Honored Combat Veteran to Conviction: Jeremy Harrell's Battle with PTSD and the DOJ

What happens when helping veterans with PTSD becomes a federal crime?

When I sat down with Jeremy Harrell for the second time, he had just walked out of federal prison after serving six months for disability fraud, a conviction that shocked everyone who knew his work. This decorated combat veteran, who served nine years in Operation Iraqi Freedom, had dedicated his life to helping fellow veterans struggling with PTSD. He founded Veterans Club Inc. became a national spokesperson on veteran mental health, and earned recognition as Kentucky Veteran of the Year. Yet somehow, his commitment to serving others landed him in an Ashland federal prison camp.

From Combat Hero to Federal Defendant

Jeremy’s story reads like a bureaucratic nightmare. After being diagnosed with permanent PTSD by multiple VA doctors, he threw himself into understanding the condition that nearly destroyed him. He became such an expert that news stations called him whenever PTSD stories broke. His nonprofit was doing incredible work, no one disputed that. But then came the knock on his door.

Federal agents accused him of disability fraud, claiming that if he could run a successful veterans organization, he couldn’t be disabled. The irony was staggering: “Jeremy wasn’t the one that said he was disabled, it was these doctors that diagnosed Jeremy,” but the government pursued him anyway. Despite a forensic audit finding no personal financial gain, Jeremy faced trial and lost.

At sentencing, even the federal judge seemed conflicted. “I’ll never forget that the judge called me an admirable man about five or six times, but then there was this ‘but,’” Jeremy told me. The judge sentenced him to six months in prison followed by six months home confinement, acknowledging Jeremy’s character while bowing to the jury’s guilty verdict.

Life Behind Bars at Ashland Federal Prison Camp

Walking into prison wearing a Veterans Club shirt created an immediate contradiction Jeremy couldn’t escape. “I served both of those flags honorably and I continue to serve the people who are broken because they serve both of those flags. And now I’m going into prison because of it,” he reflected, seeing the American flag flying over the compound.

What surprised Jeremy most wasn’t the harsh conditions, it was the humanity he found inside. Federal correctional officers recognized his Veterans Club shirt and asked if they could get one. Fellow inmates, despite having nothing, immediately brought him toiletries and clothing to help him get settled. “I’ve been in rooms full of millionaires who wouldn’t give you a dollar to get yourself something to drink. And now I’m here with these inmates who have nothing and they’re giving me what they have.”

The boredom was crushing. With only a six-month sentence, no one wanted to train Jeremy for meaningful work, so he became a “compound orderly”, essentially a janitor, earning $14.82 per month. He spent his days reading over 20 books and counseling fellow inmates at picnic tables in the yard, never asking what crimes brought them there, focusing instead on who they could become.

Fighting the System from Inside and Out

While Jeremy served his time, his wife Erin became his fiercest advocate. When the Bureau of Prisons kept Jeremy in a halfway house past his release date, Erin took to social media despite having only 20 followers. Her post caught the attention of Savannah Chrisley, whose parents had just been pardoned by President Trump. Savannah immediately called BOP Director William Marshall, who ordered Jeremy’s immediate release.

The financial persecution continued even after Jeremy’s release. The government demanded tens of thousands in restitution payments with impossible deadlines, threatening to freeze bank accounts and place liens on the family home. It felt like punishment designed to destroy rather than rehabilitate.

Yet Jeremy emerged from prison with an unexpected perspective. The respect inmates showed each other, the generosity of men who had nothing, and the opportunity to minister to forgotten souls taught him lessons he couldn’t have learned anywhere else. He witnessed firsthand how broken the system is, but also saw glimpses of redemption in the most unlikely places.

Jeremy’s case represents everything wrong with federal overreach, a dedicated public servant criminalized for the very work that made him a hero. But it also reveals something powerful about the human spirit: even behind bars, surrounded by concrete and razor wire, the drive to serve others never dies.