every FCIC meeting since their legendary Memphis
beer-bust of 1986. Perhaps the single greatest attraction of FCIC is
that it is a place where you can go, let your hair down, and completely
level with people who actually comprehend what you are talking about.
Not only do they understand you, but they REALLY PAY ATTENTION, they
are GRATEFUL FOR YOUR INSIGHTS, and they FORGIVE YOU, which in nine
cases out of ten is something even your boss can't do, because as soon
as you start talking "ROM," "BBS," or "T-1 trunk," his eyes glaze over.

I had nothing much to do that afternoon. The FCIC were beavering away
in their conference room. Doors were firmly closed, windows too dark
to peer through. I wondered what a real hacker, a computer intruder,
would do at a meeting like this.

The answer came at once. He would "trash" the place. Not reduce the
place to trash in some orgy of vandalism; that's not the use of the
term in the hacker milieu. No, he would quietly EMPTY THE TRASH
BASKETS and silently raid any valuable data indiscreetly thrown away.

Journalists have been known to do this. (Journalists hunting
information have been known to do almost every single unethical thing
that hackers have ever done. They also throw in a few awful techniques
all their own.) The legality of 'trashing' is somewhat dubious but it
is not in fact flagrantly illegal. It was, however, absurd to
contemplate trashing the FCIC. These people knew all about trashing.
I wouldn't last fifteen seconds.

The idea sounded interesting, though. I'd been hearing a lot about the
practice lately. On the spur of the moment, I decided I would try
trashing the office ACROSS THE HALL from the FCIC, an area which had
nothing to do with the investigators.

The office was tiny; six chairs, a table.... Nevertheless, it was
open, so I dug around in its plastic trash can.

To my utter astonishment, I came up with the torn scraps of a SPRINT
long-distance phone bill. More digging produced a bank statement and
the scraps of a hand-written letter, along with gum, cigarette ashes,
candy wrappers and a day-old-issue of USA TODAY.

The trash went back in its receptacle while the scraps of data went
into my travel bag. I detoured through the hotel souvenir shop for
some Scotch tape and went up to my room.

Coincidence or not, it was quite true. Some poor soul had, in fact,
thrown a SPRINT bill into the hotel's trash. Date May 1991, total
amount due: $252.