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Near the nurses’ station, Frederick White, a Secret Service administrator who happened to be in the ER on personal business, watched the commotion and stood up after he heard a nurse announce, “Attention everyone, the president’s motorcade is on its way here!” White approached the nurse, identified himself, and suggested they clear the emergency room. She agreed, and White helped usher about a dozen patients from the ER into a hallway. He then walked to the emergency room’s entrance and told a security guard to hold open the sliding glass doors in case the president had to be rushed inside. As White stood just outside the open doors, he heard the sound of sirens approaching from Pennsylvania Avenue; a moment later, he saw the president’s limousine race around the traffic circle. Right behind it was the follow-up car—and when he saw the two men clinging to the running boards and holding Uzis, he knew something awful had happened.

* * *

KATHY PAUL WATCHED as President Reagan hobbled through the open glass doors. He and his entourage walked over a rubber mat with arrows pointing to the emergency room, then passed an admissions area and approached another set of glass doors.

Paul stepped to the president’s side and braced her right hand under his left arm. She thought he looked terrible—ashen and very sick. She noticed a spot of blood on his lips.

“This is the president, let’s get to the emergency room,” a Secret Service agent yelled.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” Reagan told Paul. “I can’t breathe.”

“Come this way,” she answered, gently coaxing the president toward the trauma bay.

Joyce Mitchell, the ER doctor, felt suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that she was in charge. Collecting herself, she addressed the Secret Service agents accompanying Reagan. “Was he shot?” she asked.

“No, we think he got an elbow in the ribs,” one agent said.

“Maybe broke a rib when we pushed him into the limousine,” said another.

Mitchell wasn’t convinced; the president looked so bad that she thought he might be having a heart attack.

Bob Hernandez, a paramedic who had earlier brought in the cardiac patient and had just finished writing up a report, stepped out of a small office and into the hallway. His partner followed him. Seeing the president and several Secret Service agents walking toward him, Hernandez froze. As it happened, the two men had trailed Reagan in their ambulance during the inaugural parade, and they had been told that a sudden move near the president might cause the Secret Service to pounce. Now, they both stood like statues until Reagan was within arm’s reach.

Studying the president as he shuffled forward, Hernandez immediately noticed several things: Reagan’s legs wobbled and his steps seemed uncertain; his eyes were glazed and he seemed to be staring off into the distance; his arms were locked at his sides. Hernandez thought the president was on the verge of collapse.

An agent yelled for a wheelchair, but he was too late. Just as they passed through the second set of glass doors, Reagan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, his legs buckled, and he toppled toward the floor. Jerry Parr and Ray Shaddick caught him before he hit the ground.

“Don’t make him walk!” one of the paramedics shouted.

Parr and Shaddick grasped the president’s arms. The two paramedics held his legs, as did Kathy Paul. With Joyce Mitchell hovering alongside, the clutch of medical personnel and agents lifted 196 pounds of dead weight and rushed the president into the ER. Turning left, they surged past the nurses’ station and several examination rooms. Once they reached the trauma bay, they gently placed Reagan on a gurney.

Paul was dizzy. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t believe her own eyes: the president of the United States was having a heart attack right here in the ER! She realized that she was pleading silently, repeating the same thought over and over. Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die.