Sherrie Finds Legal Loopholes

Sherrie Finds Legal Loopholes

By Eve Adorer

Chapter 3 – Trail and Outcome

I know what you must be thinking; but I would hope that if nothing else you have clearly understood from what you have read so far, that I am no fool. I took up the defence of Hannah ***** because there was abundant evidence that she was not guilty, because she was a stunningly beautiful Jewess on trial in her adopted country, where anti-Semitism was known to be rife though hidden, because I was angered beyond measure that lesbianism should be regarded anywhere in the world as a crime and, above all, because I knew that the jeopardy transference law had not been put into practice for well over ten years by then.

Okay, so I was exceedingly ambitious. I knew I would get nowhere if I stayed with my present chambers. I had my eye on moving to the top-notch chambers in London. Okay again, these chambers would practically never have heard of me, and okay once more, they had never yet had a girl lawyer on their books. I would make sure they had heard of me. The Hannah ***** case was even mentioned at the UN. If I could defend Hannah and win, the legal world would be at my feet sure enough, or so I thought.

The judge would be my old former chambers head, Sonia *****. The prosecution would be headed by Janine *****. Where could I go wrong? With the UN pressure that nation's politicians were already berating their country's girl-police for bringing the case. And yet, the opposition in the country were pressing for the old laws to prevail.

Behind the UN condemnation the opposition saw US and British interference. The opposition stirred up protest marches. They told the populace at large that foreigners were insulting the ethnic natives of the land and challenging their freedom to live in ways thousands of years older than the USA.

The trial would be on television. Pictures of the event would be shown around the world. Television was not allowed in English courts, but the British High Commissioner found its employment in the courts of this last British colony a saving benefit. She did not need to post her personnel to report from the courts when the whole proceedings could be video taped from TV and flicked through at leisure later.

As the time came for the trial, my fear grew that I had bitten off more than I had bargained for. The opposition stirred protests were rocking the stability of a weak British-imposed government. When that government reacted by assuring the public it would have no truck with foreign interference; when a new and extreme right-wing Minister for Legal Affairs was appointed; and when she confirmed the old laws would prevail and that, by the old laws she meant all the old laws, including the jeopardy transference law, I knew I was in potential deep trouble.

And yet Hannah's trust in me had become total. I believed in her too, as much as she believed in me. I knew she had witnesses she was nowhere near the town where she was accused of having taken a bride to bed and deflowered her the night before the bride's wedding.

The bride had not been prosecuted. She could not be. She had wed a man and since borne his child: a boy. That defined her in the law of this last British colony, as non-lesbian. But there had been gossip, and Hannah, the bride's former college lecturer, had been arrested by the girl-police and was now on trial for lesbian rape as well as being a lesbian per se.

For the first time in my life I made a complete mess of matters in court. I made a bad start by ignoring Janine's clear advice to curb my style of dress. Janine and the judge wore ankle length unflattering shapeless black. I opted to show these backward stone-age thinkers what a lovely western girl could look like at her supreme best. I had the raw material in the outstanding loveliness of my face and body. I would show what a wonderful creature a girl is dressed at her sexiest.

This was a hot country. I would have no truck with black. For my beautiful coffee-coloured flesh I would wear the supreme contrast of white. A girl's underwear is her own affair. That I might choose and did choose to wear a white G-string, white suspenders and white nylon stockings, with no brassiere, was my business and my business alone. I was sufficiently fond of men to adore always having my bum bare under my skirts jeans and dresses.

I knew full-well what I did to men in the crowded London subway trains when they had to stand close up behind me smelling the fresh scented wonder of my abundant cascading brown curly hair, and feeling my gloriously firm round bum hemispheres pressing into their crutch and gyrating as the train moved and stopped and swayed.

Many were the times I felt them getting an erection despite themselves. And many were the times I would turn my head to them and smile to say that it was alright for them to enjoy me. If only they had known that beneath my micro-miniskirt my bum was totally nude, just what might have been as I would purposely, as if unaware and innocent of what I was doing, press myself a little further back so that their cocks could enjoy my wonderful bum the more.

That day that morning I rolled my white stockings up my extremely shapely legs attaching them to the suspenders. I loved suspenders too. I bought all my underwear from a special catalogue of erotic wear: “Exotic Erotic” it was titled. This particular garment had two suspenders at the front in the usual way, and two at the rear as was also standard. But the two at the rear were arranged so that they had to be stretched over my bare bottom. It was totally impractical of course; but totally sexy too.

I had already decided on no brassier and a white blouse that would button up to my neck, a blouse with abundant lacy frills dangling over my pretty hands at its cuffs, and with a lacy flowery patterned bib atop my ample bosom.

I finished with a white micro-miniskirt short enough to threaten to show my stocking tops at any time, and some white square-toed stilettos with three-inch heels. I brushed my fantastically abundant and near unruly brown curly hair and let it fall full length down my back to where it nearly touched my bottom.

I was, I knew, totally devastating as I wiggled, my natural girl gate, into the court. But I was wrong. This style of dress was so wrong for the setting and the day and the importance of the trial. Disaster!

I was to introduce the defence. The defence in a trial for lesbianism had to precede the prosecution case. The crime of lesbianism was, in this country, considered so foul, the prosecution must have the whole of the defence revealed to it and read all defence documents and interview all defence witnesses, before the prosecution took up its case.

I was well rehearsed, bright and confident at the outset. But as I spoke I became aware that hardly anyone was listening to me. They, every woman in that court, were ogling me. The judge called the court to order. She apologised for interrupting me. She reminded the court that an extremely serious crime was being tried, and that the undoubted fact counsel for the defence has incredibly lovely legs was not to distract the court from its solemn duty.

I thanked the judge, blushing deeply as I did so, at the realisation my thanks could be taken as being in response to the seeming complement about my indisputably superb legs, rather than for her bringing the court to order. I lost my place in my notes and began to lose face.

My client smiled at me comfortingly, radiating her confidence in me, and I pulled myself together. But disaster followed disaster, Hannah's witnesses, Hannah's only real defence, had not turned up in court, and would not turn up in court. They had been frightened off by death threats from vicious right wing zealots. I had final confirmation of this from a court usherette whispering in my ear. The girl-police could find neither hide nor hair of them. I knew I could bluff no more.

The defence was in ruin: total irreparable ruin. The ruin the zealots and the government of the country wanted the case to fall into. An example was needed to win over the people and prevent the government being overthrown by the opposition protests, the noise from which was a constant background to the proceedings in the courtroom that day.

By contrast, all it took for the case to be proven against my client, was for a doctor to testify for the prosecution that Hannah, though twenty-two and married for five years had borne no child. This was damning evidence. Hannah must be lesbian if she could give her husband no child in over five years of marriage: that was the primitive way of thinking in this land.

Of course judgement must go against Hannah. She was a political cause celebre in the land of her choice. The government of the day would lose power and the perks of power if it allowed the court to let Hannah off. The government in London were turning a blind eye. They let it be known that they would not interfere. (The colony had oil). I could not win this case. I knew it, Hannah finally knew it, and Sonia ***** sitting as the judge knew it.

The judgement was a formality. I could see the look on Sonia's face. She knew she had no choice as the TV cameras moved in to show her in close-up and me with my head down in shame and fear.

The continued lucrative business for foreign lawyers in these so-called sex-courts was also under threat that day. This last remaining colony of Britain might yet finally eject this one remaining vestige of direct rule from London. There would be unstoppable demands for native lawyers in all courts of the land unless the law were properly carried through there and then by these foreigners paid by the taxes of the country they were foreigners within.

All I heard was the ending of Sonia's announcement:

“…..your defence lawyer, under the law of jeopardy transference is found equally guilty of lesbianism, and under that ancient and righteous law you, as the guilty party of the first part, have the right to accept the punishment or transfer the punishment to your equally guilty lawyer. Do you accept or transfer the punishment?”

I cannot and do not blame Hannah for the word that echoed as much around my head as it did around the courtroom and every home in that land watching the TV pictures of the trial: “Transfer” said Hannah in a low whisper I only just heard.

“Speak up” demanded Sonia as judge.

“Transfer” said Hannah's sweet pretty girl-voice audibly this time, even though she lowered her head to avoid looking at where I stood.

Sonia now turned to me: “As you have lost this case unreservedly deservedly, you have equal guilt with the guilty girl you chose of your own free will, so very unwisely, to defend. Your summary position is that of being guilty of lesbianism by default. Whether by default or by full guilt, the crime of lesbianism proven in this court is punishable only by the way laid down in the law of this land. Accordingly, it is my solemn and burdensome duty to order that you be taken from this court, shackled in the manner prescribed by time honoured custom, and thereafter forced to walk back to this court to hear your sentence and begin, immediately thereafter, your deserved just and righteous punishment.”

Tears ran from the corners of my eyes as I listened to this; and yet there was a disturbing stirring in my quim. Incredibly, the thought of the brutality I knew was about to be visited upon me was turning me on sexually.

“Have you anything to say before sentence preparation is carried out on you?” intoned Sonia's judgemental voice.

“No ma'am” I answered obediently.