I knew this meant serious trouble. The cops hustled Lenny and me to their on-campus headquarters and handcuffed us to a bench, then disappeared into their offices, leaving us sitting alone next to the exit. After a little squirming, Lenny showed me his hands—free of the cuffs. He routinely carried a handcuff key in his wallet and had managed to retrieve it and free himself.
He unlocked mine and said, “You’ve got more to lose, just take off.” But how could I get away? The cops had taken my car keys, and besides, they knew who I was.
One of the cops came back in. Behind my back, I snapped my cuffclosed again, but the cop heard the sound and came over to take a closer look. “Hey, we’ve got Houdini here,” he called out in the direction of the offices, while Lenny, unobserved, managed to drop the key onto the floor and kick it a few feet, where it became hidden beneath a car tire that for some odd reason had been left propped against the wall.
Pissed, the cops demanded, “Where’s the key?” They took each of us to the bathroom for a strip search and were mystified when they couldn’t find it.
Cops from the LAPD Bunko and Forgery Squad showed up and hustled me away. I was booked into jail at Parker Center, the LAPD headquarters. This time I was tossed into a holding cell with a couple of pay phones inside. My first call was to my mom to tell her what had happened, and the next was to Aunt Chickie, pleading that she come bail me out as quickly as possible—urgent because I wanted to get to my car before the cops did, since it was, just as before, loaded with even more incriminating notes and disks. A colleague of hers got me out a few hours later, about 5:00 a.m.
My much-put-upon but ever-reliable mom was there to pick me up and drive me to the campus to retrieve my car. She was relieved that I was okay and hadn’t been held. Whatever I might have deserved in the way of anger or scolding, that wasn’t my mom’s style. Instead, she was worried for me, worried about what would become of me.
I was out on bail, but my freedom didn’t last long. As I drove in to work that evening, I phoned up my mom at Fromin’s Deli, where we were both then working, to ask if anyone had shown up looking for me. “Not exactly,” she responded. Ignoring her cryptic response, I walked into work. My Juvenile Probation Officer, Mary Ridgeway, was waiting with two detectives. When she saw me, she announced that I was under arrest for probation violation, and the detectives gave me a ride to the Juvenile Detention Center in Sylmar.
Actually, going to Sylmar was a great relief. I was over eighteen now, an adult in the eyes of the law, but since I was still on probation from Juvenile Court, I was still under its jurisdiction. I was handled the same way I would’ve been if I were still a juvenile.
The distinction was lost on my mom. I was under arrest again, locked up. It was becoming a pattern. What was going to become of herdear son? Was I going to spend my life in and out of prison? She visited me and broke down in tears. She had done so much for me, and this was how I was repaying her—with misery and worry. It broke my heart to see her cry. How many times had I promised her I’d give up hacking, really, truly meaning it but no more able to stick to my word than the alcoholic who keeps falling off the wagon?
It turned out that the hacking that had landed me back inside was to have an even longer-lasting impact than I could have realized at the time. One of the accounts I had logged on to from the campus computer room was for someone who had a university account but in fact worked at the Pentagon. When the police discovered that, they fed the story to the media, and the newspapers ran overblown articles mangling the facts, claiming I had hacked into the Department of Defense. Totally untrue, but a claim that still follows me today.
I admitted to the charge of violating my probation and was sentenced to the custody of the
He unlocked mine and said, “You’ve got more to lose, just take off.” But how could I get away? The cops had taken my car keys, and besides, they knew who I was.
One of the cops came back in. Behind my back, I snapped my cuffclosed again, but the cop heard the sound and came over to take a closer look. “Hey, we’ve got Houdini here,” he called out in the direction of the offices, while Lenny, unobserved, managed to drop the key onto the floor and kick it a few feet, where it became hidden beneath a car tire that for some odd reason had been left propped against the wall.
Pissed, the cops demanded, “Where’s the key?” They took each of us to the bathroom for a strip search and were mystified when they couldn’t find it.
Cops from the LAPD Bunko and Forgery Squad showed up and hustled me away. I was booked into jail at Parker Center, the LAPD headquarters. This time I was tossed into a holding cell with a couple of pay phones inside. My first call was to my mom to tell her what had happened, and the next was to Aunt Chickie, pleading that she come bail me out as quickly as possible—urgent because I wanted to get to my car before the cops did, since it was, just as before, loaded with even more incriminating notes and disks. A colleague of hers got me out a few hours later, about 5:00 a.m.
My much-put-upon but ever-reliable mom was there to pick me up and drive me to the campus to retrieve my car. She was relieved that I was okay and hadn’t been held. Whatever I might have deserved in the way of anger or scolding, that wasn’t my mom’s style. Instead, she was worried for me, worried about what would become of me.
I was out on bail, but my freedom didn’t last long. As I drove in to work that evening, I phoned up my mom at Fromin’s Deli, where we were both then working, to ask if anyone had shown up looking for me. “Not exactly,” she responded. Ignoring her cryptic response, I walked into work. My Juvenile Probation Officer, Mary Ridgeway, was waiting with two detectives. When she saw me, she announced that I was under arrest for probation violation, and the detectives gave me a ride to the Juvenile Detention Center in Sylmar.
Actually, going to Sylmar was a great relief. I was over eighteen now, an adult in the eyes of the law, but since I was still on probation from Juvenile Court, I was still under its jurisdiction. I was handled the same way I would’ve been if I were still a juvenile.
The distinction was lost on my mom. I was under arrest again, locked up. It was becoming a pattern. What was going to become of herdear son? Was I going to spend my life in and out of prison? She visited me and broke down in tears. She had done so much for me, and this was how I was repaying her—with misery and worry. It broke my heart to see her cry. How many times had I promised her I’d give up hacking, really, truly meaning it but no more able to stick to my word than the alcoholic who keeps falling off the wagon?
It turned out that the hacking that had landed me back inside was to have an even longer-lasting impact than I could have realized at the time. One of the accounts I had logged on to from the campus computer room was for someone who had a university account but in fact worked at the Pentagon. When the police discovered that, they fed the story to the media, and the newspapers ran overblown articles mangling the facts, claiming I had hacked into the Department of Defense. Totally untrue, but a claim that still follows me today.
I admitted to the charge of violating my probation and was sentenced to the custody of the
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