Hacker 2/HACKER2.mdf/cud/cud464a.txt

Text File | 1995-01-03 | 7KB | 162 lines

Date: Mon, 7 Nov 92 18:52:31 PST
>From: Brock Meeks <[e-mail]>
Subject: File 1--December's D.C. 2600 Meeting Summary

((MODERATORS' NOTE: Brock Meeks, the reporter who broke the story of
possible U.S. Secret Service involvement in the November 2600 meetings
in Washington D.C. (see CuD #4.57), attended the December 2600
meetings.  Here is his account as he related it on The Well))

Well, we did have a few fireworks at the D.C. meeting.  Some crazed
journalist went off and did unthinkable: He tried to get some straight
answers out of the folks in charge.

A crime for which has threatened with arrest and physically removed
from the mall.

The fact that I was physically escorted from Pentagon City Mall last
night, under direct threat of being arrested made up for that had been
an incredible slow news day.

My paper had just that day run a major investigative story I'd written
about the National Science Foundation's continued fuck ups in regards
to their computer network, NSFNet.  I was cruising through my morning.
Hell, I'd earned it.  Two months of investigation take a lot out of
you.  I was expecting a blast of irate phone calls from NSF and all
parties involved.  I got none.  "Suits me," I thought.

Besides... that evening I was heading to the D.C. 2600 meeting.  I had
an agenda:  First, confront Al Johnson and ask him why he'd lied to
others about what he said to me.  Second, reintroduce myself to the
hacker underground, a culture I have a true affinity for and one which
I'd been out of touch for too long.  This was my foray back in and I
wanted to play it for all it was worth.

The day ground through its gears and by 5 p.m. I'd written enough copy
to satisfy my editors so I blew off the Daily and headed for the
Pentagon City mall.  I didn't know who I was looking, what any of the
kids looked like.  "You'll know who we are," said Inhuman, who'd
called earlier to make sure I was clued in.

He was right.  I spotted them right off, but opted to circle the
group, cruising the mall, doing my own impromptu version of "spot the
Fed" while scouting for the Mall Administrative offices and looking
for the Security offices.

Those objectives accomplished, I waded into the group introduced
myself to about 30 pairs of skeptical eyes.  The handles flew at me
fast and furious, names I'd heard before, others new.

I sat watching and listening to these guys, most of them a couple of
generations younger than myself.  The dichotomy was striking:  Me in
an uptown grey pin-stripped suit with leather suspenders.  They in an
eclectic blend of street hip, anti-authority, "don't fuck with me"
cloths.  I didn't tell them, but I'd much rather have been dressed
like them.  So much for the trade-offs of legitimate journalism:  The
corporate garb.

But the skins we wore peeled away nicely and I shifted through several
different conversations as if I'd been a member of this fraternity for
ages.  I had at 15 years on most of them and yet it was they who were
mentoring me:  Education, real time.  I was eating it up.

A writer for Village Voice wandered over and I decided that he and I
would be allies for night.  It wasn't in my planned agenda, but fuck
agendas and plans and go with the flow.  I decided that any
confrontations would be better off if I had someone at my back and
another journalist was all the better.

I tagged Julian (the VV writer) to help me hunt down Al Johnson.

We never found him.  Gone for the night.  "Didn't even come in today,"
said some mall flunky when Julian and I crash the Mall administrative
offices, looking for him.

All the mall security people denied knowing anything about the events
of last month.  Shit, they don't even lie well, I thought to myself.

So, back to the food court for more hang time.  But it's getting a bit
slow.  It's become obvious to me that the authorities are away on this
night and that they don't want confrontation.  But this is all going
too smooth for me.  I came here to ask some legitimate questions.  So
I went seeking someone to answer them.

I found Santa Claus.

Well, Santa Claus is what he eventually told me his name was.  In
reality he is Lowell Davis, part of the Mall's Administrative
management team.  Last night, he was "MOD"  Manager on Duty.  And he
was the one I cornered to ask my questions.

Julian and I had spotted him before; he was painfully obvious:  Older
greying overweight white male:  A heart attack in a cheap polyester
suit.  We'd actually thought he might be Secret Service.  Ok, we got
one wrong.

Julian and I had dogged him to the mall office, but he wouldn't come
out.  So, when we spotted him standing up on the second floor,
watching the meeting along side a security guard, we raced up the
escalator to confront him.

I introduced myself, shaking his clammy, meaty palm:  "Hi.  I'm Brock
Meeks, reporter for Communications Daily."

"I'm happy for you," Davis said.  "Are you associated with the mall
somehow?" I asked.  "I'm associated with everybody.  I just want...
listen, before I talk to you guys, turn off those tape recorders..."

Yes, we had recorders, but they weren't turned on.

"Look I just want everyone to be happy, buy stuff, that's all,"
Davis said.  "You can quote me on that."

I said fine, but I'd have to have a name to quote.  "You don't
need my name."
"OK, but I didn't catch your title, what's your job?"
"I work for one of the stores here."
"Which one?"
"None of your business.  I don't have to tell you that."

A few more minutes of conversation revealed nothing more.  I
asked Davis if he knew about the events of last month.   "I'm
shocked such a thing would happen!  I don't know anything about
it."

"Then you don't approve of such actions taking place?" I asked.
"Certainly not, I don't support anybody's rights being violated,"
Davis said.

I asked him his name again, and he said, "Santa Claus, as far as
your concerned."

I pressed him some more about what relation he had to the mall and he
told me:  "I'm responsible for making sure the food court is clean and
that everyone has a good safe time."

"Oh, so you're in management then... I thought you said you worked for
a store?" I said.

At that point he refused to talk to me.  "Just stop.  Stop it now.
I'm through answering questions.  You're harassing me.  Leave me
alone."

At that point the security guard told me to leave or I'd be in
trespassing.  "Why?"  I asked.  "A shopper has complained about you
and I'm telling you to leave."

security guard wouldn't listen and immediately called for the
uniformed Arlington Police who were already in the mall.

"What are you going to do, arrest me?" I asked the security guard.

"No, he won't, but I will," said the Arlington Officer.

And I left.

The story's not over, folks... just delayed...

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