Rawhide Down_ The Near Assassination of Ronald Reagan - Del Quentin Wilber [39]
Everything was in order.
Walking eighteen inches behind the Man, Parr guided Reagan toward the limousine. As always in such situations, the agent was busily plotting his response in case of an emergency. If an attack had occurred just after they’d walked through the VIP doors, Parr would have pulled the president back into the safety of the hotel. Now, halfway to the limousine, his plan changed: if something happened, they would dive into the armored Lincoln.
As they approached the limousine, Tim McCarthy, Parr’s point man, opened the Lincoln’s right rear door. Looking toward the dozens of spectators lining T Street, Reagan smiled, raised his right arm, and waved. A woman to his left shouted, “Mr. President, President Reagan.” The president swiveled his head toward the rope line, raised his left arm as if to acknowledge her, and seemed to mouth the word “Hi.”
Eyeing the crowd, Parr began gliding to a point just off Reagan’s left shoulder, where he would serve as a barrier between the president and anyone who might try to attack him from that side. As he continued to guide Reagan toward the door, Parr heard what sounded like gunfire.
Pop. Pop.
Instantly, Parr’s left hand grabbed Reagan’s left shoulder. His right hand reached for the president’s head, and his torso twisted into a human shield. He drove Reagan toward the open door of the Lincoln, his legs pumping like a running back pounding through a defensive line.
He heard another pop, then another.
All in a seamless motion—part programmed, part improvised—Parr grabbed and twisted, shoving Reagan forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tim McCarthy turn and spread his arms wide to protect the president.
Parr heard another pop and felt Ray Shaddick’s strong hands ramming him and the president through the limousine’s doorway.
One final pop.
They tumbled into a heap on the axle hump. Parr’s mind raced, instantly ruling out firecrackers, balloons, pranks.
He knew it was gunfire. Someone was trying to assassinate the president.
* * *
JOHN HINCKLEY COULDN’T believe his luck. After the president’s arrival at the Hilton, Hinckley had walked into the hotel’s lobby and loitered there for a while, the gun still in his jacket pocket. Then he’d returned to the rope line and waited with the others in the crowd, at one point shouting at some journalists who were pushing to get into better position. A few minutes later, Hinckley saw Reagan emerge from the VIP entrance. Unbelievably, the president was completely out in the open—and Reagan would pass right in front of him.
Hinckley felt exceedingly calm. Standing between the hotel’s wall and a cameraman, he reached into his jacket’s right pocket. But even now he wondered whether he should pull out the gun and start firing. Two police officers turned away toward Reagan; a Secret Service agent looked down at the ground. Nobody was paying any attention to him; the cameramen and reporters were focused on the president, as was everyone else in the crowd.
There was no time to think. He knew only that he would never get another chance as good as this one. He pulled the gun from his pocket. As he did, he saw himself dying in a fusillade of Secret Service bullets. And then he crouched, gripped the revolver’s handle with both hands, and aimed.
Goodbye, he thought. Goodbye to myself.
He pulled the trigger. Blue flame spat from the gun.
* * *
THE FIRST PERSON hit was Reagan’s press secretary, Jim Brady, who’d been standing a few feet from the rope and just in front of the president. Hinckley’s bullet smashed into Brady’s head, and the press secretary toppled. He fell so close to Hinckley that he nearly landed on him.
Officer Thomas Delahanty had turned away from the crowd to check Reagan’s progress toward the limousine