Chapter 4-5
Hacker Crackdown

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The outcome of the Neidorf trial changed the EFF
from voices-in-the-wilderness to the media darlings
of the new frontier.

Legally speaking, the Neidorf case was not a sweeping triumph
for anyone concerned.  No constitutional principles had been established.
The issues of "freedom of the press" for electronic publishers remained
in legal limbo.  There were public misconceptions about the case.
Many people thought Neidorf had been found innocent and relieved
of all his legal debts by Kapor.  The truth was that the government
had simply dropped the case, and Neidorf's family had gone deeply
into hock to support him.

But the Neidorf case did provide a single, devastating, public sound-bite:
THE FEDS SAID IT WAS WORTH EIGHTY GRAND, AND IT WAS ONLY WORTH THIRTEEN BUCKS.

This is the Neidorf case's single most memorable element.  No serious report
of the case missed this particular element.  Even cops could not read this
without a wince and a shake of the head.  It left the public credibility
of the crackdown agents in tatters.

The crackdown, in fact, continued, however.  Those two charges
against Prophet, which had been based on the E911 Document,
were quietly forgotten at his sentencing--even though Prophet
had already pled guilty to them.  Georgia federal prosecutors
strongly argued for jail time for the Atlanta Three, insisting on
"the need to send a message to the community," "the message that
hackers around the country need to hear."

There was a great deal in their sentencing memorandum
about the awful things that various other hackers had done
(though the Atlanta Three themselves had not, in fact,
actually committed these crimes).  There was also much
speculation about the awful things that the Atlanta Three
MIGHT have done and WERE CAPABLE of doing (even though
they had not, in fact, actually done them).
The prosecution's argument carried the day.
The Atlanta Three were sent to prison:
Urvile and Leftist both got 14 months each,
while Prophet (a second offender) got 21 months.

The Atlanta Three were also assessed staggering fines as "restitution":
$233,000 each.  BellSouth claimed that the defendants had "stolen"
"approximately $233,880 worth" of "proprietary computer access information"--
specifically, $233,880 worth of computer passwords and connect addresses.
BellSouth's astonishing claim of the extreme value of its own computer
passwords and addresses was accepted at face value by the Georgia court.
Furthermore (as if to emphasize its theoretical nature) this enormous sum
was not divvied up among the Atlanta Three, but each of them had to pay
all of it.

A striking aspect of the sentence was that the Atlanta Three were
specifically forbidden to use computers, except for work or under supervision.
Depriving hackers of home computers and modems makes some sense if one
considers hackers as "computer addicts," but EFF, filing an amicus brief
in the case, protested that this punishment was unconstitutional--
it deprived the Atlanta Three of their rights of free association
and free expression through electronic media.

Terminus, the "ultimate hacker," was finally sent to prison for a year
through the dogged efforts of the Chicago Task Force.  His crime,
to which he pled guilty, was the transfer of the UNIX password trapper,
which was officially valued by AT&T at $77,000, a figure which aroused
intense skepticism among those familiar with UNIX "login.c" programs.

The jailing of Terminus and the Atlanta Legionnaires of Doom, however,
did not cause the EFF any sense of embarrassment or defeat.
On the contrary, the civil libertarians were rapidly gathering strength.

An early and potent supporter was Senator Patrick Leahy,
Democrat from Vermont, who had been a Senate sponsor
of the Electronic Communications Privacy Act.  Even before
the Neidorf trial, Leahy had spoken out in defense of hacker-power
and freedom of the keyboard:  "We cannot unduly inhibit the inquisitive
13-year-old who, if left to experiment today, may tomorrow develop
the telecommunications or computer technology to lead the United States
into the 21st century.  He represents our future and our best hope
to remain a technologically competitive nation."

It was a handsome statement, rendered perhaps rather more effective
by the fact that the crackdown raiders DID NOT HAVE any Senators
speaking out for THEM.  On the contrary, their highly secretive
actions and tactics, all "sealed search warrants" here and
"confidential ongoing investigations" there, might have won
them a burst of glamorous publicity at first, but were crippling
them in the on-going propaganda war.  Gail Thackeray was reduced
to unsupported bluster:  "Some of these people who are loudest
on the bandwagon may just slink into the background,"
she predicted in Newsweek--when all the facts came out,
and the cops were vindicated.

But all the facts did not come out.  Those facts that did,
were not very flattering.  And the cops were not vindicated.
And Gail Thackeray lost her job.  By the end of 1991,
William Cook had also left public employment.

1990 had belonged to the crackdown, but by '91 its agents
were in severe disarray, and the libertarians were on a roll.
People were flocking to the cause.

A particularly interesting ally had been Mike Godwin of Austin, Texas.
Godwin was an individual almost as difficult to describe as Barlow;
he had been editor of the student newspaper of the University of Texas,
and a computer salesman, and a programmer, and in 1990 was back
in law school, looking for a law degree.

Godwin was also a bulletin board maven.  He was very well-known
in the Austin board community under his handle "Johnny Mnemonic,"
which he adopted from a cyberpunk science fiction story by William Gibson.
Godwin was an ardent cyberpunk science fiction fan.  As a fellow Austinite
of similar age and similar interests, I myself had known Godwin socially
for many years.  When William Gibson and myself had been writing our
collaborative SF novel, The Difference Engine, Godwin had been our
technical advisor in our effort to link our Apple word-processors
from Austin to Vancouver.  Gibson and I were so pleased by his generous
expert help that we named a character in the novel "Michael Godwin"
in his honor.

The handle "Mnemonic" suited Godwin very well.  His erudition
and his mastery of trivia were impressive to the point of stupor;
his ardent curiosity seemed insatiable, and his desire to debate
and argue seemed the central drive of his life.  Godwin had even
started his own Austin debating society, wryly known as the
"Dull Men's Club."  In person, Godwin could be overwhelming;
a flypaper-brained polymath  who could not seem to let any idea go.
On bulletin boards, however, Godwin's closely reasoned,
highly grammatical, erudite posts suited the medium well,
and he became a local board celebrity.

Mike Godwin was the man most responsible for the public national exposure
of the Steve Jackson case.  The Izenberg seizure in Austin had received
no press coverage at all.  The March 1 raids on Mentor, Bloodaxe, and
Steve Jackson Games had received a brief front-page splash in the
front page of the Austin American-Statesman, but it was confused
and ill-informed:  the warrants were sealed, and the Secret Service
wasn't talking.  Steve Jackson seemed doomed to obscurity.
Jackson had not been arrested; he was not charged with any crime;
he was not on trial.  He had lost some computers in an ongoing
investigation--so what?  Jackson tried hard to attract attention
to the true extent of his plight, but he was drawing a blank;
no one in a position to help him seemed able to get a mental grip
on the issues.

Godwin, however, was uniquely, almost magically, qualified
to carry Jackson's case to the outside world. Godwin was
a board enthusiast, a science fiction fan, a former journalist,
a computer salesman, a lawyer-to-be, and an Austinite.
Through a coincidence yet more amazing, in his last year
of law school Godwin had specialized in federal prosecutions
and criminal procedure.  Acting entirely on his own, Godwin made
up a press packet which summarized the issues and provided useful
contacts for reporters.  Godwin's behind-the-scenes effort
(which he carried out mostly to prove a point in a local board debate)
broke the story again in the Austin American-Statesman and then in Newsweek.

Life was never the same for Mike Godwin after that.  As he joined the growing
civil liberties debate on the Internet, it was obvious to all parties involved
that here was one guy who, in the midst of complete murk and confusion,
GENUINELY UNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING HE WAS TALKING ABOUT.  The disparate elements
of Godwin's dilettantish existence suddenly fell together as neatly as
the facets of a Rubik's cube.

When the time came to hire a full-time EFF staff attorney,
Godwin was the obvious choice.  He took the Texas bar exam,
left Austin, moved to Cambridge, became a full-time, professional,
computer civil libertarian, and was soon touring the nation on behalf
of EFF, delivering well-received addresses on the issues to crowds
as disparate as academics, industrialists, science fiction fans,
and federal cops.

Michael Godwin is currently the chief legal counsel of
the Electronic Frontier Foundation in Cambridge, Massachusetts.