Rodney Barker - Dancing with the Devil - Sex, Espionage and the U.S. Marines - The Clayton Lonetree Story

Q. Sergeant Lonetree, are you willing to accept the punishment this court awards?

A. Yes, sir.

Major Henderson had no further questions.

What was left were the closing arguments, and speaking for the prosecution, Maj. Frank Short made a powerful case for a sentence of life imprisonment.

“Since we started a Marine Corps, Marines with problems have served with honor, and very often have died with honor,” he said. “But only one Marine has made the individual decision for which he must take the individual responsibility, the decision to betray his oath, his Corps, and his country…. Part of the job of this court is to set an example for the next two hundred and twelve years, so this won’t happen again.”

Short went on to ask the jury, “in assessing an appropriate sentence, to consider the victims in the case.” By that he meant not simply the security of the United States as a free nation. “It’s important for you to remember, also, even though you haven’t seen them, you haven’t heard from them, to remember the human victims. People who will pay for the rest of their lives the very personal price of having been identified, had their names and their addresses placed on a KGB target list.”

Nearing the end, Short asked the jury, “Remember the dramatic picture Mr. Kunstler painted for you on closing argument for the defense? He warned of the horror that you would experience, of the possibility that some night you might, to use his words, ‘wake up screaming.’ Look at your list of those American patriots that the accused betrayed, and when you deliberate on your sentence, ask yourselves, How many people on that list will some night, somewhere, wake up screaming because of what he did?”

Judge Roberts had given the defense team permission to allow each of the attorneys representing Sergeant Lonetree the chance to speak, and over the weekend William Kunstler had typed out his final words. Major Henderson had received a copy, and when he read it he was dismayed. It was a bitter, vituperative statement that criticized the jury’s verdict on the previous Friday as an example of “the self-protective myopia of the Marine Corps.” Kunstler had written, “You must bear some of the stigma of this tragic proceeding,” which he went on to describe as “an ugly and pathetic charade.” And he chastised the members for their inability “to rise above the hysteria of the moment.”

The morning of the hearing, just before the defense team went into the courtroom, Major Henderson took William Kunstler aside and said, “Bill, if you try and give that statement to the jury at sentencing, I’m warning you, I’m going to get up and I’m going to walk out of the room. I’m not going to ask the judge’s permission, and I’m going to hope the judge yells at me and asks me where I’m going. Because then I’m going to tell him that I think what you’re saying is a bunch of crap. It has nothing to do with our client, and I want this jury to know that I want nothing to do with it.”

At first Kunstler tried to defend himself, but when Henderson wouldn’t budge, he finally conceded. “Okay, I won’t give it.”

But that was before Major Short’s closing, which so incensed Kunstler that he changed his mind. “I’m going ahead with this,” he whispered to his colleagues, and with statement in hand he started to stand up. But he was stopped by the assistant military counsel to the defense, Capt. Andy Strotman, who grabbed Kunstler by the shoulder and slammed him rudely back in his seat.

“Don’t you dare,” the captain hissed through clenched teeth.

It was a considerably subdued William Kunstler who, after regaining his composure, rose a minute later and delivered a closing statement that, while not without its barbs, amounted to a rather mild appeal for “compassion, mercy, sensitivity, and justice.”

When William Kunstler sat down, Major Henderson stood up. And he sort of ambled to the rear of the courtroom, where he paused, appearing to be deep in thought. Then he turned around, lifted his head, and when every eye in the jury box was focused on him, began to speak.

“Gentlemen, I’m gonna stand here in the back because I don’t know enough about doing this to stand up in front like a lot of other people do.”

There were titters in the courtroom as the major, in a folksy twang and with a touch of humor, proceeded to poke fun at some of the grand philosophizing that characterized the arguments of both prosecution and defense attorneys who had gone before him. It was a very different tone of voice than had been heard in the courtroom up until this point—relaxed, reasonable, and persuasive—and somehow it seemed less like it was coming from an advocate than from someone who was genuinely interested in fairness, in what truly the appropriate punishment was for these offenses—which was what the art of advocacy was all about.

There were two defendants in the courtroom, Major Henderson went on to say. There was the Clayton Lonetree who probably should never have been allowed to serve in the Marine security guard program in Moscow, but who was. There was the Clayton Lonetree who made some damn dumb mistakes, and who, no question, should be held responsible for his actions. But there was another individual in the room, and that was a sergeant in the Marine Corps. A sergeant who, “whether he was foolish or naive,” in his own mind did set limits on his cooperation with Soviet agents. A sergeant who, told to fish or cut bait, said, Wait a minute, I can’t do this any longer. And while honesty after the fact ought not to weigh in the verdict, Major Henderson stressed it was pertinent in the sentencing. The jury must remember, Henderson said, that this Marine sergeant did not go out and commit an infraction that would have been a sure ticket off the MSG program and back home, allowing his activities to pass undiscovered. “He could have walked, gentlemen, he could have walked scot-free.” But he didn’t. Instead he turned himself in, unconditionally.

“On the fourteenth of December 1986, Sergeant Lonetree didn’t come in and say, If you’ll make me a deal, I’ll tell you what I know. He didn’t come in and say, I need to have a lawyer. He came in without any promises and he put himself at the mercy of other people. Because he knew it was right. Clayton Lonetree had, once again, become Sergeant Lonetree. He put the rest of his life at the mercy of other people, and you gentlemen now are those other people.”

In the end Henderson asked for a sentence of ten years, which he believed was what his client would have received had he been willing to plea-bargain.

After Judge Roberts delivered his instructions to the jury, the members retired to deliberate. Within three hours they had reached a decision. Sergeant Lonetree stood at attention and looked blankly at the jurors as the sentence was read. He was demoted to private. He was fined $5,000. He was ordered to forfeit all future pay and allowances and dishonorably discharged. And he was sentenced to thirty years in prison.

Lonetree had barely returned to his cell in the brig before a victory celebration commenced at a pub in Quantico Town, a civilian part of the Marine base. As members of the National Security Task Force lit up cigars and tossed back beers, Major Beck showed up and was greeted by a round of cheers and applause. He acknowledged the tribute, but it was a bittersweet occasion for him—he was physically and emotionally spent and in no mood for merrymaking—and after a single drink he excused himself.

Two news reporters were standing outside, peering in the windows, and when the major exited, one of them approached him. “Now that the trial’s over, I’d like to compliment you on the fine job you did, Major Beck.”

Beck nodded.