An FBI Valentine
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F
ebruary 14, Valentine’s Day. I wrote up some more résumés
and cover
letters, then, later in the evening, started poking around again in the
accounts of all the system administrators at the Well. I was looking for any
evidence that I was being watched or that my stash of software had been
discovered. I didn’t find anything that set off alarm bells.
Feeling like taking a break, at about 9 p.m., I headed for the gym and
spent an hour on the StairMaster and then another hour lifting weights.
After a long, relaxing shower, I went to grab some dinner at a twenty-four-
hour restaurant. I was a vegetarian at the time, so the menu wasn’t all that
appealing to me, but it was the only place open so late.
A little after midnight, I rolled into the parking lot at the Players Club. The
lights were off in most of the apartments. I was oblivious to the surveillance
net the Feds had set up while I was out.
I logged on to the Well to take a look around. As I changed the
passwords on several new dormant accounts just for insurance, again I had
a creepy feeling that someone had been watching me. I decided to go into
partial cleanup mode, but first I wanted to make sure I had created copies of
all the files I’d moved to the Well. Because I didn’t
have a safe storage
locker other than the systems I had been using over the past several weeks, I
decided to copy the files to different dormant accounts on the Well. Once
those were secured, I would find some other site to move them to.
Then I noticed that several of the backdoors I’d been using to access
various systems had mysteriously disappeared.
The Feds worked very slowly. Even if a call of mine had been traced, it
would usually take them days or weeks to investigate. Someone appeared to
be hot on my trail, but I still had plenty of time. Or so I thought.
As I was working on moving files around, I had a very, very uncomfortable
sensation, a sinking feeling in my stomach that something bad was about to
happen. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
Who had logged in to my
escape.com account? Why had traps been placed on Netcom’s dial-ups?
Had Netcom filed a hacking complaint with the Feds? Several different
scenarios were running through my mind.
An hour later, I was still in a stew. I thought it was a little crazy, but my
gut kept telling me something wasn’t right. No one knew where I was, but I
couldn’t overcome the feeling that danger lurked nearby.
I had to convince myself that there was nothing to it, that I was just
letting myself get spooked. My apartment door opened onto an outside
corridor that gave a good view of the parking lot.
I walked to the door,
opened it, and scanned the lot. Nothing. Just my imagination. I closed the
door and went back to my computer.
That peek out the door would prove to be my undoing. The Feds had
tracked my cell phone signals to the Players Club apartments earlier in the
evening but had apparently concluded, incorrectly, that the signals were
coming from an apartment on the other side of the building. When I
returned to the complex after dinner, I drove into the Players Club parking
lot and walked from my car right through the FBI’s surveillance net. But
when
I poked my head out the door, a deputy U.S. Marshal caught a
glimpse of me and thought it was suspicious that so late at night someone
would look out of an apartment, peer around, and then vanish inside again.
Thirty minutes later, at around 1:30, I hear a knock on my door. Without
realizing
how late it is, I automatically yell, “Who is it?”
“FBI.”
I freeze. Another knock. I call out, “Who are you looking for?”
“Kevin Mitnick. Are you Kevin Mitnick?”
“No,” I call back, trying to sound annoyed. “Go check the mailboxes.”
It gets quiet. I begin to wonder if they really have sent someone to check
the mailboxes. Do they think I’d have a “MITNICK” label on the little door
of my box?
Not good! Obviously I’ve underestimated how long it would take the
Feds to pinpoint my location. I look for an escape route. I go out on my
balcony and don’t see anyone outside covering the back of the building. I
look around inside for something that can serve as a makeshift rope. Bed
sheets? No, it’d take too long to tie them into a rope. And besides, what if
one of the agents actually tried to shoot me as I was climbing down?
More knocking.
I phone my mom at home. No time for our “go to a casino” arrangement.
“I’m in Raleigh, North Carolina,” I tell her. “The FBI is outside the door. I
don’t know where they’ll take me.” We talk for a few minutes, each of us
trying to reassure the other. She’s beside herself,
really upset, distraught,
knowing I’m headed back to jail. I tell her I love her and Gram, and to be
strong, that eventually one day this whole thing will be behind us.
At the same time we’re on the phone, I’m bustling around the small
apartment trying to get out of sight anything that could be a problem. I shut
down and unplug my computer. No time to wipe the hard drive. And the
laptop is still warm from being used. I hide one cell phone under the bed,
the other in my gym bag. Mom tells me to call Aunt Chickie and find out
what she recommends.
Chickie gives me the home
phone number of John Yzurdiaga, the
attorney I’ve been working with since the Calabasas search.
Now the knocking starts again, with demands that I open up.
I yell, “I’m sleeping—what do you want?”
The voice calls back, “We want to ask you a few questions.”
Trying to sound as indignant as I can manage, I shout,
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