By Jill Willett

A Survivor’s Story

At some point in our lives, we all need assistance with a legal matter. For those whose incomes fall below the poverty line, only a few of us are fortunate enough to get it.

Who am I? I am one of those fortunate few. To God, I am His child. To my children, Megan and Bill, I am Mom. To my granddaughter Caitlin, I am Nanny. To my foster children, I am Jill, who keeps us safe. To Social Security, I am a nine-digit number, disabled. To my ex-husband, I was a target. To statisticians, I am an abuse survivor number. To the board of directors at Nebraska Legal Services, I am a 12-year client member. To the low-income people of Nebraska, I am, I hope, their voice.

I know that clients turn into numbers and numbers become statistics. So I pray that by telling my story and seeing my face on this page, you will better understand how important access to justice really is. 

I speak for those who cannot: the victims. For those who have died due to abuse by another. For those who are still living in fear of being found and abused again. I have walked where they walk. I was them: the domestic abuse victim who needed protection from a horrifically violent man. I needed to get away from him, yet I could not for many years out of fear – fear of being beaten or verbally abused again, fear of the police not getting there in time. They were afraid of him, too, and he knew it and used it to his advantage. Out of that came the fear of nobody being able to stop this man. There was also the fear of being broke and homeless with two small children. If I tried to get away, would someone be there to listen to my pleas for help, and could they really help me escape for good? My worst fear was the fear that he would take my life and my children’s. 

I did not ask to be abused, and I certainly didn’t deserve it. I did try many times to get away from him, but he always found me and I paid dearly for it. When you are staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun, there is little you can do but pray. Often it had to be a silent prayer, for if I prayed out loud for my life, I would suffer the consequences, which could range from being pushed out of a moving car late at night on a deserted country road to being forced to go for days without sleep or food.

At times, I was forced to watch him clean his guns or sharpen his hunting knives while threatening to use them on us, demanding that I choose which child I would watch die first at his hands. He also would put full trash bags on my lap and set them on fire, then sexually assault me as I struggled to get up and put out the flames.

One night I knew for certain that if I didn’t run, I would wake up in heaven. So I took my children and we ran away with only the clothes on our back, a small amount of cash, and a nearly depleted credit card that I had hidden from him. I told no one in my family out of fear that he would kill them all, yet three weeks later, after running in and out of seven states and traveling more than 2,000 miles, I received a call from the sheriff in my hometown. He told me, “Come back to Nebraska. He’s going back to prison.” 

I went home and discovered that while my husband may have been back in prison, he had taken everything – our home, our possessions, the food from my children’s mouths. I reached out in desperation for the help of my legal services office and was greeted by the hand of an extraordinary man, my future attorney and friend, Pat Carraher. I was penniless and desperately needed his help. Over the next few months, Nebraska Legal Services worked diligently to help me to get a divorce and slowly piece my life back together. It was not an easy task, but they provided me with hope and guidance during a terribly difficult time.

It wouldn’t be my last. 

I was behind the wheel on a moonless night in April 1989 when I encountered a herd of cattle cresting a hill in the middle of nowhere. The last thing I remember was one cow flying onto the hood of my car and thinking, “My God, help me,” as it crashed through the windshield. After the accident, authorities transported me to a small-town hospital, and I vaguely remember hearing a doctor tell the deputy that I needed a bigger hospital with a trauma unit because my neck was broken. The final diagnosis: Traumatic brain injury and a broken vertabrae. At 30 years old, I was paralyzed.

For years, I was in and out of hospitals and rehab, trying to relearn everything that in an instant was gone. Three years after the crash, a federal court saw fit to deny my disability benefits and issued me a document stamped “Judge’s Decision Final.” Back into my life came that same legal services attorney with the same determination to get me through yet another round of battles. Pat would not relent. He appealed the judge’s so-called final decision, and another federal judge agreed to hear my case. This time, I was awarded full disability benefits, enabling me to provide for my family.

Pat is still with Nebraska Legal Services today, still fighting for clients in need. The woman in the car wreck that night, though, is gone forever. In her place is a better, stronger, more determined woman. Through it all, I kept going back to something Pat told me years earlier: “Never give up, Jill.” I didn't, and neither did he. 

Today, I walk on my own two feet, and for that I am grateful. So thank you, Pat, and thank you, legal services, for helping me become what I am today: a survivor.