benefit a children’s charity that Cooley attended. When she told him I was her nephew, he said he wanted a copy of the book. He asked if I’d sign it and write in it, “We’ve both come a very long way.” Indeed we have. I was glad to do it for him.)
The Juvenile Court judge who heard my case seemed puzzled: I was charged with being a hacker, but I hadn’t stolen and used any credit card numbers, nor had I sold any proprietary software or trade secrets. I had just hacked into computers and phone company systems for the sheer entertainment. The judge didn’t seem to understand why I would do such things without profiting from my actions. The idea that I was doing it for fun didn’t seem to make sense.
Since he wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing once I got into the computers and phone systems, he figured maybe he was missing something. Maybe I was taking money or making a profit in some high-tech way he didn’t comprehend. The whole thing probably made him suspicious.
The truth was, I broke into the phone system for the same reason another kid might break into an abandoned house down the block: just to check it out. The temptation to explore and find out what’s in there was too great. Sure, there might be danger, but taking a risk was part of the fun.
Because this was the first hacking case ever, there was more than a little confusion over exactly what the district attorney could charge me with. While some of the charges were legitimate, having to do with my breaking into and entering the phone company, others were not. The prosecutor claimed that in my hacking I had damaged computer systems at U.S. Leasing. I hadn’t, but it wouldn’t be the last time I was accused of this.
The Juvenile Court judge sent me to the California Youth Authority (CYA) reception facility in Norwalk, California, for a ninety-day psychological evaluation to determine whether I was suited for incarceration in that agency’s facilities. I’ve never been so intimidated. The other kids were there for crimes like assault, rape, murder, and gang hits. These were juveniles, sure, but they were even more violent and dangerous because they felt invincible.
We each had our own room and were kept locked up in it, let out in small groups for only three hours each day.
I wrote a daily letter home, beginning each with “Kevin Mitnick held hostage–Day 1,” “Day 2,” “Day 3.” Even though Norwalk is actually in LA County, it was an hour and a half drive for my mom and her mother, my “Gram.” Loyal beyond my deserving, they came every weekend, bringing food; they would always leave their homes early enough to be the first in line.
My eighteenth birthday came and went while I was being held in Norwalk. Though the California Youth Authority would still have custody of me for some time, I was no longer a juvenile. I knew that for any further offenses, I would be charged as an adult and could, if convicted, be sent to prison.
At the end of my ninety days, the California Youth Authority recommended that I be released to go home on probation, and the judge accepted the recommendation.
My assigned Probation Officer was an extraordinarily obese lady named Mary Ridgeway, who I thought found pleasure only in eating and in lashing out at the kids in her charge. Her phone stopped working one day; months later, I learned that after the phone company fixed her line, they told her they didn’t know why it had gone dead. She figured it must have been me and put a notation in my record that would become accepted as fact and used against me. Too many times in those days, unexplained failures in technology anywhere would be attributed to me.
Along with probation came psychological counseling. I was sent to a clinic that treated sex offenders and other hardcore addicts. My counselor was a doctoral intern from Great Britain named Roy Eskapa. When I explained that I was on probation for phone phreaking, his eyeslit up. “Have you heard about
The Juvenile Court judge who heard my case seemed puzzled: I was charged with being a hacker, but I hadn’t stolen and used any credit card numbers, nor had I sold any proprietary software or trade secrets. I had just hacked into computers and phone company systems for the sheer entertainment. The judge didn’t seem to understand why I would do such things without profiting from my actions. The idea that I was doing it for fun didn’t seem to make sense.
Since he wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing once I got into the computers and phone systems, he figured maybe he was missing something. Maybe I was taking money or making a profit in some high-tech way he didn’t comprehend. The whole thing probably made him suspicious.
The truth was, I broke into the phone system for the same reason another kid might break into an abandoned house down the block: just to check it out. The temptation to explore and find out what’s in there was too great. Sure, there might be danger, but taking a risk was part of the fun.
Because this was the first hacking case ever, there was more than a little confusion over exactly what the district attorney could charge me with. While some of the charges were legitimate, having to do with my breaking into and entering the phone company, others were not. The prosecutor claimed that in my hacking I had damaged computer systems at U.S. Leasing. I hadn’t, but it wouldn’t be the last time I was accused of this.
The Juvenile Court judge sent me to the California Youth Authority (CYA) reception facility in Norwalk, California, for a ninety-day psychological evaluation to determine whether I was suited for incarceration in that agency’s facilities. I’ve never been so intimidated. The other kids were there for crimes like assault, rape, murder, and gang hits. These were juveniles, sure, but they were even more violent and dangerous because they felt invincible.
We each had our own room and were kept locked up in it, let out in small groups for only three hours each day.
I wrote a daily letter home, beginning each with “Kevin Mitnick held hostage–Day 1,” “Day 2,” “Day 3.” Even though Norwalk is actually in LA County, it was an hour and a half drive for my mom and her mother, my “Gram.” Loyal beyond my deserving, they came every weekend, bringing food; they would always leave their homes early enough to be the first in line.
My eighteenth birthday came and went while I was being held in Norwalk. Though the California Youth Authority would still have custody of me for some time, I was no longer a juvenile. I knew that for any further offenses, I would be charged as an adult and could, if convicted, be sent to prison.
At the end of my ninety days, the California Youth Authority recommended that I be released to go home on probation, and the judge accepted the recommendation.
My assigned Probation Officer was an extraordinarily obese lady named Mary Ridgeway, who I thought found pleasure only in eating and in lashing out at the kids in her charge. Her phone stopped working one day; months later, I learned that after the phone company fixed her line, they told her they didn’t know why it had gone dead. She figured it must have been me and put a notation in my record that would become accepted as fact and used against me. Too many times in those days, unexplained failures in technology anywhere would be attributed to me.
Along with probation came psychological counseling. I was sent to a clinic that treated sex offenders and other hardcore addicts. My counselor was a doctoral intern from Great Britain named Roy Eskapa. When I explained that I was on probation for phone phreaking, his eyeslit up. “Have you heard about
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