Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (30 page)

It's safe to say they had a mountain of evidence against me.

Once the gear was tagged and taken away, a younger tan-skinned man with short dark hair approached me.

"Hey Brad, my name is Mike Roberto, I'm the case agent with the United States Postal Service," he said, in a friendly manner.

"Hi," I replied, not knowing what else to say in this situation.

"Let's go downstairs so we can talk," he directed, while reaching his hand towards the door to guide me.

As someone who's overly observant of human behavior, I perceived something unordinary about his conspicuously nice demeanor. In his eyes, I was a suspected criminal. There was no reason for him to be nice...unless he wanted me to confess.

We took the elevator down to the first floor, and then walked to the residents' lounge, which was a large room near the buildings front door. All the while I'm passing by other guests who are baffled as to why I'm in handcuffs.

Roberto led me through the double doors, asked me to sit down on the couch and unhooked my handcuffs. Another young and fair-skinned red headed female joined us; she was with the Secret Service.

"Do you see this room? We've been camped out in here for three days, watching you come and go," claimed Roberto.

"Really?" I said, surprised I was worthy of such resources.

Roberto reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick, I mean really thick, manila folder stuffed with papers. He freed the rubber band encompassing the folder and then smacked it down on the table.

"Brad, obviously we know what you've been doing. We just want to ask you a few questions about it," he said, squinting his eyes discerningly.

I didn't say a word. For all I knew his manila folder was filled with blank pieces of paper.

"Brad, it might be best for you to talk to us," the female agent interjected.

"I'm not saying anything without talking to a lawyer," I countered, noticeably breaking their spirit.

Roberto stormed out of the room to make a phone call, leaving the disgruntled female agent behind. He came back a few minutes later.

"We're getting a warrant for your computer, but I need to ask if we have your permission to go ahead and search it," asked Roberto.

"No, you don't," I told him, candidly.

"Ok, we'll be back sometime tomorrow to get it," he said.

"So I'm free to go?" I asked, failing to disguise my excitement.

"I'm not sure yet, let me find out," stated Roberto, before exiting the room again.

It was a bad move to express my elation after finding out they weren't able to search my computer. I'm sure he thought I was going to erase everything; but he was unaware the real evidence was sitting on the bottom of Tempe Town Lake.

"We're going to take you in, but I'll do you a favor. Are there any sandals you want me to grab so you can have shoes in jail?" Roberto asked.

"Yeah, there's a pair of Cole Haan wool slippers in my closet," I said, requesting an item that should have been in their evidence truck.

With slippers in tow, they carted me out the front door, where a large gathering of ASU students stood around wondering why so many police cars were outside, and then wondering who the guy was being thrown in the back of one.

I arrived in Tempe jail at 9pm and immediately asked for my phone call. After securing bail, I put the phone back on its hook, and then I heard a female voice shrieking from another jail cell.

"I need to go to the bathroom!" the whining voice bellowed.

"Roxy, is that you?" I asked, laughing in yet another situation typically not deemed humorous.

"Yeah! They won't let me go to the bathroom!" she explained.

"Oh, well do you need any help getting out?" I inquired.

"She'll be fine, get back to your cell," an officer intervened.

I posted bail at 10pm; at the latest, I should have been let out by 11pm. Well, midnight rolled around and I was still sitting alone in my cell.

"Guard!" I beckoned.

"What?" he disapprovingly shouted.

"I should have been let out an hour ago, what is the deal?" I asked.

"Your fingerprints have to be cleared before being let go, and the person who does that isn't at their desk right now," the guard declared.

At first, I believed his tale was true. So I rested down in the bottom bunk and stared at the mattress above me, jail is the worst. After another hour passed, I grew suspicious of the guard's explanation.

"Guard!" I yelled.

"What do you want?" he reluctantly asked.

"When WILL this person be at their desk?" I investigated.

"I don't know, it could be an hour, it could be in the morning," he deceivingly replied.

Now it all made sense. They were under instructions to keep me in jail until the agents obtained a warrant for my laptop, I had no proof, but it was the only rationale I could think of for keeping me in for such a long time. I decided to act on it.

"Hey guard!† I wonder what my lawyer is going to say about there being no one on staff to clear my fingerprints, how do you think that will play out?" I challenged.

Two minutes after I said this; they released me. I was shocked, and it basically confirmed my theory was true.

It was 2am, four hours after I posted bail, and I was walking in the middle of the street, across the ASU campus, on my way to the condo. However, I was in for another surprise. When I reached my front door, I discovered it was nailed shut. Not once, not twice, but five times! They really didn't want me to get in there.

This only motivated me to figure out a way in. So I walked across the street to the A-Loft Hotel, charmed the girl at the front desk and then asked her for a hammer; she gladly presented one (I eventually returned the favor).

I grappled the claw and ripped out every abysmal nail from the hinges. Whoever did the handiwork made sure each of them were a few inches deep inside the frame, so it took some time.

Finally, the door opened and unbelievably – my laptop was nowhere to be seen.

There was no time to waste – I needed a lawyer.

A quick Google search for "Tempe White Collar Lawyer" revealed David Cantor as the top result. He is the brother of Senate majority leader Eric Cantor, and a wise choice if there was any hope of avoiding jail time.

Actually, it would be Federal prison time.

On my way to his office, I exited the elevator on the first floor; Mike Roberto stood there with two sheets of paper in his right hand.

"Here is the search warrant for your laptop," he said, after noticing I regained entry to my condo.

"Oh, thanks," I told him, saving my words for the lawyer.

I glanced down and examined the search warrant, discovering it was signed on February 23
^rd
at 4pm; they took my computer before having a warrant allowing them to do so.

Desperate for answers, I proceeded to David Cantor's office. He was there when I arrived, sitting in a black leather chair behind a rich oak desk with full-length glass windows covering the entrance and pricy artwork against the wall behind him.

"Don't get too freaked out, you're not a terrorist," he said, in a comforting manner.

His large physical frame and crater-dimpled chin exuded confidence, along with the gray power suit and red tie he wore. Unlike most lawyers, he made me feel like the ball was in our court; not the other way around.

"You have a few things going for you. Nike doesn't know how you got in their accounts and they also don't know exactly how many you have. I'm sure they're worried," he explained.

"Why would they be worried?" I asked.

"Because. If you release the information inside the accounts, those players can sue them," he concluded, nodding his head with assurance.

"So I won't go to jail?" I questioned, cringing in anticipation of his response.

"You have a decent chance to avoid jail, but I can't guarantee it," he frankly advised.

"What happens next?" I asked.

"I will set a meeting with the prosecutors, where you'll tell them how you gained access and the names of every account you compromised. But it will be a few months until then, these things take time," he concluded.

With no guarantee, I was still worried. Picturing myself in an orange jumpsuit on the courtyard of a federal prison was a frightening prospect; especially in Arizona.

I returned to my apartment, looking to wind down and ease my mind. I couldn't though, there was an incessant clicking noise going off every few minutes, and I had never heard it before. So I googled "do listening devices make clicking noises" and yes, they do.

My senses were increased, sharpened and I became more observant of everything around me. I turned all the lights off, closed the windows and inspected my condo for anything out of the ordinary. This is when I discovered the smoke detector in the center of the living room flashed a red light every time I walked underneath it.

I tested it over and over again. Staying out of its range for ten minutes to see if the light turned red; it didn't. Then I walked underneath it again, and it did. So I unscrewed it and left it hanging.

I walked over to In N' Out Burger to grab a bite to eat the next day. When I returned to the condo and approached my front door, I noticed the handle was barely attached...and it definitely wasn't like this after the raid. A young black security guard happened to walk by while I was inspecting the damage.

"What happened to my handle?" I asked him.

"The cops did that," he told me.

"No, it wasn't like this after they broke in, it's much worse now," I explained.

"You're not hearing me. THE COPS DID THAT," he insinuated, and then walked away.

Once I opened my door, I took another look at the search warrant. It vaguely stated how they were allowed to enter my apartment anytime during the day from February 22
^nd
-March 8
^th
. Now I knew what the security guard meant; the cops, or feds, or secret service were still watching me, and they were going in my place whenever I left the building.

I looked up to the ceiling and the smoke detector wasn't hanging anymore; someone screwed it back in. I grabbed a circular glass ceiling light shade, rolled double-sided masking tape on the edges of the side with an opening and then used a baseball bat to make the glass shade stick around the smoke detector. MacGyver style.

At this point, I knew it was time to get the hell out of Arizona.

Before doing so, I had to consult with Dave. If I ever needed this brainy bastard, the time was now. Not wanting to speak freely inside of my apartment, I asked him to pick me up in his truck, and from there, we drove around and talked.

"I need to get out of the country," I told him.

"If you leave, you can't come back," Dave explained.

"I don't give a shit. Let me borrow ten grand, I'll be in Mexico tomorrow," I said, half joking and half serious.

"Heh, I don't think you need to leave the country man. Even if you go to jail, it'll only be for a year or two," said Dave.

"Fuck that, I'm not going to jail. I'll be long gone before that happens," I assured him.

Within days, I sold every non-movable item I owned on Craigslist and packed the remaining necessities in a suitcase for my flight home to Virginia. The night before I left, I received a text message from an unknown number.

"Hey, it's Bibi" the message read.

With my paranoia still at an all-time high, I chose not to respond. Trying to fuck a porn-star was of very little importance to me; the only thing on my mind was
survival
.

I assumed being on the other side of the country would help calm my nerves, but it didn't. The thought of going to jail was on my mind every waking moment; I was incapable of being myself. All I could do is lie on the couch and play out each future scenario in my head. The worst part was not being able to talk openly to anyone in my life...anything I said could make the person a potential witness.

Because of this, I was forced to keep everything to myself; including my imminent decision to escape justice and hide out in Florida.

Without telling anyone, I covertly packed a bag of clothes, withdrew every last penny from the bank and ordered a cab to pick me up down the street. I was on my way to the airport to purchase a one-way ticket to the sunshine state.

The weather was perfect, but the following steps in my game plan were far from it, in fact, they didn't exist. I just wanted to escape my own reality and become untraceable, that's as far as my thought process went. At least I arrived at an opportune time.

"Where do the college kids go for spring break?" I asked the airport cabbie.

"Cocoa Beach," he enthusiastically replied.

"Take me to Cocoa Beach," I spontaneously instructed.

Before being dropped off at the hotel, I stopped by Wal-Mart and picked up a box of black hair dye. I then purchased a room, in cash, and followed the instructions on the box to change the color of my hair, eyebrows and a recently acquired beard.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I couldn't stop laughing at myself in the mirror. For reasons I can't explain, I was acting like I was the most wanted man in America. I'm sure if my lawyer saw me like this, he would change his mind about me being a terrorist.

Early the next morning, I stepped out on the sandy white beach, placed a long white towel along the surface and stared off into the Atlantic Ocean for hours. Fleeing seemed like a genius idea in Virginia, but living in a hotel every night wouldn't be sustainable, nor could I obtain a job without using proper identification; which was out of the question for me. The most haunting aspect of it all – I would have to live this way for the rest of my life.

Then I began to think exactly how I was caught. Could Nike have grown wise after being clueless for five months? Not likely, but possible. Were the police exacting their revenge for my criticism on their search for Willie Jigba? It was feasible. Maybe someone with a vendetta against me found out about the Nike fiasco and turn me in? I wasn't sure, but Evan Longoria's car was stolen in Arizona one week after I was raided. A week after that, his house was burglarized in Florida...probably just a coincidence (or two).

My hiatus only lasted nine days before I ultimately came to my senses and boarded a flight back home.

There was no greater feeling than resting on the brown leather sofa at home. I didn't tell anyone I was back, so when I heard someone enter the front door, I stood up. My brother instantly jumped once he entered the kitchen. Even after looking at me for a few seconds, he still thought I was an intruder – apparently it was hard to recognize me with a black beard.

I would now have to face the music, so I called David Cantor to figure out when the meeting would occur. He told me it was already scheduled, but I needed to pay him the other half of his fee before he would go, which was $15,000 I didn't have, especially after my trip to Florida.

He was nice enough to issue me a refund, at which point I hired a grizzly Russian lawyer by the name of Mike Kimerer. Those words couldn't describe him much better; he was burly, he was grizzly and he was Russian.

The stage was set and I was on my way to Arizona for a date with destiny. Unfortunately, this time destiny was not the name of a stripper.

With the meeting taking place just hours after landing, I was riddled with anxiety and saturated with stress during the flight. I needed to take the edge off, so I started guzzling beers on the plane; I was drunk just in time for my showdown with the government.

Mike Kimerer and I ascended half way up a large skyscraper in downtown Phoenix, settling in a waiting room decorated with pictures of Barack Obama. From there, we entered another room with no windows and three people on the other side of the table Mike Roberto, the female Secret Service agent and the female federal prosecutor.

"Ok, tell us about the Nike accounts," the prosecutor said.

I lucked out by having two females in the room; it was no different than talking to a girl in a club; all I needed to do was charm them. However, the deal isn't offered until the end; so the pressure was on to perform.

For the next hour I told them exactly how I was able to gain control of the accounts and I also wrote down a list of every athlete account I still 'owned'. Knowing this information was being passed along to Nike, I repeatedly mentioned how I stored all of the user data in safekeeping, and still held access.

I really didn't care about being overly thorough and descriptive; my focus was on one thing, and that was making them like me. Every sentence I completed was followed with a dimpled smile and steady eye contact directed at the female prosecutor...because my future was in her hands.

It was strange how all the techniques from the years I spent picking up girls were being used to in an attempt to avoid prison. I was about to find out if it helped once they offered me this plea agreement.