Phil Reisman: Requiem for a bail bondsman

Ordinarily it is poor journalistic policy to reveal one's sources, but we are free to make an exception in the case of Marty Rochelle.

Nobody more than Marty relished dropping a dime on the rascals — the self-serving pols he deemed as overly enamored with "Mr. Green," which was his oft-used euphemism for money and greed. Very little got past him — and he loved passing on bits of inside information to reporters.

Typically, he started out like this: "You'll never believe who they just hired." Then he'd have you guess for a few minutes before revealing the name of the individual who invariably was an elected official's brother-in-law or a cousin once removed.

Marty pointed and prodded with a moral compass, but sometimes it was hard to understand him. He spoke in a street-wise dialect, a hard blend of Yonkers patois and Bronx palaver, which is practically a dead language today like Latin. When he said the word "mayor" it came out as may-a.

Marty, who had been ill for the past few years, died Sunday at White Plains Hospital at the age of 78. By trade, he was a bail bondsman whose necessary job entailed trolling for would-be defendants in the corridors of the Westchester County Courthouse. Heavy-set and wide, he more than looked the part.

In fact, his colorful "Runyonesque" persona inspired a literary agent to propose a book deal but Marty turned him down because he feared a frank narrative would burn too many bridges. By Marty's own telling, the one and only Robert DeNiro wanted to make a TV series about his life. Unfortunately, that, too, went nowhere.

Marty was a colonel in the New York Air National Guard, and so out of respect he was called "The Colonel" at WVOX radio in New Rochelle, where he hosted a popular talk show one night a week. He always arrived an hour early with two dozen Dunkin' Donuts — a dozen for himself and a dozen for the staff, including a single butternut-covered doughnut that was reserved for the boss, Bill O'Shaughnessy.

"He would also come accompanied by the very latest behind-the-scenes political gossip mixed with rip-roaring tales of wrongdoing and skullduggery," O'Shaughnessy said Monday. "He just knew all these things."

Marty loved doing radio and never pulled punches. Many years ago, a county legislator, who had been the object of Marty's scorn, handed him a proclamation declaring Martin Rochelle Day in Westchester.

"I don't understand this," Marty said. "Either (he) didn't listen to my radio show Tuesday, or he's trying to butter me up."

Everyone at the courthouse knew Marty.

He was a "vital member of our extended court family," was the way Administrative Judge Alan D. Sheinkman of the Ninth Judicial District, put it in a note to his staff after Marty's passing.

"Marty was just an iconic figure, the sort of person that you will never see in Westchester again," Sheinkman told me over the phone. "This is a guy who was incredibly active. He was very, very involved in government, particularly in Yonkers. He would present himself as a sort of cantankerous guy, but all he wanted was to do good.

"He was really a sweetheart. He'd probably hate it that I said that. But the guy was really a sweetheart."

Marty was involved in the Republican Party, but he was never partisan in his politics. Back in the days before there was a strong-mayor form of government in Yonkers, he served as assistant city manager, which meant that for all intents and purposes he helped run the town.

As Yonkers Mayor Mike Spano pointed out, Marty was very proud of his work as an official guardian of the city's parks and recreation system.

"I've known Marty Rochelle for most of my life," Spano said. "Marty was a good man, controversial at times, but was always committed to the well-being of Yonkers, especially regarding our parks and open spaces."

Marty never tired of talking about the old days. He was a press source then, too, mainly to Dave Hartley, the editor of The Herald Statesman and reporter Jennie Tritten, who compiled bits of political gossip in a column called "Periscope."

All these years later, it can now be revealed that Marty's invisible hand was often behind the items reporting official mendacity.

Toward the end of his life, when he was hospitalized, Marty entertained a number of bedside visitors, though the rule was only two visitors at a time. According to O'Shaughnessy, one night he was visited by no fewer than 10 people, which prompted a nurse to sternly remind him of the rule.

Marty replied politely that all 10 were judges. "Who do you want me to throw out?"

The nurse gave up and the party went on.

A memorial service will be held at noon Wednesday for Marty at the Riverside Chapel in Mount Vernon.

The courthouse will remain open, of course, but Sheinkman predicted a shortage of judges.

"They're all going to be at the service."