The Prisoner in His Palace Read online

  Amazingly, Amin again relented. “Who took it?” he asked, before ordering that the headdress be retrieved.

  “Bravo!” cheered Saddam, no doubt both pleased and even amazed that this circus-like atmosphere he and his colleagues were fostering was rising to full spectacle.

  “They took all our headdresses,” he then piled on.

  “Bring all their headdresses,” Amin ordered, adding, “When you come to this court, you may wear whatever you wish as long as it conforms to public decorum.”

  There was a delay as the defendants’ headdresses were retrieved and returned to them in the dock. As they were distributed to the waiting defendants, Judge Amin noticed that the sound system was malfunctioning, and he was forced to adjourn for five minutes so that it could be fixed.

  Following a short break, the chief prosecutor, Moussawi, concluded the day by presenting the charges, accusing Saddam and his codefendants of committing crimes against humanity when 148 residents of Dujail were allegedly jailed, tortured, and, in many cases, executed by hanging following a presidential decree signed by Saddam on June 16, 1984.

  Following a rather uneventful session sandwiched between lengthy recesses, the court reconvened on December 5 with Saddam’s chief lawyer, Najeeb al-Nuaimi, contending that the court itself was illegitimate, as it had been established during an illegal occupation. He also presented the somewhat specious argument that the court should have no jurisdiction over crimes alleged to have occurred before the American-led occupation and the establishment of the tribunal. Nuaimi concluded by lamenting the “great interference by the current government in the affairs of the judiciary,” an accusation that would prove prophetic, even if it didn’t have a material impact on Saddam’s ultimate guilt or innocence.

  Next came the first witness from Dujail, who’d been only fourteen at the time of the failed assassination. He bravely agreed to appear on camera to provide an account of the persecution he suffered, and the crimes he witnessed. For that he would pay an awful price, as two of his cousins would be kidnapped following his appearance, a nephew would be killed, and a brother shot and paralyzed.

  A perceived lack of security for trial participants would cast a lingering cloud over the proceedings. Within months of the trial’s opening, two defense attorneys would be killed by gunmen as they drove through Baghdad, likely targeted for their role in defending Saddam.

  As violence spread outside the courtroom, the testimony inside brought to life the violence of the previous era, no less horrific. The fourth session of the trial, on December 6, featured some of its most wrenching testimony as a woman, speaking from behind a screen, with her voice deepened and intentionally distorted to safeguard her anonymity, spoke haltingly as she provided graphic testimony of the suffering she endured at the hands of Saddam’s security forces. She described how “I was forced to take my clothes off. They lifted my legs, tied my hands, beat me with cables, and gave me electric shocks. There were more than one, and it was as if I were their banquet.” Cultural sensibilities likely prevented her from spelling out in any more detail the brutal sexual abuse she suffered.

  Plunging ahead bravely, the woman recounted more of the horrors she witnessed and experienced, many of them at Abu Ghraib prison, which had been a house of horrors under Saddam long before the abuses of U.S. guards there made international headlines. She described how one of her relatives, who was mute and deaf, was brought in front of the women and stripped naked, whereupon the guards pulled on his penis and taunted, “What kind of creature is this?”

  Saddam busied himself taking notes during her testimony, occasionally taking a break to look up and smile.

  The day concluded with Saddam being provided the opportunity to cross-examine the witnesses, a peculiarity of Iraqi criminal procedure that the Americans had sought to avoid, as they knew it would afford Saddam countless opportunities to pontificate, not only to the gallery assembled in the courtroom but to the entire Arab world. It surprised few when he did just that.

  He began solemnly, again referring to himself in the third person. “These testimonies, brother first judge, are meant to disparage a march of thirty-five years. During that time, we built a great Iraq with our tears. This march is being disparaged. I do not believe that any true Iraqi, and you are a true Iraqi, accepts this. As judges, you know how Saddam Hussein has taken care of the judiciary. Leave Saddam Hussein alone, for he is not the issue. But this is your history and you shed blood for this. You fought eight years to score victory against Iran. You fought all the Satans of the West and put them in their place. By God, if you had two percent of what the United States has, it would not have dared to attack Iraq. By God, two percent only . . .”

  Somehow he managed to spit out 139 entirely extraneous words before Judge Amin finally cut him off, saying, “Please ask the witness the question that you want to pose.”

  Saddam ignored the judge, continuing his melodramatic oration. “The Americans and the Zionists want to execute Saddam Hussein. They will be smaller than a bedbug if they do not execute him. Why fear the execution? Saddam Hussein said he was ready to be executed if this served the people when he was a secondary school student. He was sentenced to be executed three times. This is not the first time. Saddam Hussein and his comrades do not fear execution.”

  Judge Amin tried once more to corral the dictator, who had now shifted fully into his stump speech—one he was able to deliver powerfully, and which he hoped would resonate with his Sunni Arab target audience.

  “We will listen to the witness, and you have the right to question. If you have any question to the witness . . . ,” Judge Amin interjected plaintively as the former dictator steamrolled on, commanding the world’s stage once again. He hadn’t yielded to one of his countrymen in thirty years, and he wasn’t about to begin now.

  CHAPTER 19

  Baghdad, Iraq—2006

  Vic, we’re gonna move tonight.

  No longer hesitant in the company of Saddam, the Super Twelve had grown confident issuing orders to the former president, though they continued to do so in a respectful fashion.

  “Vic” was short for “Very Important Criminal,” and a few of Saddam’s American guards would sometimes call him this. After having returned to the Rock following a court recess, Specialist Rogerson had received word that they had to deliver Saddam back to the Iraqi High Tribunal late that night for a resumption of the trial. He wanted to provide advance warning so Saddam would have time to pack his bags for the late-night helicopter ride. Depending on the number of days court would be in session, Saddam and the Super Twelve might be bunking in the Crypt, the dark labyrinth of cells underneath the courthouse, for up to a week, so they needed to pack appropriately. Like many older men who become somewhat set in their ways, Saddam didn’t like to be rushed or surprised, but he was generally pleasant and agreeable as long as he was given time to prepare for any changes to his routine.

  Once Rogerson had given him the heads-up, Saddam began his usual pre-movement rituals. First he went outside and made sure to water his plants—weeds, really—growing in the small plot of soil in his rec area. Next he began to pack his olive green Army-issued duffel bags for the week or so he might be away. He’d carefully make sure that the items he expected to need first were located near the top. Meanwhile, his suits, which the Army delivered for dry-cleaning on the Rock, were carefully placed in garment bags for him by the Super Twelve. The former president took his appearance seriously, as each public exposure since his ignominious capture was an opportunity to rehabilitate his image. Finally, he packed his notepads and pens, as well as his empty wet wipe box full of cigars, right near the top of his bag for quickest access when he arrived at court and would meet with his lawyers.

  When he finished packing, Saddam stepped into his shower, where of course the guards were supposed to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t slip and fall, or intentionally try to hurt himself. The shower was covered with a rubber mat that was pieced together like a jigsa
w puzzle to further prevent the risk of injury.

  As Saddam showered, Specialist Rogerson noticed that Perkins was staring at the prisoner for almost the entire duration of his soaping and rinsing.

  Hey, Perkins, you don’t need to stare a hole in the guy, said Rogerson.

  Though Perkins was guilty of nothing more than scrupulously following his instructions not to take his eyes off Saddam, he’d pay for it in the remorseless environment that was deployed life for the twelve young men. Even Saddam sometimes joined in the banter, laughing when Rogerson told him the story of Perkins peeing his pants. The former president, who’d probably lived decades surrounded by people cowering in fear, seemed to relish the opportunity to “be one of the guys.”

  The rest of the Super Twelve could never quite figure out the eccentric Perkins. The older soldier’s fashion style could be bizarre. Hutch remembered the time Perkins showed up at an Army “Company Fun Day” family picnic back at Fort Campbell clad in ankle-length Capri pants and Roman-style sandals, looking like a middle-aged German bureaucrat who’d taken a wrong turn on his way out for a Sunday stroll. The razzing Perkins caught wasn’t really deserved. He was just sufficiently different to be the butt of bored soldiers’ jokes.

  Having packed and showered, Saddam lay down on his bunk and tried to fall asleep, since he knew that his night’s rest would be interrupted by the movement to the IHT. Rogerson gently closed the cell door as Saddam pulled his sheets over himself, but it was more a formality than a security measure. During the day the cell door was generally left ajar so Saddam could move about to his rec area or access some of his storage space as he pleased. Between his cell on the Rock and freedom there were so many layers of security that escape would have been unthinkable. Hutchinson joked that life on the Rock was like the old Andy Griffith Show, where the town drunk, Otis, let himself in and out of his cells as he pleased.

  Saddam would miss all of this when he was at the IHT; the Rock’s space, his books and papers, the outdoor rec area, and, most of all, his privacy. (He was alone on the Rock, whereas the other codefendants were bunked in cells adjacent to his underneath the courthouse.)

  It was the middle of the night when Rogerson warned Saddam that it would soon be time to go. Twenty minutes, he announced into the darkened cell.

  Saddam had been asleep for hours and was still a little groggy. Okay, friend, thank you, he said quietly, gingerly pulling himself out of bed.

  In the backs of their minds, the soldiers couldn’t help but wonder if there might eventually be a day when they’d have to do this knowing that for a sleeping Saddam there’d be no more tomorrows, no reason to hurry. There was too much to do right now, though, so those thoughts were shunted aside.

  Twenty minutes later, it was time to go. Are you ready, Vic?

  “I am ready when you are ready,” Saddam replied sportily.

  As long as he received his twenty-minute warning, Saddam would almost always respond agreeably. Months later, the Super Twelve would find themselves parroting some of Saddam’s favorite expressions, like this one, as they prepared to leave on missions. “I am ready when you are ready,” they’d say to each other in faux-Arabic-accented English as they put on their gear.

  Saddam had dressed and gathered his belongings for the journey. A few of the soldiers approached to help carry the heavier bags, as well as the garment bag containing his suits.

  When Hutch reached over to help Saddam with one of them, momentarily struggling with its weight, he joked to Saddam, “What the hell, did you stuff Ali in this bag?”

  Saddam laughed heartily, and would even repeat the joke to Chemical Ali after he arrived at the IHT and reunited with his codefendants.

  They moved to the waiting Humvees outside. Whenever they left the Rock, even though they were safely within the larger, well-guarded perimeter of the enormous American Camp Victory, the Super Twelve left nothing to chance, with six of them pulling external perimeter security, weapons locked and loaded, and the other six escorting the prisoner to the Humvee.

  Who is the driver? Saddam asked.

  It’s Hutchinson, same as usual, Lieutenant Andre Jackson replied.

  Not yesterday it wasn’t, said Saddam, apparently still smarting from the fact that the younger Dawson had driven too fast, the bumps rattling the Humvee and causing discomfort to the sixty-nine-year-old Saddam’s brittle body.

  Don’t worry, today it’s Hutch, the lieutenant reassured him.

  Okay, that’s good, said Saddam, looking relieved.

  Despite his best efforts to drive carefully, whenever Hutch struck a bump in the road, he heard Saddam let out an exaggerated groan. Anyway, it took only a few minutes for the Humvee to roll across the darkened base to the two Black Hawk helicopters that stood waiting.

  Though the ten-minute chopper ride to the Iraqi High Tribunal’s courthouse had grown somewhat routine, it was still always a bit surreal. The city looked so peaceful, twinkling seductively in green through the soldiers’ night-vision goggles. For just a moment it was possible to imagine that the roughly seven million below had made a pact to put aside the sectarian hatred and violence, to come together as one and do the things that people do when grudges are laid to rest: gather outside in cafes, laugh, debate the prospects of the local soccer clubs. But then, inevitably, the chopper would descend to the landing zone, and reality would wipe away all such thoughts.

  CHAPTER 20

  Iraqi High Tribunal, Baghdad, Iraq—December 21, 2005

  On day six of the Dujail trial, prosecutor Jaafar al-Moussawi, who resembled a bulldog in both appearance and behavior, began to question Saddam about his claim that he’d been mistreated by his American captors. “Did they beat you? Did someone truly beat you?”

  “Yes, many times, all over my body,” Saddam responded.

  “We will see who is responsible and hold them to account,” the prosecutor responded.

  Saddam would not be so easily mollified, however. “The Americans are your masters. How can you bring them to account?” he snarled.

  Moussawi knew Saddam’s game and went along with it—in fact, raising him. “If you’ve been tortured then I’ll ask for all of you to be transferred into Iraqi custody,” he said, fully aware that Saddam hadn’t been mistreated, and that the defendants would be horrified to be transferred to the Iraqis.

  Moussawi laughed during an ensuing break in the proceedings, proud to have beaten Saddam at his own game. He’d prevailed in the skirmish not because of his mastery of legal nuance, but because he understood the way his adversary’s mind worked.

  For his part, Saddam knew that he’d been bested—that his bluff had been called. He wasn’t devastated, though. It had been worth a try. Indeed, as he was led from the courtroom that day, he was supposedly overheard joking with an American guard, “I know you’ve treated me very well, it was just something I said for the court.”

  • • •

  The Super Twelve were always proud of the way they treated Saddam—never giving him more than he was due, but according him the dignity they felt the old prisoner deserved. Some might have said that going on “cigar runs” for the dictator exceeded the minimum incarceration standard—by a lot—but the money for that came from someone higher up. They never did find out who the source was.

  It was in pursuit of cigars one late afternoon—as an oppressively hot day gradually gave way to a more tolerable twilight—that Privates Paul Sphar and Tucker Dawson drove from the Rock to the “hajji mart,” only ten minutes away. They always looked forward to this errand, as it meant they could stock up on some of the supplies that made deployments less miserable. The hajji mart offered every kind of tobacco product and energy drink imaginable, as well as an endless supply of DVDs. Since the troops weren’t allowed to drink alcohol, this was about as good as it got for soldiers looking to unwind.

  The two young soldiers borrowed a Humvee for the short drive across the Green Zone to the open-air bazaar. Even as they embarked on these sunset expeditio
ns they were aware of how ridiculous it was that two young “joes,” to use Army parlance for junior-enlisted soldiers, were cruising around Camp Victory in search of tobacco for Iraq’s deposed dictator. No one would ever believe us, they thought as they rolled past scores of unwitting American soldiers. The MPs were aware of the strict orders they’d been given to keep their mission a secret.

  As they perused the plywood stalls, the two young men made an odd pair: the portly and tattooed Sphar, who was no stranger to punishment for appearance-related infractions, such as not having shaved prior to morning formation; and the young North Carolina native Dawson, who could have just stepped from an Army recruiting poster. Back at Fort Campbell, when Sphar had first seen the handsome Dawson emerging from his white Ford Bronco with a surfing bumper sticker on the back, he’d thought to himself, This guy should be in a fraternity somewhere.

  The local merchants hawked their wares, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, as the two MPs navigated their way through the outdoor bazaar. They soon found a stall where they knew Cohiba cigars—Saddam’s favorite—were sold, and handed the stall keeper several bills. They then turned their attention to the DVDs being offered at a neighboring stall. The discs were dirt cheap, sometimes two for a buck. The quality could differ wildly, though, with some literally recorded in a theater with a handheld camera and people occasionally visible as they wandered past during filming. Sphar picked out a horror movie eight-pack, featuring all of the Friday the 13th movies. It would add to his substantial collection; by the end of the deployment he’d have almost an entire footlocker of horror and B movies.

  Having accomplished their mission, the soldiers climbed into their Humvee and rumbled back to the Rock, special acquisition in hand, looking forward to delivering the cigars to their prisoner and then settling in to watch one of their newly purchased flicks.

  Saddam was, as always, pleased to receive his beloved cigars. He extolled their virtues to the two young MPs “almost as if he were trying to sell them to us,” recalls Sphar.