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And then he explained: “If we go to trial, you’ll have to testify. And that will leave you open to cross-examination about other things…”

Those “other things” were all the wild stories that had circulated for years about my hacking, the rumors that I had gotten into the CIA, the FBI, and even NORAD. Not to mention the many other things I had done in my hacking career but not been charged with: manipulating phone company switches all across America; getting information from the California DMV; tapping into an FBI informant’s phone call; listening to voicemail messages of Pacific Bell security agents. And so much more.

I could see what Randolph meant. During the cross-examination by the prosecutor, I could open myself up to other charges because the government could ask me anything related to my hacking activities if I took the stand. We didn’t really want to get into all of that.

So I took the plea, with terms much better than those of the original plea I had been offered nearly three years earlier.

As for my conditions of supervised release, for three years I wouldn’t be permitted to touch any electronic devices, such as a computer, cell phone, fax machine, pager, word processor, and so on, without the prior written permission of my Probation Officer. Even worse, I was forbidden to access a computer through a third party. The government didn’t even want me to make an airline reservation without asking permission first. So how, I wondered, was I supposed to find work? I also wouldn’t be able to act as a consultant in any computer-related activity. The many, many conditions placed on my release seemed unreasonably harsh, and a number of them were so broad that I worried I might violate them inadvertently.

The government set these broad conditions not only to punish me, but also because they were trying to cover all the bases to prevent me from finding loopholes, ways around the restrictions.

In the end, on March 16, 1999, I signed the deal. The prosecution this time was willing to go with a “binding” plea agreement, which meant that Judge Pfaelzer would have to sentence me to the agreed terms, or I could withdraw my plea and go to trial. I pled guilty to seven counts handpicked by government prosecutors in Northern and Southern California (other jurisdictions also wanted a piece of me), which included wire fraud (social-engineering people over the phone into sending me source code), computer fraud (copying source code), possession of access devices (passwords), and interception of data communications (installing network sniffers to grab passwords).

During the settlement discussions, the prosecution asked for $1.5 million in restitution payments. Fortunately, Federal law required the court to take into account my ability to pay, so even though Judge Pfaelzer surely wanted to come down hard on me, she had to take my potential earnings into consideration. Because of my onerous conditions of release, the Probation Office calculated that I would be able to get only a minimum-wage job like flipping burgers. So Judge Pfaelzer based the amount of my restitution on the Probation Office’s projection of my earning minimum wage over a three-year period. Instead of the millions proposed earlier, I was ordered to pay $4,125.

After my release, I asked my dad to put my Lompoc Prison ID card up for auction on eBay for me. When eBay administrators yanked it down because it didn’t meet the company’s “community standards,” they did me a huge favor. That act generated a media feeding frenzy. The story was quirky enough that it became a top news item on CNN. I then put the card on Amazon, where it was once again yanked for the same reason (thank you, Amazon!). A guy in Europe finally snapped it up for a whopping $4,000—way more than I’d ever expected to get.

With a big smile on my face, I brought the proceeds into the Probation Office, along with the extra $125, and paid off the restitution order. I like to think that made my Lompoc ID a sort of “get out of jail free” card.

The government