Are You There Alone?: The Unspeakable Crime of Andrea Yates<\/a>![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.assoc-amazon.com\/e\/ir?t=thesheivari-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0743466292\")
<\/i>, by Suzanne O’Malley. <\/b><\/p>\nAt 9:48 am on Wednesday, June 20, 2001, eight minutes before she called her husband, Andrea Yates had dialed 911. “I need a police officer,” she said, her breath heaving unsteadily into the phone.<\/p>\n
“What’s the problem?” police telecommunicator Dorene Stubblefield asked with a whiff of attitude.<\/p>\n
“I just need him to come,” Yates said.<\/p>\n
“I need to know why they are coming,” Stubblefield persisted. “Is your husband there?”<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
“What’s the problem?”<\/p>\n
“I need him to come.”<\/p>\n
“I need to know why<\/i> they are coming,” Stubblefield repeated.<\/p>\n
No answer. Nothing but Andrea Yates breathing irregularly, as if an intruder might be holding a gun to her head.<\/p>\n
“Is he standing next to you?”<\/p>\n
Yates fumbled the phone.<\/p>\n
“Are you have a disturbance?” Stubblefield asked, thinking this might be a domestic problem. No answer. She had to determine whether she was sending officers into a dangerous situation. “Are you ill, or what?”<\/p>\n
“Yes, I’m ill.”<\/p>\n
“What kind of medical problems?”<\/p>\n
Valuable seconds ticked by. Who could explain this to a stranger on the phone?<\/p>\n
“You need an ambulance?” Stubblefield suggested.<\/p>\n
“No, I need a police officer,” Yates said.<\/p>\n
“Do you need an ambulance?” Stubblefield repeated.<\/p>\n
“No … Yes, send an ambulance …” Yates’s breath became even more labored. Then nothing but static.<\/p>\n
“Hello?” Stubblefield asked, urgency finally mounting in her voice.<\/p>\n
Still no answer. “Is someone burglarizing your house?” she asked.<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
“What is it?” asked Stubblefield, frustrated.<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
“What kind of medical problems are you having?”<\/p>\n
More time slipped away. At length, Yates once more asked Stubblefield for a police officer.<\/p>\n
“Are you at 942 Beachcomber?”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
“Are you there alone?”<\/p>\n
“Yes,” Yates said. Suddenly there was more static, then another long silence. Stubblefield wondered if she’d lost her. The sound of panicked breathing returned.<\/p>\n
“Andrea Yates?”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
“Is your husband there?”<\/p>\n
“No. I’m sick.”<\/p>\n
“How are you sick?” Stubblefield asked. Yates’s answer was unintelligible.<\/p>\n
“Andrea Yates, is your husband there?”<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
“Why do you need a policeman, ma’am?”<\/p>\n
“I just need him to be here.”<\/p>\n
“For what?”<\/p>\n
“I just need him to come.”<\/p>\n
A long silence ensued, followed by static.<\/p>\n
“You’re sure<\/i> you’re alone?” By now Stubblefield knew something was wrong, but was Yates refusing to answer her questions or was someone stopping her from answering? After eight years on the job, Stubblefield thought she knew how to recognize a battered wife when she heard one.<\/p>\n
“No,” Yates said finally, she was not alone. “My kids are here.” But here rasping breaths continued.<\/p>\n
“How old are the children?”<\/p>\n
“Seven, 5, 3, 2, and 6 months.”<\/p>\n
“You have five children?”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
She might not know exactly what was wrong, but five children were enough to satisfy Stubblefield. “Okay. We’ll send an officer.”<\/p>\n
“Thank you,” Yates said politely and hung up.<\/p>\n
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