to this decision freely?”
“We do, your honor.”
The judge passed the sheet back to his bailiff, who returned it to the jury box. “The defendant will rise.” Smiling confidently, the defendant did so. “Please read the verdict for the record.”
“Y-yes, your honor . . . On the charges of conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to transport and sell forbidden substances, conspiracy to promote and profit from immoral activities, usury, bribery of a public official, bribery of a police officer, and conspiracy to suborn perjury, we find the defendant, Saddam Hussein, not guilty.”
The street in front of the courthouse had been closed to regular vehicle traffic, and the police had set barricades along the far curb to keep pedestrians at a distance. A limousine idled near the foot of the courthouse steps, ready to whisk the man of the hour away to his victory celebration.
But Saddam was in no hurry to leave. As he came out of the courthouse—flanked by his sons, his legal team, and his buddy Tariq Aziz—he raised his arms and called to the crowd behind the barricades: “Hel- lo , Baghdad!” A cheer went up. Saddam’s most fervent supporters—Baath organizers receiving bonus pay for their presence here—raised signs bearing his picture and the phrase LONG LIVE THE KING! A chant began: “Saddam! Saddam! Saddam!”
Saddam kept his right arm in the air, rotating his hand in a regal wave. His eyes grew distant as he soaked in the adulation. After about a minute, Tariq Aziz touched him gently on the shoulder, as if waking a sleepwalker, and guided him down the steps towards a waiting gaggle of reporters and news cameras.
The chief defense lawyer had prepared a statement, but Saddam cut him off almost immediately and began to take questions: Yes, praise be to God, he was pleased with the trial’s outcome. No, he wasn’t surprised that the jurors—“honest Baghdadis”—had chosen to do the right thing. No, he held no ill will against the prosecutors, though as an honest citizen himself, he did wish the district attorney would focus more on actual criminals . . .
While his father held court with the press, Qusay Hussein kept his eyes on the crowd. His older brother was supposed to do the same, but Uday’s attention focused instead on a young female journalist who’d been shoved to the back of the gaggle. Uday circled around to her and asked if he could answer any questions.
Across the street there was a commotion as someone in the crowd held up a new sign, a homemade placard showing a caricature of Saddam with bloodstained hands, its one-word caption reading BUTCHER! The nearest Baathists reacted furiously, using their own signs as bludgeons. As the police moved in to prevent a riot, a portion of the barricade was left unguarded.
Two men slipped through the gap. They crossed the street undetected and approached along the sidewalk, drawing snub-nosed pistols from their waistbands. Qusay spotted them just as they were taking aim; he cried out a warning and knocked his father to the ground.
The press scattered as the men opened fire. Uday, his face registering glee rather than shock, turned towards the gunshots. He drew his own pistol and shot the closest assassin twice in the chest. The second gunman panicked and tried to flee back into the crowd. Heedless of the other people in the line of fire, Uday squeezed off several more shots, one of which connected. The gunman stumbled and fell to his knees; before he could get up, the police piled onto him.
Qusay helped his father to his feet. Saddam checked himself carefully for bullet wounds; finding none, he looked around at his entourage. “Tariq?”
“I’m OK,” Tariq Aziz said, though in truth he looked ill. He was staring at Saddam’s lead attorney, who lay gushing blood from a hole in his Adam’s apple. One of the other lawyers bent down with a wadded handkerchief, saying, “Put pressure on it, put pressure on it.” Aziz turned away and
“We do, your honor.”
The judge passed the sheet back to his bailiff, who returned it to the jury box. “The defendant will rise.” Smiling confidently, the defendant did so. “Please read the verdict for the record.”
“Y-yes, your honor . . . On the charges of conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to transport and sell forbidden substances, conspiracy to promote and profit from immoral activities, usury, bribery of a public official, bribery of a police officer, and conspiracy to suborn perjury, we find the defendant, Saddam Hussein, not guilty.”
The street in front of the courthouse had been closed to regular vehicle traffic, and the police had set barricades along the far curb to keep pedestrians at a distance. A limousine idled near the foot of the courthouse steps, ready to whisk the man of the hour away to his victory celebration.
But Saddam was in no hurry to leave. As he came out of the courthouse—flanked by his sons, his legal team, and his buddy Tariq Aziz—he raised his arms and called to the crowd behind the barricades: “Hel- lo , Baghdad!” A cheer went up. Saddam’s most fervent supporters—Baath organizers receiving bonus pay for their presence here—raised signs bearing his picture and the phrase LONG LIVE THE KING! A chant began: “Saddam! Saddam! Saddam!”
Saddam kept his right arm in the air, rotating his hand in a regal wave. His eyes grew distant as he soaked in the adulation. After about a minute, Tariq Aziz touched him gently on the shoulder, as if waking a sleepwalker, and guided him down the steps towards a waiting gaggle of reporters and news cameras.
The chief defense lawyer had prepared a statement, but Saddam cut him off almost immediately and began to take questions: Yes, praise be to God, he was pleased with the trial’s outcome. No, he wasn’t surprised that the jurors—“honest Baghdadis”—had chosen to do the right thing. No, he held no ill will against the prosecutors, though as an honest citizen himself, he did wish the district attorney would focus more on actual criminals . . .
While his father held court with the press, Qusay Hussein kept his eyes on the crowd. His older brother was supposed to do the same, but Uday’s attention focused instead on a young female journalist who’d been shoved to the back of the gaggle. Uday circled around to her and asked if he could answer any questions.
Across the street there was a commotion as someone in the crowd held up a new sign, a homemade placard showing a caricature of Saddam with bloodstained hands, its one-word caption reading BUTCHER! The nearest Baathists reacted furiously, using their own signs as bludgeons. As the police moved in to prevent a riot, a portion of the barricade was left unguarded.
Two men slipped through the gap. They crossed the street undetected and approached along the sidewalk, drawing snub-nosed pistols from their waistbands. Qusay spotted them just as they were taking aim; he cried out a warning and knocked his father to the ground.
The press scattered as the men opened fire. Uday, his face registering glee rather than shock, turned towards the gunshots. He drew his own pistol and shot the closest assassin twice in the chest. The second gunman panicked and tried to flee back into the crowd. Heedless of the other people in the line of fire, Uday squeezed off several more shots, one of which connected. The gunman stumbled and fell to his knees; before he could get up, the police piled onto him.
Qusay helped his father to his feet. Saddam checked himself carefully for bullet wounds; finding none, he looked around at his entourage. “Tariq?”
“I’m OK,” Tariq Aziz said, though in truth he looked ill. He was staring at Saddam’s lead attorney, who lay gushing blood from a hole in his Adam’s apple. One of the other lawyers bent down with a wadded handkerchief, saying, “Put pressure on it, put pressure on it.” Aziz turned away and
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