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I was walking into the federal courthouse Thursday morning when Steve Davis grabbed me by the arm.
“Did you hear about Stevie Rakes?” he asked.
No, what about him?
“He’s dead,” Steve Davis said.
I was stunned.
“That can’t be,” I said, “I just talked to him the other day.”
“Tell me about it. I was talking to him Tuesday,” Steve Davis said. “I called him yesterday, and when he didn’t call me back, I knew something was wrong. He always called me back.”
Steve Davis was so concerned that he hadn’t heard back from Rakes that he stopped by Rakes’s house in Quincy before he headed to the Southie waterfront for the trial. But Stippo, as Steve Rakes was known, was not there.
That’s because he was dead, found, maybe dumped, by the side of the road in Lincoln.
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