The title says it all. I suspect he’s currently in the bardo (the Buddhist word for limbo) awaiting his fate. According to the Zoroastrians, he will be weighed, measured and found wanting as he begins to cross the Chinvat bridge. He will not be sent to the Garo Demana, or House of Songs, where the best of us go to sit at the right hand of the deity. Instead, he will traverse the narrow Garo Druji, the path to hell. Who is waiting for him there? Read on and you’ll know.
The Trial of Donald Rumsfeld
Quarto Part 1
“Don – you’re late for the presser – anything I can do to help?”
“No, Jim – I’m just finishing up these last two memos to the fucking general who can’t seem to win this Goddamned war..tell the press they can fuckin’ wait.”
“OK, Don. Um..ok.”
The assistant to the assistant secretary for middle east affairs went through the curtain to the podium. “The Secretary is in a strategic meeting about important matters..it’ll just be a few more minutes. Help yourself to some coffee and .. those crullers are pretty good, even if they’re from yesterday.”
A few of the assembled crowd got up to get their ninth cups of coffee for the day. “Keeps me going and edginess is always a good thing for a Defense beat reporter, right?”
“Sure, Katie. You were pretty hard on Rummy yesterday – getting’ him to cough up that known/unknown bullshit. Made a great sound bite, and I’m pretty sure it’ll be there with him for all time. How’d it go? Oh yeah, there are..”
Just then the curtain pulled back and Rumsfeld strode into the closet known as the press room. He frowned, looking around at the dregs of society known as the press corps. Muttering under his breath, “fuckin’ morons,” he pointed at the front row.
“Sam.”
“Mr. Secretary, can you help us understand why it is that we’ve been stalled in Iraq now for 9 months with no progress having been made in either capturing Saddam Hussein, or in quelling the uprisings that daily result in American troop deaths?”
“Thanks, Sam. Always good to start with a softball question. (muted laughter) Listen, there’s always problems that were unanticipated when you go to war. There are known knowns; there are known unknowns..then there’s..”
There was silence in the room. The atmosphere changed to one of tension and confusion. Sam said, “Ah, Mr. Secretary, you gave us that, uh..explanation yesterday. Forgive my bluntness, sir.”
Rumsfeld nodded. Standing in the aisle next to the curtain, Rumsfeld’s press aide and her assistant whispered to each other. “That was embarrassing..never saw him pull a gaffe like that before. I don’t think he’s sleeping well..all those deaths..”
“Ok, then, if there are no more questions, I’ll get back to my real work. Thank you.”
The Secretary beat a hasty retreat through the curtains. His staff followed, confident he would blow up at them because “one of those fuckin’ reporters set me up, and you let it happen.” But there was no outburst; he went back to his office and slammed the door.
Quarto Part 2
Rumsfeld went home and ate his meal in silence, reviewing his briefcase full of papers. He glanced up at the muted television; more video of IED explosions with Arabic letters scrolling beneath. “Damn that al Jazeera; the insurgents give them the video and they play it until everybody in the world has seen it. Qatar is supposed to be our ally, and they allow this?” He leaned over and picked up the telephone to call his Chief of Staff about talking to someone in the Qatari embassy about this embarrassment. But the line was dead. He did what everyone does – pressed the receiver down a couple of times; still dead. “That’s odd.” He went in search of his cell phone, an instrument he loathed and only used in situations where a land line wasn’t available. He found it in the drawer of the night stand next to his bed. Flipping it open, he dialed the number he called several times daily. A voice came on the line. “That number is no longer in service. Please check to be sure you’ve dialed correctly.”
He dialed it again; same message. “What the hell? Am I going crazy?”
For a brief moment, he felt a stab of panic. “Stop being a pussy, Don..it’s just a damn phone.” He went back into the living room. The television that had just been playing that video was now just snow. “Must be some kind of power surge problem – D.C.’s infrastructure is a pain in the ass.”
He sat back in the chair, picking up the stack of papers again. But for some reason, the words appeared to be written in some foreign language. He couldn’t make out a word of what was contained in the memo from Vice. “This is absurd..guess I’m exhausted. Think I’ll turn in, even’ tho’ it’s only 11:25.”
He changed into his skivvies and pulled the comforter and sheet down, sliding under them and turning onto his left side to sleep. He was out within minutes. He began to dream. He saw himself at the same dais he’d been at today in the press room. But now the room was long and narrow; and the dais had been turned around to face the wall. He stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what was happening, when the wall began to rise. Seated at a long table were three men and three women. They wore civilian clothing; one of the women had on a beret. Must be French, Rumsfeld thought. The man sitting in the middle of the group spoke first, in a low, deep voice. “Donald Rumsfeld, you are on trial, charged with culpable murder in the deaths of four thousand two hundred sixty seven individuals. How do you plead?”
Rumsfeld turned around to look for someone on his staff; if this was a joke, it was a very bad one. “Excuse me? What are you talking about? I’m the United States Secretary of Defense. Who the hell are you – and them?” He pointed at the assemblage before him.
“We are your judges, your jury and, if you are found guilty, we will determine your ultimate fate. I repeat: how do you plead?”
Rumsfeld gritted his teeth. “OK, sure. I’ll play along. I plead not guilty. Now, can I get back to my office to do some real work?” He walked over to the curtain, but when he pushed it aside, he found it had been bricked over. He turned around to face the group. “This isn’t funny, people. I have to get back to work.”
The speaker for the group nodded solemnly. Let the record show the defendant has pleaded not guilty. Ms. Prosecutor: call your first witness.”
The woman with the beret stood up. “I call Marine Lance Corporal José Gutierrez.”
A young man dressed in his service uniform seemed to appear out of thin air. “Can you please tell the court your name and your address?”
The young man nodded. “I am José Gutierrez and I was from Torrance, California by way of Guatemala City. I died on the first day of the war in Iraq on March 21, 2003.”
The prosecutor nodded. “Thank you for your service, Corporal Gutierrez. José was the first casualty of the Iraq war. Mr. Rumsfeld, do you know Corporal Gutierrez?”
Rumsfeld looked at the young man. “Of course not. I am the Secretary of Defense. I cannot possibly know every individual that served in Iraq – living or dead. That’s preposterous. May I go now?”
The Speaker said, “We have just begun this trial. Ms. Prosecutor, please call your next witness.”
“I call Staff Sergeant Marshall D. Roberts.”
Another young man appeared out of thin air, also dressed in the military uniform of the US Air Force. “Can you please tell the court your name and your address?”
The young man said, “I am Marshall Roberts, and was from Owasso, Oklahoma. I was the last man to die from hostilities in Iraq. I was death number four thousand, eight hundred and ninety nine. Including non-hostile accidents and, of course, suicides. There were lots of those in this war, before and after combat.”
“Thank you for your service, Sergeant Roberts. Mr. Rumsfeld, do you know Sergeant Roberts?”
Rumsfeld sighed. “You know the answer to that. If he was the last casualty, then I am not to blame. I left the office of the Secretary in December of 2006.”
The speaker nodded. “Yes, you did. But that fact is irrelevant in this case, and the court will disregard the accused’s comment.”
The other four people took pens and scratched through a line on the paper before them.
The speaker said, “That’s enough for today. We shall convene tomorrow to hear additional evidence. The panel is adjourned.”
Rumsfeld awakened. He looked around, and found himself, not in Washington, D.C., but in his bed at his farm in Taos. His daughter Marcy came into the room. “Hey, dad. Can I get you something? It won’t be time for your shot until 8.”
Rumsfeld shook his head. “What? Shot? What are you talking about? Marcy, I had the strangest dream, and now I can’t understand how I got here to the house. And what are you doing here?”
Marcy smiled. “You’ve been ill, dad. You just had another dream. This is like the fifth time you’ve told me about how you’re still the Secretary and there was a problem with the telephone. What was the dream this time?”
“I was on trial – over the war.”
Marcy nodded. “Well, that’s a new one. Listen, how about some soup? I just made some of your favorite – chicken tortilla. A little soup will do you good.”
Quarto Part 3
The pill took its effect at 8:10, right after he’d eaten the remnants of his soup. His appetite wasn’t much these days; he’d lost a fair amount of weight, and his skin hung loose at his neck. But his wife and daughter did their best to tend to his needs, even though he could be impatient and demanding. “You’re not back at the office ordering your underlings around anymore, Don” said his wife Joyce.
As soon as he settled into the oxycodone-induced sleep, Rumsfeld was back in front of the panel. The speaker said, “Now we will consider evidence of culpability. Mr. Archivist, please begin your case.”
The man sitting next to the woman in the beret stood. In his hands, he held a large book, bound in gold leaf, with a gold tasseled bookmark. He opened the book and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Mr. Rumsfeld, on September 11th, 2001, did you suggest that Saddam Hussein and Iraq be attacked in addition to “UBL”?
“No. I suggested no such thing.”
The Archivist put out his hand and a piece of paper appeared. He handed Rumsfeld the document that appeared to be handwritten notes. Signed at the bottom was the name Stephen Cambone. Written about a third of the way down were the words “Best info fast. Judge whether good enough [to] hit SH at same time – not only UBL [Pentagon shorthand for Usama/Osama bin Laden].”
“I have no recollection of these words. Cambone must have gotten it wrong. He never was the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Rumsfeld’s smile was grim, and he moved his neck to the right, as though his collar were too tight.
The Archivist looked down at his book. “Would you say the treatment of Iraqi prisoners of war at Abu Ghraib was the greatest failure of your tenure as Secretary?”
Rumsfeld snarled, “Oh, why does that always get brought up? That was the responsibility of the intelligence services – not MY army. That was Tenet’s fuckup. Listen, I’ve had about enough of this bullshit. What about all the good things I accomplished? I created the Freedom of Goddamn Information Act, for Chrissake.”
The man referred to as the Archivist stared at him. “I repeat the question. Would you say the treatment..”
Rumsfeld took a step away from the dais and toward the panel. He felt a jolt as electricity flow through his body. He thought to himself, That must be a taser! I just got fucking’ tasered.
He awoke with a start. His feet felt like pins were being stabbed into his feet, sending the electricity up through his legs and into his groin. “Aah, dammit! Joyce, goddammit! That thing is happening again. Get me that shit that makes it go away.”
His wife entered the room, handing him a pill and a juice glass of water. “It’s not shit; it’s called gabapentin. You have to watch how much of this you can take – last time you said it gave you blurred vision and you couldn’t see the tv.”
Rumsfeld nodded. “Oh..yeah..okay. But right now I need it – this feels like I’m being stabbed in my feet and it’s driving me crazy.”
Joyce handed him the television remote and left the room. He jabbed at the “on” button and started channel surfing. It was likely the middle of the day; with the curtains drawn it was hard to tell. Nothing on but the Hallmark Channel and CNN. “Great choices. Blah..Whatever happened to westerns? Gunsmoke? Have Gun Will Travel? Jesus, even The Big Valley was better than the shit they have on today.”
The gabapentin had quelled the tingling in his feet, but the blurred vision and sleepiness returned. As soon as he was asleep, he found himself back in front of the panel. This time he was sitting in a chair. He tried to get up, but found he couldn’t move.
The Archivist had returned to his seat. The speaker looked to his left. “Now we must evaluate remorse. Ms. Troy?
A smallish woman with long, black hair and pale skin stood and approached him in the chair. “Mr. Rumsfeld, I am an empath – like the character on Star Trek – the Next Generation. I’m sure you remember that television program?”
Rumsfeld smiled. “Oh, yes, yes! I liked that show. Troy – yes, she was an empath and helped the captain know the intentions of his enemies. Things always turned out well at the end of the hour. Yes!” He nodded with satisfaction. “Good television, back in the day. I started watching that when the first Gulf..the first Gulf war was going on. That other war..the show helped me relax at the end of the day. I was on the ABB board then..got lots of contracts from..never mind.”
Ms. Troy nodded. “Yes, but we’re not here to talk about that. It’s my job to evaluate your level of remorse over your actions before, during and after that second war in Iraq.”
“You mean as Secretary of Defense?”
Troy nodded. “Naturally. The Prosecutor and The Archivist brought up people and situations that should have caused you to feel some level of guilt, given how things turned out. I want to ask you about..”
“Guilt is for pussies. I never had time to waste on emotion; I was too busy running the gov..running the defense department to even think about that stuff. What would happen if I was to get all emotional about those boys being blown up every day – I couldn’t do my damn job. Surely you must understand that. I had a job to do.”
Calmly, Ms. Troy let him finish; then ignored his statement. “I want to ask you about your relationships – with your peers – with the president – with the people that reported to you. With rank and file soldiers. It’s possible that we can find something in those relationships that might help the panel see the human.. humane side of you?”
Rumsfeld squirmed. “Sure..why not? We can talk about that. But right now, I need to take a piss.”
Quarto Part 4
Rumsfeld got out of bed, trying to make it to the bathroom before he wet himself. He collapsed on the floor. Marcy found him, with Joyce right behind. “Call 911, Mom.” The ambulance came and the EMTs scooped him up, transporting him to Holy Cross hospital. This was a routine they’d followed for the past five months. As always, he was admitted to the oncology wing.
That night, the doctor on call came in, flipping through the pages on Rumsfeld’s chart. “Mr. Donald Rumsfeld?” The patient nodded, feebly. “I have the results of your latest blood work. I’m sorry to say, sir it doesn’t look good. Off hand, I’d say you need to go home and be with your family in these last hours you have. There’s nothing we can do for you here, and I’m sure you don’t want to die alone and anonymous.”
With what little energy he had left, he snarled, “Son, your bedside manner sucks. What’s your name? I’m going to report you to the local medical association.”
The resident looked at Rumsfeld. “My name is Dr. Marshall Roberts.”
Rumsfeld felt a flash of recognition for the young man, but it passed quickly in the thick of his indignation. “At my last visit, my very expensive oncologist said I had several months left, if I was careful. I’ve been careful, so call him. I want a second opinion. His name is..” Rumsfeld shook his head, trying to clear it from the last round of medication. He couldn’t remember his ‘very expensive’ oncologist’s name. Dr. Roberts said, “According to your intake, your regular doctor is Dr. Blevins, who is affiliated with this hospital. Unfortunately, Dr. Blevins is on a ski holiday and left instructions not to be disturbed..no matter what any of his patients say.”
Rumsfeld lay back, feeling utterly defeated. A few minutes later, a large, Hispanic orderly came in with a wheel chair. “Let’s get you dressed, sir. You’re going home.” Gently, the orderly helped him up, then went to the closet to get the clothes hanging there. Carefully, he removed the hospital gown, avoiding looking at the wrinkled, naked old man underneath.
As he was tying Rumsfeld’s shoes, he glanced up. Rumsfeld was smiling. “You’ve been very kind, young man. What’s your name? I’d like to let the hospital know you’ve done a good job, here.”
“Gutierrez, sir. José. Thank you. That’s most kind.”
Somehow, Rumsfeld had a vague memory of having met the young man before. “Have I seen you somewhere young man? You look so familiar.”
The young man smiled. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m pretty confident we travel in different circles. But you’re all set – hop in my magic chariot, and I’ll take you downstairs. Your wife is there, ready to take you home.”
Coming out of the elevator, Joyce was there, smiling at him. She was holding a bag with vials from the pharmacy. “I thought I’d get your Oxycontin prescription refilled while we were here. Ready to go?”
Rumsfeld nodded, exhausted now by the effort. “Just take me home, Joyce. I’m dying here.”
That’s strange, thought Joyce. That’s the first time he’s acknowledged what’s happening to him, thanks to multiple myeloma.
When they returned home, a hospital bed was in the room adjoining the living room, the room he’d used as a sort of study while he worked on his next book about the coming war against China. “I thought it best to keep you closer to me down here. The bathroom is right there – and I’ll be available if you need anything.”
“Where’s Marcy?” croaked Rumsfeld. She was here before, right?”
Joyce nodded. “She needed to take care of some things at home. She’ll be back in a few days. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry – that’s easy for her to say. I’m dying and nobody cares. He was wallowing in self- pity, and offended that he was stuck in the corner of the living room like yesterday’s newspapers.
Joyce helped him change into clean pajamas, and tucked him into the hospital bed. “Are you in pain? Do you need a pill?”
“No, I’m not in pain at the moment – still have some of the stuff left in me that quack doctor – Roberts? – gave me at Holy Cross. Jeez, what a prick that guy was.”
Joyce frowned. “Who? Don, the only doctor you saw at Holy Cross was Dr. Blevins. You must have been confused – because of the meds.”
Rumsfeld started to argue, but didn’t have the energy to pursue it. “Well, at least the orderly was nice – that kid José. He helped me get dressed and was really kind and gentle.”
Joyce looked at him, shaking her head. “Don, I don’t know what you’re saying. I got you dressed..and believe me, it was quite a chore. You fought me every step on the way. Dr. Blevins said it was the medication making you so combative.”
At that moment, his stomach twisted into a knot. “Oh Jesus..the pain has kicked in. Give me a pill – and be quick about it. I want to have it before this thing gets any worse.”
Sighing, Joyce picked up the vial and gave him the 120 mg tablet Blevins had ordered. He’d said Don’s pain would be exponentially worse now that he was close to the end of life. “Better make it two – it’s getting worse by the second.”
“Don, these are stronger than the ones you..”
“Goddamit, Joyce, give me two of the fucking pills. I need them now!”
Joyce bit her tongue and gave him another pill. He swallowed it, starting to gag. She handed him the glass of water, and he got the pill down, spilling some of the water down his chin. “Thanks – already starting to work.”
His eyes felt extraordinarily heavy. He closed them and was immediately back in front of the panel. The Speaker opened the large, leather bound book in front of him. “Donald Henry Rumsfeld, the panel is ready to render its verdict. I’ll ask each of them to speak to you.
The woman in the beret spoke first. “You were instrumental in arguing for the war in Iraq, a country that had absolutely nothing to do with the attack on the World Trade Center. You sent young men to die without proper equipment and in insufficient quantities. When others challenged your decision making, you refused to bend. You are guilty on all counts of murder.”
The Archivist stood. He opened the book with the gold edge. “Your statements to the press made a mockery of this war. You indulged your own ego in making comments that now come back to haunt you. Comments like “known unknowns; you go to war with the army you have; but perhaps the worst of them all? People are fungible. They can be here or there. People are humans. They are not commodities. You are guilty of failing to communicate effectively through the media to the American people. You are guilty of failing to provide sufficient support to troops that died as a result. You are guilty of gross negligence in the handling of the war you mockingly called Operation Iraqi Freedom. A million Iraqis died, not for freedom but for your and others’ hubris. You are guilty on all counts.”
Miss Troy stood, looking deeply into Rumsfeld’s eyes. “I have searched your soul for some sign of empathy for the havoc you wrought on the sovereign country of Iraq. I sense your ego stood in the way of you ever admitting wrong-doing or even hinting that you cared about the deaths of troops and innocent civilians as events transpired that made the conflict go from bad to worse. Therefore, I have advised the panel that your sentence not be mitigated by any mercy. Your soul has arrived at this time and place greatly in need of punishment and rehabilitation. This will figure into your coming fate.”
At the other end of the table, the last man and woman stood up. They appeared to be of middle eastern origin; the woman wore a sari, but the man wore a business suit. “We are Khizr and Ghazala Khan. Our son died looking out for his men on guard duty in Dyala Province in June 2004. Looking out for your soldiers is something you have clearly demonstrated was not on your list of priorities. My wife and I have discussed your situation at length. It is not revenge for the death of our son that motivates us to agree with the findings of this panel. We think Miss Troy is right. We are Muslims, yet we believe the Hindus are correct about reincarnation. Your soul is twisted and black. It is in need of..yes, punishment but also rehabilitation if you are ever to find redemption.”
The man took the woman’s elbow and helped her back to her seat. The Speaker had been writing in the leather bound book. He put his pen down. “Donald Henry Rumsfeld, it is the unanimous opinion of this panel that the following events will occur.” He cleared his throat, putting on a pair of reading glasses and looking down at the book. “First, no one other than your immediate family will mourn your death. Opinions will be written suggesting you should ‘rot in hell’. That will not be your fate. Instead, you will spend the first interval of your next incarnation in the body of a triple amputee living in Baltimore, Maryland on a 50% pension, determined by the Veterans Administration to be equivalent payment for his – for your – suffering. This will be an attempt on our part to teach you humility.”
The Speaker turned the page. “The second interval will be spent daily inhabiting the body of Sergeant Regina C. Reali, just as she was blown to bits by an improvised explosive device two days before Christmas in Baghdad, 2005. You will relive this explosion and her agony every day for an unspecified length of time. In this incarnation, it is hoped you will learn empathy for the suffering of others – because you will have suffered terribly yourself.”
Once again, the Speaker turned to the next page in the book. “In the third interval of your next incarnation you will return to the early 20th century, inhabiting the body of a notable military person, General Oskar Potiorek, charged with protecting a future king. You will invite this future king to observe your military maneuvers, in hopes that you would replace him as Inspector General of the Army. On June 28, 1914, that future king and his wife die at the hands of an assassin. You will be riding in their limousine when a bomb is thrown at their vehicle. It will be Archduke Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, and it will be your fault that the first great war begins when you try to cover up your culpability by insisting you will resign if your country does not go to war with Serbia. You know how that will turn out, don’t you Donald Henry Rumsfeld? It will be through this knowing that you may learn to take responsibility and admit when you are wrong.”
Rumsfeld said. “Is that all?”
The Speaker shook his head no. “After that interval, you will be relegated to the life of an orphan girl, living on the streets of Calcutta, India. We think this may give you the resourcefulness to live an authentic life. Once you have lived as this orphan girl and it is determined that you have sufficiently atoned for your actions? Only then will you be allowed to move on to less..onerous existences.”
Rumsfeld shook his head. “I know this is all just my drug addled dream, but let me just say one thing: there were others much more guilty than I was in how the Iraq war was handled. Take Dick Cheney, for example. You know, back in the day he reported to me. Then he conned that stupid kid George W. into making him Veep, and boy oh boy, talk about being off to the..never mind. Let’s just say Dick and Condi – don’t get me started on that bitch – had the boy president’s ear a lot more than me. So if you want to punish someone, make it them, not me.”
The Speaker nodded. “We will be here when their time to be judged arrives. Goodbye, Donald Henry Rumsfeld.”
Joyce awoke with a start. “Oh my god, I must have been exhausted. I’d better see to Don.” She went downstairs, finding him sprawled half on and half off the hospital bed. She knew as soon as she saw him, that he’d died sometime in the night. She picked up the phone. “Marcy, your dad died last night. Could you please release that statement to the press? The one about how he died, surrounded by his loving family?”
Rumsfeld opened his eyes. He looked around in the darkness. There was a rank smell: like rotting meat. “Goddamit, Joyce, what were you cooking? I can’t stand the sm..”
He started to sit up, but found he could not – something was keeping him from bending at the waist. He reached for the controls on the side of the bed, raising it up. He leaned over, turning on the floor lamp. As he turned back around, he looked down at the sheet on the bed. Something didn’t look right. Quickly, he snatched off the sheet. Horrified, he looked down at two stumps where there used to be legs. “No – this isn’t possible..no – Joyce! Help me!”
But there was no Joyce – there was nobody. He was in a dismal little apartment, apparently up a couple of floors from the street. He looked out the window, recognizing the scene below. The Inner harbor..Baltimore.
EPILOGUE
In May of 2031, a Blue Origin spacecraft was launched from Cape Canaveral at 6:12 a.m. Its mission was to explore the surface of the earth, using Ground Penetrating Radar to look for evidence of mass graves in the middle east after the war ended between Iran and the coalition of Israel and Saudi Arabia. It was a mission sponsored by the UN; its aim was to hold war criminals on both sides accountable for atrocities.
As it passed over the western side of Iran, the skilled operator – a young man named Roberts whose father had been killed in Iraq in 2005 – noticed something odd in the desert near Tuz Khurmatu, just south of Kirkuk in the neighboring country of Iraq. He manipulated the satellite’s cameras to zero in on its exact location; then communicated the lat/long coordinates to the ground team excavating potential sites. The next morning, the heavy equipment moved in and started removing sand from the site. By noon, the evidence was irrefutable. What Roberts had taken for a grave site, was one of a sort. Saddam Hussein had ordered his barrels of chemical weapons, fissile material and ‘weapons of mass destruction’ buried here a month before the start of hostilities called Operation Iraqi Freedom, nearly thirty years before.
A small article appeared about this find in the Baltimore Sun on page 6-A that Sunday morning. The Iraq war veteran living in that small apartment in Baltimore was sitting in his wheelchair eating his breakfast with his one good hand. As he read the piece, a strange feeling of satisfaction came over him. Maybe it was because of his service – and sacrifice, that he felt vindicated that there were, in fact, WMDs that justified the Iraq war. But he sensed there was more – that somehow, maybe in a previous life, he had staked everything: his honor, his reputation – everything – on the fact that these weapons existed. But this morning, he was just trying to finish his Cheerios without spilling too much onto the table. He just didn’t have the energy to clean up the mess.
Rumsfeld is likely on to the second manifestation: being blown up by an IED over and over again like Groundhog Day. Oh, look! Dick is approaching the bridge where the same tribunal waits to give him a fair trial.
Why am I so angry with these two men? You ask, am I a bleeding heart liberal, hating war and loving peace? I suppose. But you sense something deeper. What else are you? I’m a mother. Those two tried to kill my boy. There’s no forgiveness here. Only retribution, punishment and suffering – just what they inflicted on those boys who were fighting and dying in Sadr City in March of 2008. Neither Cheney nor Rumsfeld sent any help for four days. Why? Because it was politically expedient to say only Iraqis were fighting the Sadrists. That was a lie.
Moms hate liars.