He helped when 'chips were down'

Jack Leary spent his days, nights, and weekends reaching into the abyss, offering a hand of hope to those whose lives had been consumed by drugs and alcohol.

As assistant chief probation officer at South Boston District Court, he found treatment programs for addicts who had turned to crime, then leaned on the judicial system to help them map new routes toward a straight and narrow path. If one failed, and that happened often in his work during the past quarter-century, Leary would try again. And again.

"When Jack Leary was on your side, you knew you were OK," said Mayor Thomas M. Menino. "The young people of Boston had no better friend than Jack, a gentle soul who saw the good in everyone."

Late last week, Leary drove north to Pepperell and parked near a river, a place he valued not only for its fly-fishing, but for its solitude and peace. There, on April 7, he took his life. He was 57 and had lived in West Roxbury, the neighborhood where he grew up and had remained close to childhood friends.

"Jack Leary was the one you always called when the chips were down," Menino said yesterday morning while delivering the eulogy at a funeral Mass in West Roxbury at St. Theresa of Avila Church, where more than 600 mourners, among them former mayor Kevin White, filled nearly every pew and chair.

Menino and Leary had been friends for years, walking neighborhoods when Menino first campaigned for mayor.

Whether for a political campaign, a personal problem, or a public health crisis, Menino said, "you always wanted Jack on your side -- the energy, that great smile on the boyish face."

Colleagues say Leary rescued hundreds of people from downward spirals that could have resulted in prison or death.

At a wake Thursday evening, Leary's siblings said, the constant refrains among those who paid their respects were "Jack saved my life" and "Jack saved my child's life."

"That was his legacy: Never give up on anyone. There is always in the human condition the ability to change," said Robert P. Ziemian, the presiding justice at South Boston District Court who worked with Leary for a decade.

"The ripple effect of Jack's goodness and love cannot be quantified," Menino said during his eulogy.

It could be honored, though. In the past few years, Leary was presented with awards for his work on behalf of the addicted, and he was featured in "South Boston Drug Court," an HBO documentary.

"He was, essentially, a secular priest," Frank Kelliher of West Roxbury, a friend from childhood, said after yesterday's Mass.

"The guy was a consummate giver," said Phil O'Connor, another lifelong friend from West Roxbury.

"He never took anything from anybody. It was just give, give, give."

In his high-pressure job Leary was an eternal optimist, colleagues said, and in the HBO documentary his Irish face seemed creased only by smile lines.

Yet his phone rang often in the middle of the night and on weekends. Mothers and fathers whose children were slipping into addiction knew that if one call could make a difference, the person on the other end would be Jack Leary, colleagues said. Sometimes, the children themselves asked for help.

"From the moment I started working with kids in Southie, you just constantly heard the kids talking about Jack Leary as a kind of patron saint, a person who could help them through the worst possible situation," Michael Patrick MacDonald, author of the memoir "All Souls: A Family Story from Southie," said in a telephone interview. "He was just so invested in kids living. I don't think I ever came across anyone in officialdom who had that kind of heart for the kids."

"Jack had a wonderful way of pushing people to do a little bit more at the time when they thought they had reached the ouch point," said Dr. George Sigel, program director at South Boston Behavioral Health Clinic, a satellite of Tufts-New England Medical Center.

"I think the vehicle he used was hope, and he made many, many people feel that perhaps their life meant something."

In the neighborhood where Leary had so much hope for so many, the decision to end his own life resonated.

"A young man was in here sobbing in the hallway, just missing Jack," said John Northridge, a psychiatric social worker at the clinic. "This was a guy who Jack would lock up regularly."

"He always would tell you there was a way to work out the problem, and many people found there was a way," Sigel said. "Why he couldn't, at the end, put that into practice for himself, I don't think we'll ever know."

At a reception after the funeral Mass, Dolores Duffy of Wrenthem, the eldest of Leary's surviving siblings, listed her sisters and brothers: Muriel Guenthner of North Attleborough, Elaine Rettman of Stoughton, Daniel Jr. of Hanover, Paul of Mashpee, and Kevin of Plymouth.

"I wish I could add Jackie to that list," she added quietly.

"He was the youngest one in our family," Kevin said, "but whenever anyone was in trouble, they'd go to Jackie."

"Jack is my little brother," Dan said, "and he is also my hero."

Menino called on those gathered to honor Leary's legacy "by giving a voice to those who suffer in silence and live in the deep shadows of our city."

"I am so proud and so thankful to have known Jack and to have called him my friend," the mayor said. "We miss you Jack. We love you. Rest in peace, my friend."