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But wasn’t there some way I could call Bonnie at work? I concocted a plan. It would take balls, but what did I have to lose? I was already in solitary confinement, a supposed threat to national security. I was already at the bottom of the barrel.

I told the guard, “I want to call my mother,” and he looked up the number in the logbook. He walked the few steps, dialed the phone, and handed it to me. The operator came on and asked my name, then went off the line until my mom answered and agreed to accept a collect call from Kevin, and we were finally connected.

As I was talking with Mom, I would frequently rub my back against the pay phone as if I had an itch. At the end of our conversation, I would then put one hand behind my back, acting like I was scratching my back. With my hand still behind me, while continuing to talk as if carrying on a conversation, I would hold down the switch hook for a few seconds to disconnect the call. Then I would bring my hand back around in front of my body.

I knew I had only eighteen seconds to dial a new number before the phone would start emitting a loud, fast busy signal that the guard would surely be able to hear.

So I’d reach behind my back again and pretend to scratch, while I very quickly dialed whatever number I wanted to call—beginning with 0 to make it a collect call. I would pace back and forth while scratching my back, so the guard would get used to this action and not think it was suspicious.

Of course, I couldn’t see the dial pad, so I had to be sure to get the numbers right without having to look. And I had to hold the phone tightly against my ear to mask the sound of the touch tones as I redialed.

All the while, I had to act as if I were still talking to my mother. So I would nod and appear to be holding a conversation with her, as the guard watched.

After I punched in the new number, I had to time my fake conversation just right, so that when the operator came on and said, “Collect call. Who shall I say is the caller?” the next word I said would be “Kevin”—in a sentence that would sound normal to the guard. (As the operator asked my name, I’d be saying something like, “Well, tell Uncle John that…” The operator would stop talking and wait for me to give my name, just as I was saying “… KEVIN… sends my best.”)

When I heard Bonnie’s voice, my heart soared. It took willpower to control myself, forcing myself to talk with no more animation than when I really was talking to my mother.

It had worked. I was as excited as if I’d just succeeded with some epic hack.

The first time is the hardest. I kept up that routine day after day. It’s a wonder the guard didn’t buy me some lotion for itchy skin.

One night a couple of weeks after I began doing this trick, when I was sleeping, my cell door slid open. Standing there were a bunch of suits: a couple of associate wardens and the captain of the detention center. I was handcuffed, shackled, and hustled off to a conference room thirty feet away. I sat down, and one of the associate wardens asked, “Mitnick, how are you doing it? How are you redialing the phone?” I played dumb, thinking it would be stupid to admit anything. Let them prove it.

The captain chimed in, “We’ve been monitoring your calls. How are you dialing the phone? The CO [Correctional Officer] is watching you at all times.” I smiled and said, “I’m not David Copperfield—how could I possibly redial the phone? The officer never takes his eyes off me.”

Two days later, I heard noises outside my room. It was a Pacific Bell technician. What the hell? He was installing a phone jack in the hallway across from my cell and the next time I asked to make a phone call, I found out why: the guard brought a phone with a twenty-foot handset cord and plugged it into the jack, dialed the authorized number I requested, and then passed the handset through the slot in the heavy metal door to my cell. The phone itself was far beyond my reach. Bastards!

Besides taking my phone calls, Bonnie was also very supportive in person. Three times a week