by Gary Noesner
In the years after Waco our hostage negotiation team established itself as a crucial component of the FBI’s efforts at crisis response. While we received plaudits from Director Freeh and other senior officials, the best part of our job in those days was the feedback we received from American and foreign police departments that we’d helped in times of crisis. More often than not, we heard that our assistance had been critical to reaching a positive resolution. We knew our work was saving lives, and we got a tremendous amount of satisfaction from this.
The general public, of course, still associated the FBI with Waco, and it would continue to do so until we had a chance to show in a high-profile case that we’d incorporated its lessons. This chance finally came in 1996, in an incident that would truly test the patience of everyone involved.
CHAPTER NINE
A HELL OF A SIEGE
Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; and many things which cannot be overcome when they are together, yield themselves up when taken little by little.
—PLUTARCH
The day was warm and clear as we stood in an open field near Jordan, Montana, about four hundred miles east of Missoula. Up here near the Canadian border, the land seemed to go on forever, and yet it still seemed insignificant compared to the endless blue above, the rationale for Montana’s nickname, Big Sky Country. My colleague and I wore short-sleeved shirts beneath our bulletproof vests, but we kept glancing back at the sky as though we feared this unusual feast of good weather would quickly evaporate, bringing back the gloom we had come to expect. June in Montana was so fickle that you could experience all four seasons in a single day. The rain was even worse than the snow because any soaking typically left the dirt roads rutted like an old washboard. One FBI SWAT team agent had already been killed driving too fast on the treacherous roads, trying to get to his shift on time.
Once a shoe or boot got sucked into the spring mud—called “gumbo” by the locals—usually nothing came back out but a bare foot. I’m sure anthropologists in the distant future will have a field day trying to figure out why so many single shoes and boots were found just beneath the surface of the earth near Jordan, Montana.
Dwayne Fuselier, standing beside me in the low brown grass, complained about having to wear the hot and heavy Kevlar, but I insisted we keep the vests on. I didn’t want negotiation students to see me in a news photo not following safety regulations.
Several hundred yards behind us was an HRT SUV containing a sniper/observer team there to cover us if something went wrong. We were not armed, as agreed to by all parties, but we couldn’t help but wonder if we could really trust representatives of the Freemen, a radical militia group, to leave their weapons behind as promised. I had personally observed that Russ Landers, one of their more hotheaded and intransigent members, had worn a gun to a prior meeting at this same location, even though all had agreed to come unarmed. I found little comfort knowing that, after the fact, our own marksmen would probably take out anyone who put a bullet in me. Still, the risk was reasonable and we were well covered.
In reality, we were more anxious about last-minute changes of heart than we were about potential dangers. The folks we were dealing with seemed to have great difficulty making up their minds.
A vehicle emerged from around a hill and drove toward us. The car stopped about a hundred yards from the cattle guard marking the edge of the Freemen’s property, where we stood waiting out in the open. Edwin Clark got out of the car and walked toward us in an unhurried manner. Forty-six years old, five foot nine, 235 pounds, he wore a baseball cap, collared shirt, jeans, and work boots. He looked like the farmer and rancher he was, out on a routine errand. Was he about to say that he had convinced the others to end the siege, or was the momentum we thought we had rolling about to stall? Among the Freemen, Clark was the voice of reason we had been counting on to bring the others around. But we had been at this for eighty-one days now, the longest siege in U.S. history. At this point, everyone was so exhausted that, quite honestly, anything could happen.
The weather could not have been more different when I first arrived in Montana months earlier. I remember an extremely clear, extremely cold night in March with billions of stars; I was driving north from Billings with another FBI agent and a United States attorney who would be prosecuting the case against the Freemen. We were one of several groups who were quietly converging on Jordan, once described by National Geographic magazine as the most remote city in the continental United States. The nearest town of any size was Miles City, eighty-three miles away. I had been in Moscow the year before, teaching agents of the Federal Security Service, the successor agency to the Soviet-era KGB. If you had told me those were the steppes of Russia outside the car window that night, I would have believed you.
Our first goal that night driving up from Billings was to reach the Garfield County Fairgrounds, a mile or so outside of Jordan, without being noticed. A great deal of secrecy had gone into moving the personnel and equipment forward to implement our operation, code-named “Gray Sunset.” A makeshift command post was to be set up in a couple of the barnlike cinder-block buildings located on the fairgrounds. The bulk of the FBI personnel deployed were waiting back in Billings to be called forward when needed. This included a large contingent of negotiators brought in from around the country.
Tom Kubic, the Special Agent in Charge of the Salt Lake City office, was in command of the entire operation. We were joined by Robin Montgomery. A well-regarded and steady FBI leader, he was also a Marine who had won a Silver Star in Vietnam. Robin was the SAC in charge of the newly created Critical Incident Response Group and my boss back at Quantico. While the SAC of CIRG would not be the final decision maker on the scene, his influence on all strategy decisions gave him de facto veto power over anything he deemed reckless. We would link up with Assistant Special Agent in Charge Roger Nisley, who had replaced Dick Rogers as the commander of the HRT. Unlike his predecessor, he struck me as very easygoing and levelheaded, with a healthy respect for the negotiation process.
It was still dark when we reached the fairgrounds. We pulled our vehicle into the largest of the fairground buildings and closed the door behind us to stay out of sight. It was unbelievably cold outside, but it was even colder inside. Now there was nothing to do but stamp our feet on the dirt floor and wait. Like most of the others, I had to retreat back into the car now and then to get warm. Maybe it was my Florida upbringing, but I never seemed to bring enough cold-weather gear on these operations.
A separate team of FBI agents had been working for months to get close to Leroy Schweitzer and Dan Peterson, the Freemen’s leader and his number one assistant. An undercover agent had managed to insert hidden microphones in the Freemen’s property, to assist in monitoring their activities.
While we waited at the fairgrounds outside Jordan, Schweitzer and Peterson were heading to a snow-covered hillside they had picked as the site for a new radio tower, which the Freemen hoped to use to broadcast their common-law ideology far and wide. Their driver was the man who had helped finance this project and had brought in the team of “construction workers” now standing by. He was also an undercover FBI agent.
Their car reached the top of the hill and parked. Schweitzer and Peterson got out to survey the large pile of metal poles and other materials lying on the ground. At that moment the workers—in reality, members of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team—seized both men, hustled them to the ground, then disarmed and handcuffed them. The two were then placed in separate vehicles and quickly driven away.
A short time later, the HRT team with the Freemen’s leadership in custody arrived at the fairgrounds where we stood waiting. Federal law enforcement had definitely internalized the first and most basic lesson of Waco—the ATF’s fatal mistake in not trying to arrest David Koresh when he was outside and away from his followers. Step one of our plan in dealing with the Montana Freemen was to place their leaders in federal custody. That goal was now accomplished.
The sec
ond step was to try to reach the rest of the Freemen and get them to surrender. Schweitzer and Peterson had been apprehended by undercover agents driving civilian cars. For the long ride to a holding cell in Billings, they needed to be transferred to a vehicle outfitted for transferring prisoners. Schweitzer seemed like a tough nut to crack, but SAC Kubic asked me to approach Peterson during that brief transfer and see if I could talk him into helping us convince the others to surrender peacefully. When it comes to trying to create any kind of dialogue with those in custody, it’s often a negotiator who gets the assignment.
The cars carrying the two prisoners rolled inside the big fairgrounds building, and the two men were brought out in handcuffs. Peterson was wearing jeans, a baseball cap, and a jacket with a fleece collar.
I said, “Mr. Peterson, I’m Gary Noesner and I’m with the FBI. I’d like to chat with you for a minute.”
He wouldn’t so much as look at me.
The crotch area of his pants was soaking wet. Apparently the arrest had been a very big surprise for him.
The Freemen were yet another small, loose-knit group of individuals who, like Randy Weaver, held antigovernment right-wing views that led them to believe they were sovereign and a law unto themselves. They did not recognize the authority of the U.S. government in any way. Like other antigovernment groups, they refused to pay taxes, obey laws other than their own, obtain driver’s licenses, or display tags on their vehicles. Like survivalist and militia groups elsewhere, they derived a large part of their income by filing false liens against anyone they considered a nuisance or a problem, particularly public officials. Using these bogus liens, the Freemen would then draw fraudulent certified checks. As a result, the Freemen had committed numerous acts of financial fraud, mail fraud, and wire fraud, using some of their illegitimate financial instruments to pay off IRS debts, purchase vehicles, and pay home, ranch, and farm mortgages. The financial loss to the victim entities was both real and substantial.
The Freemen had also threatened a federal judge, and at one point they brandished weapons as they took over a meeting of the Jordan city council. As a result of this widespread and continuing criminal activity, a sealed federal indictment had been obtained charging various individuals with a multitude of criminal violations. Local charges were also pending when the Freemen took refuge on a group of ranches owned by members of the Clark family, a remote stretch of property about twenty-five miles west of Jordan. Local law consisted of the sheriff, his under-sheriff, and two officers of the Montana Highway Patrol—not a force large enough to take on a well-armed group of malcontents. Unfortunately, this understandable reluctance to confront the Freemen merely served to embolden them. These right-wing militiamen had begun to believe their own propaganda about not being subject to the law.
After local warrants were issued against them, the Freemen publicly threatened to abduct Sheriff Charles Phipps and Garfield County prosecutor Nick Murnion, try them in common-law court for treason, and hang them. They also threatened an ABC news crew that came to interview them, and stole their expensive camera equipment at gunpoint.
These acts had put the Freemen on an unavoidable collision course with the government, which is when the local authorities turned to the FBI for assistance. With memories of Waco still fresh and painful, this time the FBI was going to do everything humanly possible to avoid a violent assault.
For the past year, the Freemen had held weekly two-day seminars in a classroom on the Clark ranch, teaching common law, how to file Uniform Commercial Code liens, and procedures for paying debts or purchasing property with bogus certified checks. A brand-new and very expensive motor home rested on the property, illegally obtained through these fraudulent financial instruments. Approximately twenty-five individuals attended each class, and at the conclusion of each training session the attendees were each given a fake certified check signed by Leroy Schweitzer. Of great concern was that Schweitzer was also identifying and trying to recruit individuals from these classes to assist with his abduction plans against the sheriff and the prosecutor.
More than three hundred individuals had attended these courses, most of them farmers or ranchers who had fallen on hard times and were desperate for something that would help them keep their properties. Some had grossly mismanaged their financial affairs, borrowed far too heavily, and now faced foreclosure. Sadly, these naive individuals believed it when Schweitzer and the others said that they could rightfully ignore the federal government and live as they pleased. Many got suckered into criminal behavior and would pay the price for it later.
The FBI obtained a warrant to conduct surveillance, which ultimately confirmed the continuing criminal activities of the Freemen. FBI informants and undercover agents were assigned to the Freemen classes, each making regular observations and securing information that supported the criminal indictment eventually obtained.
In addition to Schweitzer and Peterson, approximately twenty-five other individuals, adults and children, had taken refuge on the Clark property. They had renamed the area “Justus Township” and posted signs to let all know that this was a sovereign enclave. The word Justus had a double meaning: both “justice” and “just us.” It was not a single property but rather five or six separate but adjoining ranches spread over a large geographical area. The individuals living on these sites often had different backgrounds, different interests, and different levels of commitment to the Freemen cause.
Long before we took any action, we held a series of detailed planning meetings. Steve Romano, my deputy in the unit, helped FBI investigators and profilers from CIRG put together a comprehensive playbook, including detailed background information on each of the Freemen, individual photographs, details of past criminal activity, personality attributes, and other relevant facts about their associates and activities. It also included information about likely intermediaries and family members we could use to influence them.
The next phase of our plan called for us to try to capitalize on the confusion and uncertainty that no doubt would overtake the Freemen when they realized that Schweitzer and Peterson were in custody. Our plan called for the opposite of an ATF-style frontal assault. Our intention was to call each of the five or six individual sites where the remaining Freemen were located, urging them to immediately and peacefully surrender. We hoped they would assume that arrest warrants were also about to be executed against their locations, but we wanted them to understand and appreciate that they were being given an opportunity to avoid a tactical confrontation. Waco and Ruby Ridge held out lessons not just for federal authorities but also for those who opposed that authority.
If this approach was unsuccessful, and we knew it might be, we were prepared to use intermediaries to speak directly to the Freemen on our behalf. What the Freemen did not know was that we had no intention of executing arrest raids at their homes. This was to be the smarter and more thoughtful FBI, very much aware of the paradox of power. We had no tactical perimeter set up around any of these locations. In fact, with our reserves being held in Billings, the FBI was nowhere to be seen. With no visible way to enforce the order, we were simply asking the Freemen to give themselves up at a designated location nearby.
The negotiators who called each of these locations identified themselves as FBI agents, then explained that Schweitzer and Peterson were now in custody. Sometimes those who answered the calls listened briefly, but most refused to speak with us at all, simply saying that we had no “venue” or jurisdiction over them, then hanging up.
We were not surprised by their response. Even so, it’s much easier to go tactical after failed negotiations than to negotiate after failed tactics. I know of at least one case in which a police marksman missed when he took a shot at a barricaded perpetrator. It was then a major challenge for the negotiators to try to convince the subject that the authorities were really there to help and didn’t want to do him harm.
The arrest of Schweitzer and Peterson accomplished its goal of removing a venomous influence,
but the resulting leadership void presented its own problems. I’m convinced that if the ATF had removed David Koresh from the equation at Waco, Schneider ultimately would have cooperated and led everyone out. But the Freemen were a much looser group. Eventually, we would need someone we could negotiate with, someone who could influence the others. Here, as at Lucasville, part of our job was going to be creating a leadership structure.
“Justus Township” consisted of 960 acres of rolling farmland in a very remote and rugged setting. It was a forty-five-minute drive from Jordan, with its sixteen streets and 450 people. There were four main houses on the properties, in addition to four small fishing cabins. We set up observation points where we could watch from a distance, but we were careful to avoid any encroachment on their land—another lesson learned both at Waco and at Ruby Ridge. Most people view their home, no matter how humble, as their castle. For members of groups like the Freemen, this feeling is magnified, particularly where the government is involved.
FBI tactical agents and Montana Highway Patrol units, working as combined teams, set up a very loose perimeter to control who went in and out. They made a concerted effort to engage in friendly small talk with local citizens and tried to downplay the sense that a siege was under way. We allowed local ranchers to move through the roadblocks at the various strategic crossings near Justus Township, but no one was allowed onto the Clark ranch without our approval. FBI personnel wore “soft” clothing: casual work clothes rather than the ominous-looking black or military green tactical equipment usually worn by SWAT elements during a siege operation.
Ralph Clark, age sixty-five, and his brother Emmett, sixty-seven, were the elders of the group, living on the property in separate homes. They had gotten caught up in the Freemen ideology and had allowed Schweitzer and others to seek refuge on their land. Our undercover FBI agent said that Emmett didn’t appear to understand the Freemen ideology but had embraced it and the group as a means to save his land, which had been foreclosed. Mostly he just wanted to be left alone.