But he had been through a rehabilitation program and no longer was violent, she said. Tracey Thurman said she knew that her father-in-law had been an alcoholic who had beaten his own wife. The two had been married less than two years and had a small son, C.J., when Buck Thurman grew increasingly abusive. There she met Buck Thurman, whose family, working on construction in the area, was staying in the motel. Looking back, Thurman says she grew up in Torrington as "a mama's girl - she was my whole life." The death of her mother when Tracey was 17 so upset her that she fled, heading to Florida where she found a job working in a motel. And the insurance company that paid the bill, as well as other insurance companies, began pressuring municipalities to provide training for police on domestic violence or risk losing their coverage. Tracey Thurman's legacy to other victims of domestic attacks is Connecticut legislation called the Thurman Law, requiring police to respond to domestic violence as they would to any other crime. Thurman won a settlement of $2.3 million in federal court (after an appeal, the police settled out of court for $1.9 million). "Such inaction on the part of the officer is a denial of the equal protection of the laws," he ruled. They had, ruled Judge Joseph Blumenfeld, discriminated against her because she was married to the perpetrator. Because Tracey Thurman had repeatedly called the police while her estranged husband stalked and threatened her, and because she had asked them to arrest him, the Torrington police were judged negligent in not affording her the protection to which any other crime victim was entitled. But they used the excuse that he had my son." In fact, she said, Buck Thurman had already stabbed her when he went into the house and grabbed a sleeping C.J. "In New York City or somewhere he would have been shot right on the spot. He's two streets over.' Here in town, everyone knows what he's capable of - and what I'm capable of." The Torrington police - 29 of whom were named as individual defendants in the suit, 24 of those found guilty - "were not ever trained," she said. "When I was separated from him, neighbors would call me and say, 'We can see Buck. "He's going to find me wherever I go," she said. If I thought about it every day, I'd be a basket case." She has stayed in Torrington, where she still has friends and relatives - her father, two sisters and a brother. "His father went on the stand and said he's either going to come back to finish the job or to ask me whether we can get back together. "I'm terrified of that," she said last week. Buck Thurman will come up for parole in 1991, having served half his 15-year sentence. Like actress Theresa Saldana, who was stabbed and nearly killed by a psychopath, Tracey Thurman worries about her assailant's release from prison. Bruce Weitz plays Thurman's attorney, Burton Weinstein. Writer Beth Sullivan worked from Tracey Thurman's own story and court transcripts. Monday, NBC will air "A Cry for Help: The Tracey Thurman Story," starring Nancy McKeon as Tracey and Dale Midkiff as her ex-husband. So a partially paralyzed Tracey Thurman sued the police force, alleging negligence and violation of her constitutional rights. The Torrington, Conn., policeman who responded to the emergency call did nothing to stop Buck Thurman's rage. The attack lasted 27 minutes, in full view of witnesses. In 1983, in broad daylight and in the back yard of the house where she was living, Tracey Thurman's estranged husband stabbed her 13 times and broke her neck. But the man she married was anything but a haven for a young woman trying to recover from the loss of her mother. "When I met him, I felt so safe and secure," recalled Tracey Thurman.
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