Norfolk DA Michael Morrissey’s about to have a terrible few months

You’re Meatball Morrissey, the bust-out district attorney of Norfolk County, and now the nightmare begins again.

The second murder trial of Karen Read starts this week, and you’re just not ready to be described in every news story for the next two months as “Embattled Michael Morrissey.”

If you’re embattled, you’re losing. You’re on your way out.

You wish you could flee back to Grenada. You dream of sailing in the Windwards, not worrying about Turtle Boy’s fans snapping unflattering photos of you, not that there are any other kind.

It seems so long ago now, on the sloop in the Caribbean. It was January, after a blue Christmas, but you were a hand on the Blue Peter, with plenty of Blue Nun on board, and it was nothing but blue skies.

But now you’re back in Massachusetts, embattled, holed up in the bunker in Canton. You can’t even go to the courthouse in Dedham as an observer because the Free Karen Read crowd would be throwing stuff at you, and not anything tasty like powdered doughnuts or chili dogs.

You’re embattled Michael Morrissey, and for the retrial you’ve hired yourself yet another “special prosecutor.”

Special prosecutors — you need ‘em for brooming cases, like with rich Epstein types from Marina Bay, and you need ‘em for framing people, like Karen Read and Aidan Kearney.

The worst thing with a special prosecutor is, you can never get money from a defendant again. If they’re loaded enough that you have to fix the case for them, they’re afraid to keep ponying up. If you throw ‘em in jail, forget about it. You can’t win for losing.

You’re Meatball Morrissey and your magic number is 70 – which is both your age and your belt in inches.

The good news is, you’ve still got $435,335 left in your campaign war chest, enough to run either a very well-funded race for reelection, or, more likely, to buy 1649 cases of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum to stock on your sleek yacht, The Class Action.

You study your monthly campaign receipts and you sadly note that at your best-ever annual August birthday fundraiser in 2021, you had 420 contributors who ponied up almost $70,000.

Last year, at the same event, your take plummeted to $19,000, from fewer than 140 people.

Sure, a lot of the old gang is gone – Frank Bellotti, Bill Delahunt, Bob Popeo – but it’s more than that.

You’re Michael Morrissey, and you’re political poison now. It’s been longer since you saw a friendly face on the street than since you last glimpsed your toes, and that’s a very long time indeed.

But if you do run for another term in 2026, you’ll be needing a slogan. How about, Reelect Morrissey – Not Just Another Pretty Face. Or Morrissey – A Whale of a District Attorney.

Or Reelect Morrissey – He’s Tons of Fun.

You’re a little nervous about this new special prosecutor of yours, Hank Brennan, despite his impeccable credentials as a slobbering devotee of the Bulger Crime Family.

But how’s Brennan going to handle the jury selection?

Does he understand that if by some amazing stroke of luck,, he draws a potential juror who “works” at Presidents Golf Course – he has to grab the guy, because he’s a hack, and Norfolk County payroll patriots do what you tell ‘em to do, if they know what’s good for them, that is.

Also, did Brennan follow your instructions to include in the jury questionnaire – “Do you ever watch reruns of ‘The Dukes of Hazard?’”

Because anyone who knows “Boss Hogg” by sight might mistake you for… oh, never mind.

You’re Michael Morrissey, and you notice that you just got a text from Michael Proctor, and he’s calling you “Skipper” and says now that he’s got a lot of time on his hands he’d like to work this summer on the Class Action.

And he signs it, “Gilligan.”

How did you get all these dummies working for you? If that crooked crapulous conehead cop had wanted to keep his phony-baloney trooper’s job, he should have done the right thing by you every August like Sgt. Buhkenik ($800) or Lt. Tully ($575).

Sure, the new colonel gave Tully the bum’s rush out of Canton, but at least he’s not fired. Tully’s just riding the pine, like that fat fed fraud Brian Higgins.

So many new faces in the office. One of your ADA’s just decided he was in fact a woman – went over to the probate and family court and changed “their” name. “They” will probably have a judgeship from Maura by Memorial Day.

And what happened to your hapless flack, Dave Traub? Oh that’s right, he bailed too, but at least you picked up a crackerjack replacement off the waiver wire.

David Linton – when you spend 40 years at the Attleboro Sun-Chronicle, you know you must be something special.

You’re Meatball Morrissey, and when you offered Linton $75,000, he must have thought he’d hit Mega Millions. You made him the Elon Musk of Attleboro.

Another message just came in from Michael Proctor, and now he’s saying, “Will cut lawn for Captain Morgan’s.”

Doesn’t Trooper Taillight know you’ve always had your grass cut by Noel DiBona? He does such a nice job on the hedges, and he’s a lifelong Quincy hack, even if you couldn’t get him elected register of deeds last year.

You’re Michael Morrissey and you’ve taken to second-guessing the career path you embarked on in the hackerama a half century ago.

You make $223,442 a year, but you get no respect.

You can’t even walk the dog anymore without someone pulling up in a car, honking the horn and hooting at you, “Is that Chloe? Has Chloe come back?”

You know who doesn’t have to worry about those kinds of slings and arrows? Arthur Tobin, the court clerk in Quincy, $174,532 a year.

Talk about forgotten but not gone – he’ll be 95 in May, and nobody even knows who he is anymore, because almost everybody who ever voted for him is deader than John O’Keefe and Sandra Birchmore and the underage girlfriends of all the coked-up hacks in Marina Bay.

You think Arthur Tobin is worried about jury selection in the Karen Read trial this week?

Or Sal Paterna, the clerk in Dedham? He’s 86, and nobody’s on social media looking for separated-at-birth photos of him and Fatty Arbuckle.

Who didn’t you become a clerk? Or a judge, like another one of your special prosecutors, Bob Cosgrove. He’s got two pensions and he’s still got his snout buried in the trough on your payroll. He’s a triple dipper.

You’re Meatball Morrissey and the rumors are that next there’s going to be a new Netflix documentary about you.

Working titles: “Meatball Morrissey: Double Chins and Double Jeopardy.” Or maybe: “A Lamebrain’s Life: Loaded Pizzas or Just Plain Loaded?”