[Ppnews] The Rise and Fall of Jeremy Hammond: Enemy of the State

Political Prisoner News ppnews at freedomarchives.org
Mon Dec 31 15:01:07 EST 2012


<http://www.rollingstone.com/>*The Rise and Fall of Jeremy Hammond: 
Enemy of the State*

*December 7, 2012*

*http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-jeremy-hammond-enemy-of-the-state-20121207*

*As a devastating series of cyberattacks struck the heart of the 
national-security establishment, the Feds set out to destroy the 
legendary hacker and radical anarchist by any means necessary*

*by: Janet Reitman*

On a cold day in mid-December 2011, a hacker known as "sup_g" sat alone 
at his computer -- invisible, or so he believed. He'd been working on 
the target for hours, long after the rest of his crew had logged off: an 
epic hack, the "digital equivalent of a nuclear bomb," as it later would 
be described, on the servers of a Texas-based intelligence contractor 
called Strategic Forecasting Inc. Stratfor served as a sort of private 
CIA, monitoring developments in political hot spots around the world and 
supplying analysis to the U.S. security establishment.

A member of the online activist movement Anonymous, sup_g was part of a 
small team of politically motivated hackers who had breached Stratfor's 
main defenses earlier that month -- ultimately "rooting," or gaining 
total access to, its main web servers. In them, they had found a 
cornucopia of treasure: passwords, unencrypted credit-card data and 
private client lists revealing Stratfor's deep ties to both big business 
and the U.S. intelligence and defense communities. But perhaps the most 
lucrative find of all was Stratfor's e-mail database: some 3 million 
private messages that exposed a wide array of nefarious and clandestine 
activities -- from the U.S. government's monitoring of the Occupy 
movement to Stratfor's own role in compiling data on a variety of 
activist movements, including PETA, Wikileaks and even Anonymous itself.

And now, finally, it was done. Logging on to a secure Web chat, sup_g 
sent a message to a fellow activist. "We in business, baby," he said. 
"It's over with."

One of the most radical and committed hackers in the shadowy world of 
Anonymous -- a leaderless, nonhierarchical federation of activists with 
varying agendas -- sup_g kept a low profile within the group, carefully 
concealing his real name and maintaining a number of aliases. That June, 
he had joined a new faction within Anonymous known as Operation Antisec, 
or #Antisec, which described itself as a "popular front" against the 
"corrupt governments, corporations, militaries and law enforcement of 
the world." Though hundreds of activists may have frequented its 
internal communication channels, known as Internet relay chats, Antisec 
had less than a dozen core members: hackers, anarchists, free-speech 
activists and privacy crusaders, as well as "social engineers" -- 
skilled manipulators whose talents lay in tricking even the most 
security-conscious into giving up their passwords or other data. The 
founder and most prominent member of Antisec was a bloviating, heavyset 
29-year-old hacker, self-proclaimed revolutionary and social engineer 
known as "Sabu," who had a special loathing, it seemed, for the 
intelligence industry. "Let us show them we can spy on them too," he'd 
tweeted to his more than 35,000 followers in early December.

For three weeks, sup_g and his crew had worked steadily to ruin 
Stratfor, one of their biggest and richest targets yet. In addition to 
supplying geopolitical analysis to everyone from the Pentagon to the 
United Nations, the firm provided customized security services for 
leading companies like Raytheon and Dow Chemical, often compiling 
dossiers on activists and others viewed as threats to corporate profits. 
By Christmas -- which Antisec dubbed "LulzXmas" for the "lulz," or 
mocking enjoyment, they intended to have at Stratfor's expense -- the 
group had made off with more than 200 gigabytes of data. They then 
destroyed the company's databases and defaced Stratfor's website with a 
triumphant message promising a "week of mayhem" that would include 
posting the firm's secrets online -- some 860,000 names, e-mails and 
passwords, including several dozen belonging to top-secret operators 
whose identities were now leaked for the very first time. Antisec also 
planned to use the hacked credit cards to make donations to groups like 
CARE and the American Red Cross. As an added flourish, the group ended 
its communiqué with the full text of the influential French anarchist 
tract /The Coming Insurrection/. "It's useless to wait . . . for the 
revolution," the treatise reads. "The catastrophe is not coming, it is 
here."

Three months later, on the evening of March 5th, 2012, more than a dozen 
federal law-enforcement officers broke down the door of a small brick 
house on the southwest side of Chicago and arrested Jeremy Hammond, a 
27-year-old anarchist and computer hacker they believed to be sup_g. Six 
feet tall and lanky, dressed in a purple T-shirt and ratty trousers -- a 
signature style one of his female friends noted was less Salvation Army 
than "the free box outside the Salvation Army" -- Hammond looked more 
like a crusty punk than a computer nerd. In fact, he was both, as well 
as many other things: an inveterate "black hat" hacker, an irrepressible 
agitator and enemy of the "rich, ruling class" who identified with the 
ideas of the Weather Underground and considered the Occupy movement too 
tame.

Even before the arrest broadcast his name worldwide, Hammond was 
well-known in extreme-left circles. An early champion of 
"cyber-liberation," he had been described by /Chicago/ magazine at the 
age of 22 as an "electronic Robin Hood" after he was sentenced to two 
years in federal prison for hacking a conservative website and making 
off with 5,000 credit-card numbers, intending to charge donations to 
progressive causes. But unique within the hacking subculture, Hammond 
was also a real-life revolutionary: a "modern-day Abbie Hoffman," in the 
words of his friend Matt Muchowski. He possessed a shrewd intelligence 
as well as a certain impulsivity -- a fellow hacker referred to it as 
"urgency" -- that had led to a long string of civil-disobedience arrests 
dating back 10 years, for offenses ranging from defacing a wall with 
anti-war slogans to banging a drum during a "noise demo" at the 2004 
Republican National Convention in New York. (He later called his brief 
stint in the Tombs his "best prison experience.") Hammond was even 
busted once, in 2005, for trying to /join/ a protest, against a group of 
white supremacists in Toledo, Ohio. "They hadn't even gotten out of the 
car when they were arrested," says Muchowski, a Chicago union organizer 
who bailed Hammond out.

His arrest, the most prominent bust to date of a U.S. hacktivist, was 
also a major coup for the FBI. Before Hammond was locked up, Anonymous 
had engaged in a year-and-a-half-long hacking spree, waging a full-scale 
war against the "rich and powerful oppressors." The group shut down the 
websites of the CIA, major banks and credit-card companies. They took up 
the cause of the Arab Spring by attacking the government websites of 
Libya, Tunisia and Egypt; they broke into computers belonging to NATO 
and the GEO Group, one of the world's largest private prison 
corporations. They hacked defense contractor Booz Allen Hamilton -- an 
attack, dubbed "Military Meltdown Monday," that yielded 90,000 military 
and civilian e-mail accounts and passwords. They even attacked the FBI 
itself.

But none of these attacks had the political resonance of Stratfor. The 
computer breach not only cost the company millions, but focused 
worldwide attention on the murky world of private intelligence after 
Anonymous provided the firm's e-mails to WikiLeaks, which has been 
posting them ever since. It was, by any estimate, an audacious hack -- 
and one for which Hammond may face decades in prison.

Hammond, who has never admitted to any of the nine nicknames the 
government claims he operated under, has pleaded innocent to the 
Stratfor hack. But he has not disavowed his involvement with Anonymous, 
nor his desire to "push the struggle in a more direct action, explicitly 
anti-capitalist and anti-state direction," as he wrote to me from 
Manhattan's Metropolitan Correctional Center, where he has been held for 
the past eight months awaiting a bail hearing. Indeed, his hallmark as 
an activist has always been his revolutionary, militant rhetoric, for 
which he is unapologetic. "I have always made it clear that I am an 
anarchist-communist -- as in I believe we need to abolish capitalism and 
the state in its entirety to realize a free, egalitarian society," he 
wrote. "I'm not into watering down or selling out the message or making 
it more marketable for the masses."

This unwavering commitment, one of Hammond's greatest strengths, would 
also be what led to his undoing. He was always aware that betrayal was 
only a click away. "We know we'll finish in prison," says a hacker who 
worked with him. "Jeremy knew he was going to be raided, which is why he 
worked so quickly. He wanted people to remember him." What Hammond never 
suspected was that his downfall would come at the hands of one of his 
closest and most trusted allies.

It's an early-june morning at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and 
Hammond walks into the small room usually reserved for lawyer-client 
conferences wearing a baggy brown prison jumpsuit meant for someone 
twice his size. In person, Hammond comes off as far less strident than 
he does on the page. He's friendly, but cautious. After 10 years of 
activism, he is a seasoned veteran of jails and rough treatment at the 
hands of the police.

"Hey," Hammond says calmly, "I'm Jeremy." He's a pale kid, nearly 28, 
with huge blue-green eyes, a wispy beard, and tattoos on each forearm -- 
one, a tic-tac-toe-like symbol known as the "glider," is an emblem of 
the open-source movement; the other, the /shi/ hexagram from the I 
Ching, "can be interpreted as the leader of a people's army," he 
explains. He looks tired. "I'm on a terrorist watch list," he tells me. 
"Hard to say what for, or how they monitor these terrorists." He flashes 
me a wan smile that says "prison sucks."

Since arriving here in March, Hammond has tried to keep busy teaching 
math to inmates who are studying for their GEDs, playing chess and 
reading anything he can get his hands on -- most recently /Love and 
Struggle/, ex-Weatherman David Gilbert's prison memoir. But being locked 
up is both a "dehumanizing" and also excruciatingly boring experience, 
he says. Aside from his lawyers, I am the only visitor he's been 
permitted in three months.

Hammond was raised with his twin brother, Jason, in Glendale Heights, 
Illinois, a working-class town in the western suburbs of Chicago. His 
parents, Rose and Jack, never married, and when the twins were three, 
their mother moved out and later fell in love with a next-door neighbor, 
leaving the boys in the care of their father. According to Rose, who 
remained close to her sons, Jack Hammond was "a borderline genius" who 
had dropped out of high school to pursue a music career and had never 
wanted children "until the moment he laid eyes on the twins. Then his 
whole life was about them."

Jack was part of the Chicago alternative scene of the 1980s that spawned 
iconic punk auteur Steve Albini. He raised his boys, who were nicknamed 
"Hanson" because of their long hair, to pursue whatever path appealed to 
them. Jason, a sensitive jokester, was a musician like his father. 
Jeremy, the quieter, more thoughtful of the two, was the schemer -- the 
little boy who, at two, climbed to the top of the kitchen pantry to 
retrieve money he'd seen his mother hiding there. Jack, who earned about 
$35,000 a year as a guitar teacher and received child support from Rose, 
would later say he and the boys were "the world champs of living cheaply 
and well" in a do-it-yourself kind of way.

This didn't always go over well in Glendale Heights -- an area Hammond's 
friend Matt Muchowski describes as "part Rust Belt, part Disney World. 
There are a ton of Walmarts and Niketowns, so what you get growing up is 
a pod-person mentality: The only job that's there for you is at the mall."

A math and science whiz with an IQ of 168, Hammond "talked so fast it 
was like his mouth couldn't keep up with his brain," says one friend. At 
home, with no women around, the two brothers spent endless hours 
building cities with their immense Lego kits, or devouring the books in 
their dad's extensive library, which ran the gamut from /Fight Club/ and 
/The Catcher in the Rye/ to Abbie Hoffman's /Steal This Book/ and 
/Revolution for the Hell of It/.

 From an early age, Jeremy was consumed by projects in which he could 
lose himself. In Little League, he created a virtually unhittable pitch, 
and by the time he was nine, he was finding innovative ways to make 
computers do what they weren't supposed to do -- the essence of hacking. 
At 16, he hacked the computers at a local Apple store, projecting their 
financial data on every screen, after which he proceeded to explain to 
the experts at the Genius Bar how to better protect their information. 
"The look on their faces was priceless," his father recalls.

At Glenbard East High School in nearby Lombard, Illinois, the Hammond 
twins were part of a crowd of "very smart kids looking for something 
more than they'd find in high school," as one friend, Matt Zito, 
recalls. Politicized, like many, by the attacks of 9/11, Jeremy was an 
outspoken critic of the Bush administration and the "blind patriotism" 
he saw as leading the U.S. to war. In his senior year he founded an 
underground newspaper to encourage students to question the conventional 
political narrative "and most of all think," as he wrote in his first 
editor's letter. "WAKE UP . . . Your mind is programmable -- if you're 
not programming your mind, someone else will program it for you."

Hammond's mind was a hive of counter-cultural ideology, notably the 
modern-day insurrectionary ideas of CrimethInc, the anarchist collective 
and publisher of radical how-to guides, including its own take on /The 
Anarchist Cookbook/, titled /Recipes for Disaster/. Hammond romanticized 
the Sixties, says Zito, who worked with him on the newspaper. In the 
spring of 2003, on the first day of the Iraq invasion, Hammond led a 
walkout of more than 100 kids to an anti-war rally in downtown Chicago. 
That fall, he enrolled at the University of Illinois-Chicago and quickly 
became a powerful activist voice on campus -- so much so, recalls his 
friend José Martín, that the administration once abruptly cut the mic 
while he attempted to give a speech. But Hammond lasted only a year at 
UIC. "Jeremy was fearless -- or foolish, depending on how you look at 
it," says Pong Kay, who dated Hammond for two years. A pretty freshman, 
she'd met him at a campus bus stop where Hammond was writing graffiti 
advertising a protest he was organizing against university tuition 
hikes. Before long, he was taking her on expeditions to an abandoned 
drawbridge, which they'd scale, getting stoned at the top before 
laughingly making their way down.

The artsy daughter of Thai immigrants, Pong was smitten. "There was 
something incredibly charismatic about him," she says. "He was this 
young, hot-headed, hyperintelligent guy with a very low tolerance for 
authority, and this big heart -- he had this core belief that human 
beings are inherently good."

Hammond was also, she adds, "trusting" -- sometimes to his detriment. 
During the spring of his freshman year, he hacked into the 
computer-science department's website, identifying a vulnerability that, 
just as he had at the Apple store, he offered to fix. Instead, the hack 
earned him a disciplinary hearing and a letter from school 
administrators saying that he would not be welcomed back at UIC for his 
sophomore year.

What he learned, notes one friend, is that "if you try to work with the 
system, they fuck you over." And so, from then on, Hammond would 
dedicate himself to working outside it. Over the next few years, he 
threw himself into the day-to-day life of the radical community in 
Chicago, renting houses that quickly became crash pads for any homeless 
kid or traveler who happened through. Always the first to offer a toke 
or some food, he became famous for taking friends on epic 
dumpster-diving expeditions to hidden outposts like a local Odwalla 
plant, where, after plundering the refuse, he'd return with enough fresh 
juice to last a month. At night he'd settle in with "riot porn" -- 
Internet clips of black-clad anarchists facing off with the police.

He became a fixture at virtually every major demonstration, as well as 
many minor ones. Clad in ratty jeans and a T-shirt "for some punk band 
whose biggest show was for 20 people at a basement benefit for an 
animal-rights group," as Muchowski puts it, Jeremy and Jason, now his 
comrade in anarchy, would arrive with a marching band -- drums, horns, a 
tambourine or two -- dancing and singing and generally annoying the more 
earnest demonstrators. "Boredom," he would later write, "is 
counterrevolutionary. Your movement needs to be fun . . . or no one will 
want to participate."

Hammond also "brought the ruckus," as he put it, in a more serious way: 
joining the militant and masked black bloc anarchists, getting into 
scuffles with cops and amassing an impressive rap sheet. Between the 
ages of 18 and 21, he was arrested 10 times in three different states.

But Hammond was more than just a street-level agitator. He was equally 
active online, part of a new, and to U.S. law enforcement, threatening 
generation of political activists. "These are guys who can travel 
seamlessly between cyberspace and meat space, without even recognizing 
much of a difference," says Steve Rambam, a New York cybersecurity 
investigator. Hammond's primary weapon, which few if any of his 
anarchist friends knew about, was a hacker boot camp of sorts, a website 
he'd developed called Hack This Site, which within two years had become 
a full-fledged online community with more than 100,000 members. It was 
here that Hammond began to meet so-called black-hat hackers who worked 
below the radar to take down websites for fun or profit, or sometimes 
both. "These people had large amounts of power -- where one hacker could 
outsmart a whole company," he recalls. Street activists had very little 
power -- but they had the politics to power the revolution. What if 
these two worlds could merge? "I thought hacking could be a tool -- a 
weapon to disrupt abusive corporations."

Selling this idea wasn't easy. In the mid-2000s, there was little 
crossover between hackers and activists. Hammond wanted this to change. 
"Considering today's political climate, it is becoming imperative that 
we tune into the world around us, take a stance and give a fuck," he 
wrote in the first issue of a new "electronic civil-disobedience 
journal" called /Hack This Zine/, which he launched in the summer of 
2004. He began to lay out an argument for international movement -- "an 
army so powerful we won't need weapons," as Hammond put it. "If 
corporations and governments are out of line today, it's up to cowboys 
of the electronic age to turn over the system and put the people on top."

In July 2004, Hammond took his message to the annual DefCon hacker 
convention in Las Vegas, the largest convergence of hackers in the 
United States. There he made an impassioned speech praising the virtues 
of electronic civil disobedience as an effective tool to disrupt the 
upcoming Republican National Convention. "We'd like to see every method 
of disruption possible, whether it be shutting down the power to Madison 
Square Garden, or defacing 10,000 different Republican websites. . . . 
We'd like to see RNC delegates get harassed on the streets," he said. 
"Fuck 'em up! Shut 'em down!" Some people in the audience jeered, and 
one person asked if what Hammond was proposing amounted to terrorism. 
"One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist," he scoffed. "Let 
them call us terrorists; I'll still bomb their buildings."

Soon after he returned to Chicago, FBI agents who had seen a tape of the 
DefCon speech paid Hammond a visit to ask him if he really intended to 
bomb the Republican convention. Hammond said he had been engaging in a 
bit of radical hyperbole -- though he had begun to envision a digital 
insurgency of sorts: an "Internet Liberation Front," which, much like 
the radical environmental and animal-rights groups ELF and ALF, would 
organize as underground cells and use nonviolent "hit and run"-type 
tactics to attack the "rich and powerful."

An early target was a group called Protest Warrior, a Texas-based 
pro-war organization that had a habit of showing up to rallies to heckle 
left-wing activists. In February 2005, Hammond and some fellow 
hacktivists breached the organization's website, gaining access to 
thousands of credit-card numbers they wanted to charge in order to 
redistribute the wealth to left-wing causes. Protest Warrior notified 
the FBI, which raided Hammond's apartment that March. The Bureau spent 
the better part of the next year building a case against him, though as 
Hammond would repeatedly note, he never actually charged anything to the 
cards.

Hammond ultimately confessed to the hack and was sentenced to two years 
at the Federal Correctional Institute at Greenville, Illinois, about 250 
miles from Chicago. He doesn't speak very much about Greenville, but his 
mother suggests it was a far cry from the Cook County jail, where he had 
been held on numerous occasions. "The first time I went to visit him, 
he'd been there less than a month and he was trembling," she says. "He 
told me, 'Mom, when I get out, I'm going to be a better person.' He was 
scared. I thought, 'This is not my Jeremy.'"

By the second time she visited, Hammond was no longer trembling. He'd 
begun his "training," as he would refer to his time in prison, 
conditioning himself "mentally and physically" to become a more 
effective freedom fighter. He immersed himself in radical literature 
like Alexander Berkman's /Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist/ and the 
autobiographies of Black Panthers George Jackson and Elaine Brown, and 
read countless anarchist newsletters that were passed along through 
prison channels. Among his influences was the former Weather Underground 
leader Bill Ayers, who had taught at UIC when Hammond was a student. 
"Live your life in a way that doesn't make a mockery of your values," 
Ayers wrote in his memoir, /Fugitive Days/. "Wherever injustice raises 
its head, resist; the revolution is your permanent vocation."

He emerged from Greenville 18 months later a changed man. "He seemed 
angry and really militant," says his former housemate Scott Scurvy, who 
points out that before going to prison, Hammond had an almost Merry 
Prankster-like take on activism. Now, "he was talking about 'cracking 
skulls' on people he perceived as racist or homophobic. He kind of 
tripped me out."

The consensus among many of their friends, Scurvy says, was that "prison 
sort of messed him up." But others realized it as a form of clarity. 
"There are two paths you take after you come out of prison," says Jason 
Hammond. "Some people go straight and try to achieve the American dream, 
and others go, 'Fuck it, the whole idea is bullshit, as is the system 
that created it,' and they go in a more radical direction. And Jeremy 
took that path."

In the summer of 2008, Hammond returned to Chicago and what was supposed 
to be a new life. With Jason and some friends, he moved into the 
fourth-floor apartment of a ramshackle house in Pilsen -- "sandwiched 
between the two finest dumpsters in Chicago" -- that they dubbed "Mount 
Happy," and went to work as a web designer. He was barred, by the terms 
of his release, from associating with anarchists or his old colleagues 
at Hack This Site for the next three years. And yet he was unable to 
walk away from his politics altogether. So he turned to mainstream 
activism, joining the Chicago branch of the Rainforest Action Network, 
where he helped organize a campaign to shut down two local coal plants. 
"He'd ride this rickety bike all the way across town," says Lyn Michaud, 
who founded the city's chapter of RAN, "probably an hour each way, to 
attend meetings that would last four or even six hours."

Hammond, she adds, "wasn't just anti-capitalist in words; he walked the 
talk. We would have a meeting at a restaurant, and Jeremy wouldn't buy 
food -- he'd eat other people's leftovers. I'd be sitting there, like, 
horrified, but he'd just casually walk over to an empty table, grab like 
half a plate of leftover food and bring it over. He literally lived off 
the waste of others."

Michaud, 10 years older than Hammond, took Jeremy under her wing, 
inviting some of the world's most well-respected activist trainers to 
meet with her group in Chicago. Once she even invited Hammond's hero, 
Bill Ayers, to a potluck dinner. Jeremy was star-struck. "He called him 
'sir,' " she recalls, laughing. "That was funny: This big anarchist who 
was so anti-hierarchy called Bill Ayers 'sir.'"

Ayers recalls Hammond as one of a group of "terrific and supersmart 
young people" who engaged in "a lively discussion about activism." But 
Hammond's politics were far more radical than the activists with whom he 
now associated, and he could be scathing with those that he felt lacked 
the sufficient revolutionary cred. The idea of willingly getting 
arrested as an act of civil disobedience puzzled him -- "The revolution 
to me is about not getting in their jails," he says -- as did the 
seemingly endless process of petitioning local officials and holding 
sit-ins that got no attention.

Hammond's adventure with "polite activism" lasted just more than a year. 
Frustrated, he was drawn back to militancy and, in turn, to trouble with 
the law. At a rally in September 2009 to protest the city's plans to 
host the 2016 Olympics, Hammond and his brother were arrested after 
engaging in a tug of war with an Olympic banner, "in which various parts 
were burned, right in front of the media cameras," he says. "In 
retrospect, it was an impulsive, poorly planned-out action with no exit 
strategy." Worse, it was also a clear violation of his probation. A week 
later, Hammond, out on bail, joined some comrades in breaking up a talk 
given by British Holocaust denier David Irving, where, dressed all in 
black, they heckled Irving and doused his books in fake blood before 
making their escape. But they were quickly apprehended.

Hammond narrowly avoided being sent back to prison. He accepted 130 
hours of community service and 18 months of "enhanced probation," which 
meant he could be visited -- he and his friends would say "raided" -- by 
his probation officer and the Chicago police at any time, and his home 
and possessions thoroughly searched. He was unable to leave the state of 
Illinois, and he was put on a 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. curfew. About the only 
place he could still travel freely was online.

In January 2008, during Hammond's last six months at Greenville, the 
famously controlling Church of Scientology "angered the Internet," as it 
was said, by trying to remove a controversial Tom Cruise video from the 
Web. In response, the Internet -- or more specifically a loose coalition 
of Internet denizens calling itself Anonymous -- released its own video, 
where, in a computerized voice, it declared war on the Church. /You have 
nowhere to hide because we are everywhere/, the message said in part, 
ending with the lines that would become the collective's slogan:

/We are Anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. 
Expect us./

At first, Anonymous seemed like little more than a group of malicious 
pranksters, enraged over Internet censorship. They began targeting 
groups like the Recording Industry Association of America, which was 
waging a campaign against online piracy, and the Australian government, 
which had proposed a filter for online pornography featuring underage 
girls. (Anonymous dubbed the attack Operation Titstorm.)

In Chicago, Hammond was aware of Anonymous but had dismissed it. "I 
didn't take them seriously. These weren't, like, super-voodoo hackers," 
he says. But he began to realize the political potential of Anonymous 
once they launched Operation Avenge Assange in December 2010, shortly 
after PayPal, Visa, MasterCard and several other financial institutions 
abruptly stopped processing donations to Wikileaks, which had come under 
fire for publishing the diplomatic cables leaked by Bradley Manning. 
Organizing online, Anonymous held what electronic-freedom activists call 
a "digital sit-in," encouraging thousands of people to download an 
online tool called the Low Orbit Ion Cannon, or LOIC, to bombard the 
companies' websites and knock them offline.

"This spontaneous gathering was one of the first large-scale 
demonstrations conducted on the Internet," says Gabriella Coleman, a 
professor at McGill University considered the foremost expert on 
Anonymous. It also marked the beginning of a new chapter for the group, 
"providing a paradigm for general online protest that would soon allow 
individuals to unite and organize to express their deep disenchantment 
over any and every issue."

Hammond was impressed. "They were taking on credit-card companies and 
banks," he says. "I thought maybe there were people there who recognized 
who the bigger enemy was and how to fight them."

One of those people who seemed drawn to the larger struggle was a hacker 
named Sabu. Born Hector Xavier Monsegur in 1983, he'd grown up in a 
family of drug dealers -- both his father and his aunt went to prison 
for heroin trafficking in 1997 -- and was raised by his grandmother Irma 
in the Jacob Riis projects of New York's Lower East Side. A husky, 
bookish kid, he'd never really fit in among the gangsters and street 
hustlers of his mostly Puerto Rican neighborhood, but he had a natural 
gift for computers, as well as a rebellious streak. At 14, around the 
age that Hammond was wowing the Apple "geniuses," Monsegur, whose family 
couldn't afford an Internet connection, had figured out a way to get on 
EarthLink for free and proceeded to teach himself Linux, Unix and 
open-source networking. When he was 16, he defaced several Puerto Rican 
government websites after a U.S. Navy live-fire exercise on the island 
of Vieques accidentally killed a local civilian. But he was also an 
opportunist.

Where Hammond saw hacking as a tool in the larger struggle, Monsegur saw 
hacking, and its legitimate counterpart, white-hat Internet security 
consulting, as a way out of the struggle he lived day to day. He craved 
"respect," as he frequently noted online, and as a kid had landed 
coveted spots in several New York City-run IT programs for 
underprivileged teens. In his early 20s, he'd freelanced for a Swedish 
Internet security firm and later worked for the peer-to-peer 
file-sharing company LimeWire. But by 2010, Monsegur, now 26 and the 
sole guardian of two small cousins he called his "daughters," was 
drifting, living on public assistance in the same projects in which he'd 
grown up. He sold marijuana on the street, and fenced stolen goods. He 
also began hacking for profit: stealing credit-card numbers to pay his 
bills, and hacking into an automotive-parts company, where he ordered 
four engines worth close to $3,500 for his cars, including a vintage 
Toyota AE86, which he named "Revolution."

Before long, Anonymous gave Monsegur a mission -- he'd later say it was 
a movement he had been waiting for his entire life. Calling himself 
Sabu, he began working his way through the various Internet relay chats 
(IRCs) in Anonops, the IRC network where hacktivists gathered, into the 
smaller, private chat rooms where illegal actions were planned. When the 
Middle East exploded in January 2011, he eagerly took part in what 
Anonymous called the "Freedom Ops": waging war, from his computer, on 
the websites of the oppressive governments of Tunisia, Egypt, Syria, 
Libya and Bahrain. Yet, unlike Hammond, whose revolutionary ideology 
infused every aspect of his life, Sabu's nobility of purpose was 
limited. His main cause, now as always, was himself. "Sabu," one hacker 
later noted, "believes in Sabu."

FBI surveillance of Anonymous began, by most accounts, around 2010. "In 
the beginning, nobody in law enforcement even knew who Anonymous was," 
says one former member. "To the FBI, they'd just been this Scientology 
nuisance. So when Anonymous started coming out in support of Assange and 
Bradley Manning, they were really behind. They didn't understand the 
culture at all."

To help the government -- and, he hoped, to win contracts for his firm, 
HBGary Federal -- a digital-security analyst named Aaron Barr decided 
that he would figure out the secret "leadership" of Anonymous. In early 
2011, after studying the group for weeks and lurking in Anonymous chat 
rooms, Barr drew up a 20-page document with the names and contact 
information of a number of people he believed formed Anonymous' central 
core. He then went public, telling a reporter from /The Financial Times/ 
that he'd unlocked the mystery of Anonymous, which he intended to 
broadcast widely.

Though Barr's document turned out to be riddled with mistakes, Anonymous 
took his threat seriously. On Super Bowl Sunday, February 6th, 2011, 
Sabu and his crew, which called themselves the "Internet Feds," hacked 
into HBGary's website, Barr's Twitter account and also the company's 
e-mail database, extracting 68,000 e-mails, which they posted to popular 
file-sharing site the Pirate Bay. Within a day, news of the hack was 
everywhere -- Steven Colbert famously devoted a segment of /The Colbert 
Report/ to the hack: "To put that in hacker terms," he said, "Anonymous 
is a hornet's nest, and Barr said, 'I'm going to stick my penis in that 
thing.'"

The HBGary hack wound up being more than a bit of payback: Barr, it 
turned out, had been gearing up a "dirty tricks" campaign against 
pro-WikiLeaks journalists like /Salon/'s Glenn Greenwald. He'd also 
pitched the U.S. Chamber of Commerce on how to discredit labor unions 
and liberal groups. The leak of Barr's e-mails resulted in his 
resignation and also caused 17 members of Congress to push for an 
investigation into HBGary's activities.

Watching this go down, Hammond was amazed. "It was an epic hack," he 
says. Sabu, who took credit -- a bit too much credit, many thought -- 
intrigued Hammond. Unlike other Anons, Sabu talked a tough game, using 
ghetto slang like "my nigga," and shared Hammond's loathing for the 
police. He even hinted at a criminal past. "I've been to jail before -- 
I don't fear it," he wrote in one online post. "I've been in the game 
for over a decade."

Says one of Hammond's Chicago friends, "I can totally imagine Jeremy 
digging the fact that he befriended a hacker from the hood."

Few people in the movement expressed themselves with such passion, and 
all Hammond could see was a fellow hacktivist down for the cause. "He 
put the work in; that's why I respected him," Hammond says. "And I 
trusted him too." It wasn't initially clear why. Most longtime hackers 
prefer to work in the shadows, never letting anyone know who they are. 
Sabu bragged about his talents, awing younger Anons, many of them 
teenagers, with tales of his "Puerto Rican hacking crew" from the late 
1990s and his subsequent years "underground." "He made it seem like you 
were in this supersecret revolutionary group and portrayed himself as 
this silent underground hero who was risking everything to make a 
difference," says one former acolyte.

Hammond, too, was drawn in by Sabu's rhetoric. "He seemed to understand, 
more than most Anons, what the root of the problem really was," Hammond 
says. "I'd sit in IRC watching these arguments go down -- just stupid 
shit people would say. But there were some people who got to the 
baseline element and said things like, 'We must destroy capitalism. We 
must destroy their systems.' That interested me."

But the random malice that Anonymous, and Sabu's crew in particular, 
unleashed turned off many, including a 40-year-old Michigan mom and 
longtime Internet denizen named Jennifer Emick, who had come to believe 
that some of the more ideologically driven Anons might be dangerous. 
Shortly after HBGary, Emick decided to do what Aaron Barr had failed to 
do: She outed, or "doxed," a number of key Anons, including Sabu, 
publicly listing his name and the neighborhood he lived in. This was 
perhaps the worst thing that could happen to a hacker, striking a blow 
to his pride, as well as to his much cherished invisibility -- removing 
the protection that's made Anonymous so powerful to begin with, and 
leaving him vulnerable to government tracking and, ultimately, arrest.

Sabu denied she'd gotten him, taking to Twitter and issuing a passionate 
/cri de coeur/, in which he reminded all Anons that they were "part of 
something powerful," urging them not to "succumb to fear tactics" and to 
"stay free."

In many ways, Anonymous, with its nonhierarchical structure, was the 
realization of what Hammond had always wanted to create -- indeed, his 
2004 DefCon speech provided the blueprint for what the hacktivist 
collective became. But Anonymous activism was different than real-world 
activism, where flesh-and-blood true believers like Hammond could 
develop passionate followings. In the faceless, nameless online world 
where no one knew who anyone was, it was the trolls and the liars, the 
social engineers like Sabu, with a remarkable capacity for duplicity, 
who spoke the loudest. "It's extremely easy to manipulate people online 
if you just know how," says one former Anon. "The whole point of IRC is 
that you can be anyone you want: a revolutionary, a troll, an FBI agent."

Over the coming months, as Hammond's interest grew, Internet Feds 
morphed into a splinter group called Lulz Security, or Lulzsec. It was 
led by Sabu with support from a talented propagandist named Topiary. 
Between May 7th and June 25th, 2011 -- dubbed the "50 Days of Lulz" -- 
Lulzsec attacked multinational corporations, gaming sites and several 
porn sites. Each action was announced with splashy, theatrical bits of 
PR: a fancifully worded press release and hyped-up Tweets, all designed 
to garner maximum attention. The media rushed to declare Lulzsec 
"cyber-vigilantes." New York magazine would later describe them as the 
Internet's "SEAL Team Six."

The hacks were so spectacular, and came so fast, that few Anons noticed 
that Sabu went missing for a full 24 hours in June, something he'd never 
done before. When he returned to IRC, telling his crew that his 
grandmother had died, Lulzsec accepted it, though in retrospect 
something was different about him. "We immediately saw a change in his 
attitude," recalls one former colleague. "He started really pushing the 
revolutionary rhetoric, trying to band everyone together by calling us 
'brothers' and saying we were 'all in this together' and we were 'family.'"

On June 19th, 2011, Sabu announced the launch of Operation Antisec, "the 
biggest, unified operation amongst hackers in history." The declaration 
got Hammond's attention, as did Antisec's tantalizing lists of targets, 
including "banks and other high-ranking establishments." Stuck in his 
Chicago house on a curfew, barred from real-life activism, Hammond 
couldn't help himself. "It was like call-and-response," he says.

By the late spring of 2011, rumors were rampant within the hacktivist 
underground that the FBI, replicating the notorious Cointel program of 
the 1960s, had heavily infiltrated Anonymous chat rooms. Within Sabu's 
tight circle, paranoia was particularly strong, and it intensified 
exponentially as the 50 days of Lulz drew to an end.

In late June, Lulzsec released hundreds of pages of sensitive 
information belonging to Arizona law enforcement accompanied by a 
lengthy announcement posted online titled "Chinga la Migra" -- Fuck the 
Police. If the FBI's assumptions are correct, this was Hammond's first 
official criminal act as a member of Anonymous -- and it was a radical 
departure from what had come before.

The statement led off with an illustration of an AK-47 and the slogan 
"Off the pigs." The data dump -- hundreds of private intelligence 
bulletins, training manuals, personal e-mails, names, phone numbers, 
addresses and passwords belonging to Arizona law enforcement, including 
documents pertaining to the border patrol and counterterrorism efforts, 
and the use of confidential informants -- was made in protest of the 
"racial profiling anti-immigrant police state that is Arizona."

After Chinga la Migra #1, there was Chinga la Migra #2, #3 and #4 -- all 
directed at Arizona, and later Texas, law enforcement; each one more 
radical sounding than the last. "Yes we're aware that [releasing the 
personal information of police officers] risks their safety, those poor 
defenseless police officers who lock people up for decades, who get away 
with brutality and torture . . . who make and break their own laws as 
they see fit," one missive read. "We are making sure they experience . . 
. the same kind of violence and terror they dish out on an every day 
basis." It concluded: "We're not stopping until every prisoner is freed 
and every prison is burned to the ground."

Some Antisec members complained about the radical message. In her book 
on the rise and fall of Lulzsec, /We Are Anonymous/, author Parmy Olson 
recounts how some members squirmed under this new ideological rhetoric. 
Topiary, Lulzsec's longtime scribe, who had written every press release 
but these, was particularly shocked. "We don't want to get police 
officers killed," he told another Lulzsec member. "That's not my kind of 
style."

But Sabu was fine with the new rhetoric. "This is anarchy," he told a 
colleague who worried the statements might turn people off from getting 
involved just at the time Anonymous was hoping to draw more people in. 
"The fact that we attack governments and corporations means that we 
don't give a fuck about what others think."

Sabu proudly declared Antisec to be a revolutionary movement and urged 
his tens of thousands of Twitter followers to join the cause. "Rise Up. 
Resist," he posted, one of many virtual calls to war. No one doubted his 
authority or sincerity. "He was Sabu," says one close associate. Even 
after some of his Lulzsec colleagues were arrested -- including Topiary, 
who turned out to be an 18-year-old British citizen named Jake Davis -- 
his supporters stayed true, as he did to them. "Thank those fallen Anons 
for taking the hits that will give the rest of you another day to 
fight," he tweeted in July.

Sabu began working closely with a new, far quieter player in Antisec: a 
behind-the-scenes operator known to the larger crew as "anarchaos," 
though the elite hackers with whom he worked called him "sup_g." Highly 
dedicated, he was "basically the perfect storm of know-how, drive and 
ideology," says one former activist. "He was by far the most 
knowledgeable hacker in Antisec, and he wasn't afraid to get his hands 
dirty." Together, he and Sabu were a formidable duo, though Sabu wasn't 
taken very seriously by many black hats. "People in the scene treated 
him like he was just a talking head," says one Anon. "I never felt that 
he was good for much other than networking."

Most experienced hackers knew that Sabu wasn't as talented as he 
purported to be. He had not, for example, hacked HBGary, as he claimed, 
but had only "social engineered" a password out of the company's IT 
security manager. More troubling were persistent rumors of his having 
been compromised, even possibly arrested, after he was "doxed" by 
Jennifer Emick. But the newest member of Sabu's inner circle didn't seem 
to care. "Sup_g wasn't very interested in all the drama. He just wanted 
action," says one Antisec hacker. "But the thing is, you need to keep 
track of the drama in Anonymous. Many times, following the drama can 
save your life."

The hackers of Antisec followed a strict code, often working in pairs 
and asking few questions of one another. Sup_g in particular seemed 
obsessed with his security, says one Anon who worked with him. "He gave 
very little personal information, was very adamant, even in private 
chats, about keeping stuff locked down until it was meant to be public 
-- if it was ever meant to be public."

Like everyone else, he changed his nicknames frequently -- "To make it 
more confusing to outside eyes," says one hacker -- and could be brutal 
to those who got careless and called him by a previous name. But sup_g 
was far more cavalier in public channels. Though no one had claimed 
personal authorship of the Chinga la Migra statements, one longtime 
activist who read the postings connected them to a number of nicknames 
-- notably "burn," a "straight-up anarchist-communist militant" -- who 
had expressed many of the same sentiments, often in nearly identical 
language, on public IRC channels. Before long, "burn," along with 
"anarchaos" and two other nicknames, "o" and "credible threat," were the 
loudest and most passionate voices in the virtual world of IRC. Whomever 
was using these handles knew the finer points of finding food in 
dumpsters, had been in and out of jail, and was versed in anarchist 
theory as well as militant black-bloc tactics, having spent "upwards of 
a decade propagandizing for the people." And he wasn't afraid of being 
caught. "Prison's not bad," he said. "You do your time like a warrior, 
and emerge more trained and disciplined than before."

Other hackers grew concerned. "There was a point there where he started 
to just feel really proud about what he was doing," says one of sup_g's 
closest colleagues in Antisec, a hacker who would like to be known as 
"CC3." "Many times I said to him, 'Stay hidden. Don't show up too much 
on public channels.' " Sup_g assured him his security protocols were 
tight. "I said to him once, 'Please tell me you left the U.S.' and he 
said yes, he'd moved out. He said he was changing houses every week."

Hammond, of course, hadn't left Chicago. "I was in jail again," a 
persona named "tylerknowsthis" wrote in an August 2011 chat. "A dozen 
pigs raided my house and arrested me for a bag of sage -- yes, sage." 
And, he added, he'd also "beaten a weed case" just seven months earlier.

Though Hammond refuses to admit that he ever used any of the nicknames 
attributed to him, events in his own life track these chat room posts. 
He had been arrested seven months earlier for pot possession and held 
for three weeks in the Cook County jail while awaiting the result of the 
drug test. Then in July 2011, Hammond's house was raided again: This 
time it wasn't just the police but also the FBI. "They questioned me and 
my roommates, none of us talked, so I don't know what they were 
investigating," he says. He spent another three weeks in jail for a bag 
of sage, which the feds had mistaken for marijuana.

When he got out, Hammond began to spend time with Occupy Chicago, and 
"burn" became active in OpBART, an Anonymous attack on the Bay Area 
Rapid Transit System. "Burn" also involved himself in Anonymous' 
dedicated Occupy Wall Street channel, which tried to strategize protests 
around the country. One day, Hammond's real and online lives collided 
when he met a digital-rights activist named Peter Fein, who met up with 
some protesters at Occupy Chicago. "I went down to Occupy one day, and I 
got to talking to people and mentioned that I did stuff with Anonymous. 
And this guy blurted out, 'Oh, yeah, I'm in Lulzsec,' " he says. "I 
thought, OK, either you're lying or an idiot. And that turned out to be 
Jeremy."

Hammond, who never told Fein his name, handed him some anarchist 
literature and two old issues of /Hack This Zine/, and began to talk 
about hacktivism. "I thought he was just another crazy from Anon. My 
sense was that he wanted recognition and credit, and you can't do that 
and be 'Anonymous,'" Fein says.

After Hammond was arrested and Fein saw his picture, he wasn't 
surprised. "From the moment I met Jeremy, I got the sense that he 
expected to go back to jail."

As the Occupy movement became a national phenomenon last fall, Antisec 
hackers stepped up their activity: exposing sensitive documents 
belonging to more than 70 law-enforcement agencies, including the 
International Association of Chiefs of Police, in retaliation for the 
police crackdown against Occupy protesters. They even hacked the gmail 
accounts of a California cybercrime investigator, some of whose e-mails 
detailed the methods that cybercrime units use to catch hackers.

By this time, sup_g had become the dominant voice of the 10 or so core 
members of Antisec, and the most indefatigable member of the team. Most 
of the work of the group now went through him, including the writing of 
nearly all the press releases, as Sabu became increasingly unreliable. 
That summer, Sabu had disappeared from the Internet entirely after a 
rival hacker released his own dossier on Monsegur. In September, he 
returned, blazing with an even greater urgency. "Every room I was in 
that he was in, he was very pressure-oriented to get shit done," says 
one former Antisec member. "And it needed to be done within the day or 
he would start yelling at people."

Yet Sabu rarely got involved in actual hacks. By November, even Hammond 
had grown suspicious, says CC3, and he and several other Antisec members 
began to distance themselves. "We got tired of seeing Sabu never get his 
hands dirty," says CC3. "And at some point a few of us sat together in 
an IRC chat room and asked, 'Who has ever seen Sabu hack anything?'" No 
one had.

But Sabu's core talent had always been as a fixer: bringing information 
provided to him by other hackers to people like sup_g, who could exploit 
it to the fullest. According to CC3, last November a hacker nobody knew 
told Sabu about a security hole in the website of a company called 
Strategic Forecasting Inc. Sabu handed that information to his team. 
Over the next few weeks, as his crew worked away, sup_g checked in with 
Sabu, giving him status updates. Needing a place to store the pilfered 
data, sup_g also accepted Sabu's offer to provide an external server, in 
New York. When the transfer was complete and Stratfor's website defaced, 
Sabu took to Twitter to announce the hack, and by Christmas the attack 
was all over the news.

The following day, Sabu logged on to IRC, entered a special chat room 
dubbed "#lulzmas" and sent a message to sup_g.

"Yo yo," he said.

"Hey, homboii," sup_g replied. "I been going hard all night."

"I heard we're all over the newspapers," said Sabu. "You motherfuckers 
are going to get me raided. HAHAHAAHA."

"Dude, it's big," sup_g said.

"If I get raided anarchaos," Sabu said, "your job is to cause havok 
[sic] in my honor." He added a heart -- perhaps to deflect from the fact 
that he'd just casually linked one nickname with another. It was 
something he'd done a number of times: call sup_g by another name, which 
always prompted his partner to leave the chat. But this time, for 
unknown reasons -- lapse of judgment, even the possibility that for just 
a moment he forgot who he was -- sup_g didn't even flinch.

"It shall be so," he said.

On the warm summer night of June 7th, 2011, two weeks before Sabu began 
recruiting for Antisec, Hector Xavier Monsegur, was at home in his 
Avenue D apartment when he heard a knock at the door. Outside were two 
FBI agents claiming they had enough incriminating evidence pertaining to 
Monsegur's Anonymous hacking, as well as to a variety of real-life petty 
crimes, to put him away for 122 years.

Within hours Sabu had cut a deal and agreed to work for the FBI, rolling 
over on his Lulzsec comrades. Over the following nine months, he helped 
the government gather information, often working "literally around the 
clock" to build the case, according to official documents. He was, in 
the words of the federal prosecutor, a model informant.

News of Monsegur's role as a snitch broke on the same day as the news of 
Hammond's arrest. At first Anons denied that such a betrayal could be 
true. But after Sabu's indictment and guilty plea were leaked to the 
press, shock quickly turned to anger, and sadness. "I just can't bring 
myself to hate him," says one Antisec hacker. "We will never know the 
extent that the FBI went to turn him into a traitor."

Some members of Anonymous would say they knew it all along. "I always 
sensed he was a fraud," Christopher Doyon, an Anon who goes by the name 
"Commander X," told me last spring. "All of that was put on to please 
the feds, and all I can say is that they goddamn better put the fucker 
in witness protection," he adds. "What really makes me want to kill him 
is that he did all of it so he could send these poor kids to prison."

Not everyone was trapped, however. According to several Anons, Sabu 
protected those he knew wouldn't be useful to the FBI. One Antisec 
member recalls that Sabu encouraged him and a number of others to leave 
the Antisec channel "because, to use his words, 'you /will/ be charged 
with conspiracy.' He said that to all of us who weren't involved in 
hacking."

Since the revelations, a few Anons have put together an Antisec 
timeline, convincingly arguing that given the date of Monsegur's arrest 
and conversion, June 7th-8th, 2011, and his subsequent announcement of 
his new hacker movement on June 19th, Antisec must have been created 
under the FBI's watch, intended as a honey pot to lure in a myriad of 
political hackers, most prominently Jeremy Hammond. "I think when his 
name popped up in this investigation, the FBI rubbed their hands 
together in glee," says cyberinvestigator Steve Rambam. "They were 
endlessly delighted when he fell into the net."

The government's case against Hammond revolves around the nicknames he 
is said to have used at various times over the past year. (Neither the 
Justice Department nor the FBI, citing the ongoing nature of the 
investigation, will comment beyond their initial press release 
announcing the arrests.) Hammond's attorneys tell me they are in 
possession of nearly a terabyte of discovery material -- some 20,000 
bankers boxes, the equivalent of half a research library of reading 
material -- with potentially more to come. But Hammond has been 
effectively locked out of his own defense. He can only view the material 
in the presence of his lawyers and he cannot use prison computers to do 
legal research, even though they are not connected to the Internet 
("It's like they think he's some kind of wizard who can magically get 
online no matter what," says one person associated with the case). It 
could take years for him to review all of the discovery material.

So far, all of the alleged Lulzsec hackers, who have been arrested have 
pleaded guilty or are soon expected to. Hammond has not, but even if he 
were to accept a plea, it is likely he will spend many years in prison. 
Two days after Hammond's arrest, on March 7th, 2012, FBI Director Robert 
Mueller, who has frequently said that cyberthreat will soon overtake 
terrorism as the bureau's top priority, warned Congress that terrorists 
might recruit politically motivated hackers like Hammond into launching 
cyberattacks against the U.S. "You want to identify the individuals who 
are responsible for these crimes, investigate them, prosecute them and 
put them in jail for a substantial period of time," Mueller said. In 
early October, Defense Secretary Leon Panetta, arguing for stricter laws 
against hacking, warned that the country is in a "pre-9/11 moment."

But some worry about what that crackdown will cost. "In this country 
there is an impenetrable cloud of secrecy over what the government and 
corporations do," says Michael Ratner, president emeritus of the Center 
for Constitutional Rights, and the attorney for Julian Assange, whose 
name was mentioned more than 2,000 times in the Stratfor e-mails. 
"Whatever technical crimes the government claims have been 
committed must be weighed against the good that comes from lifting the 
veil on corporate and government spying and corruption. We should not 
punish the courageous people that exposed it."

As the information contained within the Stratfor e-mails continues to 
leak out -- the most recent suggests that the U.S. worked with the 
Mexican Sinaloan cartel to limit the violence in Mexico, while also 
allowing drugs to flow over the border -- Antisec went quiet with the 
exception of two hacks, most recently in September, when Antisec 
re-emerged to announce the leak of over a million Apple user IDs they 
claimed were stolen from an FBI laptop. In their statement, written 
without the panache of those Hammond is believed to have penned, the 
group paid tribute to its jailed comrade as an "ideological [sic] 
motivated political dissident" in the same camp as Bradley Manning. Then 
the group went quiet again -- and may remain so for a while. "We're 
focusing less on defacement and more on quietly taking over 
infrastructure," says the hacktivist who calls himself CC3. "And right 
now, the FBI doesn't have a clue about what we're doing -- which is good."

Although Hammond's contribution was huge, some within Anonymous were 
happy to see him go. ("I wonder if Sabu did us a favor by cleansing 
Anonymous of the more radical elements," one member told me.) But even 
those who disagreed with Jeremy Hammond appreciate his value; those who 
sided with him feel his loss even more poignantly. "He pissed a lot of 
people off with his anarchist talk, but he was the real thing," says 
CC3. "He fought for what he believed his whole life. He was an idealist 
who even after being jailed, kept fighting at every occasion, and he 
never betrayed himself. Not many people can say they have never betrayed 
themselves."

/This story is from the November 8th, 2012 issue of Rolling Stone./

*/Postscript/*/: /

/On November 20th, 2012, Jeremy Hammond, who had been held in a 
Manhattan jail for more than eight months since his arrest in March, was 
denied bail in a federal court. The hearing before Judge Loretta Preska 
was dominated by an impassioned plea by Hammond's defense counsel. 
"There is no way I can prepare for this trial while this man is in 
prison," his lawyer, Elizabeth Fink, a well-known civil rights attorney, 
stated, noting the hundreds of thousands of pages of discovery -- much 
of it highly technical forensic material -- that she found almost 
completely incomprehensible./

/Preska, however, was unmoved -- even with defense assurances that 
Hammond, who doesn't hold a passport, was not a flight risk and would 
remain under house arrest at the home of Manhattan lawyer Michael Steven 
Smith, an "officer of the court" who was willing to guarantee that 
Hammond wouldn't have access to a computer. But the chance that Hammond 
might get access "poses a very substantial danger to the community," 
Preska said, as did his "lack of regard for legal authority." For now, 
he remains at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, where he will likely 
stay until his trial, slated for late 2013, though some believe it may 
happen much later./

/But Hammond may yet have another chance, thanks to Anonymous, which 
responded to the verdict by "doxing" Preska, releasing personal 
information on her as well as her husband, Thomas J. Kavaler, a partner 
at the Manhattan law firm Cahill Gordon & Reindel. According to the 
leaked material, Kavaler, through his firm, was a client of the 
intelligence firm Stratfor and a victim of the Anonymous attack, all of 
which raises significant questions about Preska's objectivity. On 
December 6th, Hammond's attorney filed a motion demanding that Preska, 
who also worked at Cahill Gordon prior to her confirmation as a judge, 
recuse herself. "This personal connection to the damage allegedly 
inflicted by Mr. Hammond," the motion said, "is more than enough to 
raise the possibility in the mind of an objective observer that this 
Court could not be impartial in this case."/

-- 
Freedom Archives 522 Valencia Street San Francisco, CA 94110 415 
863.9977 www.freedomarchives.org
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