Section 1029 is remarkably elastic. Suppose you find a computer password

in somebody's trash. That password might be a "code"--it's certainly a

"means of account access." Now suppose you log on to a computer

and copy some software for yourself. You've certainly obtained

"service" (computer service) and a "thing of value" (the software).

Suppose you tell a dozen friends about your swiped password,

and let them use it, too. Now you're "trafficking in unauthorized

access devices." And when the Prophet, a member of the Legion of Doom,

passed a stolen telephone company document to Knight Lightning

at Phrack magazine, they were both charged under Sec. 1029!

There are two limitations on Section 1029. First, the offense must

"affect interstate or foreign commerce" in order to become a matter

of federal jurisdiction. The term "affecting commerce" is not well defined;

but you may take it as a given that the Secret Service can take an interest

if you've done most anything that happens to cross a state line.

State and local police can be touchy about their jurisdictions,

and can sometimes be mulish when the feds show up. But when it comes

to computer-crime, the local police are pathetically grateful

for federal help--in fact they complain that they can't get enough of it.

If you're stealing long-distance service, you're almost certainly crossing

state lines, and you're definitely "affecting the interstate commerce"

of the telcos. And if you're abusing credit cards by ordering stuff

out of glossy catalogs from, say, Vermont, you're in for it.

The second limitation is money. As a rule, the feds don't pursue

penny-ante offenders. Federal judges will dismiss cases that appear

to waste their time. Federal crimes must be serious; Section 1029

specifies a minimum loss of a thousand dollars.

We now come to the very next section of Title 18, which is Section 1030,

"Fraud and related activity in connection with computers." This statute

gives the Secret Service direct jurisdiction over acts of computer intrusion.

On the face of it, the Secret Service would now seem to command the field.

Section 1030, however, is nowhere near so ductile as Section 1029.

The first annoyance is Section 1030(d), which reads:

"(d) The United States Secret Service shall,

IN ADDITION TO ANY OTHER AGENCY HAVING SUCH AUTHORITY,

have the authority to investigate offenses under this section.

Such authority of the United States Secret Service shall be

exercised in accordance with an agreement which shall be entered

into by the Secretary of the Treasury AND THE ATTORNEY GENERAL."

(Author's italics.) [Represented by capitals.]

The Secretary of the Treasury is the titular head of the Secret Service,

while the Attorney General is in charge of the FBI. In Section (d),

Congress shrugged off responsibility for the computer-crime turf-battle

between the Service and the Bureau, and made them fight it out all

by themselves. The result was a rather dire one for the Secret Service,

for the FBI ended up with exclusive jurisdiction over computer break-ins

having to do with national security, foreign espionage, federally insured

banks, and U.S. military bases, while retaining joint jurisdiction over

all the other computer intrusions. Essentially, when it comes to Section 1030,

the FBI not only gets the real glamor stuff for itself, but can peer over the

shoulder of the Secret Service and barge in to meddle whenever it suits them.

The second problem has to do with the dicey term

"Federal interest computer." Section 1030(a)(2)

makes it illegal to "access a computer without authorization"

if that computer belongs to a financial institution or an issuer

of credit cards (fraud cases, in other words). Congress was quite

willing to give the Secret Service jurisdiction over

money-transferring computers, but Congress balked at

letting them investigate any and all computer intrusions.

Instead, the USSS had to settle for the money machines

and the "Federal interest computers." A "Federal interest computer"

is a computer which the government itself owns, or is using.

Large networks of interstate computers, linked over state lines,

are also considered to be of "Federal interest." (This notion of

"Federal interest" is legally rather foggy and has never been

clearly defined in the courts. The Secret Service has never yet

had its hand slapped for investigating computer break-ins that were NOT

of "Federal interest," but conceivably someday this might happen.)

So the Secret Service's authority over "unauthorized access"

to computers covers a lot of territory, but by no means the

whole ball of cyberspatial wax. If you are, for instance,

a LOCAL computer retailer, or the owner of a LOCAL bulletin

board system, then a malicious LOCAL intruder can break in,

crash your system, trash your files and scatter viruses,

and the U.S. Secret Service cannot do a single thing about it.

At least, it can't do anything DIRECTLY. But the Secret Service

will do plenty to help the local people who can.

The FBI may have dealt itself an ace off the bottom of the deck

when it comes to Section 1030; but that's not the whole story;

that's not the street. What's Congress thinks is one thing,

and Congress has been known to change its mind. The REAL

turf-struggle is out there in the streets where it's happening.

If you're a local street-cop with a computer problem,

the Secret Service wants you to know where you can find

the real expertise. While the Bureau crowd are off having

their favorite shoes polished--(wing-tips)--and making derisive

fun of the Service's favorite shoes--("pansy-ass tassels")--

the tassel-toting Secret Service has a crew of ready-and-able

hacker-trackers installed in the capital of every state in the Union.

Need advice? They'll give you advice, or at least point you in

the right direction. Need training? They can see to that, too.

If you're a local cop and you call in the FBI, the FBI

(as is widely and slanderously rumored) will order you around

like a coolie, take all the credit for your busts,

and mop up every possible scrap of reflected glory.

The Secret Service, on the other hand, doesn't brag a lot.

They're the quiet types. VERY quiet. Very cool. Efficient.

High-tech. Mirrorshades, icy stares, radio ear-plugs,

an Uzi machine-pistol tucked somewhere in that well-cut jacket.

American samurai, sworn to give their lives to protect our President.

"The granite agents." Trained in martial arts, absolutely fearless.

Every single one of 'em has a top-secret security clearance.

Something goes a little wrong, you're not gonna hear any whining

and moaning and political buck-passing out of these guys.

The facade of the granite agent is not, of course, the reality.

Secret Service agents are human beings. And the real glory

in Service work is not in battling computer crime--not yet,

anyway--but in protecting the President. The real glamour

of Secret Service work is in the White House Detail.

If you're at the President's side, then the kids and the wife

see you on television; you rub shoulders with the most powerful

people in the world. That's the real heart of Service work,

the number one priority. More than one computer investigation

has stopped dead in the water when Service agents vanished at

the President's need.

There's romance in the work of the Service. The intimate access

to circles of great power; the esprit-de-corps of a highly trained

and disciplined elite; the high responsibility of defending the

Chief Executive; the fulfillment of a patriotic duty. And as police

work goes, the pay's not bad. But there's squalor in Service work, too.

You may get spat upon by protesters howling abuse--and if they get violent,

if they get too close, sometimes you have to knock one of them down--

discreetly.

The real squalor in Service work is drudgery such as "the quarterlies,"

traipsing out four times a year, year in, year out, to interview the various

pathetic wretches, many of them in prisons and asylums, who have seen fit

to threaten the President's life. And then there's the grinding stress

of searching all those faces in the endless bustling crowds, looking for

hatred, looking for psychosis, looking for the tight, nervous face

of an Arthur Bremer, a Squeaky Fromme, a Lee Harvey Oswald.

It's watching all those grasping, waving hands for sudden movements,

while your ears strain at your radio headphone for the long-rehearsed

cry of "Gun!"

It's poring, in grinding detail, over the biographies of every rotten

loser who ever shot at a President. It's the unsung work of the

Protective Research Section, who study scrawled, anonymous death threats

with all the meticulous tools of anti-forgery techniques.

And it's maintaining the hefty computerized files on anyone

who ever threatened the President's life. Civil libertarians

have become increasingly concerned at the Government's use

of computer files to track American citizens--but the

Secret Service file of potential Presidential assassins,

which has upward of twenty thousand names, rarely causes

a peep of protest. If you EVER state that you intend to

kill the President, the Secret Service will want to know

and record who you are, where you are, what you are,

and what you're up to. If you're a serious threat--

if you're officially considered "of protective interest"--

then the Secret Service may well keep tabs on you

for the rest of your natural life.

Protecting the President has first call on all the Service's resources.

But there's a lot more to the Service's traditions and history than

standing guard outside the Oval Office.

The Secret Service is the nation's oldest general federal

law-enforcement agency. Compared to the Secret Service,

the FBI are new-hires and the CIA are temps. The Secret Service

was founded 'way back in 1865, at the suggestion of Hugh McCulloch,

Abraham Lincoln's Secretary of the Treasury. McCulloch wanted

a specialized Treasury police to combat counterfeiting.

Abraham Lincoln agreed that this seemed a good idea, and,

with a terrible irony, Abraham Lincoln was shot that

very night by John Wilkes Booth.

The Secret Service originally had nothing to do with protecting Presidents.

They didn't take this on as a regular assignment until after the Garfield

assassination in 1881. And they didn't get any Congressional money for it

until President McKinley was shot in 1901. The Service was originally

designed for one purpose: destroying counterfeiters.

#

There are interesting parallels between the Service's

nineteenth-century entry into counterfeiting,

and America's twentieth-century entry into computer-crime.

In 1865, America's paper currency was a terrible muddle.

Security was drastically bad. Currency was printed on the spot

by local banks in literally hundreds of different designs.

No one really knew what the heck a dollar bill was supposed to look like.

Bogus bills passed easily. If some joker told you that a one-dollar bill

from the Railroad Bank of Lowell, Massachusetts had a woman leaning on

a shield, with a locomotive, a cornucopia, a compass, various agricultural

implements, a railroad bridge, and some factories, then you pretty much had

to take his word for it. (And in fact he was telling the truth!)

SIXTEEN HUNDRED local American banks designed and printed their own

paper currency, and there were no general standards for security.

Like a badly guarded node in a computer network, badly designed bills

were easy to fake, and posed a security hazard for the entire monetary system.

No one knew the exact extent of the threat to the currency.

There were panicked estimates that as much as a third of

the entire national currency was faked. Counterfeiters--

known as "boodlers" in the underground slang of the time--

were mostly technically skilled printers who had gone to the bad.

Many had once worked printing legitimate currency.

Boodlers operated in rings and gangs. Technical experts

engraved the bogus plates--commonly in basements in New York City.

Smooth confidence men passed large wads of high-quality,

high-denomination fakes, including the really sophisticated stuff--

government bonds, stock certificates, and railway shares.

Cheaper, botched fakes were sold or sharewared to low-level

gangs of boodler wannabes. (The really cheesy lowlife boodlers

merely upgraded real bills by altering face values,

changing ones to fives, tens to hundreds, and so on.)

The techniques of boodling were little-known and regarded

with a certain awe by the mid- nineteenth-century public.

The ability to manipulate the system for rip-off seemed

diabolically clever. As the skill and daring of the

boodlers increased, the situation became intolerable.

The federal government stepped in, and began offering

its own federal currency, which was printed in fancy green ink,

but only on the back--the original "greenbacks." And at first,

the improved security of the well-designed, well-printed

federal greenbacks seemed to solve the problem; but then

the counterfeiters caught on. Within a few years things were

worse than ever: a CENTRALIZED system where ALL security was bad!

The local police were helpless. The Government tried offering

blood money to potential informants, but this met with little success.

Banks, plagued by boodling, gave up hope of police help and hired

private security men instead. Merchants and bankers queued up

by the thousands to buy privately-printed manuals on currency security,

slim little books like Laban Heath's INFALLIBLE GOVERNMENT

COUNTERFEIT DETECTOR. The back of the book offered Laban Heath's

patent microscope for five bucks.

Then the Secret Service entered the picture. The first agents

were a rough and ready crew. Their chief was one William P. Wood,

a former guerilla in the Mexican War who'd won a reputation busting

contractor fraudsters for the War Department during the Civil War.

Wood, who was also Keeper of the Capital Prison, had a sideline

as a counterfeiting expert, bagging boodlers for the federal bounty money.

Wood was named Chief of the new Secret Service in July 1865.

There were only ten Secret Service agents in all: Wood himself,

a handful who'd worked for him in the War Department, and a few

former private investigators--counterfeiting experts--whom Wood

had won over to public service. (The Secret Service of 1865 was

much the size of the Chicago Computer Fraud Task Force or the

Arizona Racketeering Unit of 1990.) These ten "Operatives"

had an additional twenty or so "Assistant Operatives" and "Informants."

Besides salary and per diem, each Secret Service employee received

a whopping twenty-five dollars for each boodler he captured.

Wood himself publicly estimated that at least HALF of America's currency

was counterfeit, a perhaps pardonable perception. Within a year the

Secret Service had arrested over 200 counterfeiters. They busted about

two hundred boodlers a year for four years straight.

Wood attributed his success to travelling fast and light, hitting the

bad-guys hard, and avoiding bureaucratic baggage. "Because my raids

were made without military escort and I did not ask the assistance

of state officers, I surprised the professional counterfeiter."

Wood's social message to the once-impudent boodlers bore an eerie ring

of Sundevil: "It was also my purpose to convince such characters that

it would no longer be healthy for them to ply their vocation without

being handled roughly, a fact they soon discovered."

William P. Wood, the Secret Service's guerilla pioneer,

did not end well. He succumbed to the lure of aiming for

the really big score. The notorious Brockway Gang of New York City,

headed by William E. Brockway, the "King of the Counterfeiters,"

had forged a number of government bonds. They'd passed these

brilliant fakes on the prestigious Wall Street investment

firm of Jay Cooke and Company. The Cooke firm were frantic

and offered a huge reward for the forgers' plates.

Laboring diligently, Wood confiscated the plates

(though not Mr. Brockway) and claimed the reward.

But the Cooke company treacherously reneged.

Wood got involved in a down-and-dirty lawsuit

with the Cooke capitalists. Wood's boss,

Secretary of the Treasury McCulloch, felt that

Wood's demands for money and glory were unseemly,

and even when the reward money finally came through,

McCulloch refused to pay Wood anything.

Wood found himself mired in a seemingly endless

round of federal suits and Congressional lobbying.

Wood never got his money. And he lost his job to boot.

He resigned in 1869.

Wood's agents suffered, too. On May 12, 1869, the second Chief

of the Secret Service took over, and almost immediately fired

most of Wood's pioneer Secret Service agents: Operatives,

Assistants and Informants alike. The practice of receiving $25

per crook was abolished. And the Secret Service began the long,

uncertain process of thorough professionalization.

Wood ended badly. He must have felt stabbed in the back.

In fact his entire organization was mangled.

On the other hand, William P. Wood WAS the first head of the Secret Service.

William Wood was the pioneer. People still honor his name. Who remembers

the name of the SECOND head of the Secret Service?

As for William Brockway (also known as "Colonel Spencer"),

he was finally arrested by the Secret Service in 1880.

He did five years in prison, got out, and was still boodling

at the age of seventy-four.

#

Anyone with an interest in Operation Sundevil--

or in American computer-crime generally--

could scarcely miss the presence of Gail Thackeray,

Assistant Attorney General of the State of Arizona.

Computer-crime training manuals often cited

Thackeray's group and her work; she was the

highest-ranking state official to specialize

in computer-related offenses. Her name had been

on the Sundevil press release (though modestly ranked

well after the local federal prosecuting attorney and

the head of the Phoenix Secret Service office).

As public commentary, and controversy, began to mount

about the Hacker Crackdown, this Arizonan state official

began to take a higher and higher public profile.

Though uttering almost nothing specific about

the Sundevil operation itself, she coined some

of the most striking soundbites of the growing propaganda war:

"Agents are operating in good faith, and I don't think

you can say that for the hacker community," was one.

Another was the memorable "I am not a mad dog prosecutor"

(Houston Chronicle, Sept 2, 1990.) In the meantime,

the Secret Service maintained its usual extreme discretion;

the Chicago Unit, smarting from the backlash

of the Steve Jackson scandal, had gone completely to earth.

As I collated my growing pile of newspaper clippings,

Gail Thackeray ranked as a comparative fount of public

knowledge on police operations.

I decided that I had to get to know Gail Thackeray.

I wrote to her at the Arizona Attorney General's Office.

Not only did she kindly reply to me, but, to my astonishment,

she knew very well what "cyberpunk" science fiction was.

Shortly after this, Gail Thackeray lost her job.

And I temporarily misplaced my own career as

a science-fiction writer, to become a full-time

computer-crime journalist. In early March, 1991,

I flew to Phoenix, Arizona, to interview Gail Thackeray

for my book on the hacker crackdown.

#

"Credit cards didn't used to cost anything to get,"

says Gail Thackeray. "Now they cost forty bucks--

and that's all just to cover the costs from RIP-OFF ARTISTS."

Electronic nuisance criminals are parasites.

One by one they're not much harm, no big deal.

But they never come just one by one. They come in swarms,

heaps, legions, sometimes whole subcultures. And they bite.

Every time we buy a credit card today, we lose a little financial

vitality to a particular species of bloodsucker.

What, in her expert opinion, are the worst forms of electronic crime,

I ask, consulting my notes. Is it--credit card fraud? Breaking into

ATM bank machines? Phone-phreaking? Computer intrusions?

Software viruses? Access-code theft? Records tampering?

Software piracy? Pornographic bulletin boards?

Satellite TV piracy? Theft of cable service?

It's a long list. By the time I reach the end

of it I feel rather depressed.

"Oh no," says Gail Thackeray, leaning forward over the table,

her whole body gone stiff with energetic indignation,

"the biggest damage is telephone fraud. Fake sweepstakes,

fake charities. Boiler-room con operations. You could pay off

the national debt with what these guys steal. . . .

They target old people, they get hold of credit ratings

and demographics, they rip off the old and the weak."

The words come tumbling out of her.

It's low-tech stuff, your everyday boiler-room fraud.

Grifters, conning people out of money over the phone,

have been around for decades. This is where the word "phony" came from!

It's just that it's so much EASIER now, horribly facilitated by advances

in technology and the byzantine structure of the modern phone system.

The same professional fraudsters do it over and over, Thackeray tells me,

they hide behind dense onion-shells of fake companies. . . fake holding

corporations nine or ten layers deep, registered all over the map.

They get a phone installed under a false name in an empty safe-house.

And then they call-forward everything out of that phone to yet

another phone, a phone that may even be in another STATE.

And they don't even pay the charges on their phones;

after a month or so, they just split; set up somewhere else

in another Podunkville with the same seedy crew of veteran phone-crooks.

They buy or steal commercial credit card reports, slap them on the PC,

have a program pick out people over sixty-five who pay a lot to charities.

A whole subculture living off this, merciless folks on the con.

"The `light-bulbs for the blind' people," Thackeray muses,

with a special loathing. "There's just no end to them."

We're sitting in a downtown diner in Phoenix, Arizona.

It's a tough town, Phoenix. A state capital seeing some hard times.

Even to a Texan like myself, Arizona state politics seem rather baroque.

There was, and remains, endless trouble over the Martin Luther King holiday,

the sort of stiff-necked, foot-shooting incident for which Arizona politics

seem famous. There was Evan Mecham, the eccentric Republican millionaire

governor who was impeached, after reducing state government to a

ludicrous shambles. Then there was the national Keating scandal,

involving Arizona savings and loans, in which both of Arizona's

U.S. senators, DeConcini and McCain, played sadly prominent roles.

And the very latest is the bizarre AzScam case,

in which state legislators were videotaped,

eagerly taking cash from an informant of the Phoenix city

police department, who was posing as a Vegas mobster.

"Oh," says Thackeray cheerfully. "These people are amateurs here,

they thought they were finally getting to play with the big boys.

They don't have the least idea how to take a bribe!

It's not institutional corruption. It's not like back in Philly."

Gail Thackeray was a former prosecutor in Philadelphia.

Now she's a former assistant attorney general of the State of Arizona.

Since moving to Arizona in 1986, she had worked under the aegis

of Steve Twist, her boss in the Attorney General's office.

Steve Twist wrote Arizona's pioneering computer crime laws

and naturally took an interest in seeing them enforced.

It was a snug niche, and Thackeray's Organized Crime and

Racketeering Unit won a national reputation for ambition

and technical knowledgeability. . . . Until the latest

election in Arizona. Thackeray's boss ran for the top

job, and lost. The victor, the new Attorney General,

apparently went to some pains to eliminate the bureaucratic

traces of his rival, including his pet group--Thackeray's group.

Twelve people got their walking papers.

Now Thackeray's painstakingly assembled computer lab

sits gathering dust somewhere in the glass-and-concrete

Attorney General's HQ on 1275 Washington Street.

Her computer-crime books, her painstakingly garnered

back issues of phreak and hacker zines, all bought

at her own expense--are piled in boxes somewhere.

The State of Arizona is simply not particularly

interested in electronic racketeering at the moment.

At the moment of our interview, Gail Thackeray,

officially unemployed, is working out of the county

sheriff's office, living on her savings, and prosecuting

several cases--working 60-hour weeks, just as always--

for no pay at all. "I'm trying to train people,"

she mutters.

Half her life seems to be spent training people--merely pointing out,

to the naive and incredulous (such as myself) that this stuff

is ACTUALLY GOING ON OUT THERE. It's a small world, computer crime.

A young world. Gail Thackeray, a trim blonde Baby-Boomer who favors

Grand Canyon white-water rafting to kill some slow time,

is one of the world's most senior, most veteran "hacker-trackers."

Her mentor was Donn Parker, the California think-tank theorist

who got it all started `way back in the mid-70s, the "grandfather

of the field," "the great bald eagle of computer crime."

And what she has learned, Gail Thackeray teaches. Endlessly.

Tirelessly. To anybody. To Secret Service agents and state police,

at the Glynco, Georgia federal training center. To local police,

on "roadshows" with her slide projector and notebook.

To corporate security personnel. To journalists. To parents.

Even CROOKS look to Gail Thackeray for advice.

Phone-phreaks call her at the office. They know very

well who she is. They pump her for information

on what the cops are up to, how much they know.

Sometimes whole CROWDS of phone phreaks,

hanging out on illegal conference calls, will call Gail

Thackeray up. They taunt her. And, as always,

they boast. Phone-phreaks, real stone phone-phreaks,

simply CANNOT SHUT UP. They natter on for hours.

Left to themselves, they mostly talk about the intricacies

of ripping-off phones; it's about as interesting as listening

to hot-rodders talk about suspension and distributor-caps.

They also gossip cruelly about each other. And when talking

to Gail Thackeray, they incriminate themselves. "I have tapes,"

Thackeray says coolly.

Phone phreaks just talk like crazy. "Dial-Tone" out in Alabama

has been known to spend half-an-hour simply reading stolen

phone-codes aloud into voice-mail answering machines.

Hundreds, thousands of numbers, recited in a monotone,

without a break--an eerie phenomenon. When arrested,

it's a rare phone phreak who doesn't inform at endless length

on everybody he knows.

Hackers are no better. What other group of criminals,

she asks rhetorically, publishes newsletters and holds conventions?

She seems deeply nettled by the sheer brazenness of this behavior,

though to an outsider, this activity might make one wonder

whether hackers should be considered "criminals" at all.

Skateboarders have magazines, and they trespass a lot.

Hot rod people have magazines and they break speed limits

and sometimes kill people. . . .

I ask her whether it would be any loss to society if phone phreaking

and computer hacking, as hobbies, simply dried up and blew away,

so that nobody ever did it again.

She seems surprised. "No," she says swiftly. "Maybe a little. . .

in the old days. . .the MIT stuff. . . . But there's a lot of wonderful,

legal stuff you can do with computers now, you don't have to break into

somebody else's just to learn. You don't have that excuse.

You can learn all you like."

Did you ever hack into a system? I ask.

The trainees do it at Glynco. Just to demonstrate system vulnerabilities.

She's cool to the notion. Genuinely indifferent.

"What kind of computer do you have?"

"A Compaq 286LE," she mutters.

"What kind do you WISH you had?"

At this question, the unmistakable light of true hackerdom flares in

Gail Thackeray's eyes. She becomes tense, animated, the words pour out:

"An Amiga 2000 with an IBM card and Mac emulation! The most common hacker

machines are Amigas and Commodores. And Apples." If she had the Amiga,

she enthuses, she could run a whole galaxy of seized computer-evidence disks

on one convenient multifunctional machine. A cheap one, too. Not like the

old Attorney General lab, where they had an ancient CP/M machine,

assorted Amiga flavors and Apple flavors, a couple IBMS, all the

utility software. . .but no Commodores. The workstations down

at the Attorney General's are Wang dedicated word-processors.

Lame machines tied in to an office net--though at least they get

on- line to the Lexis and Westlaw legal data services.

I don't say anything. I recognize the syndrome, though.

This computer-fever has been running through segments of

our society for years now. It's a strange kind of lust:

K-hunger, Meg-hunger; but it's a shared disease;

it can kill parties dead, as conversation spirals into

the deepest and most deviant recesses of software releases

and expensive peripherals. . . . The mark of the hacker beast.

I have it too. The whole "electronic community," whatever the hell

that is, has it. Gail Thackeray has it. Gail Thackeray is a hacker cop.

My immediate reaction is a strong rush of indignant pity:

WHY DOESN'T SOMEBODY BUY THIS WOMAN HER AMIGA?!

It's not like she's asking for a Cray X-MP

supercomputer mainframe; an Amiga's a sweet little

cookie-box thing. We're losing zillions in organized fraud;

prosecuting and defending a single hacker case in court can cost

a hundred grand easy. How come nobody can come up with four lousy grand

so this woman can do her job? For a hundred grand we could buy every

computer cop in America an Amiga. There aren't that many of 'em.

Computers. The lust, the hunger, for computers.

The loyalty they inspire, the intense sense of possessiveness.

The culture they have bred. I myself am sitting in downtown Phoenix,

Arizona because it suddenly occurred to me that the police might--

just MIGHT--come and take away my computer. The prospect of this,

the mere IMPLIED THREAT, was unbearable. It literally changed my life.

It was changing the lives of many others. Eventually it would change

everybody's life.

Gail Thackeray was one of the top computer-crime people in America.

And I was just some novelist, and yet I had a better computer than hers.

PRACTICALLY EVERYBODY I KNEW had a better computer than Gail Thackeray

and her feeble laptop 286. It was like sending the sheriff in to clean

up Dodge City and arming her with a slingshot cut from an old rubber tire.

But then again, you don't need a howitzer to enforce the law.

You can do a lot just with a badge. With a badge alone,

you can basically wreak havoc, take a terrible vengeance on wrongdoers.

Ninety percent of "computer crime investigation" is just "crime investigation:"

names, places, dossiers, modus operandi, search warrants, victims,

complainants, informants. . . .

What will computer crime look like in ten years? Will it get better?

Did "Sundevil" send 'em reeling back in confusion?

It'll be like it is now, only worse, she tells me with perfect conviction.

Still there in the background, ticking along, changing with the times:

the criminal underworld. It'll be like drugs are. Like our problems

with alcohol. All the cops and laws in the world never solved our problems

with alcohol. If there's something people want, a certain percentage

of them are just going to take it. Fifteen percent of the populace

will never steal. Fifteen percent will steal most anything not nailed down.

The battle is for the hearts and minds of the remaining seventy percent.

And criminals catch on fast. If there's not "too steep a learning curve"--

if it doesn't require a baffling amount of expertise and practice--

then criminals are often some of the first through the gate of a

new technology. Especially if it helps them to hide.

They have tons of cash, criminals. The new communications tech--

like pagers, cellular phones, faxes, Federal Express--were pioneered

by rich corporate people, and by criminals. In the early years

of pagers and beepers, dope dealers were so enthralled this technology

that owing a beeper was practically prima facie evidence of cocaine dealing.

CB radio exploded when the speed limit hit 55 and breaking the highway law

became a national pastime. Dope dealers send cash by Federal Express,

despite, or perhaps BECAUSE OF, the warnings in FedEx offices that tell you

never to try this. Fed Ex uses X-rays and dogs on their mail,

to stop drug shipments. That doesn't work very well.

Drug dealers went wild over cellular phones.

There are simple methods of faking ID on cellular phones,

making the location of the call mobile, free of charge,

and effectively untraceable. Now victimized cellular

companies routinely bring in vast toll-lists of calls

to Colombia and Pakistan.

Judge Greene's fragmentation of the phone company

is driving law enforcement nuts. Four thousand

telecommunications companies. Fraud skyrocketing.

Every temptation in the world available with a phone

and a credit card number. Criminals untraceable.

A galaxy of "new neat rotten things to do."

If there were one thing Thackeray would like to have,

it would be an effective legal end-run through this new

fragmentation minefield.

It would be a new form of electronic search warrant,

an "electronic letter of marque" to be issued by a judge.

It would create a new category of "electronic emergency."

Like a wiretap, its use would be rare, but it would cut

across state lines and force swift cooperation from all concerned.

Cellular, phone, laser, computer network, PBXes, AT&T, Baby Bells,

long-distance entrepreneurs, packet radio. Some document,

some mighty court-order, that could slice through four thousand

separate forms of corporate red-tape, and get her at once to

the source of calls, the source of email threats and viruses,

the sources of bomb threats, kidnapping threats. "From now on,"

she says, "the Lindbergh baby will always die."

Something that would make the Net sit still, if only for a moment.

Something that would get her up to speed. Seven league boots.

That's what she really needs. "Those guys move in nanoseconds

and I'm on the Pony Express."

And then, too, there's the coming international angle.

Electronic crime has never been easy to localize,

to tie to a physical jurisdiction. And phone-phreaks

and hackers loathe boundaries, they jump them whenever they can.

The English. The Dutch. And the Germans, especially the ubiquitous

Chaos Computer Club. The Australians. They've all learned phone-phreaking

from America. It's a growth mischief industry. The multinational

networks are global, but governments and the police simply aren't.

Neither are the laws. Or the legal frameworks for citizen protection.

One language is global, though--English. Phone phreaks speak English;

it's their native tongue even if they're Germans. English may have started

in England but now it's the Net language; it might as well be called "CNNese."

Asians just aren't much into phone phreaking. They're the world masters

at organized software piracy. The French aren't into phone-phreaking either.

The French are into computerized industrial espionage.

In the old days of the MIT righteous hackerdom, crashing systems

didn't hurt anybody. Not all that much, anyway. Not permanently.

Now the players are more venal. Now the consequences are worse.

Hacking will begin killing people soon. Already there are methods

of stacking calls onto 911 systems, annoying the police, and possibly

causing the death of some poor soul calling in with a genuine emergency.

Hackers in Amtrak computers, or air-traffic control computers, will kill

somebody someday. Maybe a lot of people. Gail Thackeray expects it.

And the viruses are getting nastier. The "Scud" virus is the latest one out.

It wipes hard-disks.

According to Thackeray, the idea that phone-phreaks are Robin Hoods is a fraud.

They don't deserve this repute. Basically, they pick on the weak. AT&T now

protects itself with the fearsome ANI (Automatic Number Identification)

trace capability. When AT&T wised up and tightened security generally,

the phreaks drifted into the Baby Bells. The Baby Bells lashed out in 1989

and 1990, so the phreaks switched to smaller long-distance entrepreneurs.

Today, they are moving into locally owned PBXes and voice-mail systems,

which are full of security holes, dreadfully easy to hack. These victims

aren't the moneybags Sheriff of Nottingham or Bad King John, but small groups

of innocent people who find it hard to protect themselves, and who really

suffer from these depredations. Phone phreaks pick on the weak. They do it

for power. If it were legal, they wouldn't do it. They don't want service,

or knowledge, they want the thrill of power-tripping. There's plenty of

knowledge or service around if you're willing to pay. Phone phreaks don't pay,

they steal. It's because it is illegal that it feels like power,

that it gratifies their vanity.

I leave Gail Thackeray with a handshake at the door of her office building--

a vast International-Style office building downtown. The Sheriff's office

is renting part of it. I get the vague impression that quite a lot of the

building is empty--real estate crash.

In a Phoenix sports apparel store, in a downtown mall, I meet

the "Sun Devil" himself. He is the cartoon mascot of

Arizona State University, whose football stadium, "Sundevil,"

is near the local Secret Service HQ--hence the name Operation Sundevil.

The Sun Devil himself is named "Sparky." Sparky the Sun Devil is maroon

and bright yellow, the school colors. Sparky brandishes a three-tined

yellow pitchfork. He has a small mustache, pointed ears, a barbed tail,

and is dashing forward jabbing the air with the pitchfork,

with an expression of devilish glee.

Phoenix was the home of Operation Sundevil. The Legion of Doom

ran a hacker bulletin board called "The Phoenix Project."

An Australian hacker named "Phoenix" once burrowed through

the Internet to attack Cliff Stoll, then bragged and boasted

about it to The New York Times. This net of coincidence

is both odd and meaningless.

The headquarters of the Arizona Attorney General, Gail Thackeray's

former workplace, is on 1275 Washington Avenue. Many of the downtown

streets in Phoenix are named after prominent American presidents:

Washington, Jefferson, Madison. . . .

After dark, all the employees go home to their suburbs.

Washington, Jefferson and Madison--what would be the

Phoenix inner city, if there were an inner city in this

sprawling automobile-bred town--become the haunts

of transients and derelicts. The homeless. The sidewalks

along Washington are lined with orange trees.

Ripe fallen fruit lies scattered like croquet balls

on the sidewalks and gutters. No one seems to be eating them.

I try a fresh one. It tastes unbearably bitter.

The Attorney General's office, built in 1981 during the

Babbitt administration, is a long low two-story building

of white cement and wall-sized sheets of curtain-glass.

Behind each glass wall is a lawyer's office, quite open

and visible to anyone strolling by. Across the street

is a dour government building labelled simply ECONOMIC SECURITY,

something that has not been in great supply in the American

Southwest lately.

The offices are about twelve feet square. They feature

tall wooden cases full of red-spined lawbooks;

Wang computer monitors; telephones; Post-it notes galore.

Also framed law diplomas and a general excess of bad

Western landscape art. Ansel Adams photos are a big favorite,

perhaps to compensate for the dismal specter of the parking lot,

two acres of striped black asphalt, which features gravel landscaping

and some sickly-looking barrel cacti.

It has grown dark. Gail Thackeray has told me that the people

who work late here, are afraid of muggings in the parking lot.

It seems cruelly ironic that a woman tracing electronic racketeers

across the interstate labyrinth of Cyberspace should fear an assault

by a homeless derelict in the parking lot of her own workplace.

Perhaps this is less than coincidence. Perhaps these two seemingly

disparate worlds are somehow generating one another. The poor and

disenfranchised take to the streets, while the rich and computer-equipped,

safe in their bedrooms, chatter over their modems. Quite often the derelicts

kick the glass out and break in to the lawyers' offices, if they see something

they need or want badly enough.

I cross the parking lot to the street behind the Attorney General's office.

A pair of young tramps are bedding down on flattened sheets of cardboard,

under an alcove stretching over the sidewalk. One tramp wears a

glitter-covered T-shirt reading "CALIFORNIA" in Coca-Cola cursive.

His nose and cheeks look chafed and swollen; they glisten with

what seems to be Vaseline. The other tramp has a ragged long-sleeved

shirt and lank brown hair parted in the middle. They both wear blue jeans

coated in grime. They are both drunk.

"You guys crash here a lot?" I ask them.

They look at me warily. I am wearing black jeans, a black pinstriped

suit jacket and a black silk tie. I have odd shoes and a funny haircut.

"It's our first time here," says the red-nosed tramp unconvincingly.

There is a lot of cardboard stacked here. More than any two people could use.

"We usually stay at the Vinnie's down the street," says the brown-haired tramp,

puffing a Marlboro with a meditative air, as he sprawls with his head on

a blue nylon backpack. "The Saint Vincent's."

"You know who works in that building over there?" I ask, pointing.

The brown-haired tramp shrugs. "Some kind of attorneys, it says."

We urge one another to take it easy. I give them five bucks.

A block down the street I meet a vigorous workman who is wheeling along

some kind of industrial trolley; it has what appears to be a tank of

propane on it.

We make eye contact. We nod politely. I walk past him. "Hey!

Excuse me sir!" he says.

"Yes?" I say, stopping and turning.

"Have you seen," the guy says rapidly, "a black guy, about 6'7",

scars on both his cheeks like this--" he gestures-- "wears a

black baseball cap on backwards, wandering around here anyplace?"

"Sounds like I don't much WANT to meet him," I say.

"He took my wallet," says my new acquaintance.

"Took it this morning. Y'know, some people would be

SCARED of a guy like that. But I'm not scared.

I'm from Chicago. I'm gonna hunt him down.

We do things like that in Chicago."

"Yeah?"

"I went to the cops and now he's got an APB out on his ass,"

he says with satisfaction. "You run into him, you let me know."

"Okay," I say. "What is your name, sir?"

"Stanley. . . ."

"And how can I reach you?"

"Oh," Stanley says, in the same rapid voice,

"you don't have to reach, uh, me.

You can just call the cops. Go straight to the cops."

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a greasy piece of pasteboard.

"See, here's my report on him."

I look. The "report," the size of an index card, is labelled PRO-ACT:

Phoenix Residents Opposing Active Crime Threat. . . . or is it

Organized Against Crime Threat? In the darkening street it's hard

to read. Some kind of vigilante group? Neighborhood watch?

I feel very puzzled.

"Are you a police officer, sir?"

He smiles, seems very pleased by the question.

"No," he says.

"But you are a `Phoenix Resident?'"

"Would you believe a homeless person," Stanley says.

"Really? But what's with the. . . ." For the first time I take a close look

at Stanley's trolley. It's a rubber-wheeled thing of industrial metal,

but the device I had mistaken for a tank of propane is in fact a water-cooler.

Stanley also has an Army duffel-bag, stuffed tight as a sausage with clothing

or perhaps a tent, and, at the base of his trolley, a cardboard box and a

battered leather briefcase.

"I see," I say, quite at a loss. For the first time I notice that Stanley

has a wallet. He has not lost his wallet at all. It is in his back pocket

and chained to his belt. It's not a new wallet. It seems to have seen

a lot of wear.

"Well, you know how it is, brother," says Stanley.

Now that I know that he is homeless--A POSSIBLE

THREAT--my entire perception of him has changed

in an instant. His speech, which once seemed just

bright and enthusiastic, now seems to have a

dangerous tang of mania. "I have to do this!"

he assures me. "Track this guy down. . . .

It's a thing I do. . . you know. . .to keep myself together!"

He smiles, nods, lifts his trolley by its decaying rubber handgrips.

"Gotta work together, y'know," Stanley booms, his face alight

with cheerfulness, "the police can't do everything!"

The gentlemen I met in my stroll in downtown Phoenix

are the only computer illiterates in this book.

To regard them as irrelevant, however, would be a grave mistake.

As computerization spreads across society, the populace at large

is subjected to wave after wave of future shock. But, as a

necessary converse, the "computer community" itself is subjected

to wave after wave of incoming computer illiterates.

How will those currently enjoying America's digital bounty regard,

and treat, all this teeming refuse yearning to breathe free?

Will the electronic frontier be another Land of Opportunity--

or an armed and monitored enclave, where the disenfranchised

snuggle on their cardboard at the locked doors of our houses of justice?

Some people just don't get along with computers. They can't read.

They can't type. They just don't have it in their heads to master

arcane instructions in wirebound manuals. Somewhere, the process

of computerization of the populace will reach a limit. Some people--

quite decent people maybe, who might have thrived in any other situation--

will be left irretrievably outside the bounds. What's to be done with

these people, in the bright new shiny electroworld? How will they

be regarded, by the mouse-whizzing masters of cyberspace? With contempt?

Indifference? Fear?

In retrospect, it astonishes me to realize how quickly poor Stanley

became a perceived threat. Surprise and fear are closely allied feelings.

And the world of computing is full of surprises.

I met one character in the streets of Phoenix whose role in this book

is supremely and directly relevant. That personage was Stanley's giant

thieving scarred phantom. This phantasm is everywhere in this book.

He is the specter haunting cyberspace.

Sometimes he's a maniac vandal ready to smash the phone system

for no sane reason at all. Sometimes he's a fascist fed,

coldly programming his mighty mainframes to destroy our Bill of Rights.

Sometimes he's a telco bureaucrat, covertly conspiring to register all modems

in the service of an Orwellian surveillance regime. Mostly, though,

this fearsome phantom is a "hacker." He's strange, he doesn't belong,

he's not authorized, he doesn't smell right, he's not keeping his proper place,

he's not one of us. The focus of fear is the hacker, for much the same

reasons that Stanley's fancied assailant is black.

Stanley's demon can't go away, because he doesn't exist.

Despite singleminded and tremendous effort, he can't be arrested,

sued, jailed, or fired. The only constructive way to do ANYTHING

about him is to learn more about Stanley himself. This learning process

may be repellent, it may be ugly, it may involve grave elements of paranoiac

confusion, but it's necessary. Knowing Stanley requires something more

than class-crossing condescension. It requires more than steely

legal objectivity. It requires human compassion and sympathy.

To know Stanley is to know his demon. If you know the other guy's demon,

then maybe you'll come to know some of your own. You'll be able to

separate reality from illusion. And then you won't do your cause,

and yourself, more harm than good. Like poor damned Stanley from Chicago did.

#

The Federal Computer Investigations Committee (FCIC) is the most important

and influential organization in the realm of American computer-crime.

Since the police of other countries have largely taken their computer-crime

cues from American methods, the FCIC might well be called the most important

computer crime group in the world.

It is also, by federal standards, an organization of great unorthodoxy.

State and local investigators mix with federal agents. Lawyers,

financial auditors and computer-security programmers trade notes

with street cops. Industry vendors and telco security people show up

to explain their gadgetry and plead for protection and justice.

Private investigators, think-tank experts and industry pundits throw in

their two cents' worth. The FCIC is the antithesis of a formal bureaucracy.

Members of the FCIC are obscurely proud of this fact; they recognize their

group as aberrant, but are entirely convinced that this, for them,

outright WEIRD behavior is nevertheless ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY

to get their jobs done.

FCIC regulars --from the Secret Service, the FBI, the IRS,

the Department of Labor, the offices of federal attorneys,

state police, the Air Force, from military intelligence--

often attend meetings, held hither and thither across the country,

at their own expense. The FCIC doesn't get grants. It doesn't

charge membership fees. It doesn't have a boss. It has no headquarters--

just a mail drop in Washington DC, at the Fraud Division of the Secret Service.

It doesn't have a budget. It doesn't have schedules. It meets three times

a year--sort of. Sometimes it issues publications, but the FCIC

has no regular publisher, no treasurer, not even a secretary.

There are no minutes of FCIC meetings. Non-federal people are considered

"non-voting members," but there's not much in the way of elections.

There are no badges, lapel pins or certificates of membership.

Everyone is on a first-name basis. There are about forty of them.

Nobody knows how many, exactly. People come, people go--

sometimes people "go" formally but still hang around anyway.

Nobody has ever exactly figured out what "membership" of this

"Committee" actually entails.

Strange as this may seem to some, to anyone familiar with the social world

of computing, the "organization" of the FCIC is very recognizable.

For years now, economists and management theorists have speculated

that the tidal wave of the information revolution would destroy rigid,

pyramidal bureaucracies, where everything is top-down and

centrally controlled. Highly trained "employees" would take on

much greater autonomy, being self-starting, and self-motivating,

moving from place to place, task to task, with great speed and fluidity.

"Ad-hocracy" would rule, with groups of people spontaneously knitting

together across organizational lines, tackling the problem at hand,

applying intense computer-aided expertise to it, and then vanishing

whence they came.

This is more or less what has actually happened in the world of

federal computer investigation. With the conspicuous exception

of the phone companies, which are after all over a hundred years old,

practically EVERY organization that plays any important role in this book

functions just like the FCIC. The Chicago Task Force, the Arizona

Racketeering Unit, the Legion of Doom, the Phrack crowd, the

Electronic Frontier Foundation--they ALL look and act like "tiger teams"

or "user's groups." They are all electronic ad-hocracies leaping up

spontaneously to attempt to meet a need.

Some are police. Some are, by strict definition, criminals.

Some are political interest-groups. But every single group

has that same quality of apparent spontaneity--"Hey, gang!

My uncle's got a barn--let's put on a show!"

Every one of these groups is embarrassed by this "amateurism,"

and, for the sake of their public image in a world of non-computer people,

they all attempt to look as stern and formal and impressive as possible.

These electronic frontier-dwellers resemble groups of nineteenth-century

pioneers hankering after the respectability of statehood.

There are however, two crucial differences in the historical experience

of these "pioneers" of the nineteeth and twenty-first centuries.

First, powerful information technology DOES play into the hands of small,

fluid, loosely organized groups. There have always been "pioneers,"

"hobbyists," "amateurs," "dilettantes," "volunteers," "movements,"

"users' groups" and "blue-ribbon panels of experts" around.

But a group of this kind--when technically equipped to ship

huge amounts of specialized information, at lightning speed,

to its members, to government, and to the press--is simply

a different kind of animal. It's like the difference between

an eel and an electric eel.

The second crucial change is that American society is currently

in a state approaching permanent technological revolution.

In the world of computers particularly, it is practically impossible

to EVER stop being a "pioneer," unless you either drop dead or

deliberately jump off the bus. The scene has never slowed down

enough to become well-institutionalized. And after twenty, thirty,

forty years the "computer revolution" continues to spread,

to permeate new corners of society. Anything that really works

is already obsolete.

If you spend your entire working life as a "pioneer," the word "pioneer"

begins to lose its meaning. Your way of life looks less and less like

an introduction to something else" more stable and organized,

and more and more like JUST THE WAY THINGS ARE. A "permanent revolution"

is really a contradiction in terms. If "turmoil" lasts long enough,

it simply becomes A NEW KIND OF SOCIETY--still the same game of history,

but new players, new rules.

Apply this to the world of late twentieth-century law enforcement,

and the implications are novel and puzzling indeed. Any bureaucratic

rulebook you write about computer-crime will be flawed when you write it,

and almost an antique by the time it sees print. The fluidity and fast

reactions of the FCIC give them a great advantage in this regard,

which explains their success. Even with the best will in the world

(which it does not, in fact, possess) it is impossible for an organization

the size of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation to get up to speed

on the theory and practice of computer crime. If they tried to train all

their agents to do this, it would be SUICIDAL, as they would NEVER BE ABLE

TO DO ANYTHING ELSE.

The FBI does try to train its agents in the basics of electronic crime,

at their base in Quantico, Virginia. And the Secret Service, along with

many other law enforcement groups, runs quite successful and well-attended

training courses on wire fraud, business crime, and computer intrusion

at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC, pronounced "fletsy")

in Glynco, Georgia. But the best efforts of these bureaucracies does not

remove the absolute need for a "cutting-edge mess" like the FCIC.

For you see--the members of FCIC ARE the trainers of the rest

of law enforcement. Practically and literally speaking,

they are the Glynco computer-crime faculty by another name.

If the FCIC went over a cliff on a bus, the U.S. law enforcement

community would be rendered deaf dumb and blind in the world

of computer crime, and would swiftly feel a desperate need

to reinvent them. And this is no time to go starting from scratch.

On June 11, 1991, I once again arrived in Phoenix, Arizona,

for the latest meeting of the Federal Computer Investigations Committee.

This was more or less the twentieth meeting of this stellar group.

The count was uncertain, since nobody could figure out whether to

include the meetings of "the Colluquy," which is what the FCIC

was called in the mid-1980s before it had even managed to obtain

the dignity of its own acronym.

Since my last visit to Arizona, in May, the local AzScam bribery scandal

had resolved itself in a general muddle of humiliation. The Phoenix chief

of police, whose agents had videotaped nine state legislators up to no good,

had resigned his office in a tussle with the Phoenix city council over

the propriety of his undercover operations.

The Phoenix Chief could now join Gail Thackeray and eleven of her closest

associates in the shared experience of politically motivated unemployment.

As of June, resignations were still continuing at the Arizona Attorney

General's office, which could be interpreted as either a New Broom

Sweeping Clean or a Night of the Long Knives Part II, depending on

your point of view.

The meeting of FCIC was held at the Scottsdale Hilton Resort.

Scottsdale is a wealthy suburb of Phoenix, known as "Scottsdull"

to scoffing local trendies, but well-equipped with posh shopping-malls

and manicured lawns, while conspicuously undersupplied with homeless derelicts.

The Scottsdale Hilton Resort was a sprawling hotel in postmodern

crypto-Southwestern style. It featured a "mission bell tower"

plated in turquoise tile and vaguely resembling a Saudi minaret.

Inside it was all barbarically striped Santa Fe Style decor.

There was a health spa downstairs and a large oddly-shaped

pool in the patio. A poolside umbrella-stand offered Ben and Jerry's

politically correct Peace Pops.

I registered as a member of FCIC, attaining a handy discount rate,

then went in search of the Feds. Sure enough, at the back of the

hotel grounds came the unmistakable sound of Gail Thackeray

holding forth.

Since I had also attended the Computers Freedom and Privacy conference

(about which more later), this was the second time I had seen Thackeray

in a group of her law enforcement colleagues. Once again I was struck

by how simply pleased they seemed to see her. It was natural that she'd

get SOME attention, as Gail was one of two women in a group of some thirty men;

but there was a lot more to it than that.

Gail Thackeray personifies the social glue of the FCIC. They could give

a damn about her losing her job with the Attorney General. They were sorry

about it, of course, but hell, they'd all lost jobs. If they were the kind

of guys who liked steady boring jobs, they would never have gotten into

computer work in the first place.

I wandered into her circle and was immediately introduced to five strangers.

The conditions of my visit at FCIC were reviewed. I would not quote

anyone directly. I would not tie opinions expressed to the agencies

of the attendees. I would not (a purely hypothetical example)

report the conversation of a guy from the Secret Service talking

quite civilly to a guy from the FBI, as these two agencies NEVER

talk to each other, and the IRS (also present, also hypothetical)

NEVER TALKS TO ANYBODY.

Worse yet, I was forbidden to attend the first conference. And I didn't.

I have no idea what the FCIC was up to behind closed doors that afternoon.

I rather suspect that they were engaging in a frank and thorough confession

of their errors, goof-ups and blunders, as this has been a feature of every

FCIC meeting since their legendary Memphis beer-bust of 1986. Perhaps the

single greatest attraction of FCIC is that it is a place where you can go,

let your hair down, and completely level with people who actually comprehend

what you are talking about. Not only do they understand you, but they

REALLY PAY ATTENTION, they are GRATEFUL FOR YOUR INSIGHTS, and they

FORGIVE YOU, which in nine cases out of ten is something even your

boss can't do, because as soon as you start talking "ROM," "BBS,"

or "T-1 trunk," his eyes glaze over.

I had nothing much to do that afternoon. The FCIC were beavering away

in their conference room. Doors were firmly closed, windows too dark

to peer through. I wondered what a real hacker, a computer intruder,

would do at a meeting like this.

The answer came at once. He would "trash" the place. Not reduce the place

to trash in some orgy of vandalism; that's not the use of the term in the

hacker milieu. No, he would quietly EMPTY THE TRASH BASKETS and silently

raid any valuable data indiscreetly thrown away.

Journalists have been known to do this. (Journalists hunting information

have been known to do almost every single unethical thing that hackers

have ever done. They also throw in a few awful techniques all their own.)

The legality of `trashing' is somewhat dubious but it is not in fact

flagrantly illegal. It was, however, absurd to contemplate trashing the FCIC.

These people knew all about trashing. I wouldn't last fifteen seconds.

The idea sounded interesting, though. I'd been hearing a lot about

the practice lately. On the spur of the moment, I decided I would try

trashing the office ACROSS THE HALL from the FCIC, an area which had

nothing to do with the investigators.

The office was tiny; six chairs, a table. . . . Nevertheless, it was open,

so I dug around in its plastic trash can.

To my utter astonishment, I came up with the torn scraps of a SPRINT

long-distance phone bill. More digging produced a bank statement

and the scraps of a hand-written letter, along with gum, cigarette ashes,

candy wrappers and a day-old-issue of USA TODAY.

The trash went back in its receptacle while the scraps of data went into

my travel bag. I detoured through the hotel souvenir shop for some

Scotch tape and went up to my room.

Coincidence or not, it was quite true. Some poor soul had, in fact,

thrown a SPRINT bill into the hotel's trash. Date May 1991,

total amount due: $252.36. Not a business phone, either,

but a residential bill, in the name of someone called Evelyn

(not her real name). Evelyn's records showed a ## PAST DUE BILL ##!

Here was her nine-digit account ID. Here was a stern computer-printed warning:

"TREAT YOUR FONCARD AS YOU WOULD ANY CREDIT CARD. TO SECURE AGAINST FRAUD,

NEVER GIVE YOUR FONCARD NUMBER OVER THE PHONE UNLESS YOU INITIATED THE CALL.

IF YOU RECEIVE SUSPICIOUS CALLS PLEASE NOTIFY CUSTOMER SERVICE IMMEDIATELY!"

I examined my watch. Still plenty of time left for the FCIC to carry on.

I sorted out the scraps of Evelyn's SPRINT bill and re-assembled them with

fresh Scotch tape. Here was her ten-digit FONCARD number. Didn't seem

to have the ID number necessary to cause real fraud trouble.

I did, however, have Evelyn's home phone number. And the phone numbers

for a whole crowd of Evelyn's long-distance friends and acquaintances.

In San Diego, Folsom, Redondo, Las Vegas, La Jolla, Topeka, and Northampton

Massachusetts. Even somebody in Australia!

I examined other documents. Here was a bank statement. It was Evelyn's

IRA account down at a bank in San Mateo California (total balance $1877.20).

Here was a charge-card bill for $382.64. She was paying it off bit by bit.

Driven by motives that were completely unethical and prurient,

I now examined the handwritten notes. They had been torn fairly

thoroughly, so much so that it took me almost an entire five minutes

to reassemble them.

They were drafts of a love letter. They had been written on

the lined stationery of Evelyn's employer, a biomedical company.

Probably written at work when she should have been doing something else.

"Dear Bob," (not his real name) "I guess in everyone's life there comes

a time when hard decisions have to be made, and this is a difficult one

for me--very upsetting. Since you haven't called me, and I don't understand

why, I can only surmise it's because you don't want to. I thought I would

have heard from you Friday. I did have a few unusual problems with my phone

and possibly you tried, I hope so.

"Robert, you asked me to `let go'. . . ."

The first note ended. UNUSUAL PROBLEMS WITH HER PHONE?

I looked swiftly at the next note.

"Bob, not hearing from you for the whole weekend has left me very perplexed. . . ."

Next draft.

"Dear Bob, there is so much I don't understand right now, and I wish I did.

I wish I could talk to you, but for some unknown reason you have elected not

to call--this is so difficult for me to understand. . . ."

She tried again.

"Bob, Since I have always held you in such high esteem, I had every hope that

we could remain good friends, but now one essential ingredient is missing--

respect. Your ability to discard people when their purpose is served is

appalling to me. The kindest thing you could do for me now is to leave me

alone. You are no longer welcome in my heart or home. . . ."

Try again.

"Bob, I wrote a very factual note to you to say how much respect I had lost

for you, by the way you treat people, me in particular, so uncaring and cold.

The kindest thing you can do for me is to leave me alone entirely,

as you are no longer welcome in my heart or home. I would appreciate it

if you could retire your debt to me as soon as possible--I wish no link

to you in any way. Sincerely, Evelyn."

Good heavens, I thought, the bastard actually owes her money!

I turned to the next page.

"Bob: very simple. GOODBYE! No more mind games--no more fascination--

no more coldness--no more respect for you! It's over--Finis. Evie"

There were two versions of the final brushoff letter, but they read about

the same. Maybe she hadn't sent it. The final item in my illicit and

shameful booty was an envelope addressed to "Bob" at his home address,

but it had no stamp on it and it hadn't been mailed.

Maybe she'd just been blowing off steam because her rascal boyfriend

had neglected to call her one weekend. Big deal. Maybe they'd kissed

and made up, maybe she and Bob were down at Pop's Chocolate Shop now,

sharing a malted. Sure.

Easy to find out. All I had to do was call Evelyn up. With a half-clever

story and enough brass-plated gall I could probably trick the truth out of her.

Phone-phreaks and hackers deceive people over the phone all the time.

It's called "social engineering." Social engineering is a very common practice

in the underground, and almost magically effective. Human beings are almost

always the weakest link in computer security. The simplest way to learn

Things You Are Not Meant To Know is simply to call up and exploit the

knowledgeable people. With social engineering, you use the bits of specialized

knowledge you already have as a key, to manipulate people into believing

that you are legitimate. You can then coax, flatter, or frighten them into

revealing almost anything you want to know. Deceiving people (especially

over the phone) is easy and fun. Exploiting their gullibility is very

gratifying; it makes you feel very superior to them.

If I'd been a malicious hacker on a trashing raid, I would now have Evelyn

very much in my power. Given all this inside data, it wouldn't take much

effort at all to invent a convincing lie. If I were ruthless enough,

and jaded enough, and clever enough, this momentary indiscretion of hers--

maybe committed in tears, who knows--could cause her a whole world of

confusion and grief.

I didn't even have to have a MALICIOUS motive. Maybe I'd be "on her side,"

and call up Bob instead, and anonymously threaten to break both his kneecaps

if he didn't take Evelyn out for a steak dinner pronto. It was still

profoundly NONE OF MY BUSINESS. To have gotten this knowledge at all

was a sordid act and to use it would be to inflict a sordid injury.

To do all these awful things would require exactly zero high-tech expertise.

All it would take was the willingness to do it and a certain amount

of bent imagination.

I went back downstairs. The hard-working FCIC, who had labored forty-five

minutes over their schedule, were through for the day, and adjourned to the

hotel bar. We all had a beer.

I had a chat with a guy about "Isis," or rather IACIS,

the International Association of Computer Investigation Specialists.

They're into "computer forensics," the techniques of picking computer-

systems apart without destroying vital evidence. IACIS, currently run

out of Oregon, is comprised of investigators in the U.S., Canada, Taiwan

and Ireland. "Taiwan and Ireland?" I said. Are TAIWAN and IRELAND

really in the forefront of this stuff? Well not exactly, my informant

admitted. They just happen to have been the first ones to have caught

on by word of mouth. Still, the international angle counts, because this

is obviously an international problem. Phone-lines go everywhere.

There was a Mountie here from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

He seemed to be having quite a good time. Nobody had flung this

Canadian out because he might pose a foreign security risk.

These are cyberspace cops. They still worry a lot about "jurisdictions,"

but mere geography is the least of their troubles.

NASA had failed to show. NASA suffers a lot from computer intrusions,

in particular from Australian raiders and a well-trumpeted Chaos

Computer Club case, and in 1990 there was a brief press flurry

when it was revealed that one of NASA's Houston branch-exchanges

had been systematically ripped off by a gang of phone-phreaks.

But the NASA guys had had their funding cut. They were stripping everything.

Air Force OSI, its Office of Special Investigations, is the ONLY federal

entity dedicated full-time to computer security. They'd been expected

to show up in force, but some of them had cancelled--a Pentagon budget pinch.

As the empties piled up, the guys began joshing around and telling war-stories.

"These are cops," Thackeray said tolerantly. "If they're not talking shop

they talk about women and beer."

I heard the story about the guy who, asked for "a copy" of a computer disk,

PHOTOCOPIED THE LABEL ON IT. He put the floppy disk onto the glass plate

of a photocopier. The blast of static when the copier worked completely

erased all the real information on the disk.

Some other poor souls threw a whole bag of confiscated diskettes

into the squad-car trunk next to the police radio. The powerful radio

signal blasted them, too.

We heard a bit about Dave Geneson, the first computer prosecutor,

a mainframe-runner in Dade County, turned lawyer. Dave Geneson

was one guy who had hit the ground running, a signal virtue

in making the transition to computer-crime. It was generally

agreed that it was easier to learn the world of computers first,

then police or prosecutorial work. You could take certain computer

people and train 'em to successful police work--but of course they

had to have the COP MENTALITY. They had to have street smarts.

Patience. Persistence. And discretion. You've got to make sure

they're not hot-shots, show-offs, "cowboys."

Most of the folks in the bar had backgrounds in military intelligence,

or drugs, or homicide. It was rudely opined that "military intelligence"

was a contradiction in terms, while even the grisly world of homicide

was considered cleaner than drug enforcement. One guy had been 'way

undercover doing dope-work in Europe for four years straight.

"I'm almost recovered now," he said deadpan, with the acid black humor

that is pure cop. "Hey, now I can say FUCKER without putting MOTHER

in front of it."

"In the cop world," another guy said earnestly, "everything is good and bad,

black and white. In the computer world everything is gray."

One guy--a founder of the FCIC, who'd been with the group

since it was just the Colluquy--described his own introduction

to the field. He'd been a Washington DC homicide guy called in

on a "hacker" case. From the word "hacker," he naturally assumed

he was on the trail of a knife-wielding marauder, and went to the

computer center expecting blood and a body. When he finally figured

out what was happening there (after loudly demanding, in vain,

that the programmers "speak English"), he called headquarters

and told them he was clueless about computers. They told him nobody

else knew diddly either, and to get the hell back to work.

So, he said, he had proceeded by comparisons. By analogy. By metaphor.

"Somebody broke in to your computer, huh?" Breaking and entering;

I can understand that. How'd he get in? "Over the phone-lines."

Harassing phone-calls, I can understand that! What we need here

is a tap and a trace!

It worked. It was better than nothing. And it worked a lot faster

when he got hold of another cop who'd done something similar.

And then the two of them got another, and another, and pretty soon

the Colluquy was a happening thing. It helped a lot that everybody

seemed to know Carlton Fitzpatrick, the data-processing trainer in Glynco.

The ice broke big-time in Memphis in '86. The Colluquy had attracted

a bunch of new guys--Secret Service, FBI, military, other feds, heavy guys.

Nobody wanted to tell anybody anything. They suspected that if word got back

to the home office they'd all be fired. They passed an uncomfortably

guarded afternoon.

The formalities got them nowhere. But after the formal session was over,

the organizers brought in a case of beer. As soon as the participants

knocked it off with the bureaucratic ranks and turf-fighting, everything

changed. "I bared my soul," one veteran reminisced proudly. By nightfall

they were building pyramids of empty beer-cans and doing everything

but composing a team fight song.

FCIC were not the only computer-crime people around. There was DATTA

(District Attorneys' Technology Theft Association), though they mostly

specialized in chip theft, intellectual property, and black-market cases.

There was HTCIA (High Tech Computer Investigators Association),

also out in Silicon Valley, a year older than FCIC and featuring

brilliant people like Donald Ingraham. There was LEETAC

(Law Enforcement Electronic Technology Assistance Committee)

in Florida, and computer-crime units in Illinois and Maryland

and Texas and Ohio and Colorado and Pennsylvania. But these were

local groups. FCIC were the first to really network nationally

and on a federal level.

FCIC people live on the phone lines. Not on bulletin board systems--

they know very well what boards are, and they know that boards aren't secure.

Everyone in the FCIC has a voice-phone bill like you wouldn't believe.

FCIC people have been tight with the telco people for a long time.

Telephone cyberspace is their native habitat.

FCIC has three basic sub-tribes: the trainers, the security people,

and the investigators. That's why it's called an "Investigations

Committee" with no mention of the term "computer-crime"--the dreaded

"C-word." FCIC, officially, is "an association of agencies rather

than individuals;" unofficially, this field is small enough that

the influence of individuals and individual expertise is paramount.

Attendance is by invitation only, and most everyone in FCIC considers

himself a prophet without honor in his own house.

Again and again I heard this, with different terms but identical

sentiments. "I'd been sitting in the wilderness talking to myself."

"I was totally isolated." "I was desperate." "FCIC is the best

thing there is about computer crime in America." "FCIC is what

really works." "This is where you hear real people telling you

what's really happening out there, not just lawyers picking nits."

"We taught each other everything we knew."

The sincerity of these statements convinces me that this is true.

FCIC is the real thing and it is invaluable. It's also very sharply

at odds with the rest of the traditions and power structure

in American law enforcement. There probably hasn't been anything

around as loose and go-getting as the FCIC since the start of the

U.S. Secret Service in the 1860s. FCIC people are living like

twenty-first-century people in a twentieth-century environment,

and while there's a great deal to be said for that, there's also

a great deal to be said against it, and those against it happen

to control the budgets.

I listened to two FCIC guys from Jersey compare life histories.

One of them had been a biker in a fairly heavy-duty gang in the 1960s.

"Oh, did you know so-and-so?" said the other guy from Jersey.

"Big guy, heavyset?"

"Yeah, I knew him."

"Yeah, he was one of ours. He was our plant in the gang."

"Really? Wow! Yeah, I knew him. Helluva guy."

Thackeray reminisced at length about being tear-gassed blind

in the November 1969 antiwar protests in Washington Circle,

covering them for her college paper. "Oh yeah, I was there,"

said another cop. "Glad to hear that tear gas hit somethin'.

Haw haw haw." He'd been so blind himself, he confessed,

that later that day he'd arrested a small tree.

FCIC are an odd group, sifted out by coincidence and necessity,

and turned into a new kind of cop. There are a lot of specialized

cops in the world--your bunco guys, your drug guys, your tax guys,

but the only group that matches FCIC for sheer isolation are probably

the child-pornography people. Because they both deal with conspirators

who are desperate to exchange forbidden data and also desperate to hide;

and because nobody else in law enforcement even wants to hear about it.

FCIC people tend to change jobs a lot. They tend not to get the equipment

and training they want and need. And they tend to get sued quite often.

As the night wore on and a band set up in the bar, the talk grew darker.

Nothing ever gets done in government, someone opined, until there's

a DISASTER. Computing disasters are awful, but there's no denying

that they greatly help the credibility of FCIC people. The Internet Worm,

for instance. "For years we'd been warning about that--but it's nothing

compared to what's coming." They expect horrors, these people.

They know that nothing will really get done until there is a horror.

#

Next day we heard an extensive briefing from a guy who'd been a computer cop,

gotten into hot water with an Arizona city council, and now installed

computer networks for a living (at a considerable rise in pay).

He talked about pulling fiber-optic networks apart.

Even a single computer, with enough peripherals, is a literal

"network"--a bunch of machines all cabled together, generally

with a complexity that puts stereo units to shame. FCIC people

invent and publicize methods of seizing computers and maintaining

their evidence. Simple things, sometimes, but vital rules of thumb

for street cops, who nowadays often stumble across a busy computer

in the midst of a drug investigation or a white-collar bust.

For instance: Photograph the system before you touch it.

Label the ends of all the cables before you detach anything.

"Park" the heads on the disk drives before you move them.

Get the diskettes. Don't put the diskettes in magnetic fields.

Don't write on diskettes with ballpoint pens. Get the manuals.

Get the printouts. Get the handwritten notes. Copy data before

you look at it, and then examine the copy instead of the original.

Now our lecturer distributed copied diagrams of a typical LAN

or "Local Area Network", which happened to be out of Connecticut.

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINE desktop computers, each with its own

peripherals. Three "file servers." Five "star couplers"

each with thirty-two ports. One sixteen-port coupler

off in the corner office. All these machines talking to each other,

distributing electronic mail, distributing software, distributing,

quite possibly, criminal evidence. All linked by high-capacity

fiber-optic cable. A bad guy--cops talk a about "bad guys"

--might be lurking on PC #47 lot or #123 and distributing

his ill doings onto some dupe's "personal" machine in

another office--or another floor--or, quite possibly,

two or three miles away! Or, conceivably, the evidence might

be "data-striped"--split up into meaningless slivers stored,

one by one, on a whole crowd of different disk drives.

The lecturer challenged us for solutions. I for one was utterly clueless.

As far as I could figure, the Cossacks were at the gate; there were probably

more disks in this single building than were seized during the entirety

of Operation Sundevil.

"Inside informant," somebody said. Right. There's always the human angle,

something easy to forget when contemplating the arcane recesses of high

technology. Cops are skilled at getting people to talk, and computer people,

given a chair and some sustained attention, will talk about their computers

till their throats go raw. There's a case on record of a single question--

"How'd you do it?"--eliciting a forty-five-minute videotaped confession

from a computer criminal who not only completely incriminated himself

but drew helpful diagrams.

Computer people talk. Hackers BRAG. Phone-phreaks

talk PATHOLOGICALLY--why else are they stealing phone-codes,

if not to natter for ten hours straight to their friends

on an opposite seaboard? Computer-literate people do

in fact possess an arsenal of nifty gadgets and techniques

that would allow them to conceal all kinds of exotic skullduggery,

and if they could only SHUT UP about it, they could probably

get away with all manner of amazing information-crimes.

But that's just not how it works--or at least,

that's not how it's worked SO FAR.

Most every phone-phreak ever busted has swiftly implicated his mentors,

his disciples, and his friends. Most every white-collar computer-criminal,

smugly convinced that his clever scheme is bulletproof, swiftly learns

otherwise when, for the first time in his life, an actual no-kidding

policeman leans over, grabs the front of his shirt, looks him right

in the eye and says: "All right, ASSHOLE--you and me are going downtown!"

All the hardware in the world will not insulate your nerves from

these actual real-life sensations of terror and guilt.

Cops know ways to get from point A to point Z without thumbing

through every letter in some smart-ass bad-guy's alphabet.

Cops know how to cut to the chase. Cops know a lot of things

other people don't know.

Hackers know a lot of things other people don't know, too.

Hackers know, for instance, how to sneak into your computer

through the phone-lines. But cops can show up RIGHT ON YOUR DOORSTEP

and carry off YOU and your computer in separate steel boxes.

A cop interested in hackers can grab them and grill them.

A hacker interested in cops has to depend on hearsay,

underground legends, and what cops are willing to publicly reveal.

And the Secret Service didn't get named "the SECRET Service"

because they blab a lot.

Some people, our lecturer informed us, were under the mistaken

impression that it was "impossible" to tap a fiber-optic line.

Well, he announced, he and his son had just whipped up a

fiber-optic tap in his workshop at home. He passed it around

the audience, along with a circuit-covered LAN plug-in card

so we'd all recognize one if we saw it on a case. We all had a look.

The tap was a classic "Goofy Prototype"--a thumb-length rounded

metal cylinder with a pair of plastic brackets on it.

From one end dangled three thin black cables, each of which ended

in a tiny black plastic cap. When you plucked the safety-cap

off the end of a cable, you could see the glass fiber--

no thicker than a pinhole.

Our lecturer informed us that the metal cylinder was a

"wavelength division multiplexer." Apparently, what one did

was to cut the fiber-optic cable, insert two of the legs into

the cut to complete the network again, and then read any passing data

on the line by hooking up the third leg to some kind of monitor.

Sounded simple enough. I wondered why nobody had thought of it before.

I also wondered whether this guy's son back at the workshop had any

teenage friends.

We had a break. The guy sitting next to me was wearing a giveaway

baseball cap advertising the Uzi submachine gun. We had a desultory chat

about the merits of Uzis. Long a favorite of the Secret Service,

it seems Uzis went out of fashion with the advent of the Persian Gulf War,

our Arab allies taking some offense at Americans toting Israeli weapons.

Besides, I was informed by another expert, Uzis jam. The equivalent weapon

of choice today is the Heckler & Koch, manufactured in Germany.

The guy with the Uzi cap was a forensic photographer. He also did a lot

of photographic surveillance work in computer crime cases. He used to,

that is, until the firings in Phoenix. He was now a private investigator and,

with his wife, ran a photography salon specializing in weddings and portrait

photos. At--one must repeat--a considerable rise in income.

He was still FCIC. If you were FCIC, and you needed to talk

to an expert about forensic photography, well, there he was,

willing and able. If he hadn't shown up, people would have missed him.

Our lecturer had raised the point that preliminary investigation

of a computer system is vital before any seizure is undertaken.

It's vital to understand how many machines are in there, what kinds

there are, what kind of operating system they use, how many people

use them, where the actual data itself is stored. To simply barge into

an office demanding "all the computers" is a recipe for swift disaster.

This entails some discreet inquiries beforehand. In fact, what it

entails is basically undercover work. An intelligence operation.

SPYING, not to put too fine a point on it.

In a chat after the lecture, I asked an attendee whether "trashing" might work.

I received a swift briefing on the theory and practice of "trash covers."

Police "trash covers," like "mail covers" or like wiretaps, require the

agreement of a judge. This obtained, the "trashing" work of cops is just

like that of hackers, only more so and much better organized. So much so,

I was informed, that mobsters in Phoenix make extensive use of locked

garbage cans picked up by a specialty high-security trash company.

In one case, a tiger team of Arizona cops had trashed a local residence

for four months. Every week they showed up on the municipal garbage truck,

disguised as garbagemen, and carried the contents of the suspect cans off

to a shade tree, where they combed through the garbage--a messy task,

especially considering that one of the occupants was undergoing

kidney dialysis. All useful documents were cleaned, dried and examined.

A discarded typewriter-ribbon was an especially valuable source of data,

as its long one-strike ribbon of film contained the contents of every

letter mailed out of the house. The letters were neatly retyped by

a police secretary equipped with a large desk-mounted magnifying glass.

There is something weirdly disquieting about the whole subject of

"trashing"-- an unsuspected and indeed rather disgusting mode of

deep personal vulnerability. Things that we pass by every day,

that we take utterly for granted, can be exploited with so little work.

Once discovered, the knowledge of these vulnerabilities tend to spread.

Take the lowly subject of MANHOLE COVERS. The humble manhole cover

reproduces many of the dilemmas of computer-security in miniature.

Manhole covers are, of course, technological artifacts, access-points

to our buried urban infrastructure. To the vast majority of us,

manhole covers are invisible. They are also vulnerable. For many years now,

the Secret Service has made a point of caulking manhole covers along all routes

of the Presidential motorcade. This is, of course, to deter terrorists from

leaping out of underground ambush or, more likely, planting remote-control

car-smashing bombs beneath the street.

Lately, manhole covers have seen more and more criminal exploitation,

especially in New York City. Recently, a telco in New York City

discovered that a cable television service had been sneaking into

telco manholes and installing cable service alongside the phone-lines--

WITHOUT PAYING ROYALTIES. New York companies have also suffered a

general plague of (a) underground copper cable theft; (b) dumping of garbage,

including toxic waste, and (c) hasty dumping of murder victims.

Industry complaints reached the ears of an innovative New England

industrial-security company, and the result was a new product known

as "the Intimidator," a thick titanium-steel bolt with a precisely machined

head that requires a special device to unscrew. All these "keys" have registered

serial numbers kept on file with the manufacturer. There are now some

thousands of these "Intimidator" bolts being sunk into American pavements

wherever our President passes, like some macabre parody of strewn roses.

They are also spreading as fast as steel dandelions around US military bases

and many centers of private industry.

Quite likely it has never occurred to you to peer under a manhole cover,

perhaps climb down and walk around down there with a flashlight, just to see

what it's like. Formally speaking, this might be trespassing, but if you

didn't hurt anything, and didn't make an absolute habit of it, nobody would

really care. The freedom to sneak under manholes was likely a freedom

you never intended to exercise.

You now are rather less likely to have that freedom at all.

You may never even have missed it until you read about it here,

but if you're in New York City it's gone, and elsewhere it's likely going.

This is one of the things that crime, and the reaction to

crime, does to us.

The tenor of the meeting now changed as the Electronic Frontier Foundation

arrived. The EFF, whose personnel and history will be examined in detail

in the next chapter, are a pioneering civil liberties group who arose in

direct response to the Hacker Crackdown of 1990.

Now Mitchell Kapor, the Foundation's president, and Michael Godwin,

its chief attorney, were confronting federal law enforcement MANO A MANO

for the first time ever. Ever alert to the manifold uses of publicity,

Mitch Kapor and Mike Godwin had brought their own journalist in tow:

Robert Draper, from Austin, whose recent well-received book about

ROLLING STONE magazine was still on the stands. Draper was on assignment

for TEXAS MONTHLY.

The Steve Jackson/EFF civil lawsuit against the Chicago Computer Fraud

and Abuse Task Force was a matter of considerable regional interest in Texas.

There were now two Austinite journalists here on the case. In fact,

counting Godwin (a former Austinite and former journalist) there were

three of us. Lunch was like Old Home Week.

Later, I took Draper up to my hotel room. We had a long frank talk

about the case, networking earnestly like a miniature freelance-journo

version of the FCIC: privately confessing the numerous blunders

of journalists covering the story, and trying hard to figure out

who was who and what the hell was really going on out there.

I showed Draper everything I had dug out of the Hilton trashcan.

We pondered the ethics of "trashing" for a while, and agreed

that they were dismal. We also agreed that finding a SPRINT

bill on your first time out was a heck of a coincidence.

First I'd "trashed"--and now, mere hours later, I'd bragged to someone else.

Having entered the lifestyle of hackerdom, I was now, unsurprisingly,

following its logic. Having discovered something remarkable through

a surreptitious action, I of course HAD to "brag," and to drag the passing

Draper into my iniquities. I felt I needed a witness. Otherwise nobody

would have believed what I'd discovered. . . .

Back at the meeting, Thackeray cordially, if rather tentatively,

introduced Kapor and Godwin to her colleagues. Papers were distributed.

Kapor took center stage. The brilliant Bostonian high-tech entrepreneur,

normally the hawk in his own administration and quite an effective

public speaker, seemed visibly nervous, and frankly admitted as much.

He began by saying he consided computer-intrusion to be morally wrong,

and that the EFF was not a "hacker defense fund," despite what had appeared

in print. Kapor chatted a bit about the basic motivations of his group,

emphasizing their good faith and willingness to listen and seek common ground

with law enforcement--when, er, possible.

Then, at Godwin's urging, Kapor suddenly remarked that EFF's own Internet

machine had been "hacked" recently, and that EFF did not consider

this incident amusing.

After this surprising confession, things began to loosen up

quite rapidly. Soon Kapor was fielding questions, parrying objections,

challenging definitions, and juggling paradigms with something akin

to his usual gusto.

Kapor seemed to score quite an effect with his shrewd and skeptical analysis

of the merits of telco "Caller-ID" services. (On this topic, FCIC and EFF

have never been at loggerheads, and have no particular established earthworks

to defend.) Caller-ID has generally been promoted as a privacy service

for consumers, a presentation Kapor described as a "smokescreen,"

the real point of Caller-ID being to ALLOW CORPORATE CUSTOMERS TO BUILD

EXTENSIVE COMMERCIAL DATABASES ON EVERYBODY WHO PHONES OR FAXES THEM.

Clearly, few people in the room had considered this possibility,

except perhaps for two late-arrivals from US WEST RBOC security,

who chuckled nervously.

Mike Godwin then made an extensive presentation on

"Civil Liberties Implications of Computer Searches and Seizures."

Now, at last, we were getting to the real nitty-gritty here,

real political horse-trading. The audience listened with close

attention, angry mutters rising occasionally: "He's trying to

teach us our jobs!" "We've been thinking about this for years!

We think about these issues every day!" "If I didn't seize the works,

I'd be sued by the guy's victims!" "I'm violating the law if I leave

ten thousand disks full of illegal PIRATED SOFTWARE and STOLEN CODES!"

"It's our job to make sure people don't trash the Constitution--

we're the DEFENDERS of the Constitution!" "We seize stuff when

we know it will be forfeited anyway as restitution for the victim!"

"If it's forfeitable, then don't get a search warrant, get a

forfeiture warrant," Godwin suggested coolly. He further remarked

that most suspects in computer crime don't WANT to see their computers

vanish out the door, headed God knew where, for who knows how long.

They might not mind a search, even an extensive search, but they want

their machines searched on-site.

"Are they gonna feed us?" somebody asked sourly.

"How about if you take copies of the data?" Godwin parried.

"That'll never stand up in court."

"Okay, you make copies, give THEM the copies, and take the originals."

Hmmm.

Godwin championed bulletin-board systems as repositories of First Amendment

protected free speech. He complained that federal computer-crime training

manuals gave boards a bad press, suggesting that they are hotbeds of crime

haunted by pedophiles and crooks, whereas the vast majority of the nation's

thousands of boards are completely innocuous, and nowhere near so

romantically suspicious.

People who run boards violently resent it when their systems are seized,

and their dozens (or hundreds) of users look on in abject horror.

Their rights of free expression are cut short. Their right to associate

with other people is infringed. And their privacy is violated as their

private electronic mail becomes police property.

Not a soul spoke up to defend the practice of seizing boards.

The issue passed in chastened silence. Legal principles aside--

(and those principles cannot be settled without laws passed or

court precedents)--seizing bulletin boards has become public-relations

poison for American computer police.

And anyway, it's not entirely necessary. If you're a cop, you can get 'most

everything you need from a pirate board, just by using an inside informant.

Plenty of vigilantes--well, CONCERNED CITIZENS--will inform police the moment

they see a pirate board hit their area (and will tell the police all about it,

in such technical detail, actually, that you kinda wish they'd shut up).

They will happily supply police with extensive downloads or printouts.

It's IMPOSSIBLE to keep this fluid electronic information out of the

hands of police.

Some people in the electronic community become enraged at the prospect

of cops "monitoring" bulletin boards. This does have touchy aspects,

as Secret Service people in particular examine bulletin boards with

some regularity. But to expect electronic police to be deaf dumb

and blind in regard to this particular medium rather flies in the face

of common sense. Police watch television, listen to radio, read newspapers

and magazines; why should the new medium of boards be different?

Cops can exercise the same access to electronic information

as everybody else. As we have seen, quite a few computer

police maintain THEIR OWN bulletin boards, including anti-hacker

"sting" boards, which have generally proven quite effective.

As a final clincher, their Mountie friends in Canada (and colleagues

in Ireland and Taiwan) don't have First Amendment or American

constitutional restrictions, but they do have phone lines,

and can call any bulletin board in America whenever they please.

The same technological determinants that play into the hands of hackers,

phone phreaks and software pirates can play into the hands of police.

"Technological determinants" don't have ANY human allegiances.

They're not black or white, or Establishment or Underground,

or pro-or-anti anything.

Godwin complained at length about what he called "the Clever Hobbyist

hypothesis" --the assumption that the "hacker" you're busting is clearly

a technical genius, and must therefore by searched with extreme thoroughness.

So: from the law's point of view, why risk missing anything? Take the works.

Take the guy's computer. Take his books. Take his notebooks.

Take the electronic drafts of his love letters. Take his Walkman.

Take his wife's computer. Take his dad's computer. Take his kid

sister's computer. Take his employer's computer. Take his compact disks--

they MIGHT be CD-ROM disks, cunningly disguised as pop music.

Take his laser printer--he might have hidden something vital in the

printer's 5meg of memory. Take his software manuals and hardware

documentation. Take his science-fiction novels and his simulation-

gaming books. Take his Nintendo Game-Boy and his Pac-Man arcade game.

Take his answering machine, take his telephone out of the wall.

Take anything remotely suspicious.

Godwin pointed out that most "hackers" are not, in fact, clever

genius hobbyists. Quite a few are crooks and grifters who don't

have much in the way of technical sophistication; just some rule-of-thumb

rip-off techniques. The same goes for most fifteen-year-olds who've

downloaded a code-scanning program from a pirate board. There's no

real need to seize everything in sight. It doesn't require an entire

computer system and ten thousand disks to prove a case in court.