's one. Let's get him. They used the N-word to describe me.

He doesn't remember how big the group was, but one of them was carrying an American flag on a flag pole.

Then a few of them, including the flagbearer, came running back to attack me.

They surrounded him and started punching and kicking him. They knocked his glasses off and broke his nose.

The entire incident took place in less than 10 seconds.

It's a fleeting moment, but a photographer is there to capture. On one side of the frame, Ted Landmark is frozen in motion, mid-attack. He's stumbling backwards, his perfectly pressed suit crumpled up. And on the other side, a white teenager lunges, wielding the flag pole like a spear. The pointed tip is aimed right at Ted's gut. The flag flutters between them. This image became known as the Soiling of old glory, and it rocketed around the world. Right now, this thing should be on the way up.

In theAll.

Right, my friend. We are on City Hall Plaza. It's the literal scene of the crime. Can you show us where it happened?

Sure. Yeah, let's walk in the direction of the incident.

I asked Ted to take me back here to City Hall Plaza on a day where some guy was playing a tuba. This is the place where his personal story and the city's history intersect so vividly.

We are in an area of City Hall Plaza that funnels into a side entrance to City Hall.

These days, Ted is in his 70s and a professor of public policy.

I got to this point when the young people turned the corner.

Although the attack happened more than four decades ago, it's like the ghost of it is still there.

The flagbearer had passed me, and he was probably 20 feet past me, and he actually circled back and turned and came back to attack me with.

The flag. Twelve years after being attacked in front of City Hall, Ted began working there, inside the building for Ray Flea.

I found it extremely difficult to walk through this space for years after. I would find a different way of getting into City Hall other than walking through this passageway.

How long did that go on?

I would say my reluctance to walk through here went on at least five or six years. Thank you.

Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, Boston made history. Ray Flint was elected Boston's mayor in 1983.

We have a.

United city where the voice of.

Every.

Neighborhood in this city has been heard.

We have proven.

We have proven.

That the hopes that unite us are stronger than.

The fears that.

Separate us. The scars of Boston were barely healing when Flynn took office, and he promised new days were ahead.

People liked Ray Glenn, even though he was a southie guy and the whole thing that… One thing that I remember about Ray Glenn was Ray Glenn was caught. Ray Glenn was always stuck in the middle.

Author Howard Bryant remembers a feeling of cautious optimism in the Black community.

By the time he took over, as mayor, considered himself a healer. I think a lot of people in Boston wanted to believe him.

Sure, he was a white guy from Southey, that working-class Irish neighborhood so staunchly opposed to outsiders. As one former newscaster put it, if Norman Rockwell wanted to do a portrait to capture a kid in South Boston, he should have had Ray Flint sit for him. But Flint was more nuanced than some of his predecessors.

In Boston, you never thought you were going to get anything but an Irish mayor anyway. Ray Flint was considered one of the good ones. He was considered one of the progressive, one of the reformers, one of the ones who was trying to change the perception of the city.

The problem was, like his many angry white constituents from Southie, Mere Flint had opposed bussing just a few years earlier.

Ray Flint realized that he had to distance himself from the losing argument in Southie that they were going to fight to the end on bussing. It's almost like the holding on to the Confederacy in a way. It was over. Life was going to move on. Bussing was going to move forward. City was going to move on.

Flint thought of himself as someone who could bridge the divide.

But he also knew he had Southie to answer to. He also knew he had the entire white community to answer to. Ray Flint was caught. I always felt like he was in a really, really difficult position because.

We.

All know if you advocate too much for Black people, especially in Boston, you're a dead man in this town.

It's.

Flint's hometown, but South, he.

Booed and jeered, Mayor Flint.

Last night. One angry resident asked if Flint was so interested in integration, when was he moving to Roxbury?

I've lived.

In South Boston all my life.

My.

Wife was born in South Boston.

My children were born in South Boston. And I will live in South Boston all my life.

I'd seen Mayor Flint, in his political brilliance, move quickly to cut off the opposition to hold people across racial lines.

But to.

Preempt what had begun to feel like the Boston virus of racial conflict.

Flint's top deputy, Neil Sullivan, remembers the pressure to heal the wounds created by bussing.

We were racking up over 600 documented incidents of racial violence. '77, '78, '79, '80, '81, people were getting hurt. Perpetrators were making it clear they were being hurt specifically because of their race, black or white. That's how out of control this city was. Every time there was an incident of racial violence, the mayor and I were both informed, and Ray Flynn went to the scene to denounce racial violence. He did it over and over and over again. That was as much to tell everybody, This is what we're doing until this settles down.

Neil says it was starting to work that history was going to show Flint and his team were making things better until the night Carol Stewart was killed.

Boston, record emergency 510.

My wife's been shot. I've been shot.

Where is this, sir? I have.

No idea. I'm offI've been coming from Trimmlin, Brigham and Women's Hospital. Oh, my goodness.

This is going to allow our political opposition to organize the good churchgoing people of Boston's neighborhoods along racial lines. Here we go again. And we.

Were going through an extremely, extremely volatile period, almost like a reckoning that it was heading in this direction. It was all coming to a head in the late 1980s. Everything is building up to this moment in terms of how we really felt about each other. And this was the stick of dynamite that finally went off.

It's.

Out of the news, but.

It's still in my head. Topping news seven tonight, Boston police remain typed-lipped about what could be a major break in the.

Investigation.

Into the shootings of Chuck and.

Carol.

Stewart. Immediately, people call for blood. Immediately, cops are pressed to find the shooter. And inside an interrogation room, police are pressuring witnesses.

Today is November third, and it's Friday evening. We're at the homicide.

Unit at district Six.

Give to JP.

Cody a.

Name and talk about you guys.

That's on the next episode of Murder in Boston. I'm going.

To speak upon.

Murder in Boston, the untold story of the Charles and Carol's dirt shooting is presented by The Boston Globe and HBO documentary films. This podcast was reported and written by globe journalist Evan Allen, Elizabeth Ko, Andrew Ryan, and me, your host, Associate Editor Adrian Walker. The project was led and also cowritten by Assistant Managing Editor Brendan McCarthy and the globe's head of audio, Kristen Nelson. Nelson served as senior producer. Melissa Rosales is the Associate Producer. Our theme music is Speak Upon it by Boston's own Ed O'Gee. Reza Daya is our sound designer. Voice-over-direction by Athena Corkanos. Research from Jeremiah Manion. Fact-checking by Matt Mahoney. The globe's Executive Editor is Nancy Barnes. Thanks to former Globes, Brian McRory, and Scott Allen, and to Boston Globe Media CEO, Linda Henrick. Additional interviews and audio, courtesy of Jason Haier and Little Room Films. Special thanks to Michael Gluxstat and Allison Cohen on the HBO podcast team. The H. B. O. Documentary series, Murder in Boston: Roots, Rampage, and Racketing is available to stream on Maps.

Anderson Cooper is back with Season 2 of his podcast, All.

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Grief doesn't go away.

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Move on.

From grief or do we just learn to live with it?

If we don't address our grief, our hearts close.

You'll hear moving and honest discussions and.

Learn from.

Others who have experienced life altering losses. I've been.

Trying to spend as much time as possible.

With my kids.

I love you so much. I love you so much too.

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