The Fugitive Game: Online With Kevin Mitnick (19 page)

The government could conceivably charge Mitnick with a host of
1029 and 1030 violations for cloning phones and hacking into com-
puters. What's much less clear are the ultimate penalties. And the
value of the software Mitnick may have copied is anyone's guess. In
his earlier DEC case, the government initially claimed his copying
and hacking caused a $4 million loss, only to later reduce the figure
to a modest $160,000.

One thing's for certain. It's easy for the government to grossly
exaggerate the software loss caused by hackers. The law doesn't re-
quire accuracy. The sentencing guidelines state in Title 18, 2F1.1.
Section 8, that "the loss need not be determined with precision. . . ."
Nor does it matter whether Mitnick has any plans to profit by illic-
itly copying software. The guidelines suggest an "upward depar-
ture" or longer sentence may be warranted if "a primary objective of
the fraud was non-monetary...."

Hackers without a financial motive are considered the most
threatening.

"Why do you think they've tried to make you into this incredible —"

"Bad guy? Monster?

"Because it's easier to do anything they want with you if they
make sure the public has that view. Then no one gives a shit.

"On the other hand, I don't consider the acts that I'm accused of
being heinous. There's no money I've stolen. Nobody made a
profit."

"Acts that you're accused of?" I repeat.

"Things that I'm accused of that they mention in the papers
[copying the source code for cellular phone service, wiretapping FBI
agents, and attempting to social engineer DMV officials], I'm not
commenting one way or another. I'm just saying, if they were true or
not, I don't think it's public enemy number one material."

"Is the software something you could turn around and sell?"

"What they're claiming is if someone had that software he could
modify the software so they could fuck with the ESN and then they
could turn around and sell that technology to dope dealers that
wanna make calls that aren't trackable.

"But that's a hypothesis," Mitnick quickly adds.

He pauses, organizing his thoughts. Then Mitnick's voice
changes.

". . . Tonight is my cutoff night. I'd be happy to talk to you later
or something, so if you wanna grab a number that I can call you at,
like outside—"

"I've got one," I interrupt Mitnick, grabbing the library pay
phone number I've jotted down just for this occasion.

"Should I give it to you?" I ask.

"Yeah, hold on."

"It's 388-XXXX."

"OK. This is what I'd like to do," Mitnick begins, telling me he'll
call at 8 p.m. "On the way to that pay phone, get another pay phone
number that works. You'll tell me the other one and I'll call you on
the other [second] one. Do you understand?"

I think so. It sounds like something a spy would do. Or a cyber-
punk.

"Uh-huh," I say. "So you will call —"

"At that pay phone," Mitnick confirms. "If I don't reach you, I'll
call you at home at ten o'clock. OK?"

The phone rings and I wonder
who could be calling so late.
Suddenly it hits me. I forgot to go to the pay phone!

"What happened?" Mitnick presses. He sounds angry, suspicious.

"I'm sorry, I screwed up. I'll be there in five minutes," I assure
him, hoping I haven't blown it.

I throw on my jacket, grab my notepad, pen, and battery-powered
book light, and shout goodbye to my wife as I run out the door.

Five minutes later I'm pacing in front of the library pay phone.

BRRRRINNNNNG!

I grab the phone as fast as I can.

"Hello," Mitnick greets me in a pleasant voice.

"OK," I say. "Ready for step two?"

"Yup."

"The last two digits are ten," I say cryptically, referring to the two
numbers that differ at the next pay phone.

"The last two digits are ten," Mitnick repeats. "How long will it
take you?"

"Five minutes."

I run two hundred yards to the Pac Bell phone on the corner, flip
open my notepad, and switch on my book light. To my right lies a
small park in a grove of redwoods. Across the street stands an old

fix-it shop and an elementary school. The phone stands alone on a
pole, protected with a metal shroud, the lines disappearing overhead
into the trees.

The phone rings. I grab the handset, tuck my down jacket under
my rear, and sit cross-legged on the cold sidewalk.

"How are things going?"

"Things are not good," Mitnick says with a sigh. "No, things are
not good at all."

"What's up?"

"Just stress, a lot of stress. The British had this guy who wanted to
interview me. I figured he had some cash. He paid Bonnie a hundred
dollars. I thought they might want to interview the main man for five
hundred. I asked him what he wanted to write. I trust the British.
Americans are afraid to alienate their DOJ [Department of Justice]
contacts. They'll never write the truth because it will put their con-
tacts in an unsavory light."

He's right, to a degree. Newspaper reporters depend on lots of
inside government sources, and Department of Justice contacts are
jealously guarded. If a reporter is going to burn a bridge it's likely to
be a criminal, not a DOJ, source.

"What's the story about?" I ask.

"He said he wanted to know me as a person. They're [the govern-
ment] painting me as Carlos the Jackal. They're trying to turn me
into this guy who raped and murdered Polly Klass.

"At first I enjoyed the attention. When I was sixteen, back in
1979, I thought it was cute. Now I think of my future. I'd like to
have a house. I'd like to have a wife. My future looks like the movie
No Way Out."

"How's that?"

"It's a bad, bad situation. I'm an asshole for calling you. There's
no reason I should talk to you or anybody else. It's stupid."

Mitnick's right. He shouldn't talk to anybody if he doesn't want
to get caught.

"What can you do?"

"I'm willing to go for double what I did before — two
years — and then I'm willing to do the Peace Corps or charity
for five years, where I can be productive. I'd be willing to do

that. Do something where society wins. But you can't approach
these people this way.

"I'm no angel, but all of the evil stuff they say about me isn't true.
The Security Pacific News wire [a phony business wire release saying
the bank lost hundreds of millions of dollars] ? I doubt it happened.
And if it did happen it wasn't me. Why should I lie to you?

"NORAD [hacking into the computers of the North American
Defense Command]? That was because of Rhoades," Mitnick
claims, sticking the blame for the rumored incident on an old hacker
associate who he says framed him.

"I think it hurts you when you don't talk [to the press]," Mitnick
concedes. "Anyone can say anything. They can turn you into a
monster."

Mitnick offers me an analogy to put what he's done in perspective,
to explain how he believes the government has overblown his
crimes.

"If I went into Ralph's Supermarket and took a forty-nine-cent
Bic pen, would they say I stole something they spent four million to
develop and three million to market, and therefore the penalty will
be seven million and they will have to hire three new security guards
to watch the pens?

"It's crazy," he fumes. "They charge the hacker with the time it
takes to make security better."

I ask Mitnick what the government thinks he's done.

"The last five years I have no comment," he says flatly.

But Mitnick's got plenty to say about the old charges he's already
done time for.

"On the U.S. Leasing case they said I purposely erased a disk. I did
social engineer passwords and they got circulated, but Susan
[Thunder] wiped out the disk. She put 'Fuck You' on the computer.
She put my name there. Bob Ewen [an investigator] said, 'We caught
you, you put your name there.' Susan would do anything to get back
at us [Mitnick and De Payne].

"With DEC, suddenly they're talking about interstate transport of
stolen goods. There was no intent to profit from selling it. They

charge me with their development costs, for the time to figure out
what I did, the damage I might have caused."

I try to drag Mitnick back to the present.

"So why are they targeting you now?"

"The government is scared. They go on a tangent. They think this
guy is dangerous because of what he might do."

Sometimes Mitnick refers to himself as "somebody" or "this
guy." Sometimes he forgets the mask.

"My supervision was ending. They had an inkling I might be con-
tinuing my hobby. Either Eric on his own suggested this or he was
told to seek me out."

"Why you?" I ask.

"They prefer to go after somebody already painted with a bad
history. They'd prefer to use a scapegoat rather than somebody
new."

Mitnick's getting emotional. Suddenly, he starts telling me he
wishes it had never happened, that he'd never set eyes on a com-
puter. It's the closest he's gotten to telling me about his past, his
childhood.

"If I could go back in a time machine, I'd be the kid in school who
did good in sports, had a good social life, played baseball, football,
and didn't know anything about computers. If I had the chance to do
it over again that's what I'd do.

"I was fat and overweight. What else did I have to turn to but
computers? I never got along with kids my age. They were into
smoking pot and drinking. I wasn't into it. I was not happy as a kid.

"My hobby when I was thirteen was riding buses for free. I went to
terminals and saw they would discard transfers at the end of the day
and leave them in the garbage. I'd punch out my own transfers and go
everywhere. It was pretty sad. I'd be gone the whole day. One day I set
up a trip that was going to take me until eleven p.m. to get home.

"I met this bus driver who'd let me on free. He became my big
brother. I'd spend days after school going to San Bernardino or Long
Beach. I did this till I was sixteen. I started putting on weight when I
met this kid who was the son of another bus driver. We'd get the
maps to the movie stars and ride together to Beverly Hills. He'd eat
twenty times a day. That's when I started getting fat.

"I hung out at Radio Shack. I had a CB radio. My family couldn't
afford to buy me a computer."

■ ■ •

Maybe Kevin Mitnick misses his lost childhood and wishes he could
change, but he still loves to hack. He's just finished telling me how he
wishes he'd never seen a computer. Now he's telling me why he can't
resist the temptation.

"People who use computers are very trusting, very easy to manip-
ulate. I know the computer systems of the world are not as safe as
they think," Mitnick proclaims proudly. "Information is not safe.
Only military computers are secure."

Kevin Mitnick worships technology.

"I believe it's fascinating, the marvel of communications and tech-
nology. A little palmtop that can store masses of data or do intense
calculations. The ability to walk down the street and talk to some-
one at the other end of the world.

"I have the ability to find anybody I want to find. I'm very good at
what I want to do. I was teaching Pis. They were amazed. High-tech
PI firms aren't what they're cracked up to be. They go and pay some-
body off at the DMV, or at the IRS. They grease the palm. I do it
with a laptop and a cell phone."

Mitnick's revved up, jumping from thought to thought.

"It's been a unique learning experience. My philosophy, it's hard
to explain. It's like a high-tech game, figuring out how to crack a
computer. How to actually outwit opponents. I have one overseas."

Suddenly Mitnick's depressed. Maybe the thought of his oppo-
nent just reminded him he's a wanted man.

"It's a big game, but I could end up in the can. They're saying I'm
John Dillinger, that I'm terrible, that it's shocking that I could get
this awesome power. They can get away with whatever they want.
It's like Saudi Arabian law."

"Why do you think the government is taking it so seriously?" I
ask.

"They're afraid because the technology is new. They [the FBI] are
not up on it. They are used to old-fashioned, stick 'em up crime. This
is something new, something they can be violated with. They're

scared of the new technology. They've convinced the public they are
in great danger."

Suddenly, Mitnick's other half speaks up. I've almost forgotten
De Payne is on the line. He's hardly said a word.

"The people who are experts, the security people, they look like
fools when some kid can do something," De Payne mocks. "That
puts it in perspective."