“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.
A swell of laughter from inside the pub turned their heads in the direction of the revelry.
“I see you guys are elated with the verdict.”
Tight-lipped and solemn, Major Beck replied, “What’s there to be elated about when a Marine is convicted of betraying his country?” and walked away.
In the days after the trial officially ended, the sentence was the subject of extensive reporting and editorializing. The majority of the conservative papers thought Lonetree had gotten off easy compared with other recent espionage defendants like John Walker, Jerry Whitworth, Jonathan Pollard, and Ronald Pelton. The Washington Times ran an article with the heading “Lonetree’s 30 Years Scored as Too Light,” in which a spokesman for the Washington Legal Foundation, a public-interest law firm that had lobbied for the death penalty in major espionage cases, denounced the sentence as an inadequate deterrent to others. “There is no better case that demonstrates why we need the death penalty in espionage cases that jeopardize the lives of American personnel or national security…. The Soviets would certainly know what to do with a traitor like Lonetree.”
While no reputable papers went so far as to call the sentence a miscarriage of justice and Sergeant Lonetree a martyr, some of them, like The Baltimore Sun, did keep alive certain questions raised in the course of the court-martiaclass="underline" “What about the embassy security officer, who should have known these Marines were playing around with Soviet women? What about the administrative officer, the ambassador, the State Department’s security office, the commander of the Marine detachment that trains embassy guards, the secretary of state? What, indeed, about the president himself, who was warned about this problem more than two years ago?”
Lonetree’s civilian counsel condemned the sentence, of course, and said they had pledged to their client that appeals of what they called a “prejudiced” outcome, in which race had gotten in the way of justice, would be taken all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary.
“They controlled the referee in round one,” Mike Stuhff told The New York Times, “they” meaning the government. “And on appeal we’re going to have a different set of referees for round two.”
William Kunstler announced that he would seek to have the sentence set aside on the ground that prosecutors had “falsely and emotionally” portrayed Lonetree as the first Marine ever convicted of spying, when he was aware of at least four other cases of Marines having been convicted of espionage-related offenses. He maintained that this false impression had led the jury to an emotional decision of thirty years.
Meanwhile, in his office in the basement of Lejeune Hall, Major Henderson was dealing with more immediate concerns. Henderson took no satisfaction in having heard from the jury that they had been prepared to give Lonetree life before hearing his closing statement. He was doing what he could to get his client’s sentence reduced even further. A host of counterintelligence agencies were anxious to debrief Sergeant Lonetree and obtain a full account of his recruitment by Soviet KGB agents and all his spying activities. Henderson, through discussion and negotiations, was trying to get as much time off as he could in trade for his client’s cooperation.
He knew they did not have much leverage to bargain with, certainly nothing like they’d had before the trial, so it was not a matter of what it was worth to him but what it was worth to the government, which held all the cards. When it offered five years, which would take the sentence down to twenty-five years, Henderson was disappointed. He’d hoped for more. But he thought they should take it. When he spoke to Stuhff and Kunstler, however, they disagreed.