Attleboro is a little sadder today. We find ourselves minus three popular and notable citizens with the passing of retired Judge Edward Casey, retired Police Chief Roland Sabourin and former firefighter Dan Bolton, all of whom I knew well and was fortunate enough to call friends.
I have nothing but the warmest memories of Danny, always smiling and upbeat, usually with a comic line to kick off the conversation. I have a pair of brief anecdotes about the judge and Rollie I'd like to share with you:
In my elementary school days, Sunday mornings after 7 a.m. Mass marked "the gathering time of the clans" at my house, when McAvoys, O'Briens, Donahues, Sullivans, Smiths, McCarthys and Connellys would fill the downstairs and talk until Sunday dinner. Over the last few years of the 1950s, our cousin Jimmy Sullivan would regale us of the the potential greatness he saw in a young Irish-Catholic junior senator he had befriended some years before named Jack Kennedy. "Aye, but he's Irish AND he's Catholic," the old ones muttered in their brogues, "not a tinker's chance."
When JFK announced for his run for the presidency (as prescient Jimmy had been telling us for some time), Sullivan managed his local campaign from a School Street storefront just off Union. The minute Bliss School dismissed classes, I'd race over, greet Jim and begin filling bags with campaign buttons, bumper stickers and literature for distribution all over town.
One day I asked Jim if there was anything more I could do to serve the cause, and he suggested I ask Ed Casey, a young attorney he admired who was very involved with the campaign.
The next day I crossed Park Street, gathered my courage (I was, after all only 12, and hardly used to being taken seriously by any adult, much less an attorney-at-law!) and entered the sandstone at the corner of Park and O'Neil Boulevard where his law office was. A thin, crew-cut Casey appeared to be sizing me up as I spoke, then led me into a rear room where we engaged in conversation for three quarters of an hour. Never condescending, he spoke plainly, in words I could understand, about Kennedy's promise for the nation at such a critical moment in human history. He talked to me in the way I imagined a father might speak with his son on an important issue. When I told him I'd better get home for supper, he walked me to the front door and told me - no, invited me - to drop back anytime (an offer my mother suggested I forego, because a rising young lawyer starting up his practice had no time to entertain kids).
I only recall that single visit, but Judge Casey's kindness and compassion left an indelible mark with me, and as I grew older, the magnitude of his gracious gesture grew as well. How easily he could have curtly dismissed me, but as he always did throughout his long life, Judge Casey took the High Road.
A night in jail
Once, over 40 years ago, a high-spirited local lad, 'tis sad to report, found himself taken into police custody on charges for which we are happy to report, he was later found innocent. But on the night in question, our boy found himself "in his cups" and "in the pokey," as it were. The young man was precisely the same age as a young patrolman named Roland Sabourin, who was a friend and will enter this tale very shortly.
Our young detainee was summarily searched and placed in one of the old Wall Street holding cells, where he lay down on his grey-board bunk in the place where time passes slowest. Fortunately for our story, when Officer Sabourin reported for duty some hours later, he found his shift would be spent manning the front desk. Once his preliminary work was done and he read the name of the only prisoner, he walked to the cellblock, greeted him and asked if he needed anything; the request for the sub-machine gun was rejected, but the two friends spoke for a spell before Roland returned to the lobby and the main desk.
Prior to turning in for the night, the prisoner remembered an old custom which he performed on any occasion when he found himself behind locked doors. He rose, took the three steps to his cell door, turned his back to it, and delivered one tremendous mule kick, and something happened that never had happened before. Imagine our boy's jaw dropping a foot as he watched the iron door swing wide open! Whether the attending lockup officer simply forgot to lock it or the lock was broken was never determined, at least by this writer.
This new turn of events, however, posed a dilemma. What now? After determining the door now could not be locked, the lad tentatively looked out the door left, then right, shrugged and stepped softly out into the hallway and made his way to doorway where light streamed in from the main desk area. A beefy lieutenant standing behind the desk had his back to me and totally hid Rollie, seated behind him, only identifiable by his voice as they spoke to one another. The lad in the doorway considered dropping to the floor and duck-walking his way behind the desk and out the front door, but for one, any officer entering would see him, Rollie might be the one to take the fall for cell door, in anyhow, this was a kindergarten low-rent beef to begin with.
So our boy just leaned on the doorjamb crossed his arms and legs and waited, smiling. The wait was not too long, as Rollie suddenly rolled his chair out from behind the "Looie." One of history's great double takes occurred on that evening. Rollie's eyes were dinner platters and his mouth a chasm. Before the senior officer could turn around, the lad quickly returned to the cell and gently closed the door behind him.
When Rollie ran back to the holding area, he found his old pal on his bunk, in the cell, hands behind his head and wearing that same smile. He opened the door several inches and just shook his head and smiled. He moved his prisoner down to the next cell, locked it and walked away chuckling, "You're something else."
That was it - no new charges, no repercussions, just two local guys, old friends, finding a laugh in an uneasy situation. People wonder why Rollie rose as quickly as he did to police chief. It was because Roland Sabourin knew how to treat people. Rest in peace end "Vaya Con Dios," old friend.
THOMAS McAVOY is a community columnist whose commentaries appear on Tuesdays.