Over the Memorial Day weekend, Laura sent me a draft article/blog post to review. This wasn’t something we had discussed, and it wasn’t something I suggested she write. She wrote this on her own and then asked me if I’d be OK with her publishing it.
She doesn’t need my permission to speak, but I previously asked Laura not to make public statements about this case (after I got involved). As this phase of the case is now coming to an end, I think Laura deserves a chance to share her side of the story and more details about how she is feeling today. YES, I know there are still unanswered questions, but we will get to all that in just 12 days.
For now, I’m going to share Laura’s comments as-written. I haven’t edited any part of her remarks, nor have I added anything to them other than this intro.
As I was reading Laura’s post, and really since becoming involved in this case, it struck me how many parallels there are to a Black Mirror episode called Hated In The Nation. If you’ve never seen this, jump on Netflix and find it (season 3, episode 6).
Hated In The Nation tells the story of several people who die mysteriously (and painfully) after they found themselves targeted by angry haters on social media. We eventually learn a hacker created a “Game of Consequences” where people on Twitter can nominate anyone they dislike with a hashtag: #DeathTo. Each day at 5 PM, the person with the most votes is killed by a swarm of robot insects, and the game starts over again the next day.
I won’t spoil the outcome, but the story ends with “justice” being served in a very strange way.
The reason I mention this is because there’s a scene in Hated In The Nation where a woman tells the police what it was like to be the target of hate on social media:
It was like having a whole weather system turn against me. Just hate message after hate message, around the clock … It’s hard to describe what that does to your head. Suddenly there’s a million invisible people, all talking about how they despise you. Hands up, I made a mistake … but the way people enjoyed kicking me, that’s what got to me.
That comment really struck me. I’ve been involved in some controversial cases over the years, and I’ve seen what online hate looks like. Most of the time, it’s annoying and it can be painful, but it tends to be short lived and everyone quickly moves on.
This case – Laura’s case – is different.
To be honest, I’ve never seen the level of raw, unchained, venomous hate that Laura’s critics have. It’s actually fairly shocking, even to a guy who has seen much, much, much more of this sort of thing than most people. You really start to wonder – how can people be this depraved, heartless, hate-filled?
I mean, criticizing Laura for her actions is one thing.
Laughing and enjoying someone else’s pain….that’s something entirely different.
The good news is that EVERY CASE WILL EVENTUALLY END. Yes, even this one. If justice has anything to do with it, I’m confident the outcome will be fine for Laura. Yeah, that may require an appeal to get there, but we WILL get there.
Until that happens, I will not leave Laura to fight this battle alone. Yes, I’m still honoring all my ethical duties, but we’re not at that point yet where I’m unable to continue, so if you think I’m walking away anytime soon…I’m not.
With that said, here’s what Laura wanted to say:
***LAURA’S WORDS BELOW***
Every morning begins with a jolt of panic, yanking me from what little sleep I manage to get. My name is Laura, but in the twisted world of my tormentors, aka the “Justice for Clayton” cult, I’m Jane Doe or JD. For nine relentless months, I’ve been living a nightmare that invades every aspect of my life.
The moment I open my eyes, dread settles over me like a thick fog. My phone buzzes incessantly with notifications. The first thing I do is check Reddit, bracing myself for the barrage of hate. The subreddit r/JusticeForClayton is a cesspool of vitriol. “She’s a compulsive liar, and all her evidence is fake,” reads one post. “She manipulates everyone around her and then plays the victim,” says another. Each comment is a knife, cutting deeper into my already fragile psyche.
Twitter is no refuge, and I hate myself for checking it when I know I shouldn’t. It will only upset me more. The account @ClaytonsJustice is active as usual. “Laura is a pathological liar and deserves every bit of suffering she gets,” one tweet declares. “She’s dangerous and manipulative; she should be locked up,” says another. They’ve shared more of my personal information, encouraging others to join the hunt. It’s like being hunted, with no escape.
Flashes of June 2023 torment me. I saw a positive home pregnancy test, and my heart raced with fear. The alleged father knew I wasn’t on the pill and that I didn’t want to have sex, although he wanted to, which he later on admitted in his deposition. I headed straight to an urgent care facility to confirm it, which it did. I told the father, and he insisted on another test, one he bought himself, and watched me take it. It’s positive, but as he said in his deposition, “It was a pregnancy test for people who don’t lie about being pregnant.”
My world was spinning. For weeks, I was paralyzed with fear because his stance on fatherhood changed daily. He demanded an abortion, then considered adoption, then debated taking full custody himself—but never joint custody as I hoped. In July, I shelled out a $5,000 retainer to hire an attorney just to act as a go-between because he refuses to communicate directly. The retainer vanished quickly, and on August 1st, I realized I had no choice but to file a paternity case.
My goal was just to figure out a parenting plan, not to get money. How many of you, after all that, would have believed you were pregnant? Wouldn’t you think that was enough to justify that it was filed “in good faith”? Arizona’s ARS 25-806 explicitly allows a paternity case to be initiated during pregnancy to address custody and support issues ahead of time. The law recognizes that the intent to secure a parenting plan and ensure the welfare of a child begins the moment a pregnancy is confirmed, regardless of its outcome.
I made multiple appointments with obstetricians, even sent my epilepsy records to a high-risk practice to get established. I invited him to an ultrasound appointment, but he refused, convinced I would hire an actor to play the doctor. Not kidding. Feeling isolated and desperate, I canceled the appointments. Later, after concerns about a miscarriage, I got a blood test confirming the pregnancy. Yet today, nearly a year after I filed it and months after losing the pregnancy, the alleged father and the cult think I should be sanctioned and pay attorney’s fees for filing a paternity case.
Should a woman be punished every time she is wrong about paternity but genuinely believes she is right and drags a man into court, only to have the case dismissed? Should she be sanctioned by the court for literally trying to do the right thing by the child? What kind of precedent does that set? Especially in my case, where there are confirmed urine and blood tests, obtained via a HIPAA release given to the other side, proving my pregnancy?
Sanctioning a woman in such a scenario sets a dangerous precedent. It discourages women from seeking legal recourse to ensure the welfare of their unborn children, out of fear of being penalized for an honest mistake or a tragic outcome like a miscarriage. In my situation, everything I did was in compliance with the law and driven by genuine concern for my childrens’ welfare. Filing under ARS 25-806 was entirely appropriate and done in good faith. The law is meant to protect and serve justice, not be manipulated to further victimize those who are already suffering.
I feel bitterness gnawing at me, and I try to shake it off as I consider having breakfast. I should eat; after all, I lost forty pounds in four months between the miscarriage and the stress. But the anxiety is a constant presence, a tightness in my chest that won’t go away. The food sits untouched. The creepy voicemails, the death threats, play on a loop in my mind. They’ve targeted my family too, trying to break me from every angle. Fear is a shadow that never leaves.
Sitting at my computer, I check my email, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, I find more hate. “You deserve everything that’s happening to you,” says another. The harassment is relentless, and I can’t escape it. “Why don’t you just admit you’re lying?” one email demands.
Yes, I have lied before. I’m not proud of it. I’ve made mistakes that haunt me, that I deeply regret. But those mistakes don’t define me. I know who I am, and I know my heart. Despite what they say, despite the avalanche of hateful comments and relentless accusations, I am not the monster they paint me to be. And here’s the thing: I have never lied about being pregnant. I have never lied about being abused. Isn’t that what this is all about? Just because I didn’t actively seek medical care during my pregnancy doesn’t mean I wasn’t pregnant. I was lost, confused, and scared. I didn’t know what to do.
The cult has scrutinized every aspect of my life, leaving no stone unturned. They’ve dug up old high school newspapers to discredit a Lisfranc’s Fracture Dislocation I suffered. They’ve analyzed the deed on my parents’ house and on one I recently bought, the financing we obtained, and feel entitled to my medical records. They know where I’ve spent my weekends. They know what kind of sandwich I eat, and they even make fun of my order. They contact business acquaintances and friends to try to promote “Justice for Clayton”. Nothing is off-limits. Their obsession is all-consuming, and they act as if their mission is to unearth every aspect of my life and turn it into a weapon against me.
They act as though I’ve never worked a day in my life. They spread the lie that I am given a large allowance by my father yearly. As if. The truth is, I’ve worked hard my entire life. I’ve built multiple businesses, made my own money, and stood on my own two feet. But they ignore that. They paint me as a spoiled, lazy fraud, living off my father’s money. They’ll claim that’s not true as soon as this piece is out. They’ll flood their Discord channels and Reddit threads with accusations, calling me a liar once again. They’ll say I’m making it all up, that I’m just trying to garner sympathy.
Lunchtime comes and goes. The anxiety is too overwhelming. My mind flashes to one of the few things I’m still proud of: my TEDx Talk, the one they’re obsessed with getting taken down. In my talk, I shared a story about a stranger on a plane who handed me a letter, telling me I was being abused based on what she overheard my ex telling me. That letter was a lifeline, a moment of clarity that helped me see my situation for what it was. The woman who wrote the letter even provided a declaration for my restraining order hearing against my abuser. After six years of communicating, we finally met in person last year. But the skeptics couldn’t accept this. They hired a handwriting analyst to compare the letter to my handwriting, convinced that I had fabricated the entire story. They accused me of hiring an actress to play the part of the kind stranger. Nothing can be real for them.
The man who the Good Samaritan saw was abusing me, along with two others I have restraining orders against, are now disturbingly labeled as “my victims.” They argue that I’ve somehow manipulated the entire justice system, bamboozled the judges, and weaved an elaborate web of lies to paint myself as the wronged party. They refuse to believe my story could be true, as if they have a monopoly on my reality.
I developed epilepsy from the repeated trauma at the hands of that ex-boyfriend and was one of only 650 people accepted into the Barrow Neurological Institute’s Domestic Violence Brain Injury Program. This program is designed for those whose lives have been shattered by abuse, their bodies and minds bearing the scars of the violence inflicted upon them. And yet, in their twisted narrative, I am the manipulator, the one who has somehow orchestrated this grand deception.
Were they there when I was suffocated with a pillow until the world around me faded to black? When I was choked so violently that I genuinely believed I would never take another breath? Were they present for the countless nights of terror, the moments when I felt utterly powerless and alone, but didn’t have the courage to leave?
They weren’t there when I was gasping for air, resigned to the fact that I might die, and hating myself so much that I didn’t care if he killed me. They weren’t there when I was suffocating under the weight of a pillow, slipping into unconsciousness. They didn’t witness the terror in my eyes, the desperation in my heart. They speak with such certainty, as if they have seen into the darkest corners of my life, yet they know nothing of my reality.
How do they claim to know these things didn’t happen? How can they sit behind their screens and call this man MY “victim”? The sheer cruelty and absurdity of their accusations turn my life into an unending nightmare. Every day, I am bombarded with their relentless hate, their determination to discredit and destroy me. They act as if their words are facts, as if their belief can rewrite my history and erase my pain.
They have convinced me that I am an unproductive person, and with that in mind, I take a nap. As I do throughout the day, I think about my miscarriage. As horrible as the bullying has been, nothing compares to the overwhelming sadness I feel about it. But not a single person outside of my immediate circle has said they were sorry about it.
I wake up, not feeling refreshed. My resolve is wearing thin. My attorney calls, offering support. He’s been my rock through this nightmare, but even he can’t shield me from the constant barrage. We discuss our next legal moves, but I know every step will be met with more attacks. They twist our intentions, rally their followers, and keep the pressure on. It’s brutal. It’s exhausting.
My lawyer and I need to focus on the order of protection I got against him, which he wants reversed, and the injunction against harassment that he got against me, which he wants attorney’s fees for. It’s preposterous.
I shake my head thinking about the injunction against harassment. He wrote in his petition that I sent him 100 emails and texts in four months. By the time we got to the hearing, that number had inexplicably ballooned to 500. No proof, no documentation, just his word against mine. I recall my attorney arguing that there was no evidence, no concrete proof of this escalation. But the judge just took his word for it, no questions asked. The look of smug satisfaction on his face as he delivered his inflated accusations is etched into my memory.
The public has jumped on that 500 figure, despite the complete lack of proof. To them, it was a damning piece of evidence that painted me as unhinged. The number took on a life of its own, repeated and amplified until it became an unquestioned truth. My denials, my evidence to the contrary, were drowned out by the sheer volume of their voices.
Meanwhile, the order of protection I secured against him was based on clear, documented harassment. He posted things that incited his followers to harass me, and it was explicitly written in the order. But somehow, that became twisted. His side argued that I fraudulently filed a sonogram to obtain the order, and that was the basis for it. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and anyone who listens to the hearing, which the cult obtains, will see how many grounds it was granted on, with none of those being based on an ultrasound. I want to defend myself, but there’s no point to it. This is a script that I have no control over, where the ending is predetermined, and nothing I can say or do will change it.
I want to do something meaningful with the waning hours in the day, but why should I when they will do everything in their power to halt every forward step I take? Literally every detail of my life has been meticulously combed through, searching for any possible way to discredit me. My businesses, my livelihood, everything I’ve built, is under constant attack. They’ve questioned my permits and licenses, trying to find any flaw they can exploit. Even the zoning department was contacted about renovations to my horse facilities that were completed years ago, attempting to stir up trouble, but despite a visit from them, the cult didn’t have success.
Of course, more “victims” came forward—people who had bad interactions with me. Anyone would have “victims” if phrased that way. The contractor I sued and won against, or the landlord I called noise complaints on during the pandemic for co-hosting parties at my old apartment building. They’ve recruited anyone who might have had a negative interaction with me to “come forward”. Every disagreement, every conflict, has been twisted into evidence of my supposed villainy. Every interaction is scrutinized, every mistake magnified, every flaw exploited.
In regards to the Injunction Against Harassment that he got against me, he claimed in his initial petition that I sent him 100 emails and texts in four months. Then, when we got to the hearing, with no justification or proof, he said that I had sent 500 and the judge took his word for it. Meanwhile, the order of protection I have against him is entirely because he posted things that incited his followers to harass me—that’s exactly how the thing is written. Yet his side claims that I fraudulently filed a sonogram and that was the basis of it. As if.
Maybe nothing bothers me more than what has been said about me on YouTube, Patreon, and in podcasts. One content creator in particular has made hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of content about me every day, turning my life into a living hell. He’s making a fortune off of these monetized videos while my income has been dwindling. I turn on one of his videos, knowing I should be working, but why should I even bother?
I’m not a murderer; I’m a 34-year-old woman who has been pregnant four times, had two miscarriages and two abortions. Why is this so hard to believe? Why are they obsessed with making sure the entire city – no, the entire world – never comes into contact with me, making me undateable?
“She’s making a mockery of true abuse survivors,” they write. “JD’s actions discredit real victims everywhere.” “How dare she claim to be a victim when she’s the real abuser?” Each accusation, each hateful comment, is a dagger to my soul. The people who claim to seek justice are the very ones who perpetuate my suffering. They are relentless, and their hatred is a constant presence in my life. They have turned my struggle for survival into a spectacle, feeding off my pain and using it to fuel their own agendas.
As evening approaches, I try to find some peace. I order dinner, but the food tastes like ash in my mouth. I push the plate away, too anxious to eat. I check my phone one last time before bed, hoping for some supportive messages. There are a few, but the majority are filled with hate. They know how close I’ve come to breaking, how their words have pushed me to the brink. They know, and yet they don’t stop. They revel in my pain, in the power they have to make me suffer. It’s like they’re feeding on my misery, growing stronger with every tear I shed, every moment of despair they cause.
I shudder as I think about a more recent development. My private emails to the alleged father and 2,500 pages of texts with the abusive boyfriend who strangled me have been disseminated, dissected, and critiqued by strangers. Who would want all their messages to be public? Would anyone be proud of every single text they’ve ever sent? The intimate, painful, and ugly details of my life are now fodder for public consumption, used to shame and belittle me further. It’s a violation that adds insult to injury, compounding the trauma of my past with the scrutiny of the present.
I’ve tried not to cry all day, but I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I wonder why they are so obsessed with ruining my public image entirely. I want to leave a legacy that leaves an impact on the world. I want to leave it better than I found it. But this relentless harassment has made me so self-centered. Why would anyone I want to help care to associate with me, let alone speak to me, if this is who I appear to be when they look me up? I’m scared that no one will ever see the real me, the person who wants to help, to inspire, to leave a positive impact.
I know this piece will only serve as additional fodder for the Justice for Clayton “cult”. Obsessed content creators will make monetized videos dissecting my words, mocking my pain, making fun of my looks, and stripping me of my humanity. They’ll read my story, criticize every sentence, and use it to fuel their hateful narratives. But I need to speak. I need to reclaim my voice, if only for a moment, even if it means giving them more ammunition to attack me with. I need to feel like my existence still matters.
What is their end goal? Why do they get an adrenaline rush from trying to break someone who they know has been suicidal? Why do they feel like this is a good community to be a part of? I lie there, staring into the darkness, feeling the weight of their hatred pressing down on me. The anxiety, the fear, the exhaustion – it all crashes over me like a wave, threatening to pull me under. But I hold on, because I have to. Because I can’t let them win, not today at least. I can last another 24 hours. But I’m terrified that one day, their words will be the final push that sends me over the edge. They won’t stop until they have broken me completely, until there is nothing left. They won’t stop until I’m dead.
