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

What if I just disappear until their jurisdiction
ends?
I called my attorney to try out the idea on him. His response sounded
testy: “You’re absolutely wrong. It’s a fundamental principle of law that if a
defendant disappears when there’s a warrant out for him, the time limit is
tolled until he’s found, even if it’s years later.”
And he added, “You have to stop playing lawyer. 
I’m
the lawyer. Let me
do my job.”
I pleaded with him to look into it, which annoyed him, but he finally
agreed. When I called back two days later, he had talked to my Parole
Officer, Melvin Boyer, the compassionate guy who had gotten me
transferred out of the dangerous jungle at LA County Jail. Boyer had told

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him, “Kevin is right. If he disappears until February 1985, there’ll be
nothing we can do. At that point the warrant will expire, and he’ll be off the
hook.”
Some people are angels. Donna Russell contacted her parents, who had a
place in Oroville, California, about 150 miles northeast of San Francisco.
And yes, they would be willing to take in a lodger who would help around
the place, subsidized by monthly payments from his mom.
I was on a Greyhound the next day for the long trip, which gave me time
to pick a temporary name for myself: Michael Phelps (the last name taken
from the TV series 
Mission Impossible
).
A rumor, probably started by one of those reliable hacker “friends” of
mine, circulated that I had fled to Israel. In fact I did not then—and would
not for quite a few more years—even cross the border into Canada or
Mexico, much less travel overseas. But this was another of those stories that
would become part of the legend, another untrue “fact” of my history that
would later be used to convince judges not to grant me bail.
My hosts in Oroville, Jessie and Duke, were retired, living on a homestead
of half an acre in a farming area. Nice people but very set in their ways. The
days were precise in their routine. Up at 5:00 every morning, corn bread
and milk for breakfast. After dinner, watch game shows on TV. No
computer. No modem. No ham radio. Tough for a kid like me, but way
better than being behind the walls of a Youth Authority facility.
The couple kept chickens and pigs, and had two dogs. To me, it felt like
Green Acres
. I swear one of their pigs looked exactly like Arnold, the pig
on the show!
Obviously I couldn’t drive, since the only license I had was in my real
name, and there was a warrant out for my arrest. So to get around the
neighborhood, I bought a bike.
I’d ride to the local library and spend hours reading. For something else
to keep my mind engaged, I signed up for a course at the local college—in
Criminal Justice. The instructor was a sitting criminal court judge in Butte
County. During the course, he played tapes of confessions. And then
lectured how naive the suspects were to talk to the police without a lawyer.
He once said, “Most criminals believe they can talk their way out of
trouble.” I smiled, knowing that was great advice. It amused me to wonder

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what he would have thought if he had found out that a student sitting in the
front row of the class had a fugitive warrant out for him.
I stuck with the 
Green Acres
lifestyle for four months, until a call to my
attorney confirmed that he had received a copy of the CYA discharge paper
indicating they no longer had jurisdiction over me. The attorney pointed out
that it was a “dishonorable” discharge. I just laughed. Who’d give a damn if
it was dishonorable? It was never that honorable to start with. It’s not like
I’d left the armed forces.
Within days, I was back in Los Angeles, full of anticipation. Lenny
DiCicco had landed a job at Hughes Aircraft as a computer operator and he
was eager for me to come over and visit. Even better, Lenny said he had
something to share with me, something he didn’t want to tell me over the
phone. I wondered what it could be.

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