Harrisburg Oh Harrisburg; The plant is melting down; The people out in Harrisbug; Are getting out of town; And when this stuff gets in; You cannot get it out .
-- from `Harrisburg', Red Sails in the Sunset.
Anthrax thought he would never get caught. But in some strange way, he
also wanted to get caught. When he thought about being busted, he
found himself filled with a strange emotion--impatience. Bring on the
impending doom and be done with it. Or perhaps it was frustration at
how inept his opponents seemed to be. They kept losing his trail and
he was impatient with their incompetence. It was more fun outwitting a
worthy opponent.
Perhaps he didn't really want to be caught so much as tracked. Anthrax
liked the idea of the police tracking him, of the system
administrators pursuing him. He liked to follow the trail of their
investigations through other people's mail. He especially liked being
on-line, watching them trying to figure out where he was coming from.
He would cleverly take control of their computers in ways they
couldn't see. He watched every character they typed, every spelling
error, every mistyped command, each twist and turn taken in the vain
hope of catching him.
He hadn't been caught back in early 1991, when it seemed everyone was
after him. In fact Anthrax nearly gave up hacking and phreaking
completely in that year after what he later called `The Fear of God'
speech.
Late at night, on a university computer system, he bumped into another
hacker. It wasn't an entirely uncommon experience. Once in a while,
hackers recognised another of their kind. Strange connections to
strange places in the middle of the night. Inconsistencies in process
names and sizes. The clues were visible for those who knew how to find
them.
The two hackers danced around each other, trying to determine who the
other was without giving away too much information. Finally the
mystery hacker asked Anthrax, `Are you a disease which affects sheep?'
Anthrax typed the simple answer back. `Yes.'
The other hacker revealed himself as Prime Suspect, one of the
International Subversives. Anthrax recognised the name. He had seen
Prime Suspect around on the BBSes, had read his postings. Before
Anthrax could get started on a friendly chat, the IS hacker jumped in
with an urgent warning.
He had unearthed emails showing the Feds were closing in on Anthrax.
The mail, obtained from system admins at Miden Pacific, described the
systems Anthrax had been visiting. It showed the phone connections he
had been using to get to them, some of which Telecom had traced back
to his phone. One of the admins had written, `We're on to him. I feel
really bad. He's seventeen years old and they are going to bust him
and ruin his life.' Anthrax felt a cold chill run down his spine.
Prime Suspect continued with the story. When he first came across the
email, he thought it referred to himself. The two hackers were the
same age and had evidently been breaking into the same systems. Prime
Suspect had freaked out over the mail. He took it back to the other
two IS hackers, and they talked it through. Most of the description
fitted, but a few of the details didn't seem to make sense. Prime
Suspect wasn't calling from a country exchange. The more they worked
it through, the clearer it became that the email must have been
referring to someone else. They ran through the list of other options
and Anthrax's name came up as a possibility. The IS hackers had all
seen him around a few systems and BBSes. Trax had even spoken to him
once on a conference call with another phreaker. They pieced together
what they knew of him and the picture fitted. The AFP were onto
Anthrax and they seemed to know a lot about him. They had traced his
telephone connection back to his house. They knew his age, which
implied they knew his name. The phone bills were in his parents'
names, so there may have been some personal surveillance of him. The
Feds were so close they were all but treading on his heels. The IS
hackers had been keeping an eye out for him, to warn him, but this was
the first time they had found him.
Anthrax thanked Prime Suspect and got out of the system. He sat frozen
in the night stillness. It was one thing to contemplate getting caught,
to carry mixed emotions on the hypothetical situation. It was another to
have the real prospect staring you in the face. In the morning, he
gathered up all his hacking papers, notes, manuals--everything. Three
trunks' worth of material. He carried it all to the back garden, lit a
bonfire and watched it burn. He vowed to give up hacking forever.
And he did give it up, for a time. But a few months later he somehow
found himself back in front of his computer screen, with his modem
purring. It was so tempting, so hard to let go. The police had never
shown up. Months had come and gone, still nothing. Prime Suspect must
have been wrong. Perhaps the AFP were after another hacker entirely.
Then, in October 1991, the AFP busted Prime Suspect, Mendax and Trax.
But Anthrax continued to hack, mostly on his own as usual, for another
two years. He reminded himself that the IS hackers worked in a team.
If the police hadn't nailed him when they busted the others, surely
they would never find him now. Further, he had become more skilled as
a hacker, better at covering his tracks, less likely to draw attention
to himself. He had other rationalisations too. The town where he lived
was so far away, the police would never bother travelling all the way
into the bush. The elusive Anthrax would remain at large forever, the
unvanquished Ned Kelly of the computer underground.
Mundane matters were on Anthrax's mind on the morning of 14 July 1994.
The removalists were due to arrive to take things from the half-empty
apartment he had shared with another student. His room-mate had
already departed and the place was a clutter of boxes stuffed with
clothes, tapes and books.
Anthrax sat in bed half-asleep, half-watching the `Today' show when he
heard the sound of a large vehicle pulling up outside. He looked out
the window expecting to see the removalists. What he saw instead was
at least four men in casual clothes running toward the house.
They were a little too enthusiastic for removalists and they split up
before getting to the door, with two men forking off toward opposite
sides of the building. One headed for the car port. Another dove
around the other side of the building. A third banged on the front
door. Anthrax shook himself awake.
The short, stocky guy at the front door was a worry. He had puffy,
longish hair and was wearing a sweatshirt and acid-wash jeans so tight
you could count the change in his back pocket. Bad ideas raced through
Anthrax's head. It looked like a home invasion. Thugs were going to
break into his home, tie him up and terrorise him before stealing all
his valuables.
`Open up. Open up,' the stocky one shouted, flashing a police badge.
Stunned, and still uncomprehending, Anthrax opened the door. `Do you
know who WE are?' the stocky one asked him.
Anthrax looked confused. No. Not sure.
`The Australian Federal Police.' The cop proceeded to read out the
search warrant.
What happened from this point forward is a matter of some debate. What
is fact is that the events of the raid and what
followed formed the basis of a formal complaint by Anthrax to the
Office of the Ombudsman and an internal investigation within the AFP.
The following is simply Anthrax's account of how it happened.
The stocky one barked at Anthrax, `Where's your computer?'
`What computer?' Anthrax looked blankly at the officer. He didn't have
a computer at his apartment. He used the uni's machines or friend's
computers.
`Your computer. Where is it? Which one of your friends has it?'
`No-one has it. I don't own one.'
`Well, when you decide to tell us where it is, you let us know.'
Yeah. Right. If Anthrax did have a hidden computer at uni, revealing
its location wasn't top of the must-do list.
The police pawed through his personal letters, quizzed Anthrax about
them. Who wrote this letter? Is he in the computer underground? What's
his address?
Anthrax said `no comment' more times than he could count. He saw a few
police moving into his bedroom and decided it was time to watch them
closely, make sure nothing was planted. He stood up to follow them in
and observe the search when one of the cops stopped him. Anthrax told
them he wanted a lawyer. One of the police looked on with disapproval.
`You must be guilty,' he told Anthrax. `Only guilty people ask for
lawyers. And here I was feeling sorry for you.'
Then one of the other officers dropped the bomb. `You know,' he began
casually, `we're also raiding your parents' house ...'
Anthrax freaked out. His mum would be hysterical. He asked to call his
mother on his mobile, the only phone then working in the apartment.
The police refused to let him touch his mobile. Then he asked to call
her from the pay phone across the street. The police refused again.
One of the officers, a tall, lanky cop, recognised a leverage point if
ever he saw one. He spread the guilt on thick.
`Your poor sick mum. How could you do this to your poor sick mum?
We're going to have to take her to Melbourne for questioning, maybe
even to charge her, arrest her, take her to jail. You make me sick. I
feel sorry for a mother having a son like you who is going to cause
her all this trouble.'
From that moment on, the tall officer took every opportunity to talk
about Anthrax's `poor sick mum'. He wouldn't let up. Not that he
probably knew the first thing about scleroderma, the creeping fatal
disease which affected her. Anthrax often thought about the pain his
mother was in as the disease worked its way from her extremities to
her internal organs. Scleroderma toughened the skin on the fingers and
feet, but made them overly sensitive, particularly to changes in
weather. It typically affected women native to hot climates who moved
to colder environments.
Anthrax's mobile rang. His mother. It had to be. The police wouldn't
let him answer it.
The tall officer picked up the call, then turned to the stocky cop and
said in a mocking Indian accent, `It is some woman with an Indian
accent'. Anthrax felt like jumping out of his chair and grabbing the
phone. He felt like doing some other things too, things that would
have undoubtedly landed him in prison then and there.
The stocky cop nodded to the tall one, who handed the mobile to
Anthrax.
At first, he couldn't make sense of what his mother was saying. She
was a terrified mess. Anthrax tried to calm her down. Then she tried
to comfort him.
`Don't worry. It will be all right,' she said it, over and over. No
matter what Anthrax said, she repeated that phrase, like a chant. In
trying to console him, she was actually calming herself. Anthrax
listened to her trying to impose order on the chaos around her. He
could hear noises in the background and he guessed it was the police
rummaging through her home. Suddenly, she said she had to go and hung
up.
Anthrax handed the phone back to the police and sat with his head in
his hands. What a wretched situation. He couldn't believe this was
happening to him. How could the police seriously consider taking his
mother to Melbourne for questioning? True, he phreaked from her home
office phone, but she had no idea how to hack or phreak. As for
charging his mother, that would just about kill her. In her mental and
physical condition, she would simply collapse, maybe never to get up
again.
He didn't have many options. One of the cops was sealing up his mobile
phone in a clear plastic bag and labelling it. It was physically
impossible for him to call a lawyer, since the police wouldn't let him
use the mobile or go to a pay phone. They harangued him about coming
to Melbourne for a police interview.
`It is your best interest to cooperate,' one of the cops told him. `It
would be in your best interest to come with us now.'
Anthrax pondered that line for a moment, considered how ludicrous it
sounded coming from a cop. Such a bald-faced lie told so
matter-of-factly. It would have been humorous if the situation with
his mother hadn't been so awful. He agreed to an interview with the
police, but it would have to be done on another day.
The cops wanted to search his car. Anthrax didn't like it, but there
was nothing incriminating in the car anyway. As he walked outside in
the winter morning, one of the cops looked down at Anthrax's feet,
which were bare in accordance with the Muslim custom of removing shoes
in the house. The cop asked if he was cold.
The other cop answered for Anthrax. `No. The fungus keeps them warm.'
Anthrax swallowed his anger. He was used to racism, and plenty of it,
especially from cops. But this was over the top.
In the town where he attended uni, everyone thought he was Aboriginal.
There were only two races in that country town--white and Aboriginal.
Indian, Pakistani, Malay, Burmese, Sri Lankan--it didn't matter. They
were all Aboriginal, and were treated accordingly.
Once when he was talking on the pay phone across from his house, the
police pulled up and asked him what he was doing there. Talking on the
phone, he told them. It was pretty obvious. They asked for
identification, made him empty his pockets, which contained his small
mobile phone. They told him his mobile must be stolen, took it from
him and ran a check on the serial number. Fifteen minutes and many
more accusations later, they finally let him go with the flimsiest of
apologies. `Well, you understand,' one cop said. `We don't see many of
your type around here.'
Yeah. Anthrax understood. It looked pretty suspicious, a dark-skinned
boy using a public telephone. Very suss indeed.
In fact, Anthrax had the last laugh. He had been on a phreaked call to
Canada at the time and he hadn't bothered to hang up when the cops
arrived. Just told the other phreakers to hang on. After the police
left, he picked up the conversation where he left off.
Incidents like that taught him that sometimes the better path was to
toy with the cops. Let them play their little games. Pretend to be
manipulated by them. Laugh at them silently and give them nothing. So
he appeared to ignore the fungus comment and led the cops to his car.
They found nothing.
When the police finally packed up to leave, one of them handed Anthrax
a business card with the AFP's phone number.
`Call us to arrange an interview time,' he said.
`Sure,' Anthrax replied as he shut the door.
Anthrax keep putting the police off. Every time they called hassling
him for an interview, he said he was busy. But when they began ringing
up his mum, he found himself in a quandary. They were threatening and
yet reassuring to his mother all at the same time and spoke politely
to her, even apologetically.
`As bad as it sounds,' one of them said, `we're going to have to
charge you with things Anthrax has done, hacking, phreaking, etc. if
he doesn't cooperate with us. We know it sounds funny, but we're
within our rights to do that. In fact that is what the law dictates
because the phone is in your name.'
He followed this with the well-worn `it's in your son's best interest
to cooperate' line, delivered with cooing persuasion.
Anthrax wondered why there was no mention of charging his father,
whose name appeared on the house's main telephone number. That line
also carried some illegal calls.
His mother worried. She asked her son to cooperate with the police.
Anthrax felt he had to protect his mother and finally agreed to a
police interview after his uni exams. The only reason he did so was
because of the police threat to charge his mother. He was sure that if
they dragged his mother through court, her health would deteriorate
and lead to an early death.
Anthrax's father picked him up from uni on a fine November day and
drove down to Melbourne. His mother had insisted that he attend the
interview, since he knew all about the law and police. Anthrax didn't
mind having him along: he figured a witness might prevent any use of
police muscle.
During the ride to the city, Anthrax talked about how he would handle
the interview. The good news was that the AFP had said they wanted to
interview him about his phreaking, not his hacking. He went to the
interview understanding they would only be discussing his `recent
stuff'--the phreaking. He had two possible approaches to the
interview. He could come clean and admit everything, as his first
lawyer had advised. Or he could pretend to cooperate and be evasive,
which was what his instincts told him to do.
His father jumped all over the second option. `You have to cooperate
fully. They will know if you are lying. They are trained to pick out
lies. Tell them everything and they will go easier on you.' Law and
order all the way.
`Who do they think they are anyway? The pigs.' Anthrax looked away,
disgusted at the thought of police harassing people like his mother.
`Don't call them pigs,' his father snapped. `They are police officers.
If you are ever in trouble, they are the first people you are ever
going to call.'
`Oh yeah. What kind of trouble am I going to be in that the first
people I call are the AFP?' Anthrax replied.
Anthrax would put up with his father coming along so long as he kept
his mouth shut during the interview. He certainly wasn't there for
personal support. They had a distant relationship at best. When his
father began working in the town where Anthrax now lived and studied,
his mother had tried to patch things between them. She suggested his
father take Anthrax out for dinner once a week, to smooth things over.
Develop a relationship. They had dinner a handful of times and Anthrax
listened to his father's lectures. Admit you were wrong. Cooperate
with the police. Get your life together. Own up to it all. Grow up. Be
responsible. Stop being so useless. Stop being so stupid.
The lectures were a bit rich, Anthrax thought, considering that his
father had benefited from Anthrax's hacking skills. When he discovered
Anthrax had got into a huge news clipping database, he asked the boy
to pull up every article containing the word `prison'. Then he had him
search for articles on discipline. The searches should have cost a
fortune, probably thousands of dollars. But his father didn't pay a
cent, thanks to Anthrax. And he didn't spend much time lecturing
Anthrax on the evils of hacking then.
When they arrived at AFP headquarters, Anthrax made a point of putting
his feet up on the leather couch in the reception area and opened a
can of Coke he had brought along. His father got upset.
`Get your feet off that seat. You shouldn't have brought that can of
Coke. It doesn't look very professional.'
`Hey, I'm not going for a job interview here,' Anthrax responded.
Constable Andrew Sexton, a redhead sporting two earrings, came up to
Anthrax and his father and took them upstairs for coffee. Detective
Sergeant Ken Day, head of the Computer Crime Unit, was in a meeting,
Sexton said, so the interview would be delayed a little.
Anthrax's father and Sexton found they shared some interests in law
enforcement. They discussed the problems associated with
rehabilitation and prisoner discipline. Joked with each other.
Laughed. Talked about `young Anthrax'. Young Anthrax did this. Young
Anthrax did that.
Young Anthrax felt sick. Watching his own father cosying up to the
enemy, talking as if he wasn't even there.
When Sexton went to check on whether Day had finished his meeting,
Anthrax's father growled, `Wipe that look of contempt off your face,
young man. You are going to get nowhere in this world if you show that
kind of attitude, they are going to come down on you like a ton of
bricks.'
Anthrax didn't know what to say. Why should he treat these people with
any respect after the way they threatened his mother?
The interview room was small but very full. A dozen or more boxes, all
filled with labelled print-outs.
Sexton began the interview. `Taped record of interview conducted at
Australian Federal Police Headquarters, 383 Latrobe Street Melbourne
on 29 November 1994.' He reeled off the names of the people present
and asked each to introduce himself for voice recognition.
`As I have already stated, Detective Sergeant Day and I are making
enquiries into your alleged involvement into the manipulation of
private automated branch exchanges [PABXes] via Telecom 008 numbers in
order to obtain free phone calls nationally and internationally. Do
you clearly understand this allegation?'
`Yes.'
Sexton continued with the necessary, and important, preliminaries. Did
Anthrax understand that he was not obliged to answer any questions?
That he had the right to communicate with a lawyer? That he had
attended the interview of his own free will? That he was free to leave
at any time?
Yes, Anthrax said in answer to each question.
Sexton then ploughed through a few more standard procedures before he
finally got to the meat of the issue--telephones. He fished around in
one of the many boxes and pulled out a mobile phone. Anthrax confirmed
that it was his phone.
`Was that the phone that you used to call the 008 numbers and
subsequent connections?' Sexton asked.
`Yes.'
`Contained in that phone is a number of pre-set numbers. Do you
agree?'
`Yes.'
`I went to the trouble of extracting those records from it.' Sexton
looked pleased with himself for hacking Anthrax's speed-dial numbers
from the mobile. `Number 22 is of some interest to myself. It comes up
as Aaron. Could that be the person you referred to before as Aaron in
South Australia?'
`Yes, but he is always moving house. He is a hard person to track
down.'
Sexton went through a few more numbers, most of which Anthrax hedged.
He asked Anthrax questions about his manipulation of the phone system,
particularly about the way he made free calls overseas using
Australian companies' 008 numbers.
When Anthrax had patiently explained how it all worked, Sexton went
through some more speed-dial numbers.
`Number 43. Do you recognise that one?'
`That's the Swedish Party Line.'
`What about these other numbers? Such as 78? And 30?'
`I'm not sure. I couldn't say what any of these are. It's been so
long,' Anthrax paused, sensing the pressure from the other side of the
table. `These ones here, they are numbers in my town. But I don't know
who. Very often, 'cause I don't have any pen and paper with me, I just
plug a number into the phone.'
Sexton looked unhappy. He decided to go in a little harder. `I'm going
to be pretty blunt. So far you have admitted to the 008s but I think
you are understating your knowledge and your experience when it comes
to these sort of offences.' He caught himself. `Not offences. But your
involvement in all of this ... I think you have got a little bit more
... I'm not saying you are lying, don't get me wrong, but you tend to
be pulling yourself away from how far you were really into this. And
how far everyone looked up to you.'
There was the gauntlet, thrown down on the table. Anthrax picked it
up.
`They looked up to me? That was just a perception. To be honest, I
don't know that much. I couldn't tell you anything about telephone
exchanges or anything like that. In the past, I guess the reason they
might look up to me in the sense of a leader is because I was doing
this, as you are probably aware, quite a bit in the past, and
subsequently built up a reputation. Since then I decided I wouldn't do
it again.'
`Since this?' Sexton was quick off the mark.
`No. Before. I just said, "I don't want anything to do with this any
more. It's just stupid". When I broke up with my girlfriend ... I just
got dragged into it again. I'm not trying to say that I am any less
responsible for any of this but I will say I didn't originate any of
these 008s. They were all scanned by other people. But I made calls
and admittedly I did a lot of stupid things.'
But Sexton was like a dog with a bone.
`I just felt that you were tending to ... I don't know if it's because
your dad's here or ... I have read stuff that "Anthrax was a legend
when it came to this, and he was a scanner, and he was the man to talk
to about X.25, Tymnet, hacking, Unix. The whole kit and kaboodle".'
Anthrax didn't take the bait. Cops always try that line. Play on a
hacker's ego, get them to brag. It was so transparent.
`It's not true,' he answered. `I know nothing about ... I can't
program. I have an Amiga with one meg of memory. I have no formal
background in computers whatsoever.'
That part was definitely true. Everything was self-taught. Well,
almost everything. He did take one programming class at uni, but he
failed it. He went to the library to do extra research, used in his
final project for the course. Most of his classmates wrote simple
200-line programs with few functions; his ran to 500 lines and had
lots of special functions. But the lecturer flunked him. She told him,
`The functions in your program were not taught in this course'.
Sexton asked Anthrax if he was into carding, which he denied
emphatically. Then Sexton headed back into scanning. How much had
Anthrax done? Had he given scanned numbers to other hackers? Anthrax
was evasive, and both cops were getting impatient.
`What I am trying to get at is that I believe that, through your
scanning, you are helping other people break the law by promoting this
sort of thing.' Sexton had shown his hand.
`No more than a telephone directory would be assisting someone,
because it's really just a list. I didn't actually break anything. I
just looked at it.'
`These voice mailbox systems obviously belong to people. What would
you do when you found a VMB?'
`Just play with it. Give it to someone and say, "Have a look at this.
It is interesting," or whatever.'
`When you say play with it you would break the code out to the VMB?'
`No. Just have a look around. I'm not very good at breaking VMBs.'
Sexton tried a different tack. `What are 1-900 numbers? On the back of
that document there is a 1-900 number. What are they generally for?'
Easy question. `In America they like cost $10 a minute. You can ring
them up, I think, and get all sorts of information, party lines, etc.'
`It's a conference type of call?'
`Yes.'
`Here is another document, contained in a clear plastic sleeve
labelled AS/AB/S/1. Is this a scan? Do you recognise your
handwriting?'
`Yes, it's in my handwriting. Once again it's the same sort of scan.
It's just dialling some commercial numbers and noting them.'
`And once you found something, what would you do with it?'
Anthrax had no intention of being painted as some sort of ringleader
of a scanning gang. He was a sociable loner, not a part of a team.
`I'd just look at it, like in the case of this one here--630. I just
punched in a few numbers and it said that 113 diverts somewhere, 115
says goodbye, etc. I'd just do that and I probably never came back to
it again.'
`And you believe that if I pick up the telephone book, I would get all
this information?'
`No. It's just a list of numbers in the same sense that a telephone
book is.'
`What about a 1-800 number?'
`That is the same as a 0014.'
`If you rang a 1-800 number, where would you go?'
Anthrax wondered if the Computer Crimes Unit gained most of its
technical knowledge from interviews with hackers.
`You can either do 0014 or you can do 1-800. It's just the same.'
`Is it Canada--0014?'
`It's everywhere.' Oops. Don't sound too cocky. `Isn't it?'
`No, I'm not familiar.' Which is just what Anthrax was thinking.
Sexton moved on. `On the back of that document there is more type
scans ...'
`It's all just the same thing. Just take a note of what is there. In
this case, box 544 belongs to this woman ...'
`So, once again, you just release this type of information on the
bridge?'
`Not all of it. Most of it I would probably keep to myself and never
look at it again. I was bored. Is it illegal to scan?'
`I'm not saying it's illegal. I'm just trying to show that you were
really into this. I'm building a picture and I am gradually getting to
a point and I'm going to build a picture to show that for a while
there ...' Sexton then interrupted himself and veered down a less
confrontational course. `I'm not saying you are doing it now, but back
then, when all these offences occurred, you were really into scanning
telephone systems, be it voice mailboxes ... I'm not saying you found
the 008s but you ... anything to bugger up Telecom. You were really
getting into it and you were helping other people.'
Anthrax took offence. `The motivation for me doing it wasn't to bugger
up Telecom.'
Sexton backpedalled. `Perhaps ... probably a poor choice of words.'
He began pressing forward on the subject of hacking, something the
police had not said they were going to be discussing. Anthrax felt a
little unnerved, even rattled.
Day asked if Anthrax wanted a break.
`No,' he answered. `I just want to get it over and done with, if
that's OK. I'm not going to lie. I'm not going to say "no comment".
I'm going to admit to everything 'cause, based on what I have been
told, it's in my best interest to do so.'
The police paused. They didn't seem to like that last comment much.
Day tried to clear things up.
`Before we go any further, based on what you have been told, it is in
your best interests to tell the truth. Was it any member of the AFP
that told you this?'
`Yes.'
`Who?' Day threw the question out quickly.
Anthrax couldn't remember their names. `The ones who came to my house.
I think Andrew also said it to me,' he said, nodding in the direction
of the red-headed constable.
Why were the cops getting so uncomfortable all of a sudden? It was no
secret that they had told both Anthrax and his mother repeatedly that
it was in his best interest to agree to an interview.
Day leaned forward, peered at Anthrax and asked, `What did you
interpret that to mean?'
`That if I don't tell the truth, if I say "no comment" and don't
cooperate, that it is going to be ... it will mean that you will go
after me with ...' Anthrax grasped for the right words, but he felt
tongue-tied, `with ... more force, I guess.'
Both officers stiffened visibly.
Day came back again. `Do you feel that an unfair inducement has been
placed on you as a result of that?'
`In what sense?' The question was genuine.
`You have made the comment and it has now been recorded and I have to
clear it up. Do you feel like, that a deal has been offered to you at
any stage?'
A deal? Anthrax thought about it. It wasn't a deal as in `Talk to us
now and we will make sure you don't go to jail'. Or `Talk now and we
won't beat you with a rubber hose'.
`No,' he answered.
`Do you feel that as a result of that being said that you have been
pressured to come forward today and tell the truth?'
Ah, that sort of deal. Well, of course.
`Yes, I have been pressured,' Anthrax answered. The two police
officers looked stunned. Anthrax paused, concerned about the growing
feeling of disapproval in the room. `Indirectly,' he added quickly,
almost apologetically.
For a brief moment, Anthrax just didn't care. About the police. About
his father. About the pressure. He would tell the truth. He decided to
explain the situation as he saw it.
`Because since they came to my house, they emphasised the fact that if
I didn't come for an interview, that they would then charge my mother
and, as my mother is very sick, I am not prepared to put her through
that.'
The police looked at each other. The shock waves reverberated around
the room. The AFP clearly hadn't bargained on this coming out in the
interview tape. But what he said about his mother being threatened was
the truth, so let it be on the record with everything else.
Ken Day caught his breath, `So you are saying that you
have now been ...' he cut himself off ... `that you are not here
voluntarily?'
Anthrax thought about it. What did `voluntarily' mean? The police
didn't cuff him to a chair and tell him he couldn't leave until he
talked. They didn't beat him around the head with a baton. They
offered him a choice: talk or inflict the police on his ailing mother.
Not a palatable choice, but a choice nonetheless. He chose to talk to
protect his mother.
`I am here voluntarily,' he answered.
`That is not what you have said. What you have just said is
that pressure has been placed on you and that you have had to come in
here and answer the questions. Otherwise certain actions would take
place. That does not mean you are here
voluntarily.'
The police must have realised they were on very thin ice and Anthrax
felt pressure growing in the room. The cops pushed. His father did not
looked pleased.
`I was going to come anyway,' Anthrax answered, again almost
apologetically. Walk the tightrope, he thought. Don't get them too mad
or they will charge my mother. `You can talk to the people who carried
out the warrant. All along, I said to them I would come in for an
interview. Whatever my motivations are, I don't think should matter. I
am going to tell you the truth.'
`It does matter,' Day responded, `because at the beginning of the
interview it was stated--do you agree--that you have come in here
voluntarily?'
`I have. No-one has forced me.'
Anthrax felt exasperated. The room was getting stuffy. He wanted to
finish this thing and get out of there. So much pressure.
`And is anyone forcing you to make the answers you have given here
today?' Day tried again.
`No individuals are forcing me, no.' There. You have what you want.
Now get on with it and let's get out of here.
`You have to tell the truth. Is that what you are saying?' The police
would not leave the issue be.
`I want to tell the truth. As well.' The key words there were `as
well'. Anthrax thought, I want to and I have to.
`It's the circumstances that are forcing this upon you, not an
individual?'
`No.' Of course it was the circumstances. Never mind that the police
created the circumstance.
Anthrax felt as if the police were just toying with him. He knew and
they knew they would go after his mother if this interview wasn't to
their liking. Visions of his frail mother being hauled out of her
house by the AFP flashed through his mind. Anthrax felt sweaty and
hot. Just get on with it. Whatever makes them happy, just agree to it
in order to get out of this crowded room.
`So, would it be fair to summarise it, really, to say that perhaps ...
of your activity before the police arrived at your premises, that is
what is forcing you?'
What was this cop talking about? His `activity' forcing him? Anthrax
felt confused. The interview had already gone on some time. The cops
had such obscure ways of asking things. The room was oppressively
small.
Day pressed on with the question, `The fact that you could see you had
broken the law, and that is what is forcing you to come forward here
today and tell the truth?'
Yeah. Whatever you want. `OK,' Anthrax started to answer, `That is a
fair assump--'
Day cut him off. `I just wanted to clarify that because the
interpretation I immediately got from that was that we, or members of
the AFP, had unfairly and unjustly forced you to come in here today,
and that is not the case?'
Define `unfairly'. Define `unjustly'. Anthrax thought it was unfair
the cops might charge his mother. But they told her it was perfectly
legal to do so. Anthrax felt light-headed. All these thoughts whirring
around inside his head.
`No, that is not the case. I'm sorry for ...' Be humble. Get out of
that room faster.
`No, that is OK. If that is what you believe, say it. I have no
problems with that. I just like to have it clarified. Remember, other
people might listen to this tape and they will draw inferences and
opinions from it. At any point where I think there is an ambiguity, I
will ask for clarification. Do you understand that?'
`Yes. I understand.' Anthrax couldn't really focus on what Day was
saying. He was feeling very distressed and just wanted to finish the
interview.
The cops finally moved on, but the new topic was almost as unpleasant.
Day began probing about Anthrax's earlier hacking career--the one he
had no intention of talking about. Anthrax began to feel a bit better.
He agreed to talk to the police about recent phreaking activities, not
hacking matters. Indeed, he had repeatedly told them that topic was
not on his agenda. He felt like he was standing on firmer ground.
After being politely stonewalled, Day circled around and tried again.
`OK. I will give you another allegation; that you have unlawfully
accessed computer systems in Australia and the United States. In the
US, you specifically targeted military computer systems. Do you
understand that allegation?'
`I understand that. I wouldn't like to comment on it.' No, sir. No
way.
Day tried a new tack. `I will further allege that you did work with a
person known as Mendax.'
What on earth was Day talking about? Anthrax had heard of Mendax, but
they had never worked together. He thought the cops must not have very
good informants.
`No. That is not true. I know no-one of that name.' Not strictly true,
but true enough.
`Well, if he was to turn around to me and say that you were doing all
this hacking, he would be lying, would he?'
Oh wonderful. Some other hacker was crapping on to the cops with lies
about how he and Anthrax had worked together. That was exactly why
Anthrax didn't work in a group. He had plenty of real allegations to
fend off. He didn't need imaginary ones too.
`Most certainly would. Unless he goes by some other name, I know
no-one by that name, Mendax.' Kill that off quick.
In fact Mendax had not ratted on Anthrax at all. That was just a
technique the police used.
`You don't wish to comment on the fact that you have hacked into other
computer systems and military systems?' If there
was one thing Anthrax could say for Day, it was that he was
persistent.
`No. I would prefer not to comment on any of that. This is the advice
I have received: not to comment on anything unrelated to the topic
that I was told I would be talking about when I came down here.'
`All right, well are you going to answer any questions in relation to
unlawfully accessing any computer systems?'
`Based upon the legal advice that I received, I choose not to.'
Day pursed his lips. `All right. If that is your attitude and you
don't wish to answer any of those questions, we won't pursue the
matter. However, I will inform you now that the matter may be reported
and you may receive a summons to answer the questions or face charges
in relation to those allegations, and, at any time that you so choose,
you can come forward and tell us the truth.'
Woah. Anthrax took a deep breath. Could the cops make him come answer
questions with a summons? They were changing the game midway through.
Anthrax felt as though the carpet had been pulled out from beneath his
feet. He needed a few minutes to clear his head.
`Is it something I can think over and discuss?' Anthrax asked.
`Yes. Do you want to have a pause and a talk with your father? The
constable and I can step out of the room, or offer you another room.
You may wish to have a break and think about it if you like. I think
it might be a good idea. I think we might have a ten-minute break and
put you in another room and let you two have a chat about it. There is
no pressure.'
Day and the Sexton stopped the interview and guided father and son
into another room. Once they were alone, Anthrax looked to his father
for support. This voice inside him still cried out to keep away from
his earlier hacking journeys. He needed someone to tell him the same
thing.
His father was definitely not that someone. He railed against Anthrax
with considerable vehemence. Stop holding back. You have to tell
everything. How could you be so stupid? You can't fool the police.
They know. Confess it all before it's too late. At the end of the
ten-minute tirade, Anthrax felt worse than he had at the beginning.
When the two returned to the interview room, Anthrax's father turned
to the police and said suddenly, `He has decided to confess'.
That was not true. Anthrax hadn't decided anything of the sort. His
father was full of surprises. It seemed every time he opened his
mouth, an ugly surprise came out.
Ken Day and Andrew Sexton warmed up a shaky Anthrax by showing him
various documents, pieces of paper with Anthrax's scribbles seized
during the raid, telephone taps. At one stage, Day pointed to some
handwritten notes which read `KDAY'. He looked at Anthrax.
`What's that? That's me.'
Anthrax smiled for the first time in a long while. It was something to
be happy about. The head of the AFP's Computer Crime Unit in Melbourne
sat there, so sure he was onto something big. There was his name, bold
as day, in the hacker's handwriting on a bit of paper seized in a
raid. Day seemed to be expecting something good.
Anthrax said, `If you ring that up you will find it is a radio
station.' An American radio station. Written on the same bit of paper
were the names of an American clothing store, another US-based radio
station, and a few records he wanted to order.
`There you go,' Day laughed at his own hasty conclusions. `I've got a
radio station named after me.'
Day asked Anthrax why he wrote down all sorts of things, directory
paths, codes, error messages.
`Just part of the record-keeping. I think I wrote this down when I had
first been given this dial-up and I was just feeling my way around,
taking notes of what different things did.'
`What were your intentions at the time with these computer networks?'
`At this stage, I was just having a look, just a matter of curiosity.'
`Was it a matter of curiosity--"Gee, this is interesting" or was it
more like "I would like to get into them" at this stage?'
`I couldn't say what was going through my mind at the time. But
initially once I got into the first system--I'm sure you have heard
this a lot--but once you get into the first system, it's like you get
into the next one and the next one and the next one, after a while it
doesn't ...' Anthrax couldn't find the right words to finish the
explanation.
`Once you have tasted the forbidden fruit?'
`Exactly. It's a good analogy.'
Day pressed on with questions about Anthrax's hacking. He successfully
elicited admissions from the hacker. Anthrax gave Day more than the
police officer had before, but probably not as much as he would have
liked.
It was, however, enough. Enough to keep the police from charging
Anthrax's mother. And enough for them to charge him.
Anthrax didn't see his final list of charges until the day he appeared
in court on 28 August 1995. The whole case seemed to be a bit
disorganised. His Legal Aid lawyer had little knowledge of computers,
let alone computer crime. He told Anthrax he could ask for an
adjournment because he hadn't seen the final charges until so late,
but Anthrax wanted to get the thing over and done with. They had
agreed that Anthrax would plead guilty to the charges and hope for a
reasonable magistrate.
Anthrax looked through the hand-up brief provided by the prosecution,
which included a heavily edited transcript of his interview with the
police. It was labelled as a `summary', but it certainly didn't
summarise everything important in that interview. Either the
prosecution or the police had cut out all references to the fact that
the police had threatened to charge Anthrax's mother if he didn't
agree to be interviewed.
Anthrax pondered the matter. Wasn't everything relevant to his case
supposed to be covered in a hand-up brief? This seemed very relevant
to his case, yet there wasn't a mention of it anywhere in the
document. He began to wonder if the police had edited down the
transcript just so they could cut out that portion of the interview.
Perhaps the judge wouldn't be too happy about it. He thought that
maybe the police didn't want to be held accountable for how they had
dealt with his mother.
The rest of the hand-up brief wasn't much better. The only statement
by an actual `witness' to Anthrax's hacking was from his former
room-mate, who claimed that he had watched Anthrax break into a NASA
computer and access an `area of the computer system which showed the
latitude/longitude of ships'.
Did space ships even have longitudes and latitudes? Anthrax didn't
know. And he had certainly never broken into a NASA computer in front
of the room-mate. It was absurd. This guy is lying, Anthrax thought,
and five minutes under cross-examination by a reasonable lawyer would
illustrate as much. Anthrax's instincts told him the prosecution had a
flimsy case for some of the charges, but he felt overwhelmed by
pressure from all sides--his family, the bustle in the courtroom, even
the officiousness of his own lawyer quickly rustling through his
papers.
Anthrax looked around the room. His eyes fell on his father, who sat
waiting on the public benches. Anthrax's lawyer wanted him there to
give evidence during sentencing. He thought it would look good to show
there was a family presence. Anthrax gave the suggestion a cool
reception. But he didn't understand how courts worked, so he followed
his lawyer's advice.
Anthrax's mother was back at his apartment, waiting for news. She had
been on night duty and was supposed to be sleeping. That was the
ostensible reason she didn't attend. Anthrax thought perhaps that the
tension was too much for her. Whatever the reason, she didn't sleep
all that day. She tidied the place, washed the dishes, did the
laundry, and kept herself as busy as the tiny apartment would allow
her.
Anthrax's girlfriend, a pretty, moon-faced Turkish girl, also came to
court. She had never been into the hacking scene. A group of school
children, mostly girls, chatted in the rows behind her.
Anthrax read through the four-page summary of facts provided by the
prosecution. When he reached the final page, his heart stopped. The
final paragraph said:
31. Penalty
s85ZF (a)--12 months, $6000 or both
s76E(a)--2 years, $12000 or both
Pointing to the last paragraph, Anthrax asked his lawyer what that was
all about. His lawyer told him that he would probably get prison but,
well, it wouldn't be that bad and he would just have `to take it on
the chin'. He would, after all, be out in a year or two.
Rapists sometimes got off with less than that. Anthrax couldn't
believe the prosecution was asking for prison. After he cooperated,
suffering through that miserable interview. He had no prior
convictions. But the snowball had been set in motion. The magistrate
appeared and opened the court.
Anthrax felt he couldn't back out now and he pleaded guilty to 21
counts, including one charge of inserting data and twenty charges of
defrauding or attempting to defraud a carrier.
His lawyer put the case for a lenient sentence. He called Anthrax's
father up on the stand and asked him questions about his son. His
father probably did more harm than good. When asked if he thought his
son would offend again, his father replied, `I don't know'.
Anthrax was livid. It was further unconscionable behaviour. Not long
before the trial, Anthrax had discovered that his father had planned
to sneak out of the country two days before the court case. He was
going overseas, he told his wife, but not until after the court case.
It was only by chance that she discovered his surreptitious plans to
leave early. Presumably he would find his son's trial humiliating.
Anthrax's mother insisted he stayed and he begrudgingly delayed the
trip.
His father sat down, a bit away from Anthrax and his lawyer. The
lawyer provided a colourful alternative to the prosecutor. He perched
one leg up on his bench, rested an elbow on the knee and stroked his
long, red beard. It was an impressive beard, more than a foot long and
thick with reddish brown curls. Somehow it fitted with his two-tone
chocolate brown suit and his tie, a breathtakingly wide creation with
wild patterns in gold. The suit was one size too small. He launched
into the usual courtroom flourish--lots of words saying nothing. Then
he got to the punch line.
`Your worship, this young man has been in all sorts of places. NASA,
military sites, you wouldn't believe some of the places he has been.'
`I don't think I want to know where he has been,' the magistrate
answered wryly.
The strategy was Anthrax's. He thought he could turn a
liability into an asset by showing that he had been in many
systems--many sensitive systems--but had done no malicious damage in
any of them.
The strategy worked and the magistrate announced there was no way he
was sending the young hacker to jail.
The prosecutor looked genuinely disappointed and launched a counter
proposal--1500 hours of community service. Anthrax caught his breath.
That was absurd. It would take almost nine months, full time. Painting
buildings, cleaning toilets. Forget about his university studies. It was
almost as bad as prison.
Anthrax's lawyer protested. `Your Worship, that penalty is something
out of cyberspace.' Anthrax winced at how corny that sounded, but the
lawyer looked very pleased with himself.
The magistrate refused to have a bar of the prosecutor's counter
proposal. Anthrax's girlfriend was impressed with the magistrate. She
didn't know much about the law or the court system, but he seemed a
fair man, a just man. He didn't appear to want to give a harsh
punishment to Anthrax at all. But he told the court he had to send a
message to Anthrax, to the class of school children in the public
benches and to the general community that hacking was wrong in the
eyes of the law. Anthrax glanced back at the students. They looked
like they were aged thirteen or fourteen, about the age he got into
hacking and phreaking.
The magistrate announced his sentence. Two hundred hours of community
service and $6116.90 of restitution to be paid to two telephone
companies--Telecom and Teleglobe in Canada. It wasn't prison, but it was
a staggering amount of money for a student to rake up. He had a year to
pay it off, and it would definitely take that long. At least he was
free.
Anthrax's girlfriend thought how unlucky it was to have landed those
giggling school children in the courtroom on that day. They laughed
and pointed and half-whispered. Court was a game. They didn't seem to
take the magistrate's warning seriously. Perhaps they were gossiping
about the next party. Perhaps they were chatting about a new pair of
sneakers or a new CD.
And maybe one or two murmured quietly how cool it would be to break
into NASA.
AFTERWORD
It was billed as the `largest annual gathering of those in, related
to, or wishing to know more about the computer underground', so I
thought I had better go.
HoHoCon in Austin, Texas, was without a doubt one of the strangest
conferences I have attended. During the weekend leading up to New Year's
Day 1995, the Ramada Inn South was overrun by hackers, phreakers,
ex-hackers, underground sympathisers, journalists, computer company
employees and American law enforcement agents. Some people had come from
as far away as Germany and Canada.
The hackers and phreakers slept four or six to a room--if they slept
at all. The feds slept two to a room. I could be wrong; maybe they
weren't feds at all. But they seemed far too well dressed and well
pressed to be anything else. No one else at HoHoCon ironed their
T-shirts.
I left the main conference hall and wandered into Room 518--the
computer room--sat down on one of the two hotel beds which had been
shoved into a corner to make room for all the computer gear, and
watched. The conference organisers had moved enough equipment in there
to open a store, and then connected it all to the Internet. For nearly
three days, the room was almost continuously full. Boys in their late
teens or early twenties lounged on the floor talking, playing with
their cell phones and scanners or tapping away at one of the six or
seven terminals. Empty bags of chips, Coke cans and pizza boxes
littered the room. The place felt like one giant college dorm floor
party, except that the people didn't talk to each other so much as to
their computers.
These weren't the only interesting people at the con. I met up with an
older group of nonconformists in the computer industry, a sort of
Austin intelligentsia. By older, I mean above the age of 26. They were
interested in many of the same issues as the young group of
hackers--privacy, encryption, the future of a digital world--and they
all had technical backgrounds.
This loose group of blue-jean clad thinkers, people like Doug Barnes,
Jeremy Porter and Jim McCoy, like to meet over enchiladas and
margueritas at university-style cafes. They always seemed to have
three or four projects on the run. Digital cash was the flavour of the
month when I met them. They were unconventional, perhaps even a little
weird, but they were also bright, very creative and highly innovative.
They were just the sort of people who might marry creative ideas with
maturity and business sense, eventually making widespread digital cash
a reality.
I began to wonder how many of the young men in Room 518 might follow
the same path. And I asked myself: where are these people in
Australia?
Largely invisible or perhaps even non-existent, it seems. Except maybe
in the computer underground. The underground appears to be one of the
few places in Australia where madness, creativity, obsession,
addiction and rebellion collide like atoms in a cyclotron.
After the raids, the arrests and the court cases on three continents,
what became of the hackers described in this book?
Most of them went on to do interesting and constructive things with
their lives. Those who were interviewed for this work say they have
given up hacking for good. After what many of them had been through, I
would be surprised if any of them continued hacking.
Most of them, however, are not sorry for their hacking activities.
Some are sorry they upset people. They feel badly that they caused
system admins stress and unhappiness by hacking their systems. But
most do not feel hacking is wrong--and few, if any, feel that
`look-see hacking', as prosecuting barrister Geoff Chettle termed
non-malicious hacking, should be a crime.
For the most part, their punishments have only hardened their views on
the subject. They know that in many cases the authorities have sought
to make examples of them, for the benefit of rest of the computer
underground. The state has largely failed in this objective. In the
eyes of many in the computer underground, these prosecuted hackers are
heroes.
PAR
When I met Par in Tucson, Arizona, he had travelled from a tiny,
snow-laden Mid-Western town where he was living with his grandparents.
He was looking for work, but hadn't been able to find anything.
As I drove around the outskirts of Tucson, a little jetlagged and
disoriented, I was often distracted from the road by the beauty of the
winter sun on the Sonoran desert cacti. Sitting in the front passenger
seat, Par said calmly, `I always wondered what it would be like to
drive on the wrong side of the road'.
I swerved back to the right side of the road.
Par is still like that. Easy-going, rolling with the punches, taking
what life hands him. He is also on the road again.
He moved back to the west coast for a while, but will likely pack up
and go somewhere else before long. He picks up temporary work where he
can, often just basic, dull data-entry stuff. It isn't easy. He can't
just explain away a four-year gap in his resumé with `Successfully
completed a telecommuting course for fugitives. Trained by the US
Secret Service'. He thought he might like to work at a local college
computer lab, helping out the students and generally keeping the
equipment running. Without any professional qualifications, that
seemed an unlikely option these days.
Although he is no longer a fugitive, Par's life hasn't changed that
much. He speaks to his mother very occasionally, though they don't
have much in common. Escaping his computer crimes charges proved
easier than overcoming the effects of being a fugitive for so long on
his personality and lifestyle. Now and again, the paranoia sets in
again. It seems to come in waves. There aren't many support mechanisms
in the US for an unemployed young man who doesn't have health
insurance.
PRIME SUSPECT
Prime Suspect has no regrets about his choices. He believed that he
and Mendax were headed in different directions in life. The friendship
would have ended anyway, so he decided that he was not willing to go
to prison for Mendax.
He completed a TAFE course in computer programming and found a job in
the burgeoning Internet industry. He likes his job. His employer, who
knows about his hacking convictions, recently gave him a pay rise. In
mid-1994, he gave up drugs for good. In 1995 he moved into a shared
house with some friends, and in August 1996 he stopped smoking
cigarettes.
Without hacking, there seems to be time in his life to do new things.
He took up sky-diving. A single jump gives him a high which lasts for
days, sometimes up to a week. Girls have captured his interest. He's
had a few girlfriends and thinks he would like to settle into a
serious relationship when he finds the right person.
Recently, Prime Suspect has been studying martial arts. He tries to
attend at least four classes a week, sometimes more, and says he has a
special interest in the spiritual and philosophical sides of martial
arts. Most days, he rises at 5 a.m., either to jog or to meditate.
MENDAX
In 1992 Mendax and Trax teamed up with a wealthy Italian real-estate
investor, purchased La Trobe University's mainframe computer
(ironically, a machine they had been accused of hacking) and started a
computer security company. The company eventually dissolved when the
investor disappeared following actions by his creditors.
After a public confrontation in 1993 with Victorian Premier Jeff
Kennett, Mendax and two others formed a civil rights organisation to
fight corruption and lack of accountability in a Victorian government
department. As part of this ongoing effort, Mendax acted as a conduit
for leaked documents and became involved in a number of court cases
against the department during 1993-94. Eventually, he gave evidence in
camera to a state parliamentary committee examining the issues, and
his organisation later facilitated the appearance of more than 40
witnesses at an investigation by the Auditor-General.
Mendax volunteers his time and computer expertise for several other
non-profit community organisations. He believes strongly in the
importance of the non-profit sector, and spends much of his free time
as an activist on different community projects. Mendax has provided
information or assistance to law-enforcement bodies, but not against
hackers. He said, `I couldn't ethically justify that. But as for
others, such as people who prey on children or corporate spies, I am
not concerned about using my skills there.'
Still passionate about coding, Mendax donates his time to various
international programming efforts and releases some of his programs
for free on the Internet. His philosophy is that most of the lasting
social advances in the history of man have been a direct result of new
technology.
NorTel and a number of other organisations he was accused of hacking
use his cryptography software--a fact he finds rather ironic.
ANTHRAX
Anthrax moved to Melbourne, where he is completing a university course
and working on freelance assignments in the computer networking area
of a major corporation.
His father and mother are divorcing. Anthrax doesn't talk to his
father at all these days.
Anthrax's mother's health has stabilised somewhat since the completion
of the court case, though her condition still gives her chronic pain.
Despite some skin discolouration caused by the disease, she looks
well. As a result of her years of work in the local community, she has
a loyal group of friends who support her through bad bouts of the
illness. She tries to live without bitterness and continues to have a
good relationship with both her sons.
Anthrax is no longer involved in the Nation of Islam, but he is still
a devout Muslim. An acquaintance of his, an Albanian who ran a local
fish and chips shop, introduced him to a different kind of Islam. Not
long after, Anthrax became a Sunni Muslim. He doesn't drink alcohol or
gamble, and he attends a local mosque for Friday evening prayers. He
tries to read from the Qu'raan every day and to practise the tenets of
his religion faithfully.
With his computer and business skills now sought after by industry, he
is exploring the possibility of moving to a Muslim country in Asia or
the Middle East. He tries to promote the interests of Islam worldwide.
Most of his pranking needs are now met by commercial CDs--recordings
of other people's pranking sold through underground magazines and
American mail order catalogues. Once in a long while, he still rings
Mr McKenny in search of the missing shovel.
Anthrax felt aggrieved at the outcome of his written complaint to the
Office of the Ombudsman. In the complaint, Anthrax gave an account of
how he believed the AFP had behaved inappropriately throughout his
case. Specifically, he alleged that the AFP had pressured his mother
with threats and had harassed him, taken photographs of him without
his permission, given information to his university about his case
prior to the issue of a summons and the resolution of his case, and
made racist comments toward him during the raid.
In 1995-96, a total of 1157 complaints were filed against the AFP, 683
of which were investigated by the Commonwealth Ombudsman. Of the
complaint investigations completed and reviewed, only 6 per cent were
substantiated. Another 9 per cent were deemed to be `incapable of
determination', about 34 per cent were `unsubstantiated', and in more
than a quarter of all cases the Ombudsman either chose not to
investigate or not to continue to investigate a complaint.
The Office of the Ombudsman referred Anthrax's matter to the AFP's
Internal Investigations office. Although Anthrax and his mother both
gave statements to the investigating officers, there was no other
proof of Anthrax's allegations. In the end, it came down to Anthrax
and his mother's words against those of the police.
The AFP's internal investigation concluded that Anthrax's complaints
could either not be substantiated or not be determined, in part due to
the fact that almost two years had passed since the original raid. For
the most part, the Ombudsman backed the AFP's finding. No
recommendation was made for the disciplining of any officers.
Anthrax's only consolation was a concern voiced by the Ombudsman's
Office. Although the investigating officer agreed with the AFP
investigators that the complaint could not be substantiated, she
wrote, `I am concerned that your mother felt she was compelled to
pressure you into attending an interview based on a fear that she
would be charged because her phone was used to perpetrate the
offences'.
Anthrax remains angry and sceptical about his experience with the
police. He believes a lot of things need to be changed about the way
the police operate. Most of all, he believes that justice will never
be assured in a system where the police are allowed to investigate
themselves.
PAD AND GANDALF
After Pad and Gandalf were released from prison, they started up a
free security advisory service on the Internet. One reason they began
releasing 8lgm advisories, as they were known, was to help admins
secure their own systems. The other reason was to thumb their noses at
the conservatives in the security industry.
Many on the Internet considered the 8lgm advisories to be the best
available at the time--far better than anything CERT had ever
produced. Pad and Gandalf were sending their own message back to the
establishment. The message, though never openly stated, was something
like this: `You busted us. You sent us to prison. But it didn't
matter. You can't keep information like this secret. Further, we are
still better than you ever were and, to prove it, we are going to beat
you at your own game.'
Believing that the best way to keep a hacker out of your system is to
secure it properly in the first place, the two British hackers
rejected security gurus who refused to tell the world about new
security holes. Their 8lgm advisories began marginalising the
traditional industry security reports, and helped to push the industry
toward its current, more open attitude.
Pad and Gandalf now both work, doing computer programming jobs on
contract, sometimes for financial institutions. Their clients like
them and value their work. Both have steady girlfriends.
Pad doesn't hack any more. The reason isn't the risk of getting caught
or the threat of prison. He has stopped hacking because he has
realised what a headache it is for a system administrator to clean up
his or her computer after an attack. Searching through logs. Looking
for backdoors the hacker might have left behind. The hours, the
hassle, the pressure--he thinks it is wrong to put anyone through
that. Pad understands far better now how much strain a hacker
intrusion can cause another human being.
There is another reason Pad has given up hacking: he has simply
outgrown the desire. He says that he has better things to do with his
time. Computers are a way for him to earn a living, not a way to spend
his leisure time. After a trip overseas he decided that real
travel--not its electronic cousin--was more interesting than hacking.
He has also learned to play the guitar, something he believes he would
have done years ago if he hadn't spent so much time hacking.
Gandalf shares Pad's interest in travelling. One reason they like
contract work is because it lets them work hard for six months, save
some money, and then take a few months off. The aim of both ex-hackers
for now is simply to sling backpacks over their shoulders and bounce
around the globe.
Pad still thinks that Britain takes hacking far too seriously and he
is considering moving overseas permanently. The 8lgm court case made
him wonder about the people in power in Britain--the politicians, the
judges, the law enforcement officers. He often thinks: what kind of
people are running this show?
STUART GILL
In 1993, the Victorian Ombudsman1 and the Victoria Police2 both
investigated the leaking of confidential police information in
association with Operation Iceberg--a police investigation into
allegations of corruption against Assistant Commissioner of Police
Frank Green. Stuart Gill figured prominently in both reports.
The Victoria Police report concluded that `Gill was able to infiltrate
the policing environment by skilfully manipulating himself and
information to the unsuspecting'. The Ombudsman concluded that a
`large quantity of confidential police information, mainly from the
ISU database, was given to ... Gill by [Victoria Police officer]
Cosgriff'.
The police report stated that Inspector Chris Cosgriff had
deliberately leaked confidential police information to Gill, and
reported that he was `besotted with Gill'. Superintendent Tony Warren,
ex-Deputy Commissioner John Frame and ex-Assistant Commissioner
Bernice Masterston were also criticised in the report.
The Ombudsman concluded that Warren and Cosgriff's relationship with
Gill was `primarily responsible for the release of confidential
information'. Interestingly, however, the Ombudsman also stated,
`Whilst Mr Gill may have had his own agenda and taken advantage of his
relationship with police, [the] police have equally used and in some
cases misused Mr Gill for their own purposes'.
The Ombudsman's report further concluded that there was no evidence of
criminal conduct by Frank Green, and that the `allegations made over
the years against Mr Green should have been properly and fully
investigated at the time they were made'.
PHOENIX
As his court case played in the media, Phoenix was speeding on his
motorcycle through an inner-city Melbourne street one rainy night when
he hit a car. The car's driver leapt from the front seat and found a
disturbing scene. Phoenix was sprawled across the road. His helmet had
a huge crack on the side, where his head had hit the car's petrol
tank, and petrol had spilled over the motorcycle and its rider.
Miraculously, Phoenix was unhurt, though very dazed. Some bystanders
helped him and the distraught driver to a nearby halfway house. They
called an ambulance, and then made the two traumatised young men some
tea in the kitchen. Phoenix's mother arrived, called by a bystander at
Phoenix's request. The ambulance workers confirmed that Phoenix had
not broken any bones but they recommended he go to hospital to check
for possible concussion.
Still both badly shaken, Phoenix and the driver exchanged names and
phone numbers. Phoenix told the driver he did technical work for a
0055 telephone service, then said, `You might recognise me. I'm
Phoenix. There's this big computer hacking case going on in
court--that's my case'.
The driver looked at him blankly.
Phoenix said, `You might have seen me on the TV news.'
No, the driver said, somewhat amazed at the strange things which go
through the dazed mind of a young man who has so narrowly escaped
death.
Some time after Phoenix's close brush with death, the former hacker
left his info-line technician's job and began working in the
information technology division of a large Melbourne-based
corporation. Well paid in his new job, Phoenix is seen, once again, as
the golden-haired boy. He helped to write a software program which
reduces waste in one of the production lines and reportedly saved the
company thousands of dollars. Now he travels abroad regularly, to
Japan and elsewhere.
He had a steady girlfriend for a time, but eventually she broke the
relationship off to see other people. Heartbroken, he avoided dating
for months. Instead, he filled his time with his ever-increasing
corporate responsibilities.
His new interest is music. He plays electric guitar in an amateur
band.
ELECTRON
A few weeks after his sentencing, Electron had another psychotic
episode, triggered by a dose of speed. He was admitted to hospital
again, this time at Larundel. After a short stay, he was released and
underwent further psychiatric care.
Some months later, he did speed again, and suffered another bout of
psychosis. He kept reading medical papers on the Internet about his
condition and his psychiatrists worried that his detailed research
might interfere with their ability to treat him.
He moved into special accommodation for people recovering from mental
instabilities. Slowly, he struggled to overcome his illness. When
people came up to him and said things like, `What a nice day it is!'
Electron willed himself to take their words at face value, to accept
that they really were just commenting on the weather, nothing more.
During this time, he quit drugs, alcohol and his much-hated accounting
course. Eventually he was able to come off his psychiatric medicines
completely. He hasn't taken drugs or had alcohol since December 1994.
His only chemical vice in 1996 was cigarettes. By the beginning of
1997 he had also given up tobacco.
Electron hasn't talked to either Phoenix or Nom since 1992.
In early 1996, Electron moved into his own flat with his steady
girlfriend, who studies dance and who also successfully overcame
mental illness after a long, hard struggle. Electron began another
university course in a philosophy-related field. This time university
life agreed with him, and his first semester transcript showed honours
grades in every class. He is considering moving to Sydney for further
studies.