Life as a Paramedic: The 911 Call That Followed Me Into the Courtroom

My emergency services career was just getting started, and it already felt like a lifetime of firsts.

First fire fatality.
First gunshot wound.
First cardiac arrest.

What I didn’t expect was that my first real introduction to the court system would come through dispatch.

A routine shift—until it wasn’t

Like a lot of dispatch shifts, it started out ordinary. Nothing unusual. I was assigned to answer phones when one of the 911 lines rang.

Another county dispatcher transferred the call to me and said, “I’ve got a woman on the line who says she was shot with a BB gun.”

That lasted about five seconds.

The moment I started talking to her, I knew something was wrong. The distress in her voice wasn’t exaggerated panic—it was physiological. She was gasping for air. She couldn’t finish sentences.

She told me she’d been shot in the back with a real gun.
She said she had run from the residence and was hiding in a neighbor’s trailer.

Dispatch training gives you tools. It doesn’t give you a script for everything.

As soon as I initiated the call, our CAD system triggered an ambulance response. While I entered information, another dispatcher sent the closest unit. Law enforcement was requested immediately—crew and patient safety come first.

I knew the area well. I also knew deputies were several minutes out.

So I kept her talking.

Questions you don’t practice enough

We didn’t have flip cards for this situation. You improvise.

I asked the questions I would want answered if I were responding.

“Is the person who shot you still there?”

Yes. She was outside the trailer.

“Do you know who shot you?”

Yes. She gave me the shooter’s full name.

Her breathing worsened as we talked. Her voice grew softer. The gasps became quieter.

Then… nothing.

No voice.
No movement.
Just silence and the faint beep of the recorded 911 line in my ear.

I wasn’t sure if the call had disconnected. Protocol says to hang up and attempt a callback.

I tried.
No answer.

When you know—but don’t want to

Sheriff’s deputies called in shortly after. The scene wasn’t secure. They were searching for the suspect and trying to locate the caller.

I relayed everything I had.

The ambulance and local fire/rescue staged at a safe distance. It felt like an eternity before the scene was declared secure.

When the ambulance finally went in, I felt a moment of relief.

That didn’t last.

Less than a minute later, they advised they were working a cardiac arrest.

This was a strange kind of stress—being safe in a dispatch center while someone is dying in real time, knowing you were likely the last person they spoke to.

They worked the scene for a long time. No transport was made. The coroner was requested.

Deep down, I think I knew she died while she was still on the phone with me. I just didn’t want to accept it yet.

Dispatch doesn’t end when the call does

I had never been involved in court before—certainly not a murder case.

I learned quickly how the process works.
911 recordings are evidence. They get subpoenaed.

A couple weeks later, I did too.

At the preliminary hearing, I saw the defendant for the first time. I expected a monster.

She wasn’t.

She looked like a normal young woman sitting next to her attorney. The recording was discussed. The accused didn’t speak.

Later, I was subpoenaed again—for the trial itself. This time, for a full week.

The prosecutor told me I’d be his last witness. He wanted the jury to hear the 911 call just before deliberation.

That knowledge sat heavy.

The courtroom went silent

When my name was called, the courtroom was full. I was sworn in. A few questions were asked.

Then the prosecutor requested the recording be played.

The defense objected.
It was overruled.

You could hear a pin drop.

I had heard the recording multiple times by then. I knew exactly what was coming. It still put a knot in my stomach.

When the victim named the shooter—first and last name—there were audible gasps in the courtroom.

I glanced at the defendant. She stared at the floor.

After the recording finished, I confirmed it was my voice on the line. No further questions.

I was dismissed.

The jury didn’t take long.
Second-degree murder.
25 years.

And just like that, it was over.

In EMS, even events like this eventually become “the call before the next call.”

Dispatch shows you the world without filters

Not long after, another call came in—a domestic where a woman covered her husband in gasoline and lit him on fire. That case was straightforward. Confession. No dispatch testimony required.

It’s unbelievable what people are capable of.

Dispatch doesn’t give you the adrenaline of the scene—but it gives you something else: perspective. You hear people at the worst moment of their lives, with no buffer.

And then you answer the next line.

Why dispatch mattered more than I realized

Just like my early days volunteering in fire, every experience made me want to learn more.

I hadn’t even started full-time on an ambulance before I knew I wanted to become a paramedic. St. John’s EMS had a strong in-house paramedic program—literally across the hall from dispatch.

Dispatch became my foundation.

I worked with incredible people. You form bonds in that room—because no one else truly understands what that job demands. Respect isn’t automatic in EMS. It’s earned.

Dispatchers earn it quietly.

They’re often forgotten. They shouldn’t be.

Starting my career in emergency medical dispatch didn’t just prepare me for the ambulance—it shaped how I see people, stress, responsibility, and life.

And it all started with a phone ringing.

Series note

This post is part of Life on the Box — real stories from EMS, fire, dispatch, and the ER.

If you’ve ever been the voice on the other end of a 911 line, you already know:
some calls don’t end when you hang up.

Tell the story.