How High Can A Guy Stoop?

Excerpt from How High Can a Guy Stoop?

By Mike Miller

            Finding another job was a priority.  My low opinion of Jim Inhofe soured me on politics.  At the same time, television news seemed to lose its fun and excitement.  Washington DC was exciting, but something seemed lacking.  Perhaps I missed the mischief I recalled from early Tulsa TV.

            WUSA-TV was much too big and busy to engage in questionable activities that made life so unpredictable in the turbulent 70s.  Certainly, nothing like the day Tulsa Police Chief Jack Purdie called me in to ask if I knew anything about a porno movie produced by some Tulsa TV station personnel. 

            “You’re asking me to admit to a felony,” I replied.  “Or at least knowledge of a crime.”  The chief explained, “We’re not interested in the damn movie.  We’re investigating a murder case involving two lesbians.  We have reason to believe the victims may have appeared in the film.”

            I quickly realized the Chief Purdie’s suspicions were bogus.  The two local movie stars were prostitutes.  They were actors, not lovers.  I assured the chief the movie “performers” were very much alive, healthy, and probably flat on their backs, earning a good living.  The reason I was certain:  the murder story had been in the news, along with some pictures of the victims.  Furthermore, one of the film stars was also a star witness in a major murder trial I was covering.

            I did confirm being present at an apartment near the University of Tulsa, where the hookers put on a performance that some TV staffers captured on film.  The chief never asked for names of those in attendance, and I didn’t disclose them.

            Purdie expressed thanks, but warned to exercise caution because the vice squad knew about the porno film.  I hadn’t considered a possible raid, but usually followed the chief’s advice.  (He once suggested I check under the hood of my car after filming an especially dangerous crime figure in court.)  Rushing back to the station, I located the hidden celluloid time bomb.  Frankly, I was paranoid, expecting the cops to raid the newsroom any minute.  At first, I tried unsuccessfully to burn the film but finally cut it up and put the clippings in a paper bag.  Driving across the 23^rd Street Bridge, I tossed the bag into the Arkansas River and breathed a sigh of relief.

            Peace of mind was great.  Unfortunately, I was about to have another panic attack.  Several days later, while covering the big murder case, the same prostitute who had appeared in the film, took the witness stand.  A defense attorney asked her, “Did you ever make a stag movie?”  My heart skipped several beats, while beads of sweat appeared on my forehead.  I expected her to point me out in the courtroom, shouting:  “Why don’t you ask him?  He was there!”  The woman was under oath to answer truthfully.

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