Jane Wells - Run Jane Run

RUN JANE RUN

RUN JANE RUN

A True Story of Murder and Courage

BY JANE WELLS

New Horizon Press
Far Hills, NJ

Copyright 1996 by Jane Wells

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, including electronic, mechanical, or any information storage or retrieval, except as may be expressly permitted in the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission should be addressed to:

New Horizon Press

P.O. Box 669

Far Hills, NJ 07931

Wells, Jane

Run Jane Run: A True Story of Murder and Courage

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-68923

ISBN-13 (eBook): 978-0-88282-390-4

New Horizon Press

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

20001999199819971996/54321

To Johnny, and the extraordinary memories
no one can take away from us.

To my children.

To all survivors of domestic violence.
I hope that by making people aware,
more efforts will be made to help them.

To the educators and those who work in the trenches to end
the violence and all forms of oppression.

Authors Note

This book is based on my experiences, and reflects my perceptions of the past, present and future. The personalities, events, actions and conversations portrayed within the story have been reconstructed from my memory, court documents, letters, personal papers, and press accounts. Some names and events have been altered to protect the privacy of individuals. Events involving the characters happened as described; only minor details have been altered.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the following people for their assistance; Kristi Alsop; Amanda Baker; Dr. Joanne Belknap; Dianne Cimosz; Mel Cole; Robert Collins; Tonya Covington; Thelma Dillow; Lesta Cooper-Freytag; Dana Gilbert; Shelly Graff; Lou Harris; a special thanks to Pat Herold for her writing assistance and advice; Kathy Huff; Teresa Hundemer; my great friend Candy Johnson; Stephanie Jones for her legal expertise; Tommy Jones; The Kentucky Foundation for Women; Dr. Andrea Kornbluh; Melinda Mayo; Sandy and Ken Matthews; Sherry Minwalla; Patty Monahan; Michele Morgan; Big Jane Mowry; Dr. Joseph McClusky; Leslie Bennet McNeill; Jamie Newsome; Allegra Nicodemus; Our Place gangespecially Carla, John, Natalie, Karen; Laverne Poole; Tricia Rampley; Megan Richards; Randy Rupp; Kathy Schmadel; Dennis Schoner; Mary Sergent; Nichole Smith; Bobby Stern; Tina Tompkins; Shannon Tuzzi for her help with the early writing and the humor and patience to keep the project going; Karen Welch; Betty Widmer; My agent, Frank Weimann; Danny Williams; Janet Winters; Womens film Project of Cincinnati; Peg, Tim, Pete, and Dan W.; a very special thanks to Dr. Jim Wilson for his editing, encouragement, and enduring support. Thanks to Dean for helping me keep my sanity; my family who helped me through the ups and downs of school and publishing; and most of all, to my children who gave me love and hope.

Contents

T he early morning sun streamed through the bare bedroom window, soothing my aching body but threatening another steamy July day for the inhabitants of Lexington, Kentucky. I lay in a deep but troubled sleep beside my infant daughter, Megan, on a makeshift bed, exhausted from working two jobs, moving into a new home, and from a physically and emotionally punishing fight with my estranged husband, Michael. Before twenty-four hours would elapse, my life would be threatened, my childrens lives endangered, and a murder would occur before our very eyes. But as I lay sleeping I had no idea that when I woke up a nightmare would begin.

Within moments Erica, my six-year-old daughter, dressed in a bathing suit, began to shake me gently, Mommy, its gonna be lunchtime, you sleepy head, wake up.

I opened my eyes. Still unfocused, I looked around the strange room, not recognizing it at first, and then sighed thankfully, believing at last we were safe.

The new apartment was a godsend after the ramshackle hotel wed been living in. Now that Johnny, my first husband, was here to help us, things seemed to be looking up, but I still missed my old home. Id worked hard for that three-story frame house with its ivy walls and leaded glass windows. I had fixed it up just the way I liked, painting the walls antique white with carpet to match and arranging my dark cherry and mahogany furniture so it looked beautiful. Most of the furniture had been handed down to me by my family. They always told me it was real important that Id have something to start housekeeping with when I got married.

Things were always done a certain way back home. Furniture and whatnots were passed down to the daughters while money, land, and attention were handed to the male heirs if the family had them to give. You learned not to question these traditions, because if the family was to run out of simple answers theyd backhand you, and that was bound to bring fire to your face and forgetfulness to your brain.

Most of the furniture was long gone now because of Michael. He took from me all the material things I had, but I still had what was most importantmy children. My children and I couldnt even live in our own house anymore. It was too dangerous with Michael on the loose. Hed find us there. And even if he was stopped now finally, it was too late. The bank was about to foreclose. The children and I had lived at a half dozen different addresses since we stayed at the abuse shelter. I was always told I shouldnt cry over spilt milk, but spilling milk doesnt bother me like losing my house did.

I grew up in the hills of Kentucky. On both sides of U.S. 23 there were worn out school buses converted to houses and considered marvelous mansions. No running water. No bathroom. Maybe a two-holer outhouse built close by. You could tell when the owner of the bus was on the road to prosperity. Theyd have newfangled miniblinds installed on the very windows that children used to stare out on their way from school. Thank goodness I never had to live like that. Dads job at the railroad afforded us enough to get by on. Of course we werent rich but we werent dirt poor either and could hold our heads up, at least until now.

For, among my people, a girl cant go home once shes been married. No matter what she has to endure. That must be written in stone somewhere. They shouldve made it plain by just stamping No Return on Used Goods on us somewhere or maybe on the marriage license.

The customs of Appalachia favor men and even lawmakers uphold them. After the police took the girls and me to the shelter, Michael made off with almost everything I owned except the living room set my grandmother started housekeeping with and some clothes he couldnt sell. My most prized possessions a house full of furniture, keepsake jewelry and my record album collectionall gone. Everything but the living room set which was in Mom and Dads basement.