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

All Your Phone Lines Belong to Me
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fter sentencing, I was transferred once again to the facility in Norwalk,
for classification. I took refuge in the library and then realized it had a very
good collection of law books. They became my new focus.
A number of the kids in custody there wanted to file appeals or find out
what rights they had, and I began lending a hand by doing research for
them. At least I was doing some little good for others, and I found
satisfaction in that.
The library’s collection turned out to include the procedural manuals
governing the California Youth Authority. 
How convenient
, I thought.
They’re going to let me find out how they’re supposed to be doing things, so
I can look for flaws and loopholes
. I dived in.
I was assigned to a counselor who talked to me a few times and then
drew up the recommendation that I be sent to Preston, the juvenile
equivalent of San Quentin, a place full of the most dangerous, most violent
kids in California’s juvenile prison system. Why? I must’ve been one of the
few “white-collar” criminals the juvenile system had ever handled.
He even told me he picked the place partly because it was so far away—
a seven- or eight-hour drive, meaning my mom and Gram would be able to
visit only once in a while. Maybe he figured this middle-class kid had had
all the opportunities that the tough guys from the inner city had never had,
and instead of getting a college degree and a steady, well-paying job, I kept
landing myself in trouble… and if he sent me to a dangerous, hard-core
place, it might be enough to scare me into “going straight.” Or maybe he
was just a malicious SOB, misusing his authority.

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But whaddaya know? In the CYA procedural manuals, I found a list of
the factors that must be taken into consideration in deciding which facility a
youth should be sent to. He should be close to his family. If he was a high
school graduate or had received a GED, he should be at a facility that
offered college programs—which Preston certainly did not. The facility
should be chosen based on his propensity for violence and whether he was
likely to try to escape. I had never even been in a fist fight, and had never
attempted an escape. Underlying it all, according to the manual, the goal
was rehabilitation. Great.
I made copies of these pages.
The grievance process also made for an interesting read: an inmate could
ask for a series of hearings, ending with one at which an outside arbitrator
came to listen to the facts and render an impartial, binding decision.
I went through the stages of hearings. When the impartial arbitrator was
brought in, members of the Youth Authority staff—
five
of them—presented
their side of my case, complete with copied pages from their procedural
manual to support their decision.
A clever move, except they were using what I knew was an out-of-date
copy of the manual, with provisions not nearly as favorable to me.
When it came my turn to speak, I said, “Let me show you the 
current
revision of the manual that these folks have not turned over to you.” And I
made a fervent appeal that I wanted to rehabilitate myself.
The arbitrator looked at the dates on the pages that the counselor had
submitted, and looked at the dates on the pages from me.
And he actually winked at me.
He ordered them to send me to a facility with a college program. They
sent me to Karl Holton, in Stockton, east of San Francisco. Still a very long
way from home, but I felt I had won, and felt very proud of myself.
Looking back, I’m reminded of the lyrics from that Tom Petty song: “You
could stand me up at the gates of hell but I won’t back down.”
Karl Holton turned out to be, for me, the Holiday Inn of the California
Youth Authority. Better living conditions, better food. Though it was a five-
hour drive, my mom and Gram came every other weekend, as before
bringing loads of food. We’d cook steak or lobsters on the outdoor grills,
like civilized people, and Mom and I would hunt four-leaf clovers on the

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lawn of the outdoor visiting area. Their visits helped make my time in
custody feel shorter.
The counselors would drop around to meet the parents, and mine really
seemed extra polite to my mom.
Other aspects of my stay didn’t go as smoothly. The only razors allowed
were the throw-away kind, forever nicking my skin, so I stopped shaving.
My beard grew full and thick, completely changing my appearance; I would
keep it only as long as I was inside.
I was given early release after only six months. When my Conditions of
Release document was being prepared, I was asked, “What condition can
we put on you that you won’t keep hacking?”
How could I answer that? I said, “Well, there’s ethical hacking and
there’s unethical hacking.”
“I need some formal language,” was the reply. “What can I put down?”