Pervs were plentiful; they’d play the rush hours like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disney World: Stalking ladies boarding the trains, then squeezing behind their behinds.

When someone comments on my longevity I sometimes reply, “Every day is a good day on the sunny side of the lawn.”

But I’ve spent many days beneath Earth’s surface.

Specifically in the dark side of New York City’s streets.

Recently, I’ve gone back through journals I’ve kept and relived working where the sun don’t shine.

After NYC Transit Police uniform patrol, I worked in plainclothes Anti-Crime, or AC, as we called it on the job.

We tried to blend in with the subway masses. Some of us took the blend-in lightly.

I, at times, had more fun. Sometimes I dressed like a tourist, JFK tags on a shoulder bag. My police radio in a binocular case hanging from my shoulder.

I even pretended to be blind a time or two, white stick and all. Thank you, Lighthouse for the Blind .

I used any available option to spot trouble.

Yes, I have to admit, I was like a kid living out my cops-and-robbers dream. Is it any wonder I stayed six years longer than I had to before I retired?

On the drive home after a good collar, I sometimes said to myself—even out loud—”I love doing this shit!”

Subway rush hours were good for pickpockets, bag openers, and—way too often—perverts or pervs as we called them.

We would certainly have liked to catch a thief: jostlers who unnecessarily placed their hands on someone’s pocket or pocketbook…

…who become grand larcenists when they reached, into those places and took something; or robbery defendants when they used force or the threat of force to take or keep what they took.

We’d make robbery, with knife or gun, arrests. But you take other crimes too sometimes.

These sex crimes were only B misdemeanors, but sometimes misdemeanor arrests were meaningful.

At least to the victims and their families.

Sexual abuse 3rd degree, may not seem important among New York City’s violent crime reports. But if you think of your wife, daughter or granddaughter, son, or grandson encountering these pervs? The importance rises by orders of magnitude.

Think of a loved one simply catching a train home.

Pervs were plentiful; they’d play the rush hours like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disney World: Stalking ladies boarding the trains, then squeezing behind their behinds.

They’d usually start at an express stop, join the rush-hour crowds, and have at least a five-minute “thrill” ride.

They’d often get off at the next stop, then go back to the one they’d just left for another run of fun.

We’d play them as they preyed on the women. Then, with the woman’s agreement to press charges, bust them.

Often, the ladies just wanted to go home. And the perv skates.

One man I arrested for sexual abuse told me the ladies liked it: “They push back against me,” he said. He told me this while in handcuffs. So there’s that.

One day my partner and I saw an apparent perv walking back and forth, taking ever so long to board a train. We’d see him again and again. We thought he must be looking for a particular type of woman.

We called him the Discriminator. 

4/21/83 I wrote:

At Queen’s Plaza, we saw the Discriminator get on the train following a young teen boy.

My partner that day, Walter, got on after the perv, while I got on further back at the next set of doors.

In front of me, I stumbled upon another perv pressing against a lady. As I said, pervs were plentiful.

At Roosevelt Ave Station, the lady near me declined to press charges.

I looked to Walter; he nodded and pointed to the kid. But I didn’t see the Discriminator around. Walter told me he hit on the kid, who we learned was 14.

We searched the station with the kid; no perv. It was only upon further questioning that we learned the perv was only able to slide his hand across the kid’s abdomen toward his crotch but never got to his penis.

It was fortunate we didn’t get him that day because he never committed sexual abuse.  And he would have been on to us next time.

5/8/83:

Queens Plaza again. I pointed out the Discriminator to my regular partner, Lou as we watched him for 15 minutes. He carried a folded NY Times.

He got on an express behind two boys.

Lou and I got on behind him. The perv stood between the boys, looking at one, then the other, shifting his paper from hand to hand. I then saw him hold the folded newspaper at his side and move his hand backward toward the crotch of one boy.

The boy looked startled and backed up, staring in disbelief at the perv.

When we got to Roosevelt Ave. the second kid and the perv got off. Lou followed the perv while I asked the first kid his age and what happened. He said he was 15 and that the perv touched his penis.

By now, Lou was across the platform in the doorway of a local. I yelled to him to take him, and he pulled the perv off the local.

I told Smythe he was under arrest for sexual abuse of a child and endangering the welfare of a child.

He denied everything. He said he works in the finance section of an investment management company in Connecticut. He said he had never been arrested and gave us ID that showed he lived in a nearby affluent neighborhood in Queens. He also had a place in CT.

7/10/83:

Queens Criminal Court:

Smythe showed up for his trial with his wife.

The kid came with his father and another man, an escort from a group home project in the Bronx.

The kid had been caught in a stolen car in which a loaded gun was found. He was originally charged with robbery connected with the arrest, but that charge was dropped. He had one prior for grand larceny auto. He was sent to the group home and has been there for the past 6 months. 

His dad didn’t want the kid to come to court and to just forget the whole thing, but the kid insisted on coming.

In the preparation interview with the Assistant District Attorney (ADA), the kid was nervous. Despite his two previous arrests, he didn’t seem like a hard kid.

The ADA offered Smythe a plea bargain for disorderly conduct and probation to cover both the sex abuse and the endangerment charges.

The ADA asked me if it was okay with me, as if it would make a difference. (No one had ever asked me before if a plea was okay. I thought I was in Mayberry.)

But when asked, I said Smythe’s plea should include a provision for psychiatric counseling. I told the ADA how often we had seen Smythe stalking the platforms.

The judge and the ADA invited me to join Smythe and his attorney at the bench, where Smythe agreed to the terms of the plea. 

When a defendant pleads guilty, he must admit what he did in open court on the record. (It’s called an allocution.)

In Smythe’s case, they let him speak to the judge at the side of the bench and admit what he did, not to the open court. I never saw that happen either. I guess they allowed it so nobody in the courtroom would be tempted to stab Smythe as he left.

I spoke to the kid before the plea bargain. I told the him I know it isn’t so easy being a teenager. But I said life could be good if you want it to be. I suggested he join the Marines and get away from the neighborhood for a while. I said I joined thenMarines. I told him to call me if he thought I could help him in any way.

Yes, these are my journal entries from 43 years ago.

The courts, because of many circumstances, often allow plea deals. Often too, they are hard for us to digest.

But neither my partners nor I ever saw Smythe, again.

Even with my now-limited ability to trace people, I learned that Smythe, not his real name, still appears to be alive. He’s 84, but no longer lives in New York or Connecticut.

I never heard from the kid, and I have no idea how his life unfolded. It’s a risky journey for a teen in NYC. Especially, when at 15, you’re already in a stolen car—with a gun present.

But the kid, the perv and I, were just parts of one of the many stories beneath the streets of New York City.

Yes, I always wanted to be a cop, especially a plainclothes cop. You can see evidence of it here, in 1949 or ‘50, as I reach for my gun:

Be well,

Lee,

Shedding a little light wherethesundontshine.

See also, Sex Beneath the Surface

And more of my sunnyside photo essays, Leebythesea