OIB correspondent John J. Gilmore, former political reporter for the Bridgeport Post, predecessor of the Connecticut Post, shares a story about the power and personality of Sarsfield Ford who passed away a few days ago.
You couldn’t know Judge Sarsfield Ford with having a story or two tucked away in your pocket about the man. He was a city legend and a man who lived by a distinct set of rules–His! My friendship–and near alienation–with Judge Ford grew out of our common membership on the St. Patrick’s Scholarship Committee.
Some years ago, the afternoon of the traditional Monday night black-tie affair found me sitting at my desk at the Post, making phone calls and trying to stir up trouble. My phone rang and on the other end was a committee member tied up with a business matter.
“Can you check the hotel? Can you make sure everything is proceeding alright, correct any last minute problems? I can’t get there.”
“Sure, no problem,” I said. Things were slow. It was an easy favor to grant.
I ambled over to the hotel and found the staff is setting up the tables with plates and silverware. Everything seemed fine, until I spotted the handwritten signs, not on one, but on two tables, reserving them for “Judge Sarsfield Ford.”
“These have to go,” I told the hotel floor boss.
“No, the judge wants them there.” I was told.
“No, they have to go!” I insisted. After all, I had previously been at a committee meeting where William “Billy Big Shot” Carroll, the committee chairman at the time, said no tables could be reserved. None. It seemed like a simple rule to me.
“You don’t understand,” the boss said, “the judge’s sheriff came down and placed the reserved signs there himself.”
“I don’t care if Wyatt Earp put them there. Get rid of them,” I said. After all, I knew that the committee said “no reserved tables.”
What I didn’t know at the time was how much the scholarship dinner meant to Judge Ford. Simply put, it meant a lot. Every year he bought two full tables and loaded them up with other judges and Catholic clergy. It was his night. And I suspect he also kicked in an extra donation to the scholarship fund. Who knew? Well, I didn’t.
The judge showed up at the dinner and discovered his pre-selected tables were taken. Efforts were hastily made to accommodate Judge Ford and his guests, but not as near to the podium as he wanted. From those who knew of his feelings on that night, he was … let’s just say miffed.
Some days after the dinner, the judge demanded a committee meeting and an explanation. Apparently no one knew I ordered the hotel staff to remove the signs. I told Billy Carroll what I did and he told me to skip the meeting. He’d calm down the judge and it would be better if I wasn’t there. It would be noisy and maybe ugly, Billy said, but everyone would survive and the judge needn’t know of my role. I was starting to appreciate Judge Ford’s special status in Bridgeport.
I stayed away from the meeting, but I was bothered by the whole matter. The judge deserved the truth. I liked the judge. He was a good for the city. If anyone qualified for special status he deserved it more than most.
So, a few days after the meeting, I headed off to his chambers. I fell on my sword an explained it was I who removed the signs, having been told of the “no reservations rule” and being unaware of his special status.
The thing about Judge Ford was that, while he struck fear into the hearts of lawyers, felons and people in his courtroom, to the rest of the world he was simply a guy interested in doing good. The way he chose to do good outside the courtroom was to bring colleagues and clergy to an urban scholarship dinner and show them that good people lived in his city. His actions said his city sent kids to college and men here wore tuxedos as well as men in the more well-to-do towns of Fairfield County. Some of his guests might have never been exposed to that message without the Judge.
Ford looked at me and asked, “Who told you to take my ‘reserved’ signs down?”
“No one,” I said. “It was my understanding that was the rule.”
“The rule,” he said looking down and resting his palms on his desk.
There was a moment of silence.
He looked up at me, smiled and asked “how’s your wife?” Judge Ford always had a fondness for my wife. They shared some sort of distant-Irish-cousin relationship, a family lineage I could never follow.
“She’s fine,” I said.
The judge smiled and said “say hello to her for me and thanks for stopping by.” That was it. I was dismissed.
Judge Ford continued to reserve his tables at the dinner and bring movers and shakers of the clergy and the legal world. And I always worked my way through the crowd to say hello and shake his hand.
Judge, you will be missed.
