Gellert commenced operating at 11:07 a.m. He was assisted, I was later told, by the on-duty anesthesiologist, two nurses, and three residents who had had their plans for a lazy weekend morning rudely interrupted by urgent summonses from the hospital. The procedure was not filmed. No cameraman could be located on such short notice. The gray car had achieved what Beasley had wished for but had not been able to achieve: instant surgery. Last night, within minutes of my phone call to 911, three police cars had swarmed the street in front of my parents’ home. Sirens wailed to wake the dead, blue lights blazed, cops muscled their way through the front door. Phone calls had been exchanged with Atlanta, most of which I was not privy to, other than one short exchange with Beasley, during which, as usual, he made me walk him step-by-step through what I had seen. The result of all this midnight conferencing had been that Mom and Dad, white with worry, drove me to Sibley Hospital’s emergency room.
