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From my computer, I queried the phone number I had been given for law enforcement access and found that the unit in fact had twenty lines in a “hunt group”—meaning that when the number given out to cops was in use, the next call would automatically roll over to the next available number in the group of twenty. The switch would simply “hunt” for the next line that wasn’t busy.

I decided to set myself up with the eighteenth number on the list (because with a high number I would get calls only when they were very busy, while with a low number I’d likely be bothered with calls almost nonstop). I entered commands on the switch to add the call forwarding feature and then to actively forward calls that came in on that line so they would instead be routed to my cloned cell phone.

I guess not everybody would have the guts I had in those days. Calls started coming in from the Secret Service, the Bureau of Land Management, the DEA, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.

And get this: I even fielded calls from FBI agents—guys who had the authority to put me in handcuffs and send me back to jail.

Each time one of these folks called, thinking he was talking to somebody at the DMV, I would ask for the list of required credentials—name, agency, Requester Code, driver’s license number, date of birth, and so on. But I wasn’t really risking anything, since none of them had any clue that the guy on the other end of the line wasn’t really with the DMV.

I’ll admit when one of these calls would come in, especially from someone in law enforcement, I’d usually answer it suppressing a grin.

Once I got one of these calls when I was having lunch with three others at Bob Burns, a classy steakhouse in Woodland Hills. I shushed everyone at the table when my cell phone rang, and they all looked at me like, “What’s your problem?” Then they heard me answer, “DMV, how can I help you?” Now they were swapping “What’s Mitnick up to now?” looks. Meanwhile I was listening and drumming on the table with the fingers of my left hand to make it sound like I was typing on a keyboard.

The other people at the table were slowly catching on, their jaws dropping open.

Once I’d gotten enough sets of credentials, I dialed back into the switch, temporarily deactivating the call forwarding until the next time I needed more credentials.

Finally cracking the DMV put a big smile on my face. It was a supervaluable tool that was to come in very handy later on.

But I was still desperate to figure out how much the Feds knew, what evidence they had, how much trouble I was in, and if there was any way for me to get out of it. Could I still save my ass?

I knew it would be stupid to keep up my investigation of Eric. Yet as so often in the past, I was intrigued by the seduction of adventure and intellectual challenge.

It was a puzzle I needed to solve. And I wasn’t going to stop.

Mark Kasden of Teltec called and invited me to have lunch with him and Michael Grant, the son part of the father-son team that owned the company.

I joined Mark and Michael at a Coco’s restaurant near their offices. Michael was a pudgy man who seemed very pleased with himself, to the point of being a bit cocky. The two found it entertaining to draw me into telling stories about my experiences. I made it clear how successful I had been at social engineering, which they also used, though they called it “gagging.” They were impressed that I knew as much as I did about computers and especially about the phone company. They were even more impressed by my vast experience in tracking down people’s addresses, phone numbers, and so on. Finding people seemed to be an important part of their business, a process they referred to as a “locate.”

After lunch they took me to their offices, on the second floor of a building in a strip mall. There was an entry area complete with a receptionist, then a set of individual offices for each of the three PI’s and three bosses.

A day or two later, Mark dropped by my dad’s to tell me, “We want you