Richard J. Codey

Richard J. Codey, the 53rd governor of New Jersey and a lifelong public servant who had a remarkable gift for making complete strangers feel like the most important people in the world, died Sunday, January 11, 2026, at his home in Roseland, surrounded by family, after a brief illness. He was 79.

A native son of Essex County and a third-generation funeral director, Codey devoted his life to public service, guided by compassion, practicality and an instinct to tackle issues others avoided. Over more than five decades in the New Jersey Legislature, including service as Senate President, he earned a reputation as a steady hand and trusted listener, a leader guided less by ideology than by empathy and common sense.

Those qualities shaped his public and his private lives. Whether serving constituents, mentoring young people or sitting quietly with families in moments of grief, he brought a calming presence and humanity to everything he did.

Codey was born and raised in Orange, New Jersey, a place he never stopped believing in and never stopped serving. (See Exit 11, Route 280.) He learned the family business from a shared bedroom on the third floor, living above the funeral home where the work never stopped.

It was there he absorbed lessons that stayed with him for life: how to sit with grief, how to listen and how to be present without trying to fix the unfixable. Long before public office entered the picture, he understood pain and responded to it instinctively.

That understanding followed him into friendships, family life and public service - and later in life, when the former funeral director returned to the profession with not one, but two locations.

Empathy, humility and the example of fellow Irishman President John F. Kennedy drew him toward public service. He believed problems were meant to be worked, not debated in dueling press releases. (Growing up Irish certainly gave him a head start in conflict resolution.)

"The Gov" began his career in the New Jersey General Assembly before moving to the state Senate. His 50 years in the Legislature were longer than anyone else in state history, proving he was either a masochist or simply unwilling to give up his late-night diner stops on drives home from Trenton.

Over the years, he became known as a reliable dealmaker. A lifelong Democrat who counted U.S. presidents, Ambassadors & Essex County Country Club caddies among his friends, he especially valued working with Republican colleagues. If common ground existed, he took genuine pleasure in finding it.

Those hard-fought agreements moved the state forward and gave him something he quietly enjoyed: the chance to remind skeptics what could be accomplished by putting the interests of constituents first.

As Senate President, he became the state's "accidental governor" more than once, most notably for a 14-month stretch. History will show that in those 428 days, he accomplished more than anyone could have predicted, given the circumstances he inherited.

In truth, he never stopped being the people's governor. In the two decades after leaving the governor's office, there were few days when someone didn't tell him, "You were the best governor we ever had," or, "I wish you'd run again."

Even while holding the state's highest office, he remained amused by the idea it should impress anyone, or that he would be asked to write a book. After all, he had been asked to leave two high schools as a young man - one because he threw a frog out a classroom window, the other lost to the fog of time. (The family would like to acknowledge Oratory Prep and those who ultimately decided he deserved a diploma.)

As governor, he consistently deflected praise, preferring that credit and respect be shared with those around him, whether interns or cabinet members. He also used his time as governor to highlight his work on the single issue that best defined his public life: mental health.

Long before it was common, or comfortable, for public officials to speak openly about mental illness, Codey pushed to the front of the conversation, undeterred by the concerns of cautious staffers.

"Nahhhhhhhh. C'mon," he would say, rolling his head back and muttering something best left untranslated.

He pushed for funding, reform and awareness because he had seen suffering up close and believed silence only made it worse. He spoke openly about the struggles in his own family. He made sure the people who needed help had him 100% in their corner. And, most famously, he went undercover.

Some 35 years ago, he assumed the identity of a deceased criminal and worked as an orderly at Marlboro Psychiatric Hospital to investigate conditions from the inside. The systemic problems he discovered - including patient abuse and unsafe practices - had largely been hidden from public view. His findings prompted a state Senate task force and led to broad reforms in how New Jersey cared for its most vulnerable residents. That work helped pave the way for the facility's eventual closure in 1998.

Families - his own and others - noticed. Caregivers noticed. People struggling noticed. They felt seen.

Years after leaving office, The Gov continued advocating, often quietly and behind the scenes. The Codey Fund for Mental Health will carry that work forward for generations, because he believed the cause was bigger than any one person.

For all the weight he carried, The Gov never lost his sense of humor. How else could he remain loyal to his beleaguered Cincinnati Reds for the past 35 years? (And how many politicians from Essex County have ever been invited to throw out a first pitch in Ohio?)

He used laughter and a well-timed smirk or wink to soften hard moments and ease tense rooms. He created space to talk, to listen and to reconnect. He could make people laugh when things were heavy, especially when they were really heavy.

His humor was warm, sometimes a little risqu�, often self-deprecating and always rooted in an instinct to put others at ease. He didn't need to win the room. He just wanted everyone to feel comfortable in it, even if that meant telling a priest-and-a-rabbi joke � to actual priests and rabbis.

Away from Trenton, The Gov felt most at home in gymnasiums, arenas and stadiums, coaching or watching games, especially his beloved Seton Hall Pirates.

He coached basketball for five decades, and he did it the same way he governed, emphasizing effort, teamwork and showing up. Winning a national AAU championship in 2019 was a proud moment, made even more meaningful by the fact his younger son, Chris, coached alongside him.

Former players remember a coach who cared deeply about character and lessons that extended far beyond the court, into their lives as husbands and fathers. For a man who spent so many years in politics and funeral homes, he certainly understood the value of the long game.

At home, The Gov was exactly that - home. He treasured time with Mary Jo and the boys. Asked when he last took a vacation, he would mutter something under his breath, which, come to think of it, may explain that second high school departure.

He loved his family fiercely and quietly, showing it in everyday ways: listening, being present, paying attention. He took immense pride in his sons, often rattling off their accomplishments to visitors in the office they later shared. He delighted in his grandchildren. He was grounded by Mary Jo.

Family also gave him a wingman for weekend trips down the Parkway to Monmouth Park, a target for his barbs on the golf course and a companion on election nights, driving from senior centers to firehouses, counting votes.

Leaving a small polling place, he once told Kevin, his older son, "I won that one 2-1." Kevin wondered how it could take so long to count three votes, but eventually realized there was always another election ahead - and that leaving a vote on the table genuinely bothered The Gov.

In the days following his passing, tens of thousands of messages poured in from across New Jersey. They came from public officials, yes, but also from teachers, nurses, union workers, parents and people who crossed paths with him once and never forgot it.

They shared stories not of policies, but of moments: a returned phone call, a quiet kindness, a personal check that suddenly appeared, a path through government red tape, a joke delivered at exactly the right time.

Again and again, the same words appeared: warm, decent, kind.

It wasn't just about what he did.

It was about what he didn't have to do.

Codey was predeceased by his parents, Donald R. Codey Sr. and Patricia (Harling) Codey, and his brother, Donald R. Codey Jr.

He is survived by his beloved wife of 45 years, Mary Jo (Rolli) Codey; his treasured sons, Kevin X. Codey and his wife, Danielle (Firavanti); and Christopher Y. Codey; his cherished grandchildren, Brooke, Patrick and Paige Codey; his siblings, Robert Codey (Mary Ann), Sister Patricia Codey, SC, and Colleen Codey (Edward Hughes); his sister-in-law, Margaret Codey; the Rolli family; and many loving nieces, nephews and cousins.

He's also survived by millions of former constituents, extended family, friends, current and former staff members, basketball players and even political adversaries.

In lieu of flowers, donations to honor his life's work may be sent to: The Codey Fund for Mental Health, 307 Bloomfield Ave. Suite 303, Caldwell, N.J. 07006.