1) The author feels guilt over their role in the death penalty trial of Saddam Hussein after taking a seminar in law school that contributed research to the trial. 2) The author has a history of making rash decisions to boost their resume or have unique experiences without considering the consequences, including taking the SATs early and transferring schools. 3) After being diagnosed with cancer, the author reconsidered their life priorities and now works as a freelance writer, focusing on self-fulfillment rather than resume-building. The memory of Saddam Hussein's death helps the author make choices aligned with their values and avoid potential regrets.

1. Former Position: Murderer
I feel sorry for Saddam Hussein.
I can’t stop imagining him as a doting father, an adoring son, a caring husband. I don’t often
consider the public details of his life. Instead, my sympathy manifests as waves of abject horror.
They strike without warning and leave me wracked with guilt about my role in the death of another
human being.
It all began with a rash decision. My law school, The University of Connecticut, was one of several
chosen to offer a seminar held in conjunction with the Departments of Justice and Homeland
Security. We were selected because of the professor’s reputation as an authority on international
law.
The class was open to all 2Ls and 3Ls, regardless of previous elective courses. Essentially, we
worked as clerks for what was then known as the Iraqi Criminal Tribunal. The United States
government gave each of us a unique research question. At the end of the semester, we were to
submit our papers along with bound copies of each cited case. Our work would be used by the
Iraqi justices as they tried Saddam Hussein and other high-ranking officials inhis Ba’ath party.
At the time, I knew nothing about international law. I enrolled because it would be a great
experience. A resume booster. I decided to help kill a man so I could have an extra line on a job
application.
The class was not fun. Isuffered weekly academic humiliation, and I was bored to tears by my new
aversion to international law. Lives were on the line, but I hated going to class when I didn't
understand the rules of treaty law. Still, I knew I would have something wonderful to talk about.
I never saw Saddam Hussein as an individual. Instead, he was an evil caricature, a monster who
tortured and killed his fellow citizens. And worse, he killed our troops and threatened the stability of
the United States. As law clerks, we had an enormous responsibility. Nobody ever warned us of
the psychological toll.

2. Saddam Hussein has been with me ever since I took that seminar. Memories of class came back
to haunt me as I followed the news of the trial. Ashe and other party leaders were put to death, my
spirit filled with disgust.
I knew all along that there were no weapons of mass destruction. I still have the print copy of an
editorial I published in2001, which proved I was against the war all along. Every time Mr. Hussein's
face appears on the news, I recall my role in his execution; my eagerness to have the best resume
led to the death of another man.
Rationally, I know I am not responsible. He did a lot of horrible things. I fulfilled my duties as a
citizen, and I helped contribute to what we thought would be peace inthe Middle East. My research
contributed to making life less frightening for millions of nameless Iraqi citizens.
Irrationally, though, I feel guilty. People cared for him. He had friends and relatives, and plenty of
ordinary Iraqis admired him. I like to believe he was capable of love. I like to think he could have
lived to be an old man, thrilling his grandchildren by pulling coins from their ears. I like to imagine
he had a change of heart, that by the time he climbed from his underground hiding place and
surrendered to the Americans, he regretted what he had done. Those dreams stick with me,
reminding me that death is a serious decision.
I’m not alone in my regrets. The death penalty is dying out; with several notable exceptions
including the United States, nations are doing away with capital punishment. In 2013, just 20 of the
193 UN member nations executed a prisoner. State-sanctioned homicide is banned in 90 of those
countries; in1945, that proportion was just eight out of 51 members.
Jurors on death penalty cases have incredible responsibility on their hands. After being assigned
to capital punishment case, they listen to evidence and decide if it is sufficient to justify sentencing
the defendant to death. There’s no data as to how capital jurors feel about being responsible for
the death of another before beginning their jury assignment, but there’s plenty of evidence to show
they can be affected years later.

3. A woman named Kimberly Turner is one example. She was part of a jury in 1998 that sentenced
John Winfield to death. Winfield killed two women and was scheduled to die in 2014. However,
after her jury commitment ended, Turner spoke out against the sentence, alleging racial bias and
a deadlocked jury. Votes were changed as the process went on and several days of sequestration
threatened to run into the weekend.
Ms. Turner felt compassion for Mr. Winfield. She saw him as a human even though no character
evidence was presented during trial. But, she wanted to get home to her daughter, and she
changed her vote from “life without parole” to the death penalty. Almost since the verdict was
reached, she has been fighting to save his life, concerned about the impact on her psyche of
sending a man to his death. As she said,
“When I discovered that Mr. Winfield had been given an execution date, I was sick to my
stomach… I have always tried to do the right thing. It was hard on me to be a juror as a
single mom, but I did my civic duty… I did not ask to be a part of deciding whether a man
should live or die. It bothers methat I was not presented with all of the information available
about who Mr. Winfield is as a person to aid me in my decision. Nevertheless, I voted for
life. I defended my vote for life and was then instructed by the Court to keep deliberating
after I had made my decision. Now, I feel that this is my fault. I feel responsible for Mr.
Winfield's fate… Iask that Mr. Winfield's sentence be commuted to life without the possibility
of parole.”
Sven Berger was a juror in 2008 and heard evidence in the case against a man named Paul
Storey. Mr. Berger, too, voted in favor of killing the defendant. And Mr. Berger, too, has regretted
his decision ever since, blaming his choice on immaturity and a lack of moral strength. During the
trial, he was suspicious of the defendant’s good behavior, and questioned the authenticity of
Storey’s jailhouse conversion to Christianity.
Berger and his fellow jurors voted unanimously in favor of the death penalty. But in the years since,
Berger has spoken out against the decision. In his words,

4. “I didn’t have the personal strength to do it. I was 28, and not a mature 28. I’ve grown quite
a lot since then, but at the time, I was really uncomfortable speaking out. Once we were
asked to decide a sentence, Ifelt a rush of adrenaline and mystress level shot up. Icouldn't
have been the only one. In times like that, I know I don't think as clearly or rationally. Ialmost
feel that in acase like this, jurors should berequired todeliberate for someminimum amount
of time.”
Former governors and justices, too, sleep fitfully with the weight of another human life on their
shoulders. From U.S. District Judge John Gleeson to Supreme Court Justices Ginsburg and
Stevens, judges have spoken out against the crushing moral weight of making decisions in capital
cases. Governors rest uneasily, knowing a life may come down to their decision.
Why did I think I could handle the responsibility of sending another man to his death?
I always sought unique experiences. I’ve always wanted the best resume and the most intriguing
anecdotes at the dinner table. My adventures have become legendary amongst certain people.
It started out harmlessly enough. At the age of eleven, I decided to take the SATs. I knew if I did
well enough, I could attend classes with other preteens through a program at Johns Hopkins
University. School was boring, and college sounded like a dream come true.
My scores, which ended up being higher than those of almost all the high school students I sat
with, were good enough to get me into that college program. I spent three summers studying
English, logic and essay writing, and made lifelong connections with fellow nerds. My parents were
happy, because I had anexceptional activity to list on my college applications. I liked having people
who accepted me without question, and I blossomed during my time with Johns Hopkins.
The next big resume boost came at the age of fourteen. After my sophomore year, I decided to
transfer from a respectable but run-down Catholic school to the rarefied halls of the New England
prep school system. Westminster, too, led to lifelong friends and acquaintances. As my 20th
reunion looms, I can say with confidence that I don’t regret the choice.

5. At the time, though, I was miserable. I grew up middle class, with no concept of wealth. As a 5th
former at Westminster, I could not understand why I was a social outcast, why I struggled to make
even one close friend.
It took me years to realize that I would never be able to relate to most of my classmates simply
because I came from a different background. Back then, I didn’t understand why I was cast from
the social scene. I had good grades, but rather than seeing my success as something to be proud
of, classmates assumed I was on scholarship and thus taking away “their” opportunities. I was
mocked, harassed and even abused. I grumbled about my big transfer mistake, and I couldn’t wait
to graduate.
College was another foolish choice; I thought I was making my own way. I withstood enormous
pressure to attend Georgetown and instead chose to enroll at the Stern School of Business at
NYU. At just sixteen years old, I opted to major in finance. Few know that my choice was made
entirely because a former boyfriend’s father worked on Wall Street. His family was wealthy, and I
thought following in his footsteps would grant me an income like my classmates' parents. My father
was supportive of my decision. I imagined a happy family and a lucrative future career, all while
living in the greatest city on earth.
Needless to say, NYU didn’t work out. Although I enjoy math, I didn’t consider what it would be like
to study facts and figures all the time. I longed for more writing courses asI sat through complicated
calculus and economics lessons. My GPA dropped to a 2.0 and kept going down from there, and
I never thought about changing my major.
Ultimately, I dropped out of NYU and spent a couple of years working in New York, first as a
supervisor in the classical department of the largest record store in NY, and then at a publishing
house. All along, though, I missed learning. After I felt I had enough real world experience, I went
back to school in upstate NY.
When I chose to major in criminal justice, I made a decision to follow my dreams. There would be
no more worrying about boosting my resume. Instead, I would focus on my passions, and I hoped

6. professional success would follow. I loved my major and excelled at it. My academic enthusiasm
helped me attain a 3.975 GPA, with no grade below an A-.
But, while I loved school, my various mentors warned I would be unhappy as a police officer. As
the semesters went by, I began to agree. I couldn’t imagine spending years arresting drunks and
speeders, only to end up in an administrative position I didn’t enjoy.
And so, after considering all my options, including the Army, I decided to go to law school. “After
all,” I thought, “lawyers can do anything”.
The law school application process was simple, and I was happy with my decision to go to UConn,
but I hated the field. The courses crushed my confidence, and one professor encouraged me to
drop out, claiming I wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer.
Instead of listening to all the advice and evidence, I forged on. I spent my 3L year studying
international law and EU taxation at the University of Helsinki. There, I fell inlove with school again,
and took every credit I could, learning as much as possible ina new environment. My classmates
were driven and intelligent, and the academic system was different from what I had grown used
to.
Finland, though, was not meant to be my permanent home. I fell in love with the country, language
and culture, but was unable to secure employment, despite applying to employers as diverse as
Nokia and the local strawberry farm. Instead, I flew home after an excellent year in Europe.
I finally graduated from UConn, and somehow passed the bar exam on the first attempt with no
studying. I was burned out but knew the practice of law was entirely different from its academic
underpinnings. I returned to the small firm where I had interned during college, and I started my
career. I also went on to study for an LLM ininsurance law, thinking that would help me get abetter
job.
But nothing helped. I applied for thousands of positions and received exactly zero interviews for all
that effort. I longed to go back to school. I dreaded going to the office. Every day for a decade, I’d

7. been working as a permanent contractor for a lawyer who didn’t have any interest in mentoring
me. I rarely had enough work to fill my day, and spent most of my time pretending to look busy.
In 2012, life changed without warning. On June 23, the hottest day of that year, my boss had a
heart attack on the golf course. He was dead before he hit the ground. I was the only other lawyer,
and bore the responsibility running of the practice alone. I thought the increased workload was
causing my crippling stomach aches. Two weeks later, I had an emergency cholecystectomy and
went back to work just 18 hours after surgery.
Things went downhill from there. In August, my best friend and roommate was killed by a mutual
friend. My favorite aunt died. My boss’ high-school-educated widow tried to ensure she would have
income from the law for life, got introuble with the Statewide Grievance Committee for her actions,
and ended up inadvertently making me leave. I started a practice in a gorgeous shared office on
the busiest street in Hartford, Connecticut. A client offered me his unwanted office furniture, and I
spent my last $1,000 to get the furniture up to the 11th-floor space. Several new clients signed
engagement letters, and by December of 2012, life was looking up. I hated the work, but I liked the
responsibility.
Then, I got cancer, lost my fledgling practice, lost all my savings, and lost my home.
Cancer was always a cliché; it gave me a different perspective on life. From the moment of
diagnosis, I knew I would have to change my approach to living. Immediately, I began to exist for
myself, making treatment decisions based on my needs, rather than what I felt I was expected of
me. For the first time, I considered my future happiness before making decisions. Suddenly, my
resume wasn’t important.
At first, it looked like my decisions were going to leave me miserable. In my head echoed decades
of advice from my parents. I looked at the lives of my wealthy high school classmates and
wondered where I had gone wrong. I looked back at the familiar words of the law, wondering if I
was going to find a new career, or if I would stay in the legal profession and its simple, almost
guaranteed path to income.

8. As it turned out, I wanted more. Poverty threatened to crush me, but I refused to take the easy way
out. I focused on recovery and exercise, and ignored the shame I felt when admitting I was on
public assistance. While I always perked up when confronted with an employment application, I
waited to work until I felt ready.
When the time to look for a job finally arrived, I was ready. I exploded from the gate, picking up
three projects on my first day of freelance writing. I love what I do, and can’t imagine ever working
a different job. Mornings are exciting, and weekends drag on as I wait to get back to work on
Monday. In my free time, I devour articles, blog posts, poetry and position papers. I study grammar
and have fascinating dinner-table discussions about language.
Now, when I make a decision, I think about Saddam Hussein. I think about my motivations, my
goals for the future. I think about the impact my choices will have on me. His death serves as a
barometer to help me as I choose the right path. I want to make my own way and follow my own
dreams. I don’t want to be filled with regrets. I don’t want to play a role inanother man’s death just
to have something interesting to talk about.