Introduction: Many years ago, I received this text file from the author – and he gave me permission to use it on Archives BBS. I believe it may date from 1997, and the author may be of Italian origin. It was very popular, I think because of the circumspect and passive style of writing. The story is very simple; a beautiful young woman is handcuffed in a courtroom, and is sentenced to 3 years in prison. She is then locked in ankle chains and begins her journey to prison. The humiliation and embarrassment of Amy as she is exposed in her chains to free women is highlighted.
I hope you enjoy this simple but powerful story which carries such an strong emotional payload!
AMY ON TRIAL
by M. De Arbre
The fans turned overhead in the small courtroom on the 2rd floor of the institute building. Small windows high on the Western wall were open to give some relief from the humidity. Shafts of warm yellow light slanted into the room.
Court was in session. A woman’s voice articulated loud against the echo of the almost empty room.
To one side the prosecutor lounged, bored and middle aged. An elderly couple sat centrally in the benches. At the back, by the entrance sat a uniformed police man talking softly to a woman. The woman had the bearing and ease of a fellow police officer but rather than a uniformed she wore her own clothes. She had straw blonde hair, tightly bunched at the back. She looked a little older than the policeman; about mid 30’s. She had folded her jacket behind her seat. On the table was the policeman’s cap and jacket.
The judge tidied and squared papers, seeking relief from the monologue… His face, comfortably fat, horned rimmed glasses… which he had occasionally removed to rub strained eyes. Time was dragging.
..”please your honour the defendant has demonstrated remorse, the act was entirely out of character”…
The judge replaced his glasses and glanced at the middle aged women talking. Then he looked at the defendant sitting beside her. A young women of about 25 years. She was wearing a neat black dress almost to her knees, short sleeves, dark stockings and black high stilettos. Her eyes were downcast. One white hand grasped and regrasped another within the confines of her handcuffs. Her nails were painted bright red, as were her lips in contrast against her pale childlike complexion. In earlier times he would soften at this overt display of vulnerability.
“…long years she attempted to conform to the strict regime laid down by her aunt.. the act was more a statement than a malicious…”
The woman spoke without pause. She had developed a comfortable pace. Several voices momentarily penetrated the court through the door jammed open at the rear. Office workers passed in the corridor outside. The women raised her voice a little.
“…as provided to us by the evidence of the aunt, Mrs Bearle”… so saying she turned perceptibly and glanced at the older woman seated beside the man in the bench seating of the court. …”who told us of her distress”.
The judges eyes wandered. Over to the aunt. The woman was sitting bolt upright, her attention riverted on the address. She had a haughty disapproving expression that the judge vaguely suspected was permanently affixed to her face. Then he looked to the defendant. She had crossed her legs, folding them tight together. Her legs were outlined darkly, and shone faintly where the nylon stretched tightly over her knees and the forward curves of her leg and ankle. She had placed her hands, facing downwards, one partly over the other, on her upper leg behind her knee. It was an instinctive pose, and the judge felt a stirring that he had to suppress. He knew the image of this girl would visit him again, within the warm confines of flannel sheets. She would visit him dreamlike, nestling beside him, warm and soft. He would feel the cold of her chains, as she entwined her lovely legs about his…
The judge suddenly realized the girl was looking up at him. He blinked hard several times to rid the distraction, inclined his head again at the speaking woman, and resolved to bring the monologue to an end.
Amy Newham was sentenced to 3 years at a designated state penitentiary for women.
After the judge made a hurried departure, the girl was left standing, sobbing, awkwardly wiping at tears with the borrowed handkerchief. The women lawyer consoled her despite the defeat she herself had just suffered.. A defeat whose inevitability she had sensed.
“…Judge Howard made you eligible for psychiatric treatment. You may be able to stay outside the prison…”
The young policeman approached. In his hands he held discretely her chains. He went down on one knee and fitted the neat stainless steel band above the left ankle. The girl was almost oblivious of the clicking ratchet. Then she realized, and look down, and moved her other foot absent mindedly forward for chaining. The policewoman unlocked one of her hand cuffs, and fitted it through an elongated link. From this link depended a chain that was connected at the bottom end to a one inch sliding ring on the girls ankle chain. It lifted slack chain up from the floor between her ankles.
The girl in her chagrin, looked behind her, but with relief saw that the court was now empty. She then looked down again, at the metal bands now sitting comfortably above her ankles, bright against the dark sheen of her stockings. They were not tight, but the implacable thin silver chain would assure she would not run, even if she kicked off her heels.
“…I will make some enquiries ” her women lawyer added to earlier conversation that had gone unheeded.
She had finished packing her brief case. She turned towards the girl, brief case in hand ready to depart. The girl was no longer sobbing. Her face was flushed and wet from her tears, “…are you alright dear? ” The girl nodded yes. She steeled herself not to cry further.
“Heres your …” the girls voice trembled and was barely audible. She reached out with joined hands against the limitation of the chain to her ankles, to return the handkerchief.
The woman nodded sympathetically, and took the handkerchief and turned to leave. The policewomen gently guided her forward, hand on upper arm, and she took her first steps. She looked down at the chain swing. It accommodated her steps comfortably. She had learned to walk well in high heels, but she now no longer had arms free to counterbalance. The policewomen sensed the girls difficulty and allowed her to walk at her own pace. The policeman had gone ahead. They walked into the brighter light of the corridor. The girl tensed in awful anticipation of ordinary people witnessing this humiliating journey. The rising panic would have made her pull and run if it were possible. But the clever thin chains, snaking and sliding, and clinking, told her she would not.
The corridor was empty. The policewomen turned the girl towards the bench seating against the wall and directed her to sit. Her chain made a soft dull metal sound on the marble floor as she sat, and the policewomen gingerly sat on her left side.
The two sat mute for minutes; the policewomen alert and restless and Amy looked into the vast expanse of corridor to her right.
The building stood a monument to more prosperous times. Vast masonry walls rose and arched into the ceiling. Big fans hung at regular intervals along the ceiling. Some turned, stirring the warm oppressive air. The building was now old and un-maintained. The off-white paintwork and patches now flaked in places. Yellows and faded pinks. Amy sat primly, in her chains. In the wan and ebb of awful emotions,she saw herself to be a ill fated maiden within the living bowels of the vast legal building. Out of reach of her friends; what few still cared. The scene before her hung suspended, as some slowly materializing nightmare devised its theme for her.
Amy moved to relieve the tension of her body. Her legs felt hot and perspiring, and she wished she had not worn stockings. Her cunt felt warm and sticky, and she felt some uncertainty with her bladder. Unexpected sensations. She rolled a little on the seat, and crossed her legs.
“May I go to the toilet Ma’am.”
The policewoman looked back at her, thinking. Amy uncrossed her legs. They were beginning to perspire where they had been touching. As she did her ankle chain caught on the heel of her left shoe. She let out a sigh of exasperation. The policewoman leaned down and pulled at the chain looped around the long stiletto.
“Lift your foot a little, love”
The chain fell away and then arced freely between the girls ankles
“Its over there!”, she said pointing.
Amy stood up, tottering a little to gain balance. The policewoman reached out with a steadying hand, very gently touching Amy’s hip. She was trying to suppress a smile. Amy set off with her quick little staccato steps, past the policewoman.
“Wait!” said the policewoman. She was rummaging in her bag.
The policewoman tore two tablets from a set.
Amy took them in one hand. She stared at the capsules in her open hand for seconds, thinking. She had a lot of fun with drugs. Now that she needed them, why shouldn’t she take them. She turned on her heel and set off, chains tinkling towards the toilet entrance. A tall wooden door painted and repainted coats of cream. The paint had partly obscured part of the brass plate of a woman’s silhouette screwed centrally on the door.
It was the first doorway opposite on the corridor, diagonally across from where they sat.
She pushed at the flat brass knob with both hands, and the solid wooden door open. Inside there were white marble tiles on both floor and walls. Old fashioned enameled cast iron basins lined one wall. The girl entered a cubical, and sat.
Minutes later she wiped herself, with some difficulty, stood, and adjusted her clothing.
She stepped out and towards a basin. Then to her horror, the door opened. Two Girls entered, talking animatedly. They saw her, and their conversation abruptly halted. Amy stepped to the basin and ran the water. She glanced up at the mirror to see one girl going into a cubicle. The other was approaching one of the basins close beside her. She was looking downwards. Fascination by the metal on the girls ankles.
The girl walked up to the basin and began to adjust her makeup.
Several times she looked at Amy as if about to say something. Amy resolutely ignored her and completed washing her hands. There were several glasses on the shelf above the basins. But Amy was chain restricted, and could not reach up. She would not ask the girl beside her to help. It was not stubbornness.
It was shame. She was like an invalid with limited movements. Not as a result of accident or nature. But by legal decree. So instead she placed the tablets in her mouth, and cupped the water up using both hands pressed side by side. The chain rattled against the basin edge, and Amy sensed the girl looking at her in her struggles.
She completed her task and turned and headed for the exit. She pulled at the inside brass knob of the door. The door was sprung, and she quickly discovered that she could not let the handle go, otherwise it would shut before she got around it.
With all the sound of chain and heels, and sighs of exasperation, the office girl at the basin walked over, and held the door open. Easy as pie. Amy sailed out as delicately as a concubine. She did not look at the girl as she passed her or offer a thankyou. In her desire to leave quickly, and alleviate the intense embarrassment, manners were left behind. The girl holding the door open looked on passively. She leaned on the door awhile, and watched the girl return directly to her seat beside the policewoman.
End of Part 1