I, Hacker: Chapter 2, Part 5: “The Deal”

The watchers didn’t stay quiet for long.

Two weeks after the hearing, a letter arrived at my mother’s house — the one address I hadn’t given them but that lived in every database tied to my name. She called me that night, her voice trembling through the receiver.

“Danny,” she said. “There’s a letter here. From some... office. I think it’s court-related.”

I told her not to open it, though of course she already had. Inside was an official summons from the county prosecutor: State of California vs. Daniel A. Smith — unauthorized access to restricted computer systems, data tampering, and misuse of telecommunications equipment. They had decided to make it real.

Courtrooms are the most analog places on Earth. Wood paneling. Brass fixtures. Yellowed paper everywhere. A calendar from 1978 still hanging behind the clerk’s desk. The only technology in the room was the microphone, and it didn’t work half the time.

The judge was older than the courtroom, and twice as tired. His nameplate read Hon. Raymond K. Tilling, but everyone in the room called him “Your Honor” with the fearful reverence of people hoping not to be noticed.

The prosecutor was young — maybe late twenties, eager and smug. He had a stack of papers two inches thick and the gleam of someone who’d just discovered a new toy called “cybercrime.”

They’d even brought Morales from the university as a witness. He looked uncomfortable in a suit, clutching a folder like it was a life raft.

When they read the charges, I almost laughed. They made me sound like a Bond villain. “Gaining root-level access.” “Unauthorized privilege escalation.” “Insertion of malicious code.” The terms sounded menacing when spoken aloud, but what I’d actually done could barely dent a high-school firewall by today’s standards. Still — 1983 was new territory. They didn’t know what to do with people like me. So they guessed.

The prosecutor did his best to paint me as a danger to national security. “He could have accessed any system,” he said. “He had the means to alter data, destroy records, or steal sensitive information. It’s only by sheer luck that he chose a university instead of a bank.”
He said it like luck had anything to do with it.

My lawyer — a court-appointed one, gray suit, coffee stains, kind eyes — countered with something halfway between apology and admiration. “My client is not a criminal, Your Honor. He’s a young man with unusual technical skill and poor judgment. He didn’t destroy anything. He didn’t steal. He didn’t profit. The university overreacted.”

He said unusual technical skill the way some people say gifted child. Like I was a stray dog that could play piano.

Judge Tilling watched me the whole time. He didn’t take notes. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, leaning back, eyes half-lidded, as if trying to decide whether I was worth the trouble of a full moral opinion.

Finally, after two hours of posturing and paper-shuffling, he spoke.

“Mr. Smith,” he said, “you’re a bright young man. But you’re not as bright as you think you are.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but the look he gave me froze the words midair.

“I’ve seen your type before,” he continued. “Too smart for your own good. The world gives you a toy, and you think it’s a weapon. You want to see what happens when you pull the trigger. And when someone gets hurt, you call it an accident.”

He flipped through the file, scanning the printouts of my code like a priest reading a confession.

“Now,” he said, “I could send you to jail. I could make an example of you. But frankly, I don’t think that’s going to help anyone. Least of all you.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the bench.

“I happen to know the Army’s looking for people with your... talents. They’ve got computers now, too. Big ones. Maybe they’ll teach you what it means to follow rules.”

The room went silent. Even the prosecutor blinked. He wasn’t offering leniency. He was offering a trade.

“If you enlist,” he said, “I’ll suspend sentencing. You’ll serve your country, learn some discipline, and stay the hell away from university networks. Refuse, and I’ll make sure this follows you for the rest of your life. Understood?”

My lawyer leaned close. “Take the deal,” he whispered. “It’s the best offer you’ll ever get.”
He was right.

I signed the paperwork the same day. Deferred prosecution in exchange for enlistment. The judge even smiled when I did it — that weary, bureaucratic smile of a man who’s solved a problem by moving it somewhere else.

My mother cried when I told her. I think she was proud, though she never said so directly. I let her believe it was voluntary. That I’d woken up one morning and decided to serve my country out of some noble sense of duty. We both knew it wasn’t true.

The bus to Fort Leonard Wood left at dawn. Gray sky, gray uniforms, gray faces staring out the window like passengers on a train to a life they hadn’t chosen.

I sat by the window, duffel bag between my knees, and watched the city shrink behind us.

No computer. No terminal. No blinking cursor waiting for me. Just the low hum of the engine, the smell of diesel and wet wool, and the thought that maybe — just maybe — I could survive four years of following orders. But somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the fear and exhaustion, a small voice whispered: Every system has a way in. And I smiled.