Chapter 2-7
Hacker Crackdown

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The Computer Fraud and Abuse Task Force, led by federal prosecutor
William J. Cook, had started in 1987 and had swiftly become one
of the most aggressive local "dedicated computer-crime units."
Chicago was a natural home for such a group.  The world's first
computer bulletin-board system had been invented in Illinois.
The state of Illinois had some of the nation's first and sternest
computer crime laws.  Illinois State Police were markedly alert
to the possibilities of white-collar crime and electronic fraud.

And William J. Cook in particular was a rising star in
electronic crime-busting.  He and his fellow federal prosecutors
at the U.S. Attorney's office in Chicago had a tight relation
with the Secret Service, especially go-getting Chicago-based agent
Timothy Foley.  While Cook and his Department of Justice colleagues
plotted strategy, Foley was their man on the street.

Throughout the 1980s, the federal government had given prosecutors
an armory of new, untried legal tools against computer crime.
Cook and his colleagues were pioneers in the use of these new statutes
in the real-life cut-and-thrust of the federal courtroom.

On October 2, 1986, the US Senate had passed the
"Computer Fraud and Abuse Act" unanimously, but there
were pitifully few convictions under this statute.
Cook's group took their name from this statute,
since they were determined to transform this powerful but
rather theoretical Act of Congress into a real-life engine
of legal destruction against computer fraudsters and scofflaws.

It was not a question of merely discovering crimes,
investigating them, and then trying and punishing their
perpetrators.  The Chicago unit, like most everyone else
in the business, already KNEW who the bad guys were:
the Legion of Doom and the writers and editors of Phrack.
The task at hand was to find some legal means of putting
these characters away.

This approach might seem a bit dubious, to someone not
acquainted with the gritty realities of prosecutorial work.
But prosecutors don't put people in jail for crimes
they have committed; they put people in jail for crimes
they have committed THAT CAN BE PROVED IN COURT.
Chicago federal police put Al Capone in prison
for income-tax fraud.  Chicago is a big town,
with a rough-and-ready bare-knuckle tradition
on both sides of the law. 

Fry Guy had broken the case wide open and alerted telco security
to the scope of the problem.  But Fry Guy's crimes would not
put the Atlanta Three behind bars--much less the wacko underground
journalists of Phrack.  So on July 22, 1989, the same day that
Fry Guy was raided in Indiana, the Secret Service descended upon
the Atlanta Three.

This was likely inevitable.  By the summer of 1989, law enforcement
were closing in on the Atlanta Three from at least six directions at once.
First, there were the leads from Fry Guy, which had led to the DNR registers
being installed on the lines of the Atlanta Three.  The DNR evidence alone
would have finished them off, sooner or later.

But second, the Atlanta lads were already well-known to Control-C
and his telco security sponsors.  LoD's contacts with telco security
had made them overconfident and even more boastful than usual;
they felt that they had powerful friends in high places,
and that they were being openly tolerated by telco security.
But BellSouth's Intrusion Task Force were hot on the trail of LoD
and sparing no effort or expense.

The Atlanta Three had also been identified by name and listed
on the extensive anti-hacker files maintained, and retailed for pay,
by private security operative John Maxfield of Detroit.
Maxfield, who had extensive ties to telco security
and many informants in the underground, was a bete noire
of the Phrack crowd, and the dislike was mutual.

The Atlanta Three themselves had written articles for Phrack.
This boastful act could not possibly escape telco and law enforcement

"Knightmare," a high-school age hacker from Arizona,
was a close friend and disciple of Atlanta LoD,
but he had been nabbed by the formidable Arizona
Organized Crime and Racketeering Unit.  Knightmare was
on some of LoD's favorite boards--"Black Ice" in particular--
and was privy to their secrets.  And to have Gail Thackeray,
the Assistant Attorney General of Arizona, on one's trail
was a dreadful peril for any hacker.

And perhaps worst of all, Prophet had committed a major blunder
by passing an illicitly copied BellSouth computer-file to Knight Lightning,
who had published it in Phrack.  This, as we will see, was an act of dire
consequence for almost everyone concerned.

On July 22, 1989, the Secret Service showed up at the Leftist's house,
where he lived with his parents.  A massive squad of some twenty officers
surrounded the building:  Secret Service, federal marshals, local police,
possibly BellSouth telco security; it was hard to tell in the crush.
Leftist's dad, at work in his basement office, first noticed
a muscular stranger in plain clothes crashing through the
back yard with a drawn pistol.  As more strangers poured
into the house, Leftist's dad naturally assumed there was
an armed robbery in progress.

Like most hacker parents, Leftist's mom and dad had only the vaguest
notions of what their son had been up to all this time.  Leftist had
a day-job repairing computer hardware.  His obsession with computers
seemed a bit odd, but harmless enough, and likely to produce a well-
paying career.  The sudden, overwhelming raid left Leftist's
parents traumatized.

The Leftist himself had been out after work with his co-workers,
surrounding a couple of pitchers of margaritas.  As he came trucking
on tequila-numbed feet up the pavement, toting a bag full of floppy-disks,
he noticed a large number of unmarked cars parked in his driveway.
All the cars sported tiny microwave antennas.

The Secret Service had knocked the front door off its hinges,
almost flattening his mom.

Inside, Leftist was greeted by Special Agent James Cool
of the US Secret Service, Atlanta office.  Leftist was flabbergasted.
He'd never met a Secret Service agent before.  He could not imagine
that he'd ever done anything worthy of federal attention.
He'd always figured that if his activities became intolerable,
one of his contacts in telco security would give him a private
phone-call and tell him to knock it off.

But now Leftist was pat-searched for weapons by grim professionals,
and his bag of floppies was quickly seized.  He and his parents were
all shepherded into separate rooms and grilled at length as a score
of officers scoured their home for anything electronic.

Leftist was horrified as his treasured IBM AT personal computer
with its forty-meg hard disk, and his recently purchased 80386 IBM-clone
with a whopping hundred-meg hard disk, both went swiftly out the door
in Secret Service custody.  They also seized all his disks, all his notebooks,
and a tremendous booty in dogeared telco documents that Leftist had snitched
out of trash dumpsters.

Leftist figured the whole thing for a big misunderstanding.
He'd never been into MILITARY computers.  He wasn't a SPY or a COMMUNIST.
He  was just a good ol' Georgia hacker, and now he just wanted all these
people out of the house.  But it seemed they wouldn't go until he made
some kind of statement.

And so, he levelled with them.

And that, Leftist said later from his federal prison camp in Talladega,
Alabama, was a big mistake.  The Atlanta area was unique,
in that it had three members of the Legion of Doom who actually
occupied more or less the same physical locality.  Unlike the rest
of LoD, who tended to associate by phone and computer,
Atlanta LoD actually WERE "tightly knit."  It was no real
surprise that the Secret Service agents apprehending Urvile
at the computer-labs at Georgia Tech, would discover Prophet
with him as well.

Urvile, a 21-year-old Georgia Tech student in polymer chemistry,
posed quite a puzzling case for law enforcement.  Urvile--also known
as "Necron 99," as well as other handles, for he tended to change his
cover-alias about once a month--was both an accomplished hacker
and a fanatic simulation-gamer.

Simulation games are an unusual hobby; but then hackers are unusual people,
and their favorite pastimes tend to be somewhat out of the ordinary.
The best-known American simulation game is probably "Dungeons & Dragons,"
a multi-player parlor entertainment played with paper, maps, pencils,
statistical tables and a variety of oddly-shaped dice.  Players pretend
to be heroic characters exploring a wholly-invented fantasy world.
The fantasy worlds of simulation gaming are commonly pseudo-medieval,
involving swords and sorcery--spell-casting wizards, knights in armor,
unicorns and dragons, demons and goblins.

Urvile and his fellow gamers  preferred their fantasies highly technological.
They made use of a game known as "G.U.R.P.S.," the "Generic Universal Role
Playing System," published by a company called Steve Jackson Games (SJG).

"G.U.R.P.S."  served as a framework for creating a wide variety of artificial
fantasy worlds.  Steve Jackson Games published  a smorgasboard of books,
full of detailed information and gaming hints, which were used to flesh-out
many different fantastic backgrounds for the basic GURPS framework.
Urvile made extensive use of two SJG books called GURPS High-Tech
and GURPS Special Ops.

In the artificial fantasy-world of GURPS Special Ops,
players entered a modern  fantasy of intrigue and international espionage.
On beginning the game, players started small and powerless,
perhaps as minor-league CIA agents or penny-ante arms dealers.
But as players persisted through a series of game sessions
(game sessions generally lasted for hours, over long,
elaborate campaigns that might be pursued for months on end)
then they would achieve new skills, new knowledge, new power.
They would acquire and hone new abilities, such as marksmanship,
karate, wiretapping, or Watergate burglary.  They could also win
various kinds of imaginary booty, like Berettas, or martini shakers,
or fast cars with ejection seats and machine-guns under the headlights.

As might be imagined from the complexity of these games,
Urvile's gaming notes were very detailed and extensive.
Urvile was a "dungeon-master," inventing scenarios
for his fellow gamers, giant simulated adventure-puzzles
for his friends to unravel.  Urvile's game notes covered
dozens of pages with all sorts of exotic lunacy, all about
ninja raids on Libya and break-ins on encrypted Red Chinese supercomputers.
His notes were written on scrap-paper and kept in loose-leaf binders.

The handiest scrap paper around Urvile's college digs were the many pounds of
BellSouth printouts and documents that he had snitched out of telco dumpsters.
His notes were written on the back of misappropriated telco property.
Worse yet, the gaming notes were chaotically interspersed with Urvile's
hand-scrawled records involving ACTUAL COMPUTER INTRUSIONS that he
had committed.

Not only was it next to impossible to tell Urvile's fantasy game-notes
from cyberspace "reality," but Urvile himself barely made this distinction.
It's no exaggeration to say that to Urvile it was ALL a game.  Urvile was
very bright, highly imaginative, and quite careless of other people's notions
of propriety.  His connection to "reality" was not something to which he paid
a great deal of attention.

Hacking was a game for Urvile.  It was an amusement he was carrying out,
it was something he was doing for fun.  And Urvile was an obsessive young man.
He could no more stop hacking than he could stop in the middle of
a jigsaw puzzle, or stop in the middle of reading a Stephen Donaldson
fantasy trilogy.  (The name "Urvile" came from a best-selling Donaldson novel.)

Urvile's airy, bulletproof attitude seriously annoyed his interrogators.
First of all, he didn't consider that he'd done anything wrong.
There was scarcely a shred of honest remorse in him.  On the contrary,
he seemed privately convinced that his police interrogators were operating
in a demented fantasy-world all their own.  Urvile was too polite
and well-behaved to say this straight-out, but his reactions were askew
and disquieting.

For instance, there was the business about LoD's ability
to monitor phone-calls to the police and Secret Service.
Urvile agreed that this was quite possible, and posed
no big problem for LoD.  In fact, he and his friends
had kicked the idea around on the "Black Ice" board,
much as they had discussed many other nifty notions,
such as building personal flame-throwers and jury-rigging
fistfulls of blasting-caps.  They had hundreds of dial-up numbers
for government agencies that they'd gotten through scanning Atlanta phones,
or had pulled from raided VAX/VMS mainframe computers.

Basically, they'd never gotten around to listening in on the cops
because the idea wasn't interesting enough to bother with.
Besides, if they'd been monitoring Secret Service phone calls,
obviously they'd never have been caught in the first place.  Right?

The Secret Service was less than satisfied with this rapier-like hacker logic.

Then there was the issue of crashing the phone system.  No problem,
Urvile admitted sunnily.  Atlanta LoD could have shut down phone service
all over Atlanta any time they liked.  EVEN THE 911 SERVICE?
Nothing special about that, Urvile explained patiently.
Bring the switch to its knees, with say the UNIX "makedir" bug,
and 911 goes down too as a matter of course.  The 911 system
wasn't very interesting, frankly.  It might be tremendously
interesting to cops (for odd reasons of their own), but as
technical challenges went, the 911 service was yawnsville.

So of course the Atlanta Three could crash service.
They probably could have crashed service all over
BellSouth territory, if they'd worked at it for a while.
But Atlanta LoD weren't crashers.  Only losers and rodents
were crashers.  LoD were ELITE.

Urvile was privately convinced that sheer technical
expertise could win him free of any kind of problem.
As far as he was concerned, elite status in the digital
underground had placed him permanently beyond the intellectual
grasp of cops and straights.  Urvile had a lot to learn.

Of the three LoD stalwarts, Prophet was in the most direct trouble.
Prophet was a UNIX programming expert who burrowed in and out
of the Internet as a matter of course.  He'd started his hacking
career at around age 14, meddling with a UNIX mainframe system
at the University of North Carolina.

Prophet himself had written the handy Legion of Doom
file "UNIX Use and Security From the Ground Up."
UNIX (pronounced "you-nicks") is a powerful,
flexible computer operating-system, for multi-user,
multi-tasking computers.  In 1969, when UNIX was created
in Bell Labs, such computers were exclusive to large
corporations and universities, but today UNIX is run
on thousands of powerful home machines.  UNIX was
particularly well-suited to telecommunications programming,
and had become a standard in the field.  Naturally, UNIX
also became a standard for the elite hacker and phone phreak.
Lately, Prophet had not been so active as Leftist and Urvile,
but Prophet was a recidivist.  In 1986, when he was eighteen,
Prophet had been convicted of "unauthorized access
to a computer network" in North Carolina.  He'd been
discovered breaking into the Southern Bell Data Network,
a UNIX-based internal telco network supposedly closed to the public.
He'd gotten a typical hacker sentence:  six months suspended,
120 hours community service, and three years' probation.

After that humiliating bust, Prophet had gotten rid of most of his
tonnage of illicit phreak and hacker data, and had tried to go straight.
He was, after all, still on probation.  But by  the autumn of 1988,
the temptations of cyberspace had proved too much for young Prophet,
and he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Urvile and Leftist into some
of the hairiest systems around.

In early September 1988, he'd broken into BellSouth's centralized
automation system, AIMSX or "Advanced Information Management System."
AIMSX was an internal business network for BellSouth, where telco
employees stored electronic mail, databases, memos, and calendars,
and did text processing.  Since AIMSX did not have public dial-ups,
it was considered utterly invisible to the public, and was not well-secured
--it didn't even require passwords.  Prophet abused an account known
as "waa1," the personal account of an unsuspecting telco employee.
Disguised as the owner of waa1, Prophet made about ten visits to AIMSX.

Prophet did not damage or delete anything in the system.
His presence in AIMSX was harmless and almost invisible.
But he could not rest content with that.

One particular piece of processed text on AIMSX was a telco document
known as "Bell South Standard Practice 660-225-104SV Control Office
Administration of Enhanced 911 Services for Special Services
and Major Account Centers dated March 1988."

Prophet had not been looking for this document.  It was merely one
among hundreds of similar documents with impenetrable titles.
However, having blundered over it in the course of his illicit
wanderings through AIMSX, he decided to take it with him as a trophy.
It might prove very useful in some future boasting, bragging,
and strutting session.  So, some time in September 1988,
Prophet ordered the AIMSX mainframe computer to copy this document
(henceforth called simply called "the E911 Document") and to transfer
this copy to his home computer.

No one noticed that Prophet had done this.  He had "stolen"
the E911 Document in some sense, but notions of property
in cyberspace can be tricky.  BellSouth noticed nothing wrong,
because BellSouth still had their original copy.  They had not
been "robbed" of the document itself.  Many people were supposed
to copy this document--specifically, people who worked for the
nineteen BellSouth "special services and major account centers,"
scattered throughout the Southeastern United States.  That was
what it was for, why it was present on a computer network
in the first place: so that it could be copied and read--
by telco employees.  But now the data had been copied
by someone who wasn't supposed to look at it.

Prophet now had his trophy.  But he further decided to store
yet another copy of the E911 Document on another person's computer.
This unwitting person was a computer enthusiast named Richard Andrews
who lived near Joliet, Illinois.  Richard Andrews was a UNIX programmer
by trade, and ran a powerful UNIX board called "Jolnet," in the basement
of his house.

Prophet, using the handle "Robert Johnson," had obtained an account
on Richard Andrews' computer.  And there he stashed the E911 Document,
by storing it in his own private section of Andrews' computer.

Why did Prophet do this?  If Prophet had eliminated the E911 Document
from his own computer, and kept it hundreds of miles away, on another machine, under an
alias, then he might have been fairly safe from discovery and prosecution--
although his sneaky action had certainly put the unsuspecting Richard Andrews
at risk.

But, like most hackers, Prophet was a pack-rat for illicit data.
When it came to the crunch, he could not bear to part from his trophy.
When Prophet's place in Decatur, Georgia was raided in July 1989,
there was the E911 Document, a smoking gun.  And there was Prophet
in the hands of the Secret Service, doing his best to "explain."

Our story now takes us away from the Atlanta Three and their raids
of the Summer of 1989.  We must leave Atlanta Three "cooperating fully"
with their numerous investigators.  And  all three of them did cooperate,
as their Sentencing Memorandum from the US District Court of the
Northern Division of Georgia explained--just before all three of them
were sentenced to various federal prisons in November 1990.

We must now catch up on the other aspects of the war on the Legion of Doom.
The war on the Legion was a war on a network--in fact, a network of three
networks, which intertwined and interrelated in a complex fashion.
The Legion itself, with Atlanta LoD, and their hanger-on Fry Guy,
were the first network.  The second network was Phrack magazine,
with its editors and contributors.

The third  network involved the electronic circle around a hacker
known as "Terminus."

The war against these hacker networks was carried out by
a law enforcement network.  Atlanta LoD and Fry Guy
were pursued by USSS agents and federal prosecutors in Atlanta,
Indiana, and Chicago.  "Terminus" found himself pursued by USSS
and federal prosecutors from Baltimore and Chicago.  And the war
against Phrack was almost entirely a Chicago operation.

The investigation of Terminus involved a great deal of energy,
mostly from the Chicago Task Force, but it was to be the least-known
and least-publicized of the Crackdown operations.  Terminus, who lived
in Maryland, was a UNIX programmer and consultant, fairly well-known
(under his given name) in the UNIX community, as an acknowledged expert
on AT&T minicomputers.  Terminus idolized AT&T, especially Bellcore,
and longed for public recognition as a UNIX expert; his highest ambition
was to work for Bell Labs.

But Terminus had odd friends and a spotted history.
Terminus had once been the subject of an admiring interview
in Phrack (Volume II, Issue 14, Phile 2--dated May 1987).
In this article, Phrack co-editor Taran King described
"Terminus" as an electronics engineer, 5'9", brown-haired,
born in 1959--at 28 years old, quite mature for a hacker.

Terminus had once been sysop of a phreak/hack underground board
called "MetroNet," which ran on an Apple II.  Later he'd replaced
"MetroNet" with an underground board called "MegaNet,"
specializing in IBMs.  In his younger days, Terminus had written
one of the very first and most elegant code-scanning programs
for the IBM-PC.  This program had been widely distributed
in the underground.  Uncounted legions of PC-owning phreaks and
hackers had used Terminus's scanner program to rip-off telco codes.
This feat had not escaped the attention of telco security;
it hardly could, since Terminus's earlier handle, "Terminal Technician,"
was proudly written right on the program.

When he became a full-time computer professional
(specializing in telecommunications programming),
he adopted the handle Terminus, meant to indicate that he
had "reached the final point of being a proficient hacker."
He'd moved up to the UNIX-based "Netsys" board on an AT&T computer,
with four phone lines and an impressive 240 megs of storage.
"Netsys" carried complete issues of Phrack, and Terminus was
quite friendly with its publishers, Taran King and Knight Lightning.

In the early 1980s, Terminus had been a regular on Plovernet,
Pirate-80, Sherwood Forest and Shadowland, all well-known pirate boards,
all heavily frequented by the Legion of Doom.  As it happened, Terminus
was never officially "in LoD," because he'd never been given the official
LoD high-sign and back-slap by Legion maven Lex Luthor.  Terminus had
never physically met anyone from LoD.  But that scarcely mattered much--
the Atlanta Three themselves had never been officially vetted by Lex, either.

As far as law enforcement was concerned, the issues were clear.
Terminus was a full-time, adult computer professional
with particular skills at AT&T software and hardware--
but Terminus reeked of the Legion of Doom and the underground.

On February 1, 1990--half a month after the Martin Luther King Day Crash--
USSS agents Tim Foley from Chicago, and Jack Lewis from the Baltimore office,
accompanied by AT&T security officer Jerry Dalton, travelled to Middle Town,
Maryland.  There they grilled Terminus in his home (to the stark terror of
his wife and small children), and, in their customary fashion, hauled his
computers out the door.

The Netsys machine proved to contain a plethora of arcane UNIX software--
proprietary source code formally owned by AT&T.  Software such as:
UNIX System Five Release 3.2; UNIX SV Release 3.1;  UUCP communications
software; KORN SHELL; RFS; IWB; WWB; DWB; the C++ programming language;

In the long-established piratical tradition of the underground,
Terminus had been trading this illicitly-copied software with
a small circle of fellow UNIX programmers.  Very unwisely,
he had stored seven years of his electronic mail on his Netsys machine,
which documented all the friendly arrangements he had made with
his various colleagues.

Terminus had not crashed the AT&T phone system on January 15.
He was, however, blithely running a not-for-profit AT&T
software-piracy ring.  This was not an activity AT&T found amusing.
AT&T security officer Jerry Dalton valued this "stolen" property
at over three hundred thousand dollars.

AT&T's entry into the tussle of free enterprise had been complicated
by the new, vague groundrules of the information economy.
Until the break-up of Ma Bell, AT&T was forbidden to sell
computer hardware or software.  Ma Bell was the phone company;
Ma Bell was not allowed to use the enormous revenue from
telephone utilities, in order to finance any entry into
the computer market.

AT&T nevertheless invented the UNIX operating system.
And somehow AT&T managed to make UNIX a minor source of income.
Weirdly, UNIX was not sold as computer software,
but actually retailed under an obscure regulatory
exemption allowing sales of surplus equipment and scrap.
Any bolder attempt to promote or retail UNIX would have
aroused angry legal opposition from computer companies.
Instead, UNIX was licensed to universities, at modest rates,
where the acids of academic freedom ate away steadily at AT&T's
proprietary rights.

Come the breakup, AT&T recognized that UNIX was a potential gold-mine.
By now, large chunks of UNIX code had been created that were not AT&T's,
and were being sold by others.  An entire rival UNIX-based operating system
had arisen in Berkeley, California  (one of the world's great founts of
ideological hackerdom).  Today, "hackers" commonly consider "Berkeley UNIX"
to be technically superior to AT&T's "System V UNIX," but AT&T has not
allowed mere technical elegance to intrude on the real-world business
of marketing proprietary software.  AT&T has made its own code deliberately
incompatible with other folks' UNIX, and has written code that it can prove
is copyrightable, even if that code happens to be somewhat awkward--"kludgey."
AT&T UNIX user licenses are serious business agreements, replete with very
clear copyright statements and non-disclosure clauses.

AT&T has not exactly kept the UNIX cat in the bag,
but it kept a grip on its scruff with some success.
By the rampant, explosive standards of software piracy,
AT&T UNIX source code is heavily copyrighted, well-guarded,
well-licensed.  UNIX was traditionally run only on
mainframe machines, owned by large groups of suit-and-tie
professionals, rather than on bedroom machines where
people can get up to easy mischief.

And AT&T UNIX source code is serious high-level programming.
The number of skilled UNIX programmers with any actual motive
to swipe UNIX source code is small.  It's tiny, compared to
the tens of thousands prepared to rip-off, say, entertaining
PC games like "Leisure Suit Larry."

But by 1989, the warez-d00d underground, in the persons of Terminus
and his friends, was gnawing at AT&T UNIX.  And the property in question
was not sold for twenty bucks over the counter at the local branch of
Babbage's or Egghead's;  this was massive, sophisticated, multi-line,
multi-author corporate code worth tens of thousands of dollars.

It must be recognized at this point that Terminus's purported ring of UNIX
software pirates had not actually made any money from their suspected crimes.
The $300,000 dollar figure bandied about for the contents of Terminus's
computer did not mean that Terminus was in actual illicit possession
of three hundred thousand of AT&T's dollars.  Terminus was shipping
software back and forth, privately, person to person, for free.
He was not making a commercial business of piracy.  He hadn't
asked for money; he didn't take money.  He lived quite modestly.

AT&T employees--as well as freelance UNIX consultants, like Terminus--
commonly worked with "proprietary" AT&T software, both in the office
and at home on their private machines.  AT&T rarely sent security officers
out to comb the hard disks of its consultants.  Cheap freelance UNIX
contractors were quite useful to AT&T; they didn't have health insurance
or retirement programs, much less union membership in the Communication
Workers of America.  They were humble digital drudges, wandering with mop
and bucket through the Great Technological Temple of AT&T; but when the
Secret Service arrived at their homes, it seemed they were eating with
company silverware and sleeping on company sheets!  Outrageously, they
behaved as if the things they worked with every day belonged to them!

And these were no mere hacker teenagers with their hands full
of trash-paper and their noses pressed to the corporate windowpane.
These guys were UNIX wizards, not only carrying AT&T data in their
machines and their heads, but eagerly networking about it,
over machines that were far more powerful than anything previously
imagined in private hands.  How do you keep people disposable,
yet assure their awestruck respect for your property?  It was a dilemma.

Much UNIX code was public-domain, available for free.  Much "proprietary"
UNIX code had been extensively re-written, perhaps altered so much that it
became an entirely new product--or perhaps not.  Intellectual property rights
for software developers were, and are, extraordinarily complex and confused.
And software "piracy," like the private copying of videos, is one of the most
widely practiced "crimes" in the world today.

The USSS were not experts in UNIX or familiar with the customs of its use.
The United States Secret Service, considered as a body, did not have one single
person in it who could program in a UNIX environment--no, not even one.
The Secret Service WERE making extensive use of expert help, but the "experts"
they had chosen were AT&T and Bellcore security officials, the very victims of
the purported crimes under investigation, the very people whose interest in
AT&T's  "proprietary" software was most pronounced.

On February 6, 1990, Terminus was arrested by Agent Lewis.
Eventually, Terminus would be sent to prison for his illicit
use of a piece of AT&T software. 

The issue of pirated AT&T software would bubble along in the background
during the war on the Legion of Doom.  Some half-dozen of Terminus's on-line
acquaintances, including people in Illinois, Texas and California,
were grilled by the Secret Service in connection with the illicit
copying of software.  Except for Terminus, however, none were charged
with a crime.  None of them shared his peculiar prominence in the
hacker underground.

But that did not mean that these people would, or could,
stay out of trouble.  The transferral of illicit data in
cyberspace is hazy and ill-defined business, with paradoxical
dangers for everyone concerned:  hackers, signal carriers,
board owners, cops, prosecutors, even random passers-by.
Sometimes, well-meant attempts to avert trouble
or punish wrongdoing bring more trouble than
would simple ignorance, indifference or impropriety.

Terminus's "Netsys" board was not a common-or-garden
bulletin board system, though it had most of the usual
functions of a board.  Netsys was not a stand-alone machine,
but part of the globe-spanning "UUCP" cooperative network.
The UUCP network uses a set of Unix software programs called
"Unix-to-Unix Copy," which allows Unix systems to throw data to
one another at high speed through the public telephone network.
UUCP is a radically decentralized, not-for-profit network of UNIX computers.
There are tens of thousands of these UNIX machines.  Some are small,
but many are powerful and also link to other networks.  UUCP has
certain arcane links to  major networks such as JANET, EasyNet, BITNET,
JUNET, VNET, DASnet, PeaceNet and FidoNet, as well as the gigantic Internet.
(The so-called "Internet" is not actually a network itself, but rather an
"internetwork" connections standard that allows several globe-spanning
computer networks to communicate with one another.  Readers fascinated
by the weird and intricate tangles of modern computer networks may enjoy
John S. Quarterman's authoritative 719-page explication, The Matrix,
Digital Press, 1990.)

A skilled user of Terminus' UNIX machine could send and receive
electronic mail from almost any major computer network in the world.
Netsys was not called a "board" per se, but rather a "node."
"Nodes" were larger, faster, and more sophisticated than mere "boards,"
and for hackers, to hang out on internationally-connected "nodes"
was quite the step up from merely hanging out on local "boards."

Terminus's Netsys node in Maryland had a number of direct
links to other, similar UUCP nodes, run by people who shared his
interests and at least something of his free-wheeling attitude.
One of these nodes was Jolnet, owned by Richard Andrews, who,
like Terminus, was an independent UNIX consultant.
Jolnet also ran UNIX, and could be contacted at high speed
by mainframe machines from all over the world.  Jolnet was
quite a sophisticated piece of work, technically speaking,
but it was still run by an individual, as a private,
not-for-profit hobby.  Jolnet was mostly used by other
UNIX programmers--for mail, storage, and access to networks.
Jolnet supplied access network access to about two hundred people,
as well as a local junior college.

Among its various features and services, Jolnet also carried
Phrack magazine.

For reasons of his own, Richard Andrews had become suspicious
of a new user called  "Robert Johnson."  Richard Andrews
took it upon himself to have a look at what "Robert Johnson"
was storing in Jolnet.  And Andrews found the E911 Document.

"Robert Johnson" was the Prophet from the Legion of Doom,
and the E911 Document was illicitly copied data from Prophet's
raid on the BellSouth computers.

The E911 Document, a particularly illicit piece of digital property,
was about to resume its long, complex, and disastrous career.

It struck Andrews as fishy that someone not a telephone employee
should have a document referring to the "Enhanced 911 System."
Besides, the document itself bore an obvious warning.


These standard nondisclosure tags are often appended to all sorts
of corporate material.  Telcos as a species are particularly notorious
for stamping most everything in sight as "not for use or disclosure."
Still, this particular piece of data was about the 911 System.
That sounded bad to Rich Andrews.

Andrews was not prepared to ignore this sort of trouble.
He thought it would be wise to pass the document along
to a friend and acquaintance on the UNIX network, for consultation.
So, around September 1988, Andrews sent yet another copy of the
E911 Document electronically to an AT&T employee, one Charles Boykin,
who ran a UNIX-based node called "attctc" in Dallas, Texas.

"Attctc" was the property of AT&T, and was run from AT&T's
Customer Technology Center in Dallas, hence the name "attctc."
"Attctc" was better-known as "Killer," the name of the machine
that the system was running on.  "Killer" was a hefty, powerful,
AT&T 3B2 500 model, a multi-user, multi-tasking UNIX platform
with 32 meg of memory and a mind-boggling 3.2 Gigabytes of storage.
When  Killer had first arrived in Texas, in 1985, the 3B2 had been
one of AT&T's great white hopes for going head-to-head with IBM
for the corporate computer-hardware market.  "Killer" had been shipped
to the Customer Technology Center in the Dallas Infomart, essentially
a high-technology mall, and there it sat, a demonstration model.

Charles Boykin, a veteran AT&T hardware and digital communications expert,
was a local technical backup man for the AT&T 3B2 system.  As a display model
in the Infomart mall, "Killer" had little to do, and it seemed a shame
to waste the system's capacity.  So Boykin ingeniously wrote some UNIX
bulletin-board software for "Killer," and plugged the machine in to the
local phone network.  "Killer's" debut in late 1985 made it the first
publicly available UNIX site in the state of Texas.  Anyone who wanted to
play was welcome.

The machine immediately attracted an electronic community.
It joined the UUCP network, and offered network links
to over eighty other computer sites, all of which became dependent
on Killer for their links to the greater world of cyberspace.
And it wasn't just for the big guys; personal computer users
also stored freeware programs for the Amiga, the Apple,
the IBM and the Macintosh on Killer's vast 3,200 meg archives.
At one time, Killer had the largest library of public-domain
Macintosh software in Texas.

Eventually, Killer attracted about 1,500 users,
all busily communicating, uploading and downloading,
getting mail, gossipping, and linking to arcane
and distant networks.

Boykin received no pay for running Killer.  He considered
it good publicity for the AT&T 3B2 system (whose sales were
somewhat less than stellar), but he also simply enjoyed
the vibrant community his skill had created.  He gave away
the bulletin-board UNIX software he had written, free of charge.

In the UNIX programming community, Charlie Boykin had the
reputation of a warm, open-hearted, level-headed kind of guy.
In 1989, a group of Texan UNIX professionals voted Boykin
"System Administrator of the Year."  He was considered
a fellow you could trust for good advice.

In September 1988, without warning, the E911 Document
came plunging into Boykin's life, forwarded by Richard Andrews.
Boykin immediately recognized that the Document was hot property.
He was not a voice-communications man, and knew little about
the ins and outs of the Baby Bells, but he certainly knew what
the 911 System was, and he was angry to see confidential data
about it in the hands of a nogoodnik.  This was clearly a
matter for telco security.  So, on September 21, 1988, Boykin
made yet ANOTHER copy of the E911 Document and passed this
one along to a professional acquaintance of his, one Jerome Dalton,
from AT&T Corporate Information Security.  Jerry Dalton was the
very fellow who would later raid Terminus's house.

From AT&T's security division, the E911 Document went to Bellcore.

Bellcore (or BELL COmmunications REsearch) had once been the central
laboratory of the Bell System.  Bell Labs employees had invented
the UNIX operating system.  Now Bellcore was a quasi-independent,
jointly owned company that acted as the research arm for all seven
of the Baby Bell RBOCs.  Bellcore was in a good position to co-ordinate
security technology and consultation for the RBOCs, and the gentleman in
charge of this effort was Henry M. Kluepfel, a veteran of the Bell System
who had worked there for twenty-four years.

On October  13, 1988, Dalton passed the E911 Document to Henry Kluepfel.
Kluepfel, a veteran expert witness in telecommunications fraud and
computer-fraud cases, had certainly seen worse trouble than this.
He recognized the document for what it was:  a trophy from a hacker break-in.

However, whatever harm had been done in the intrusion was presumably old news.
At this point there seemed little to be done.  Kluepfel made a careful note
of the circumstances and shelved the problem for the time being.

Whole months passed.

February 1989 arrived.  The Atlanta Three were living it up
in Bell South's switches, and had not yet met their comeuppance.
The Legion was thriving.  So was Phrack magazine.
A good six months had passed since Prophet's AIMSX break-in.
Prophet, as hackers will, grew weary of sitting on his laurels.
"Knight Lightning" and "Taran King," the editors of Phrack,
were always begging Prophet for material they could publish.
Prophet decided that the heat must be off by this time,
and that he could safely brag, boast, and strut.

So he sent a copy of the E911 Document--yet another one--
from Rich Andrews' Jolnet machine to Knight Lightning's
BITnet account at the University of Missouri.
Let's review the fate of the document so far.

0.  The original E911 Document.  This in the AIMSX system
on a mainframe computer in Atlanta, available to hundreds of people,
but all of them, presumably, BellSouth employees.  An unknown number
of them may have their own copies of this document, but they are all
professionals and all trusted by the phone company.

1.  Prophet's illicit copy, at home on his own computer in Decatur, Georgia.

2.  Prophet's back-up copy, stored on Rich Andrew's Jolnet machine
    in the basement of Rich Andrews'  house near Joliet Illinois.

3.  Charles Boykin's copy on "Killer" in Dallas, Texas,
    sent by Rich Andrews from Joliet.

4.  Jerry Dalton's copy at AT&T Corporate Information Security in New Jersey,
    sent from Charles Boykin in Dallas.

5.  Henry Kluepfel's copy at Bellcore security headquarters in New Jersey,
    sent by Dalton.
6.  Knight Lightning's copy, sent by Prophet from Rich Andrews' machine,
    and now in Columbia, Missouri.

We can see that the "security" situation of this proprietary document,
once dug out of AIMSX, swiftly became bizarre.  Without any money
changing hands, without any particular special effort, this data
had been reproduced at least six times and had spread itself all over
the continent.  By far the worst, however, was yet to come.

In February 1989, Prophet and Knight Lightning bargained electronically
over the fate of this trophy.  Prophet wanted to boast, but, at the same time,
scarcely wanted to be caught.

For his part, Knight Lightning was eager to publish as much of the document
as he could manage.  Knight Lightning was a fledgling political-science major
with a particular interest in freedom-of-information issues.  He would gladly
publish most anything that would reflect glory on the prowess of the
underground and embarrass the telcos.  However, Knight Lightning himself
had contacts in telco security, and sometimes consulted them on material
he'd received that might be too dicey for publication.

Prophet and  Knight Lightning decided to edit the E911 Document
so as to delete most of its identifying traits.  First of all,
its large "NOT FOR USE OR DISCLOSURE" warning had to go.
Then there were other matters.  For instance, it listed
the office telephone numbers of several BellSouth 911
specialists in Florida.  If these phone numbers were
published in Phrack, the BellSouth employees involved
would very likely be hassled by phone phreaks,
which would anger BellSouth no end, and pose a
definite operational hazard for both Prophet and Phrack.

So Knight Lightning cut the Document almost in half,
removing the phone numbers and some of the touchier
and more specific information.  He passed it back
electronically to Prophet;  Prophet was still nervous,
so Knight Lightning cut a bit more.  They finally agreed
that it was ready to go, and that it would be published
in Phrack under the pseudonym, "The Eavesdropper."

And this was done on February 25, 1989.

The twenty-fourth issue of Phrack  featured a chatty interview
with co-ed phone-phreak "Chanda Leir," three articles on BITNET
and its links to other computer networks, an article on 800 and 900
numbers by "Unknown User," "VaxCat's" article on telco basics
(slyly entitled "Lifting Ma Bell's Veil of Secrecy,)" and
the usual "Phrack World News."

The News section, with painful irony, featured an extended account
of the sentencing of "Shadowhawk," an eighteen-year-old Chicago hacker
who had just been put in federal prison by William J. Cook himself.

And then there were the two articles by "The Eavesdropper."
The first was the edited E911 Document, now titled
"Control Office Administration Of Enhanced 911 Services
for Special Services and Major Account Centers."
Eavesdropper's second article was a glossary of terms
explaining the blizzard of telco acronyms and buzzwords
in the E911 Document.

The hapless document was now distributed, in the usual Phrack routine,
to a good one hundred and fifty sites.  Not a hundred and fifty PEOPLE,
mind you--a hundred and fifty SITES, some of these sites linked to UNIX
nodes or bulletin board systems, which themselves had readerships of tens,
dozens, even hundreds of people.

This was February 1989.  Nothing happened immediately.
Summer came, and the Atlanta crew were raided by the Secret Service.
Fry Guy was apprehended.  Still nothing whatever happened to Phrack.
Six more issues of Phrack came out, 30 in all, more or less on
a monthly schedule.  Knight Lightning and co-editor Taran King
went untouched.

Phrack tended to duck and cover whenever the heat came down.
During the summer busts of 1987--(hacker busts tended to cluster in summer,
perhaps because hackers were easier to find at home than in college)--
Phrack had ceased publication for several months, and laid low.
Several LoD hangers-on had been arrested, but nothing had happened
to the Phrack crew, the premiere gossips of the underground.
In 1988, Phrack had been taken over by a new editor,
"Crimson Death," a raucous youngster with a taste for anarchy files.
1989, however, looked like a bounty year for the underground.
Knight Lightning and his co-editor Taran King took up the reins again,
and Phrack flourished throughout 1989.  Atlanta LoD went down hard in
the summer of 1989, but Phrack rolled merrily on.  Prophet's E911 Document
seemed unlikely to cause Phrack any trouble.  By January 1990,
it had been available in Phrack for almost a year.  Kluepfel and Dalton,
officers of Bellcore and AT&T  security, had possessed the document
for sixteen months--in fact, they'd had it even before Knight Lightning
himself, and had done nothing in particular to stop its distribution.
They hadn't even told Rich Andrews or Charles Boykin to erase the copies
from their UNIX nodes, Jolnet and Killer.

But then came the monster Martin Luther King Day Crash of January 15, 1990.

A flat three days later, on January 18, four agents showed up
at Knight Lightning's fraternity house.  One was Timothy Foley,
the second Barbara Golden, both of them Secret Service agents
from the Chicago office.  Also along was a University of Missouri
security officer, and Reed Newlin, a security man from Southwestern Bell,
the RBOC having jurisdiction over Missouri.

Foley accused Knight Lightning of causing the nationwide crash
of the phone system.

Knight Lightning was aghast at this allegation.  On the face of it,
the suspicion was not entirely implausible--though Knight Lightning
knew that he himself hadn't done it.  Plenty of hot-dog hackers
had bragged that they could crash the phone system, however.
"Shadowhawk," for instance, the Chicago hacker whom William Cook
had recently put in jail, had several times boasted on boards
that he could "shut down AT&T's public switched network."

And now this event, or something that looked just like it,
had actually taken place.  The Crash had lit a fire under
the Chicago Task Force.  And the former fence-sitters at
Bellcore and AT&T were now ready to roll.  The consensus
among telco security--already horrified by the skill of
the BellSouth intruders --was that the digital underground
was out of hand.  LoD and Phrack must go.  And in publishing
Prophet's E911 Document, Phrack had provided law enforcement
with what appeared to be a powerful legal weapon.

Foley confronted Knight Lightning about the  E911 Document.

Knight Lightning was cowed.  He immediately began "cooperating fully"
in the usual tradition of the digital underground.

He gave Foley a complete run of Phrack, printed out in a set
of three-ring binders.  He handed over his electronic mailing list
of Phrack subscribers.  Knight Lightning was grilled for four hours
by Foley and his cohorts.  Knight Lightning admitted that Prophet
had passed him the E911 Document, and he admitted that he had known
it was stolen booty from a hacker raid on a telephone company.
Knight Lightning signed a statement to this effect, and agreed,
in writing, to cooperate with investigators.

Next day--January 19, 1990, a Friday --the Secret Service returned
with a search warrant, and thoroughly searched Knight Lightning's
upstairs room in the fraternity house.  They took all his floppy disks,
though, interestingly, they left Knight Lightning in possession
of both his computer and his modem.  (The computer had no hard disk,
and in Foley's judgement was not a store of evidence.)  But this was a
very minor bright spot among Knight Lightning's rapidly multiplying troubles.
By this time, Knight Lightning was in plenty of hot water, not only with
federal police, prosecutors, telco investigators, and university security,
but with the elders of his own campus fraternity, who were outraged
to think that they had been unwittingly harboring a federal computer-criminal.

On Monday, Knight Lightning was summoned to Chicago, where he was
further grilled by Foley and USSS veteran agent Barbara Golden, this time
with an attorney present.  And on Tuesday, he was formally indicted
by a federal grand jury.

The trial of Knight Lightning, which occurred on July 24-27, 1990,
was the crucial show-trial of the Hacker Crackdown.  We will examine
the trial at some length in Part Four of this book.

In the meantime, we must continue our dogged pursuit of the E911 Document.

It must have been clear by January 1990 that the E911 Document,
in the form Phrack had published it back in February 1989,
had gone off at the speed of light in at least a hundred
and fifty different directions.  To attempt to put this
electronic genie back in the bottle was flatly impossible.

And yet, the E911 Document was STILL stolen property,
formally and legally speaking.  Any electronic transference
of this document, by anyone unauthorized to have it,
could be interpreted as an act of wire fraud.  Interstate
transfer of stolen property, including electronic property,
was a federal crime.

The Chicago Computer Fraud and Abuse Task Force had been assured
that the E911 Document was worth a hefty sum of money.  In fact,
they had a precise estimate of its worth from BellSouth security personnel:
$79,449.  A sum of this scale seemed to warrant vigorous prosecution.
Even if the damage could not be undone, at least this large sum
offered a good legal pretext for stern punishment of the thieves.
It seemed likely to impress judges and juries. And it could be used
in court to mop up the Legion of Doom.

The Atlanta crowd was already in the bag, by the time
the Chicago Task Force had gotten around to Phrack.
But the Legion was a hydra-headed thing.  In late 89,
a brand-new Legion of Doom board, "Phoenix Project,"
had gone up in Austin, Texas.  Phoenix Project was sysoped
by no less a man than the Mentor himself, ably assisted by
University of Texas student and hardened Doomster "Erik Bloodaxe."
As we have seen from his Phrack manifesto, the Mentor was a hacker
zealot who regarded computer intrusion as something close to a moral duty.
Phoenix Project was an ambitious effort, intended to revive the digital
underground to what Mentor considered the full flower of the early 80s.
The Phoenix board would also boldly bring elite hackers face-to-face
with the telco "opposition."  On "Phoenix," America's cleverest hackers
would supposedly shame the telco squareheads out of their stick-in-the-mud
attitudes, and perhaps convince them that the Legion of Doom elite were really
an all-right crew.  The  premiere of "Phoenix Project" was heavily trumpeted
by Phrack,and "Phoenix Project" carried a complete run of Phrack issues,
including the E911 Document as Phrack had published it.

Phoenix Project was only one of many--possibly hundreds--of nodes and boards
all over America that were in guilty possession of the E911 Document.
But Phoenix was an outright, unashamed Legion of Doom board.
Under Mentor's guidance, it was flaunting itself in the face
of telco security personnel.  Worse yet, it was actively trying
to WIN THEM OVER as sympathizers for the digital underground elite.
"Phoenix" had no cards or codes on it.  Its hacker elite considered
Phoenix at least technically legal.  But Phoenix was a corrupting influence,
where hacker anarchy was eating away like digital acid at the underbelly
of corporate propriety.

The Chicago Computer Fraud and Abuse Task Force now prepared
to descend upon Austin, Texas.

Oddly, not one but TWO trails of the Task Force's investigation led
toward Austin.  The city of Austin, like Atlanta, had made itself
a bulwark of the Sunbelt's Information Age, with a strong university
research presence, and a number of cutting-edge electronics companies,
including Motorola, Dell, CompuAdd, IBM, Sematech and MCC.

Where computing machinery went, hackers generally followed.
Austin boasted not only "Phoenix Project," currently LoD's
most flagrant underground board, but a number of UNIX  nodes.

One of these nodes was "Elephant," run by a UNIX consultant
named Robert Izenberg.  Izenberg, in search of a relaxed Southern
lifestyle and a lowered cost-of-living, had recently migrated
to Austin from New Jersey.  In New Jersey, Izenberg had worked
for an independent contracting company, programming UNIX code for
AT&T itself.  "Terminus" had been a frequent user on Izenberg's
privately owned Elephant node.

Having interviewed Terminus and examined the records on Netsys,
the Chicago Task Force were now convinced that they had discovered
an underground gang of UNIX software pirates, who were demonstrably
guilty of interstate trafficking in illicitly copied AT&T source code.
Izenberg was swept into the dragnet around Terminus, the self-proclaimed
ultimate UNIX hacker.

Izenberg, in Austin, had settled down into a UNIX job
with a Texan branch of IBM.  Izenberg was no longer
working as a contractor for AT&T, but he had friends
in New Jersey, and he still logged on to AT&T UNIX
computers back in New Jersey, more or less whenever
it pleased him.  Izenberg's activities appeared highly
suspicious to the Task Force.  Izenberg might well be
breaking into AT&T computers, swiping AT&T software,
and passing it to  Terminus and other possible confederates,
through the UNIX node network.  And this data was worth,
not merely $79,499, but hundreds of thousands of dollars!

On February 21, 1990, Robert Izenberg arrived home
from work at IBM to find that all the computers
had mysteriously vanished from his Austin apartment.
Naturally he assumed that he had been robbed.
His "Elephant" node, his other machines, his notebooks,
his disks, his tapes, all gone!  However, nothing much
else seemed disturbed--the place had not been ransacked.
The puzzle becaming much stranger some five minutes later.
Austin U. S. Secret Service Agent Al Soliz, accompanied by
University of Texas campus-security officer Larry Coutorie
and the ubiquitous Tim Foley, made their appearance at Izenberg's door.
They were in plain clothes: slacks, polo shirts.  They came in,
and Tim Foley accused Izenberg of belonging to the Legion of Doom.

Izenberg told them that he had never heard of the "Legion of Doom."
And what about a certain stolen E911 Document, that posed a direct
threat to the police emergency lines?  Izenberg claimed that he'd
never heard of that, either.

His interrogators found this difficult to believe.
Didn't he know Terminus?


They gave him Terminus's real name.  Oh yes, said Izenberg.
He knew THAT guy all right--he was leading discussions
on the Internet about AT&T computers, especially the AT&T 3B2.

AT&T had thrust this machine into the marketplace,
but, like many of AT&T's ambitious attempts to enter
the computing arena, the 3B2 project had something less
than a glittering success.  Izenberg himself had been
a contractor for the division of AT&T that supported the 3B2.
The entire division had been shut down.

Nowadays, the cheapest and quickest way to get help with this
fractious piece of machinery was to join one of Terminus's
discussion groups on the Internet, where friendly and knowledgeable
hackers would help you for free.  Naturally the remarks within this
group were less than flattering about the Death Star. . .was
THAT the problem?

Foley told Izenberg that Terminus had been acquiring hot software
through his, Izenberg's, machine.

Izenberg shrugged this off.  A good eight megabytes of data flowed
through his UUCP site every day.  UUCP nodes spewed data like fire hoses.
Elephant had been directly linked to Netsys--not surprising, since Terminus
was a 3B2 expert and Izenberg had been a 3B2 contractor.
Izenberg was also linked to "attctc" and the University of Texas.
Terminus was a well-known UNIX expert, and might have been up to
all manner of hijinks on Elephant.  Nothing Izenberg could do about that.
That was physically impossible.  Needle in a haystack.

In a four-hour grilling, Foley urged Izenberg to come clean
and admit that he was in conspiracy with Terminus,
and a member of the Legion of Doom.

Izenberg denied this.  He was no weirdo teenage hacker--
he was thirty-two years old, and didn't even have a "handle."
Izenberg was a former TV technician and electronics specialist
who had drifted into UNIX consulting as a full-grown adult.
Izenberg had never met Terminus, physically.  He'd once bought
a cheap high-speed modem from him, though.

Foley told him that this modem (a Telenet T2500 which ran at 19.2 kilobaud,
and which had just gone out Izenberg's door in Secret Service custody)
was likely hot property.  Izenberg was taken aback to hear this; but then
again, most of Izenberg's equipment, like that of most freelance professionals
in the industry, was discounted, passed hand-to-hand through various kinds
of barter and gray-market.  There was no proof that the modem was stolen,
and even if it were, Izenberg hardly saw how that gave them the right
to take every electronic item in his house.

Still, if the United States Secret Service figured they needed
his computer for national security reasons--or whatever--
then Izenberg would not kick.  He figured he would somehow
make the sacrifice of his twenty thousand dollars' worth
of professional equipment, in the spirit of full cooperation
and good citizenship. 

Robert Izenberg was not arrested.  Izenberg was not charged with any crime.
His UUCP node--full of some 140 megabytes of the files, mail, and data
of himself and his dozen or so entirely innocent users--went out the door
as "evidence."  Along with the disks and tapes, Izenberg had lost about
800 megabytes of data.

Six months would pass before Izenberg decided to phone the Secret Service
and ask how the case was going.  That was the first time that Robert Izenberg
would ever hear the name of William Cook.  As of January 1992, a full
two years after the seizure, Izenberg, still not charged with any crime,
would be struggling through the morass of the courts, in hope of recovering
his thousands of dollars' worth of seized equipment.

In the meantime, the Izenberg case received absolutely no press coverage.
The Secret Service had walked into an Austin home, removed a UNIX bulletin-
board system, and met with no operational difficulties whatsoever.

Except that word of a crackdown had percolated through the Legion of Doom.
"The Mentor" voluntarily shut down "The Phoenix Project."  It seemed a pity,
especially as telco security employees had, in fact, shown up on Phoenix,
just as he had hoped--along with the usual motley crowd of LoD heavies,
hangers-on, phreaks, hackers and wannabes.  There was "Sandy" Sandquist from
US SPRINT security, and some guy named Henry Kluepfel, from Bellcore itself!
Kluepfel had been trading friendly banter with hackers on Phoenix since
January 30th (two weeks after the Martin Luther King Day Crash).
The presence of such a stellar telco official seemed quite the coup
for Phoenix Project. 

Still, Mentor could judge the climate.  Atlanta in ruins,
Phrack in deep trouble, something weird going on with UNIX nodes--
discretion was advisable.  Phoenix Project went off-line.

Kluepfel, of course, had been monitoring this LoD bulletin
board for his own purposes--and those of the Chicago unit.
As far back as June 1987, Kluepfel had logged on to a Texas
underground board called "Phreak Klass 2600."  There he'd
discovered an Chicago youngster named "Shadowhawk,"
strutting and boasting about rifling AT&T computer files,
and bragging of his ambitions to riddle AT&T's Bellcore
computers with trojan horse programs.  Kluepfel had passed
the news to Cook in Chicago, Shadowhawk's computers
had gone out the door in Secret Service custody,
and Shadowhawk himself had gone to jail.

Now it was Phoenix Project's turn.  Phoenix Project postured
about "legality" and "merely intellectual interest," but it reeked
of the underground.  It had Phrack on it.  It had the E911 Document.
It had a lot of dicey talk about breaking into systems, including some
bold and reckless stuff about a supposed "decryption service" that Mentor
and friends were planning to run, to help crack encrypted passwords off
of hacked systems.

Mentor was an adult.  There was a  bulletin board at his place of work,
as well.  Kleupfel logged onto this board, too, and discovered it to be
called "Illuminati."  It was run by some company called Steve Jackson Games.

On  March 1, 1990, the Austin crackdown went into high gear.

On the morning of March 1--a Thursday--21-year-old University of Texas
student "Erik Bloodaxe," co-sysop of Phoenix Project and an avowed member
of the Legion of Doom, was wakened by a police revolver levelled at his head.

Bloodaxe watched, jittery, as Secret Service agents
appropriated his 300 baud terminal and, rifling his files,
discovered his treasured source-code for Robert Morris's
notorious Internet Worm.  But Bloodaxe, a wily operator,
had suspected that something of the like might be coming.
All his best equipment had been hidden away elsewhere.
The raiders took everything electronic, however,
including his telephone.  They were stymied by his
hefty arcade-style Pac-Man game, and left it in place,
as it was simply too heavy to move.

Bloodaxe was not arrested.  He was not charged with any crime.
A good two years later, the police still had what they had
taken from him, however.

The Mentor was less wary.  The dawn raid rousted him and his wife
from bed in their underwear, and six Secret Service agents,
accompanied by an Austin policeman and Henry Kluepfel himself,
made a rich haul.  Off went the works, into the agents' white
Chevrolet minivan:  an IBM PC-AT clone with 4 meg of RAM and
a 120-meg hard disk; a Hewlett-Packard LaserJet II printer;
a completely legitimate and highly expensive SCO-Xenix 286
operating system; Pagemaker disks and documentation;
and the Microsoft Word word-processing program.  Mentor's wife
had her incomplete academic thesis stored on the hard-disk;
that went, too, and so did the couple's telephone.  As of two years later,
all this property remained in police custody.

Mentor remained under guard in his apartment as agents prepared
to raid Steve Jackson Games.  The fact that this was a business
headquarters and not a private residence did not deter the agents.
It was still very early; no one was at work yet.  The agents prepared
to break down the door, but Mentor, eavesdropping on the Secret Service
walkie-talkie traffic, begged them not to do it, and offered his key
to the building.

The exact details of the next events are unclear.  The agents
would not let anyone else into the building.  Their search warrant,
when produced, was unsigned.  Apparently they breakfasted from the local
"Whataburger," as the litter from hamburgers was later found inside.
They also extensively sampled a bag of jellybeans kept by an SJG employee.
Someone tore a "Dukakis for President" sticker from the wall.

SJG employees, diligently showing up for the day's work, were met
at the door and briefly questioned by U.S. Secret Service agents.
The employees watched in astonishment as agents wielding crowbars
and screwdrivers emerged with captive machines.  They attacked
outdoor storage units with boltcutters.  The agents wore
blue nylon windbreakers with "SECRET SERVICE" stencilled
across the back, with running-shoes and jeans.

Jackson's company lost three computers, several hard-disks,
hundred of floppy disks, two monitors, three modems,
a laser printer, various powercords, cables, and adapters
(and, oddly, a small bag of screws, bolts and nuts).
The seizure of Illuminati BBS deprived SJG of all the programs,
text files, and private e-mail on the board.  The loss of two other
SJG computers was a severe blow as well, since it caused the loss
of electronically stored contracts, financial projections,
address directories, mailing lists, personnel files,
business correspondence, and, not least, the drafts
of forthcoming games and gaming books.

No one at Steve Jackson Games was arrested.  No one was accused
of any crime.  No charges were filed.  Everything appropriated
was officially kept as "evidence" of crimes never specified.

After the Phrack show-trial, the Steve Jackson Games scandal
was the most bizarre and aggravating incident of the Hacker
Crackdown of 1990.  This raid by the Chicago Task Force
on a science-fiction gaming publisher was to rouse a
swarming host of civil liberties issues, and gave rise
to an enduring controversy that was still re-complicating itself,
and growing in the scope of its implications, a full two years later.

The pursuit of the E911 Document stopped with the Steve Jackson Games raid.
As we have seen, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of computer users
in America with the E911 Document in their possession.  Theoretically,
Chicago had a perfect legal right to raid any of these people,
and could have legally seized the machines of anybody who subscribed to Phrack.
However, there was no copy of the E911 Document on Jackson's Illuminati board.
And there the Chicago raiders stopped dead; they have not raided anyone since.

It might be assumed that Rich Andrews and Charlie Boykin, who had brought
the E911 Document to the attention of telco security, might be spared
any official suspicion.  But as we have seen, the willingness to
"cooperate fully" offers little, if any, assurance against federal
anti-hacker prosecution.

Richard Andrews found himself in deep trouble, thanks to the E911 Document.
Andrews lived in Illinois, the native stomping grounds of the Chicago
Task Force.  On February 3 and 6, both his home and his place of work
were raided by USSS.  His machines went out the door, too, and he was
grilled at length (though not arrested).  Andrews proved to be in
purportedly guilty possession of: UNIX SVR 3.2; UNIX SVR 3.1; UUCP;
among other items.  Andrews had received this proprietary code--
which AT&T officially valued at well over $250,000--through the
UNIX network, much of it supplied to him as a personal favor by Terminus.
Perhaps worse yet, Andrews admitted to returning the favor, by passing
Terminus a copy of AT&T proprietary STARLAN source code.

Even Charles Boykin, himself an AT&T employee, entered some very hot water.
By 1990, he'd almost forgotten about the E911 problem he'd reported in
September 88; in fact, since that date, he'd passed two more security alerts
to Jerry Dalton, concerning matters that Boykin considered far worse than
the E911 Document.

But by 1990, year of the crackdown, AT&T Corporate Information Security
was fed up with "Killer."  This machine offered no direct income to AT&T,
and was providing aid and comfort to a cloud of suspicious yokels
from outside the company, some of them actively malicious toward AT&T,
its property, and its corporate interests.  Whatever goodwill and publicity
had been won among Killer's 1,500 devoted users was considered no longer
worth the security risk.  On February 20, 1990, Jerry Dalton arrived in
Dallas and simply unplugged the phone jacks, to the puzzled alarm
of Killer's many Texan users.  Killer went permanently off-line,
with the loss of vast archives of programs and huge quantities
of electronic mail; it was never restored to service.  AT&T showed
no particular regard for the "property" of these 1,500 people.
Whatever "property" the users had been storing on AT&T's computer
simply vanished completely.

Boykin, who had himself reported the E911 problem,
now found himself under a cloud of suspicion.  In a weird
private-security replay of the Secret Service seizures,
Boykin's own home was visited by AT&T Security and his
own machines were carried out the door.

However, there were marked special features in the Boykin case.
Boykin's disks and his personal computers were swiftly examined
by his corporate employers and returned politely in just two days--
(unlike Secret Service seizures, which commonly take months or years).
Boykin was not charged with any crime or wrongdoing, and he kept his job
with AT&T (though he did retire from AT&T in September 1991,
at the age of 52).

It's interesting to note that the US Secret Service somehow failed
to seize Boykin's "Killer" node and carry AT&T's own computer out the door.
Nor did they raid Boykin's home.  They seemed perfectly willing to take the
word of AT&T Security that AT&T's employee, and AT&T's "Killer" node,
were free of hacker contraband and on the up-and-up.

It's digital water-under-the-bridge at this point, as Killer's
3,200 megabytes of Texan electronic community were erased in 1990,
and "Killer" itself was shipped out of the state.

But the experiences of Andrews and Boykin, and the users of their systems,
remained side issues.  They did not begin to assume the social, political,
and legal importance that gathered, slowly but inexorably, around the issue
of the raid on Steve Jackson Games.