The Judge

I decided to review the tomorrow cases at home. I was tired from the morning audiences and the lunch has been short and unsatisfactory.

I glanced at the wall clock in my studio at home. Four pm. Plenty of time to review the six simple cases I had to deal with tomorrow. A glass of iced tea and I was ready. Settling back in my comfortable arm-chair I donned my reading glasses and picked the first folder. I started by the short summary carefully formatted in a way to help me picking the essentials, written by Barbara, my assistant since ever.

Case 2005. Scheduled for May 21 at 9:00. Jane Wood, 29, housewife, married to Robert Wood, a doctor. No children. Caught shoplifting in the lingerie department of Monk&Sparrow, a department story in Gallery mall. A note from the manager informed that it was the third time Mrs. Wood was caught doing the same in their department store, but in different malls. The first two times Mr. Wood bought her out, but this time the store decided to press the charges.

Why should a wife of a doctor, certainly not pressed for money, steal a hundreds bucks worth of panties and bras?

There was a report of twenty or thirty pages from a forensic psychiatrist using big Latin words trying to answer exactly that question. I sighed, sipped more of the unsweetened tea and started on page one of the report.

...oo00OO00oo...

"All rise for the Judge!"

I climbed on my podium, nodded at the usually full room and banged my gravel. "Next case."

"Case 2005, people against Mrs. Jane Wood," intoned the bailiff.

I looked at the young housewife. She was a pretty little thing dressed in conservative clothes that enhanced her youngish look. Her hair was cut short and combed in a way that combined with large green eyes gave her an innocent appearance. Her general demeanor was probably the work of her expensive lawyer, Samuel Long, employed by nine out of ten of wealthy people in trouble.

"Are you ready, counselors?" I asked both parties.

"Yes, your honor," was the simultaneous answer from them. The assistant DA was a young lawyer that didn't impress me favorably. He was rather lazy and lost several cases because of sloppy work. They started to give him unimportant cases as this one. But of course you had to be a genius to fail on a clean cut case like that.

I heard his harangue which was at least well constructed and mercifully short. He presented his evidences which included a short video of surprisingly good quality which showed in detail how she grabbed panties from a rack and stuffed them in her bag. He brought the bag and demonstrated its hidden compartment which indicated premeditation. Finally he called the security guard who arrested Mrs. Wood and the female cop who frisked her after reading her rights and getting her permission. All neat and legal.

When called on the floor, Mr. Long started by admitting his client's guilt. "But there're mitigating factors, Your Honor. We will demonstrate that my client is sick, not really responsible for her actions, but not a menace to the community at all. We will call several character witnesses, but first, may I call Dr. Peterson, a notorious psychologist, who will..."

"Not responsible, my ass," I thought while reclining in my chair and bracing myself for the boring testimony of notorious Dr. Peterson.

There I got a surprise. Dr. Peterson was a shapely blonde in her thirties, wearing a dark blue power suit with sufficiently short skirt to allow me a view of generous expanse of well rounded thighs when she sat on the witness chair. During her whole testimony she tried to pull down the skirt hem without a millimeter of success. Her white blouse was open at top permitting me from my raised position a good glimpse of her milky breasts. She was using a flimsy almost transparent bra giving them a 'nude look'. Her face was very pleasant with a turned up nose, generous mouth and big eyes. She was using light make up which reinforced her good looks. She almost made me think of dropping my old shrink and sail new waters. Oh, wishful thinking.

I probably didn't hear half of her arguments, but got the drift of it. The shoplifting was an addiction that should be cured with long tender care and not punishment. Poor Jane was a victim of circumstances and bla, bla, bla. Nothing that wasn't on the forensic shrink's report.

After two hours of this both counselors were done. It was my time.

"As you know," I was speaking more to the defendant than to the lawyers who should know the laws by heart, "in this case, by the authority vested on me by the State, my decision is final, and not subjected to appeal. It looks like you have the addiction to steal, young lady. Your lawyer wants me to absolve you on the grounds of psychological disturbance or at most give you a slap on the wrist by condemning you to community service. Our district attorney's assistant seems to agree with it." I took a break.

"But not this time, young lady. It looks to me that your stealing spree was stopped only because you were apprehended. In my opinion you're a spoiled brat who thinks that is still in her teens, with an overindulging husband who pays for your whims."

I looked at the lawyers. Mr. Long certainly knew where I was heading but didn't look too worried by it.

"Your lawyer wants me to give you a slap on the wrist and I will do something like that. The recent laws on vandalism and juvenile delinquency reinstated corporal punishment. To condemn a lady in her late twenties to a flogging is not common, but certainly not unheard off and perfectly legal. So, I condemn you to 18 strokes of the judicial cane on your bare buttocks, to be carried immediately."

There was an audible gasp from the audience and a loud "No! You can't do that!" from the learned Dr. Peterson.

I nodded to the bailiff and the pretty psychiatrist was grabbed by two policemen. "Dr. Patterson, you're arrested for the contempt to the court. It's at least six with the cane on the bare buttocks at the discretion of the judge. Take her out; I'll deal with her later." She was dragged out kicking and screaming. I followed her shapely body being manhandled out of the court. It certainly will be very enjoyable dealing with her in my chambers later on.

The court silenced. The defendant was weeping in her hands. Her lawyer was stroking her hair but had a look of a cat that lapped a bowl of cream. He probably was anticipating the spectacle.

"Mrs. Wood, you will receive your punishment in this room in front of this audience. After that, you're free to go, but it is my fervent hope that the next time you decide to steal, you will be stopped by a vivid remembrance of each and every stroke that you will get today. And if it won't be enough, the next time you're caught, you'll get double of it and a stretch of three months at the newly opened State Correction Facility for Women, where corporal punishment is norm. Do you understand, young lady?"

Mr. Long poked her in the rib and she answered between sobs, "y-yes, y-your, h-honor..."

"Whoever wants to leave the court must do it now. We will close the doors for the execution of the sentence." I banged my gravel. Nobody left. "Sheriff, please proceed." I reclined again to assist the execution in a comfortable position. A leather covered wooden spanking bench was wheeled into the room. It was positioned in a way that the culprit buttocks would be turned in my direction and she would face the audience. She was helped over the bench which was shaped in away that left her buttocks high and on the display, while her torso was low.

The housewife was attached to the bench. Her legs were strapped on one side, spread wide and her hands were strapped on the other side to the legs of the contraption. A wide belt over her lower back firmed her to the bench protecting her kidneys.

A female cop rolled with a degree of difficulty Jane's tight skirt up and over her buttocks. Finally the preparation was concluded when her panties and pantyhose were lowered down to her knees. I had a perfect view of her spread-out bottom and her female charms, while the audience could see her tearful face and the summit of her bottom offered high and well displayed.

"Mrs. Wood, you can cry at will. In fact, a good use of lungs is thought to help you to bear the punishment. Sheriff?"

The sheriff, who was flexing the long and thick rattan can, took the position on the culprit's left side, measured the distance, brought the cane behind him and let it fly.

Swiiiiiish! Craaack! Auuuughh! The sounds of cane traveling through the air followed by it meeting the proffered rump and followed immediately by a desperate howl of somebody who never was striked before, mixed with an awed "aaahhh!" of the audience.

A vivid weal bisected her rounded buttocks attesting to the precision of sheriff's aim.

"One," counted the bailiff.

The sheriff raised the cane again.

...oo00OO00oo...

Crack!

I woke up. The folder had slipped from my lap and banging on the floor brought me back in the middle of a most pleasant dream. "Who knows, the laws change and I can apply a good walloping to a deserved culprit," I dreamed wishfully while picking the second folder:

'Miss Roberta Rider, 18, Vandalism'.

The End