I remember the day. Warm enough to ride a bike and want to spend the afternoon in the movies. I went to Pink Floyd’s The Wall by myself. It was shown at the now defunct but much remembered St. Marks Movie Theater at 134 2nd Avenue and St.Marks. I just googled it and as of that picture, it is a clothing store; who knows what it is in 2013. People loved that theater because you could smoke pot in it. They had couches, but being the middle class California transplant I didn’t dare sit on them. I did love that they existed, tho. So the movie. I am not sure why I even went. I was not a fan of Pink FLoyd and I had no idea what the film was supposed to be about. Still don’t. I do remember that it had very violent images mostly against women. When I exited the film, I think it was around 5 or 6pm, I rode my bike towards 3rd on 9th. I was looking for a hip resto that I had heard about. As I approached the corner, I saw a kerfuffle. A woman of about 60 was distraught shouting about her purse had been taken, to my right down Stuyvesant St towards 2nd, a man was running with the purse, followed by another, whom I call the Good Samaritan. I began following both of them. Oh did I mention I was on my bike? They ran down 10th to 1st avenue and it was about here that the Good Samaritan lost his mojo, having less of an incentive to keep going than the perp. But unbeknownst to both of them, I was there. I followed at a safe distance,but close enough to see him when he turned onto East onto 11th St. and jumped into a sub-basement dugout that NYC has on many buildings. I rode past quietly to see him crouched down, rifling through the purse. I rode across the street to the pay phone (remember children, this was the early 80’s, and personal phones were only on Star Trek and in Beverly Hills) to call the police. They wanted me to give my name, and I almost didnt but they wouldnt let me go if I didnt. I am glad I did. I jumped off the phone to make sure he was still there. I waited across the street in case he decided to leave before the cops arrived, and as I watched a car go up 11th towards 2nd Avenue, he popped out, minus his jacket and purse. This dude was happy, as he made off with the crime, and was now heading to his dealer. But he didn’t figure the raging feminist following him. He was making pretty good time, walking fast but not running. An undercover cop car pulled up next to me and asked if it was the two Puerto Rican kids, and I said with glee, “no the tall white guy!” . Suddenly two unmarked cars did a “V” move, trapping him up against the chain link fence. He said, cocky and all “Is there something a matter, Officer?”. Since he did not have the purse on him, the cops looked to me. I said he was down in one of those sub-basements. I was a little confused with the moment and went to the wrong one, but then we found the purse and his jacket. BOOYA!
I rode to the WOW Cafe on 11th street, flush with excitement. No one there seemed to care. So I rode home. Just as I finished my 5 flights of stairs with my bike, my phone rang. A man asked "if I was Debra Miller, the Debra Miller who found the man who mugged my wife?" He was so grateful and happy and wanted me to have a reward. They invited me to dinner and gave me $50 bucks! They were great people in that fantastic apartment building, The Brevoort, on 5th Avenue at 8th.
But it didn’t end there. In NYC the way criminals are prosecuted is through the ancient “Grand Jury” system. A group of citizens are impaneled for a year (it becomes their job), where they decide if a crime warrants prosecution. These people had heard everything. They were over it. The DA is examining me and I am telling the above story. They still don’t react. Finally he says, "Ms. Miller, tell the Jury how you caught the perpetrator?" "On my bicycle." They all sat up. You must remember that in addition to no cell phones, bike cops had not yet been “invented”. I may have been the impetus but I’ll leave that decision up to you (Forrest G anyone?).
So how did the Daily News find out about you? Well, some time had passed, and I was telling a new friend the story (cuz ya’all know I like to tell my stories). She said that I was a Crimestopper. A what? Clearly, I was not a Daily News reader. She proceeded to write the story up and send it to the paper. They investigated, and viola! I am chosen.
My friend drove me down to the paper on the back of her Vespa, where I was interviewed. I had been up late celebrating an Opening Night with my friends, The SplitBritches, so my head was a wee bit foggy. The writer basically eek-ed the feminist twist out of me, but it wasn’t really too far from the truth, since we all know that I have been a proud Fed Up Fem(inist) for all my life!
