Roy Cohn passed away headlines ago but is now being exhumed. A book writer, two separate documentarians, and a magazine writer recently asked my help in dredging him back up again. Sony Pictures Classics’ “Where’s My Roy Cohn?” is in theaters now.

I knew his friends, lifestyle, contacts, his homes, some of his secrets. I went to his evenings, parties. I went to dinner with him.

By sheer happenstance, I knew him well. I was a young nobody. I inherited Roy because I’d just married comedian Joey Adams, who was his friend. Why?

Because Roy was political. A cleric became a bishop, a congressman turned senator, a gala invariably followed. Roy on the dais, “Toastmaster General” Joey the steady emcee. As Mayor Fiorello’s personal protégé, former brother-in-law of columnist Walter Winchell, president of theatrical union AGVA, American Guild of Variety Artists, my husband always had access.

Roy threw Joey’s yearly birthday party. When we holidayed abroad, he flew there for just one night to have dinner with us. My living-room coffee table has a silver ashtray inscribed with Roy’s letter in his own handwriting.

He surreptitiously came to Hong Kong to trick us. I’d interviewed the Himalayan state Sikkim’s queen. With our hotel manager, India’s ambassador who oversaw Sikkim, and Hong Kong’s US rep, he faked an official message stating she’s coming to our Hong Kong hotel needing a full floor for her retinue, a week’s compensation for entertainment plus shopping — all at our expense. We went nuts.

The hotel manager and both embassies “confirmed” this cable while Roy stayed hidden three days. Who can understand a mind able to conceive such a trick?!

Jewel mystery

Roy Cohn asked to meet a local antique dealer we knew. Three costly pieces were then delivered to his East Side townhouse. Six months later, the dealer said Cohn didn’t pay for them. Not my idea for anyone I knew well to be mistreated, so mid-day I went to Cohn’s house. Housekeeper Elvira, who knew me, let me in. From his living room, I repossessed all three items, bundled them into my car and returned them to the dealer.

That night Roy and I had dinner. He did not speak of it. Never referred to it. Not even Word One. Until the day he passed away, he never ever mentioned it.

One flight up in the townhouse was his law library lined totally with heavy imposing volumes. But … opened, trod upon, lying on the floor atop one another, askew, pages bent, kicked away when special issues were under litigation were many. Stunned, I asked, “How can you treat such legal history this way?” His answer: “Who cares? Just give me the judge.”

He drank champagne drizzled with a whole Sweet ’N Low. Always ate off other people’s plates. Usual tuna sandwich lunch was in Nathan Lane’s “Angels in America” enaction. Little toy-store animals lined his rooms. He traveled in the old-style bigsize Rolls — bud vases lining the inside — often driven by one of his T-shirted boyfriends.

I’m useful in the documentary

Roy knew the best judges money could buy and the country’s most famous. Forever ago, he introduced me to the man who is today president of the United States. When I graduated from nobody wifehood to somebody reporter, I suddenly became, he thought, useful. He was wrong. I joined the New York Post 1981. He passed on in 1986. Those years were not the same between us. It became difficult. I was not useful.

Sunday, producer/director Ivy Meeropol holds a private screening of “Bully. Coward. Victim. The Story of Roy Cohn,” which premiered at the New York Film Festival, and will hit HBO.

Meeropol ’s a descendant of spies Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, whom Cohn’s prosecution sentenced to death. For her sake, I agreed to do a small segment on it.

Roy Cohn. Born and bred only in New York, kids, only in New York.