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

probably
did whatever I was being accused of; the evidence
didn’t have to meet the standard of “beyond a reasonable doubt” as in a
criminal trial.
Then things went from bad to worse. They transferred me to LA County
Jail, where I was greeted by being told to strip naked so they could spray
me with insecticide. I was led to a dormitory that scared the hell out of me.
I didn’t know whom to be more frightened of: the really dangerous guys
who looked like they’d steal an eyeball if they got the chance, or the crazy
guys who could hurt somebody and not even know they were doing it. All
the cots were already taken, leaving me no place to sleep. I just sat against
the wall struggling to keep my eyes open so when the sun came up I’d still
have all the possessions I arrived with.
Boyer, my Youth Authority Parole Officer, told my mom, “LA County is
a very dangerous place. He could get hurt there,” and got me transferred the
next day, back to Norwalk. If I saw Boyer today, I’d probably give him a
big hug for that.
I was twenty years old but, thanks to the probation, still under the
jurisdiction of the Youth Authority. This was my third time in Norwalk
Reception Center; some of the guards were like old friends.
In my appearance before the parole board, they obviously didn’t take the
charge too seriously, maybe because there was no evidence but a report

---

from the Parole Officer based on a single complaint. They held I disobeyed
an order from the Probation Department to stop using my ham radio. But it
hadn’t been a legal order: only the FCC had the authority to take away my
ham privileges. They gave me sixty days; by then I had already been inside
for about fifty-seven, so I was released a few days later.
When my mom picked me up, I had her drive me to the LA Police
Academy. I had heard they sold a license-plate frame that supposedly was
cop-friendly—a cop who saw it might not pull you over for a traffic
infraction. In the store I noticed a stack of books: the LAPD yearbook. I
said I wanted one “as a gift for my uncle, who’s with the LAPD.” It cost
$75 but it was amazing, like finding the Holy Grail: it had the picture of
every LAPD officer, 
even the undercover guys assigned to organized crime
.
I wonder if they still put that book out every year… and sell a copy to
anyone who shows up with cash in hand.
A friend of my mother’s, an entrepreneur named Don David Wilson, was
running several companies under an umbrella firm called Franmark. He
hired me to help with computer-related tasks—programming, data entry,
etc. The work was boring, so for fun, excitement, and intellectual challenge
—this won’t surprise you—I turned back to hacking and phreaking, often
with my old phone-phreaker buddy Steve Rhoades, who would come over
in the evenings to use the computers at Franmark.
One day on the way to lunch with a young lady from work, I spotted a
bunch of guys in suits who looked like cops, then recognized one as my
Parole Officer and another as one of the guys who had searched my car
years earlier for the “logic bomb.” I knew they weren’t there for a social
visit. Shit! My adrenaline started pumping, fear pulsing through me. I
couldn’t start running or walking fast without attracting attention. So I
moved to put my back to the suits and pulled the gal into a big hug,
whispering in her ear that I spotted an old friend and didn’t want him to see
me. We got into her car, still within sight of the group.
I ducked down and asked her to please drive out in a hurry because I
needed to make an important call. From a pay phone, I dialed the LAPD’s
West Valley Division and asked to be transferred to records. “This is
Detective Schaffer,” I said. “I need to check a subject for any hits, local and

---

in NCIC” (the FBI’s National Crime Information Center). “Mitnick, that’s
M-I-T-N-I-C-K, Kevin David. The subject’s DOB is 8-6-1963.”
I pretty damn well knew what the answer was going to be.
“Yes, I have a hit on him. It looks like a violation warrant issued by the
CYA.”
Fuuck!
But at least they didn’t get to arrest me.
I called my mom and said, “Hey, I’m at 7-Eleven, we should talk.”
It was a code I had established with her. She knew which 7-Eleven, and
that I needed to talk because I was in trouble. When she showed up, I told
her the story and that I needed a place to stay until I decided what I was
going to do.
Gram worked out with her friend Donna Russell, the lady who had hired
me at Fox, that I could sleep on her living room couch for a few days.
Mom drove me over there, stopping en route so I could buy a
toothbrush, razor, and some changes of undershorts and socks. As soon as I
was settled, I looked in the Yellow Pages for the nearest law school, and
spent the next few days and evenings there poring over the Welfare and
Institutions Code, but without much hope.
Still, hey, “Where there’s a will…” I found a provision that said that for
a nonviolent crime, the jurisdiction of the Juvenile Court expired either
when the defendant turned twenty-one or two years after the commitment
date, whichever occurred later. For me, that would mean two years from
February 1983, when I had been sentenced to the three years and eight
months.
Scratch, scratch. A little arithmetic told me that this would occur in
about four months. I thought,