Bridgeport being Bridgeport? Or a case of human frailty?
On a long- ago election night in Bridgeport, the mayor of Bridgeport was coaxing a very young Christopher Dodd, then a candidate for the U. S. Senate, to go inside a polling place on the city’s East Side to say hello to the workers.
Such an act of conviviality would, of course, be in violation of any number of state, local and federal election laws, so Dodd, on this rainy night, was understandably reluctant.
It was not until a burly Democratic poll worker yelled at the young congressman, “Go on, this is Bridgeport!” that Dodd accompanied then- Mayor John C. Mandanici into the school and waved hello to those inside.
That sentiment, if not the exact words, has reverberated through the corridors of Bridgeport City Hall, the streets of the city — and outside — for decades.
Just last week I thought of them when assistant U. S. Attorney Jonathan Francis urged U. S. District Court Judge Kari Dooley to give former Police Chief A. J. Perez prison time for his participation in a scheme to rig the competition for the chief’s job. Turns out there really was no competition.
With the assistance of the city’s personnel director and a couple of police officers, Perez managed to get questions in advance, have someone else write his essays and finish in the top three candidates, allowing his long- time friend, Bridgeport Mayor Joe Ganim, to select him for the chief’s job.
Unbeknownst to Perez, one of the cops he asked to help him cheat on the test had gone to the FBI with information on the plan and had taped conversations with Perez.
A prison sentence, Francis argued, was necessary to dispel a widely held perception “That’s how things are done in Bridgeport.”
And the city indeed has a wellearned reputation as a place where, every so often, “things are done” in signature fashion.
As is the case with these proceedings, they are the result of felonious behavior, but they are also tinged with the sadness of the human condition.
Watching even through the remoteness of Zoom technology, the sadness is palpable. The people in the courtroom, the defendants in particular, are rendered so small.
When Perez rose to speak to the judge, mask in place, it was clear he had been desperate to get a job for which he knew he was not the best candidate.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he said. And when the FBI came knocking, “I panicked,” he said, and lied to them. The list of apologies was long. To his wife, his friends, his colleagues, the citizens of Bridgeport and ... ...“I betrayed myself.”
It’s no secret that the FBI has had long- standing interest in the city of Bridgeport. It goes back to 1981 when the agency had another Bridgeport police chief in its sights, the late Superintendent Joseph A. Walsh.
With the help of a wired- up informant, the FBI offered Walsh a bribe. Along the lines of “how things are done in Bridgeport” — in the Walsh era, at least — Walsh knew all about the FBI plan. He had secreted his officers all around the rendezvous point, lured the stoolie into his car and arrested him when he produced the envelope of cash.
By the time the feds emerged from their hiding places, Walsh and his men had taken control of the scene and Walsh told the approaching agents that if they came any closer, he would arrest them, too.
It was an embarrassing mo
When Perez rose to speak to the judge, mask in place, it was clear he had been desperate to get a job for which he knew he was not the best candidate.
ment for the agency. And one they did not forget.
Twenty years later, they came back. Literally with a vengeance. And convicted Mayor Joe Ganim and a handful of allies in a bribery scheme that sent them to prison.
Dunn’s role in the matter is hard to comprehend. Seventythree years old, one eye on retirement and, like Perez, a long, unblemished career behind him, he made a terrible decision.
The two men asked last week to serve their sentences — a yearand- a- day for Perez; four months for Dunn — at the satellite camp at Otisville, New York, or in Schuylkill, Pennsylvania.
The satellite camp at Otisville, I can tell you, is no Club Fed, as some like to call these prisons without walls.
Otisville is a grim place where daily activities are regimented and monitored by guards. The camp sits in the shadow of what they call “the big house,” a minimum- security prison with walls and concertina wire. Picturesque? No. A behavioral slip- up in the camp could earn a prisoner a transfer to the big house.
Even U. S. District Court Judge Kari Dooley remained mystified at the end of Dunn’s sentencing.
To Perez, at the conclusion of his sentencing, the judge said, “Mr. Perez, good luck to you, sir.”
Before offering a similar salutation to Dunn, she paused, looked up at him and said, “Mr. Dunn, I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“I don’t know either,” he said. How things are done, or just another sad tale?