I sat down in a coffee shop and pored over the affidavit, absorbing every word. I learned that two cellular phone fraud investigators had been tailing me for several weeks. I flashed back to a Jeep that had been parked across the street one day with a man sitting in it. Son of a bitch! My gut had been right—he was one of the investigators. The statements in the search warrant showed that these guys had been eavesdropping on my calls for weeks. I thought of the calls I made to my mom several times a week; she would sometimes speak my name when she picked up my call in the casino. Yet evidently they had missed that. They must have known or at least sensed I wasn’t just some kid using a cloned cell phone, yet they were clueless about my real identity. If they had suspected I was the sought-after Kevin Mitnick, they would have staked out my apartment and waited all night for me to come home.