AT 1:06 P.M. ON THE AFTERNOON of June 20, 2001, Houston police sergeant Eric Mehl turned on a tape recorder in an interview room in the homicide division and began to take the confession of Andrea Yates, who earlier that day had drowned her five children, ranging from six months to seven years old, in her own bathtub. In response to Mehl’s questions, Yates told how the day began normally: She got up a little after eight o’clock, fed the children cereal for breakfast, and said good-bye to her husband, Rusty, when he left for work around nine. Then she filled the bathtub with water, about three inches from the top. Mehl got straight to the point:
“About three inches from the top,” he said. “Um, after you drew the bathwater, what was your intent?”
“Drown the children,” she replied.
“Okay. Why were you going to drown the children?”
The transcript reads, “15 seconds of silence.”
“Was it in reference to, or was it because the children had done something?” he asked.
“No,” said Yates.
“You were not mad at the children?”
“Okay, um, you had thought of this prior to this day?”
“Um, how long have you been having thoughts about wanting, or not wanting to, but drowning your children?”
“Probably since I realized I have not been a good mother to them.”
As you can see from perusing the pages of this issue on crime, Texas has provided the world with many a sensational murder story. But the case of Andrea Yates may be the most disturbing of all. It leads us to question something that we like to think of as a settled moral issue: that a person ought to be held responsible for her actions and her choices. Some of humankind’s most cherished qualities—a mother’s instinct to protect her offspring, the power of reason that elevates us above the rest of the animal kingdom, the religious faith that impels us to identify and resist evil—went wrong inside the mind of Andrea Yates. She came to believe that she was possessed by Satan and the only way to save her children from the evil one for all eternity was to kill them now so that they could get to heaven before it was too late. Was this a choice for which she should be held responsible? Or were her neurons, synapses, and brain cells wired in such a way that protecting her children and being a good mother did not mean the same things to her that they mean to you and me? To put it in the language of the legal system, Was Andrea Yates not guilty of capital murder by reason of insanity?
The answer by a Harris County jury came on March 12 of this year, after only three and one half hours of deliberation: Guilty. Six days later Yates was sentenced to life in prison. But the questions raised in her trial continue to linger. No one doubts that she was seriously mentally ill. She had been treated for postpartum depression and psychosis and had been hospitalized four times. Twice she had attempted to kill herself after the birth of her fourth child. The psychosis returned after the birth of her fifth child. If Andrea Yates does not qualify as not guilty by reason of insanity, who does?
The insanity defense exists because the intention to commit an illegal act is a fundamental element of criminal conduct. English law has recognized for more than four hundred years that children and “lunatics” lack the mental capacity to form a criminal intent. The question has always been how to limit the defense so that every criminal can’t claim to have acted under the spell of a delusion and go free. By the middle of the nineteenth century, a test was in place that in some form prevails today: A defendant was insane if he did not know the nature and quality of his act or if he did know it, he did not know it was wrong. Around fifty years ago, there was a swing away from the right-wrong test toward a mental illness standard: If a criminal act was the result of a mental disease or defect (even an irresistible impulse), the defendant was not guilty by reason of insanity.
This proved to be the loophole that everyone had been afraid of. When John Hinckley was found not guilty by reason of insanity for attempting to assassinate Ronald Reagan, the mental illness test went out the window and federal law and many states returned to a right-wrong standard. Texas has one of the nation’s highest bars for a successful insanity defense. Andrea Yates’s lawyers had to show both that she suffered from a mental illness or defect (no problem there) and that she did not know that her conduct was wrong. But she did know. Toward the end of her confession, Sergeant Mehl asked her, “Okay, you had told me earlier that, that you’d been having these thoughts about hurting your children for up to two years. Is that, is that about right?”
“Yes,” Yates said.
“Okay, is there anything that happened two years ago that, that made you, that you believe led you to have these thoughts?”
“I realized that it was time to be punished.”
“And what do you need to be punished for?”
“For not being a good mother.”
“How did you see drowning your five children as a way to be punished? Did you want the criminal justice system to punish you, or did you—”
“Yes.” There it was: For prosecutors, this was a clear admission by Andrea Yates that she knew it was wrong to kill. The square peg of justice had just been hammered into the round hole of mental illness.
The insanity defense had little chance of prevailing in Yates’s trial. “The State could say its whole case in one sentence: ‘She knew it was wrong,’” says Wendell Odom, a Houston attorney who helped defend Yates. “Our side of the case was