Ghost in the Wires: My Adventures as the World’s Most Wanted Hacker

Star Wars
came to mind. I said, “You could call it ‘darkside hacking.’ ”
That’s the way it was entered into my Conditions: “No darkside
hacking.”
I think it was an 
LA Times
reporter who somehow came upon that term.
It got picked up and widely reported by the press; it became a kind of
nickname for me. Kevin Mitnick, the Darkside Hacker.
After my release, a cop called me, giving his name as Dominick Domino
and explaining that he was the guy who had driven me to juvenile hall when
I was picked up at Fromin’s. He was working on an LAPD training video
about computer crime. Would I be willing to come in for an on-camera
interview? Sure, why not?
I doubt they’re still using the production this many years later, but for a
while I was part of the effort to help LA cops learn about catching guys like
me.
At that time, Gram was sharing digs with a friend of hers, Donna
Russell, who as a director of software development at 20th Century Fox
was able to offer me a job. I thought, 
Way cool—maybe I’ll even rub
shoulders with some movie stars
. I loved that job. I worked right on the lot,
walking past soundstages to get to my building; the pay was fair, they were
training me in developing applications using COBOL and IBM’s Basic

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Assembly Language, plus I was learning about working with IBM
mainframes and HP minicomputers.
But all good things come to an end, they say—in this case, sooner rather
than later. Another employee put in a grievance that under union rules the
job should have been offered to current employees.
After only two months, I was back on the street, jobless.
It came as a real shock one day when my Parole Officer, Melvin Boyer,
called to say, “Kevin, have a big breakfast, eat all you can, then come in to
see me.” That could only mean one thing: trouble.
In the ham radio world of Los Angeles, there was a repeater group on
147.435 Mhz that had been dubbed “the animal house.” People would
attack one another, use foul language, and jam other people’s transmissions.
For me, it was a game. I’d later learn that a guy in the animal house group
who must have had some grudge against me had called the 
Youth Authority
Parole Office to complain I had hacked into his company’s network. I
hadn’t. But the guy worked for Xerox, which I guess made him credible.
Mom drove me in. The supervising parole agent asked me to accompany
him to his office. He told my mom I’d be right back and said she should
wait in the lobby. Instead, I was immediately handcuffed by the supervisor
as they whisked me away out the side door to a waiting car. I yelled to my
mom that they were sneaking me out the side and arresting me for
something I hadn’t even done.
I was dropped off at the Van Nuys jail by my Parole Officer and his
supervisor. By a weird coincidence, my uncle Mitchell had called me from
that same jail only a few weeks earlier. His life had been a skyrocket up and
a plummet down: he had become a real-estate multimillionaire, settled into
a mansion in Bel Air, which is way more upscale than Beverly Hills, a
number-one address in all of LA. But then he had discovered cocaine,
which led to heroin, which—old story—led to the loss of house, fortune,
honor, and self-respect.
But at that point I still had a lot of affection for him. The night when he
called from the Van Nuys jail, I had said, “Do you want me to fix the pay
phone so you can make calls for free?” Sure he did.
I told him, “When we hang up, get back on and dial 211-2345. That’ll
give you an automated announcement of the number of the phone you’re

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using. Then call me back collect and tell me the number.” When I had the
number, the next step involved manipulating one of the phone company
switches. From my computer I dialed into the appropriate switch and
changed the “line class code” on that phone to the code for a home
telephone, which would allow incoming and outgoing calls. While I was at
it, I added three-way calling and call-waiting. And I programmed the phone
so all the charges would go on the bill of LAPD’s Van Nuys station.
Now it was a week later and where am I but at the same Van Nuys jail,
where thanks to my favor for Uncle Mitchell, I can make all the calls I
want, free. I stayed on the phone all night. Talking with my friends helped
me escape the reality of where I was. Plus I needed to find an attorney who
could represent me because I knew it was going to be an uphill battle when
I was sent back to face the California Youth Authority Parole Board.
Parolees have very limited rights, and the board members would only need
to believe I