Once upon a time, there was a U.S. Congressman from the 14th District of New York by the name of Fred Richmond . . .

This is not a love story; it is, rather, the tale of a flawed but well-intentioned man named Fred whose path crossed mine more than 40 years ago, and whom I remember fondly to this day . . . especially each year on Valentine’s Day.

Originally from Boston, he supported himself through college by playing piano and forming the Freddie Richmond Swing Band. He was a U.S. Navy veteran; a self-made millionaire who had built a successful business conglomerate; a liberal Democrat when it was okay to be one; and an openly gay man when it wasn’t okay.

He was instrumental in creating the Urban Gardening Program, and fostered numerous programs to advance support for the arts. He liked to help people, and was a loyal friend. But sometimes he cut corners where he shouldn’t have, in order to achieve a higher purpose.

Fred was a friend and client of my boss, prominent international attorney Walter Sterling Surrey, which is how we met.

*. *. *

One day, a mean old journalist — the ogre of this tale, whose name I have forgotten but who worked for a newspaper known then (and now) for its “yellow” journalism — decided to launch an investigation of some of Fred’s business dealings. For whatever reason, he didn’t like Fred; maybe the journalist was a conservative Republican, or possibly just an unhappy homophobe. But he dug and he dug and he dug, until he found something Fred had done that was technically unethical, even though it hadn’t actually caused harm to anyone.

And the mean old journalist published his findings, whereupon Fred was charged, tried, convicted, and sentenced to a year and a day in Allenwood Penitentiary — then a minimum-security, so-called “country club” prison for white-collar and other non-violent criminals.

Poor Fred. He always meant well; but he committed the crime, and he did the time — or eight months of it, anyway. And even while he was tucked away at Allenwood, he was thinking of others.

It would have been February 14th of 1983, I believe. I was at work, as usual, and giving some thought to my evening plans, when our receptionist rang my phone to tell me that there was a delivery for me at the front desk. “How nice!” I thought . . . “Someone has sent me flowers for Valentine’s Day.”

But it wasn’t a bouquet or a floral arrangement. Instead, it was a big box of gourmet chocolates and a single red rose, with a hand-written card from . . .

Fred Richmond.

I could not have been more surprised, or more tickled, if the gift had come from the White House. Even behind bars, Fred took the time to think of others. This was his way of saying thanks for whatever help I had been able to provide during the course of his legal proceedings.

And, to this day, I don’t personally know another individual who has received chocolates and a red rose from a prison inmate on Valentine’s Day. In some strange way, I find that a source of pride.

*. *. *

After Walter Surrey passed away in 1989, I never saw Fred again. I read that he had died, at age 96, in 2019. And last night I dreamt about him, for the first time ever. I suppose it was the Valentine’s Day connection; I don’t know . . . I’ve long since given up trying to analyze my dreams.

Fred never married or had children; but perhaps — on some higher plane — he knows that someone thought of him today. I like to think so.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Freddie. Behave yourself, okay?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/14/25