Diversion Pt. 04

Diversion Part 4

My girlfriend, Sheree, and I stand shackled hand and foot before a small-town judge, charged with criminal offenses that will result in our incarceration. We have no counsel, can't contact a lawyer, have no access to money for a retainer even if we could contact one, and the judge won't appoint attorneys on misdemeanors, with which we are charged. But our misdemeanors are very serious ones according to the judge. He says we're looking at a six-month sentence in the penitentiary - at a minimum - and it can increase up to a year upon a trial. The other equally horrible option is to enter a guilty plea in exchange for a week locked up, and performing 'work for the county', under the thumb of the sadistic woman who runs the local jail. We both ran afoul of her the first night, and she made it miserable for us while we were locked in separate cells - chained, beaten and abused. A week with her controlling our every waking moment is the equivalent of six to twelve months in the penitentiary.

We ended up in this horrible position after being abducted from our weekend getaway campsite and subjected to physical and sexual abuse at the hands of a maniacal couple hooded in leather masks. We managed to escape, while shackled at the ankles and wearing harness ring gags locked in place. We were able to locate my car and find help to free us from the shackles and gags. But we ended up being arrested shortly thereafter, when we were pulled over while driving my car with no license plate, registration papers or driver's license. They all had been removed, stolen and disposed of by our abductors. We aggravated the situation by foolishly providing false names to avoid problems back home over an estate inheritance issue involving Sheree's deceased husband. The repercussions from her arrest - and her arrest with me, right after her husband's death - could present serious problems for her, or so we thought. But avoiding problems back home created far more serious ones here.

And here we are.

Sheree shakes her head, saying "No, no, I can't do this," in a quiet voice.

"Listen," I whisper frantically to her. "We have no choice! The penitentiary? For six to twelve months?"

I glance at the judge who is impatiently shaking his pen in his hand, while looking at us and awaiting our decision.

"We've got to get a lawyer," Sheree says as her voice grows louder. The fighting instinct in her that had just been beaten into submission by our jailer, Beth Anne, is resurfacing in reaction to our dire circumstances. "They can't do this!"

This is not where we need to go. That becomes quickly apparent, because the judge hears her and turns to his bailiff, saying, "Set the cases on the next trial docket. When's that? Ten days out? Right. Cash bonds set at two thousand dollars."

He stands up to leave the bench, and I quickly turn to Sheree and desperately try to make her understand. "We'll be in her jail for ten days, awaiting trial, since we won't be able to make that bond! Do you hear me? And then he's sending us to the penitentiary! We've got to take that deal". Sheree sighs with reluctant understanding, and in painful resignation silently nods in agreement.

"Wait! We'll do the week!"

Sheree closes her eyes and silently shakes her head from side to side in anger, but says nothing to retract her decision. The judge returns to his seat behind the bench and says, "Okay, my bailiff will have some paperwork for you to sign, entering pleas of guilty to the charges and you'll be remanded into custody for one week to serve and to perform labor for the county".

The judge leaves and we sit back down on the uncomfortable wooden bench. I feel the padlock on the back of my waist chain pressing into me if I lean back against the bench. Sheree shakes her shackled ankles and pounds her feet against the floor in helpless frustration at the predicament in which we've found ourselves.

"A week! A week with that bitch! Wade, I can't handle this."

"No other choice, Sheree. The other option is six to twelve months in the penitentiary! We've got no other choice."

"She'll have me all cuffed up and hogtied with that woman's panties taped in my mouth! I can't go through that again."

"Remember what Marlene said - 'don't provoke her'. She hasn't treated Marlene like that the short time we've been there. Listen to what she said, and we'll get through this."

We sit for what feels like an hour while the bailiff completes whatever he has to complete. Why do you have to sign papers to go to jail? None of this makes any sense. We fidget, rattle our chains, try to reposition the cuffs of our leg irons to keep them from biting into our ankles, and whisper to each other.

"Wade, I'm trying hard to keep from crying, since I can't reach my eyes to wipe the tears away. She locked my wrists to my waist as tight as she could! Can you lift your hands from your waist?"

"No. I can move my fingers back and forth a few inches, but my wrists are locked to my waist. Tightly locked. How about these black boxes she fastened over our handcuffs? Overkill? I'd say so."

"Yeah, this is what they do to fucking murderers! She didn't have to do this to us. And to make them so damn tight. At least you don't have a chain between your legs! Goddamn her; and we've got a week to serve in her jail!"

The bailiff finally returns with the damn paperwork for us to consent to go to jail! I take a moment to read it - I'm not signing it any other way - and it sets out what the judge said. I take the pen he's offering me, and scribble my name. He has to hold it in front of my hand on a clipboard so I can sign, with my hands restrained as they are. When he hands a separate paper to Sheree, she looks at me. I nod to her and she signs her name. We are now officially prisoners of the county for a week.

He says, "They're shorthanded right now at the jail, and somebody has got to come get you to escort you back. The problem here is I'm about to leave with the judge for another county - he's got a docket there this afternoon. The courtroom is about to be locked up, and there's no other security to stay with you until you picked up by someone from the jail. I hate to do it, but I've got to chain you out back to wait for them."

Sheree and I look at him incredulously; he's going to chain us outside, for who knows how long, while we wait to be taken to jail! He might as well put us in a set of stocks in the town square, so everyone can gawk at us.

Sheree begins mumbling, "No, no, no." She turns to me, and whispers, "Please tell me he's not going to chain us up like animals."

"I think that's all we are to them," I reply in helpless fury. "We're the lowest of the low!" The bailiff ignores our commentary and motions for us to get up and to follow him.

As I stand, I move my shoulders from side to side to relieve the stiffness in my back, arms and neck from sitting so long while tightly chained. Sheree stretches also when she rises and then we follow the bailiff back down the corridor leading out of the courtroom, and out the rear of the building. My eyes reflexively blink with the sudden bright sunlight blinding me, and I glance down to watch my steps so I don't trip over my leg irons. He directs us to the side of the building where a wire fence separates the small parking lot for courthouse personnel from the adjacent property. He produces a chain and padlock from the satchel he carrying, bends down and loops it around the bottom of the closest metal fence post. He motions us over and threads each end of the chain through our leg irons, then locks both ends together with the padlock. We're now chained to the fence post. He makes a point of showing us the key to the padlock which he places on a window sill on the back of the building, several feet out of our reach. Without another word, he turns and walks back into the building. He and the judge exit together a minute later and walk to a car without glancing at us, then drive away.

Sheree yells after the departing car, "What kind of town is this that chains people outside like dogs?"

"We rode straight into a nightmare from hell. Fuck."

"And the nightmare is going to continue for a week! This can't be happening."

"Look, it is happening, but we'll get out of this. I know you're as angry as I am, but when Beth Anne shows up, don't provoke her and make this worse. Okay?"

"I hear you," she replies in an icy voice.

We're clad in bright orange jumpsuits, shackled and chained to a fence post, on public display. People we assume to be court personnel leave the building, though the back door of the courthouse right beside us. They all stare as they make the way to their cars, but no one speaks or interacts with us. Just another public humiliation of the incarcerated.

"C'mon, Beth Anne, I've got to pee," Sheree says as I see her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the next. We've been sitting in the courtroom all morning without any opportunity to use a restroom. I'm okay for the moment, but she definitely is not. "The goddamn chain between my legs is constant pressure that's making this worse! Fuck!" She continues to quietly moan and I see her squeezing her legs together. She groans in pain and says, "I'm about to wet myself."

Just then we see Beth Anne walking toward us from around the side of the building.

She expresses her frustration as she approaches. "This is supposed to be my lunch break; but no, I've got to come deal with you two. And I hear we've got another whole week together." She looks toward the building, and says, "Where did he leave the key?"

Sheree hurriedly points to the window sill then says, "Please, ma'am. I've got use the restroom."

"Really? Why didn't you do that before you went to court?"

"We've been there all morning. Please!" Sheree fidgets frantically.

"Didn't you hear me say this is my lunch break? Hold it till you get back to your cell."

"Please, ma'am," Sheree pleads. "I'm going have an accident before we get back!"

Beth Anne shakes her head in exasperation and says, "Well, I don't want you peeing all over your jumpsuit and having to clean you up before putting you back in the cell." She bends down and unlocks the padlock, freeing Sheree's leg irons. But then she fastens it again, locking my shackles to the fence post.

"You should have thought about this before court."

She leads Sheree to the courthouse door, opens it for her, then they disappear inside. This is not good. Sheree has managed to provoke Beth Anne through no fault of her own. She just has to use the bathroom, for god's sake. Why is that such a problem for this bitch?

A few minutes later the door opens, and Sheree shuffles outside followed by Beth Anne. Sheree's hands are now cuffed behind her back, with a chain again running between her legs. As she gets closer, I see the black box securing her hand cuffs behind her, locked tightly to her waist chain. Having to wear cuffs locked in a black box, pressed against your waist with your hands in front is bad enough; locked in that fashion behind your back must be horribly uncomfortable.

Beth Anne unfastens the chain securing me to the post and tells us to walk on. She follows behind us with her hand on her baton. Sheree keeps her head down, looking at her shackled ankles, and not saying a word as we hobble along, side by side. I glance at her trying to get her attention to make sure she's alright, but she keeps her head down.

"Are you okay?" I whisper to her, and immediately realize I'm asking that to someone on her way to jail for the next week. I'm an idiot - I know - but I'm concerned about what could have transpired in the bathroom with Beth Anne that resulted in her being chained more severely.

"I don't want to talk about it," she mumbles without looking up and continues to shuffle on.

There are more pedestrians and cars out during the lunch hour than I saw on our way to court; the cars slow down to look at us while the people we encounter step aside to gawk.

We arrive back at the entrance to jail. Beth Anne leads us through the door and down the hallway back to our cells. I see Marlene resting on her cot, as we pass by. But before I can acknowledge her, Beth Anne pushes me toward my cell, unlocks the door and I step inside. Once she locks it, she pulls Sheree by the arm to her cell and I hear her door open and close.

Beth Anne says, "I'd be unchaining you now, but this is my lunch break and I've wasted enough of it on you two. I'll deal with you later."

Fuck! I thought she'd be taking these things off of us. Goddamn it. I walk back to the toilet, struggle to reach the bottom button of my jumpsuit but manage to unfasten it with outstretched fingers, then free myself to urinate. I don't have to worry with pulling down underwear, since the jail doesn't provide us with any.

When I finish, I rebutton the jumpsuit - what does it matter? - and walk to the bars of the cell closest to Sheree's.

"Babe. Are you okay?"

Silence. I ask again, and get no response. Then I hear Marlene calling me from the next cell. I move toward the bars on her side.

"She's keeping you chained up like that? Those black boxes are horrible. She puts them on me when I have to go to court and chains them as tight as she can to my waist. But I've never had them behind my back! Or with a crotch chain! Jesus! Sheree has gotten on the wrong side of Beth Anne and that's not a good place to be."

"She hasn't been provoking her; she just asked to go to the restroom."

"It doesn't take anything to provoke her. Don't talk to her or ask her for anything. When she cuffs you up, if it's not tight, she thinks she's not doing her job!"

"She did her job on us."

"I can deal with the leg irons - they stay on all the time - until I forget about them and I trip. But the other cuffs and chains she'll put on you - you can't wait to get them off."

"We're stuck here with her for a week!"

"Damn, I hate to hear that. I'm getting out day after tomorrow. I hope to never see this place again. But with my luck, I'm sure I will."

"Wade!"

I hear Sheree calling me, which I take as a positive sign, and move to the bars next to her cell.

"Are you there?" she asks.

"Yeah, I can hear you."

"I can't do this. I'm standing here crying," she says in a quiet voice. "And I can't wipe away my tears with my hands cuffed behind my back. I can't let that bitch see I've been crying. No. No way."

"We'll get out of this."

"Yeah, how and when? Wade, we're in hell! Beth Anne took me to the bathroom in the courthouse, and it was occupied. We waited outside, then a girl no more than eight or nine strolled out with her mother. When she saw me - standing there, shackled hand and foot, in my orange jump suit - the girl's mouth opened wide as she stared at me. She looked me up and down. The mother had to pull her away so they could walk on. Then I heard the little girl say, 'What did that lady do?'; I wanted to crawl under a rock!"

I could have said she probably ensured that the little girl would never turn to a life of crime, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Once we got in the bathroom, Beth Anne removed my chains so I could unfasten my jumpsuit and pull it down enough to sit on the toilet. That bitch stood over me the whole time with her baton in hand as if I was going to charge at her with my jumpsuit down around my ankles, while locked in leg irons! Once I finished and rebuttoned my jumpsuit, she forced me to face the wall and put my hands behind my back. I was immediately handcuffed. Then came the black box, the waist chain and the chain between my legs. As tight as before."

"And you probably said nothing to provoke her."

"No, I didn't say a word to her. Wade, what have we gotten ourselves into? This is way beyond horrible. She can't do this to us!"

"Quiet it down in there!" Beth Anne's voice echoes from down the hallway. I hear Sheree's leg irons jangle on the concrete floor as she moves away from the bars. I step back into my cell and stretch out on the cot. Damn! The padlock on my back digs into me immediately; I roll over, only to have the black box press into my abdomen convincing me to turn on my side. It's the only position not causing me more pain or discomfort.

I hear nothing more from Sheree, and assume she's found some way to lessen her chained discomfort on her cot. I hope so. The cells and the hallway are completly silent as none of us wants to incur the wrath of Beth Anne. A good half hour later, we hear her walking down the hallway toward us.

"You two. Up! Time for work."

She unlocks my cell door, then moves to Sheree's, where she says, "Leave your shoes in your cell. We've got boots for you."

Boots? What do we need boots for?

We walk barefoot out of our cells. I look at Sheree who has a pained, panicky look on her face. I see she has stopped crying. The uncertainty of what we are about to be forced into overwhelms any prior anxieties.

When I pass in front of Marlene's cell, she is lying on her cot shaking her head at me with a sorrowful expression. She knows we are in for a bad experience.

Beth Anne leads us down the hallway, through the office and out the door. Our eyes have to adjust to the sunlight again as we stumble outside trying to avoid tripping on our leg irons. She directs us toward the other side of the building that adjoins the vacant lot. As we get closer, we see it is strewn with rubble, evidently the remains of a building that had been there. Bricks, broken concrete pieces and general debris fill the lot.

We follow her through the edges of the rubble, toward a cleared-out area near the front where there's a small stack of wooden pallets. Walking barefoot through here is a punishment in and of itself. With every step, I feel the stab of a sharp edge of a piece of rubble. I see Sheree grimace with almost every step. The soles of her feet must not have healed from the caning she recently endured.

As we reach the rubble-free area, I observe two five-gallon paint buckets near the pallets and four metal objects on the ground beside the buckets. I also see a port-a-let on the side of the lot. A closer look at the metal objects reveals they have a horseshoe shaped base about four inches long and approximately an inch thick. There are two metal shafts attached to each side rising perpendicular, about four inches tall. They are affixed to a thick metal ring with a diameter the same length as the horseshoe shaped base. I am feeling extremely uneasy about these. There was an iron boot first documented during the inquisition. Is this a modern version? This can't be what I'm seeing. But it is! Beth Anne bends down over one of them and unlocks the back half of the thick metal ring. It opens to reveal a thin serrated section at the end, similar to the locking mechanism of a handcuff. She opens the locking sides of the other boots then motions me to sit on the paint bucket. I consider my options, and realize I have none other than to comply. She kneels to my side and picks up one of the boots, having to use both hands! This is not good. She places it in front of my right foot, and holding the cuff from my leg irons higher, she forces my foot inside. I have to turn my foot to the side to get it through the metal shafts on both sides - this must be why we had to remove our shoes. Once it's in place, she pushes the open side with the serrated inner edge inward until it locks, and my foot is now locked inside this device, with my leg cuff resting on top. My toes are hanging off the front edge of the boot.

She moves behind my back and proceeds to place another boot in front of my other foot. She repeats the same procedure, until it is locked on. I test my new restraints by moving my feet and immediately feel the weight of the boots. They must weigh anywhere from ten or fifteen pounds apiece. I could manage a few steps, before it became unbearably painful. We won't be walking far in these.