by Dave Shors
It was a sure bet evidence from the secret cabin and caches would become a focal point during court proceedings. The prosecution wasn’t out of the woods yet, because the judge surely would come down on them even harder when the court discovered there was a fingerprint, evidence, and even handwriting from the cabin wall that hadn’t been produced.
It was turning into an awkward eleventh-hour situation at best. And there was no chance all this would be missed by the press.
The hearing had barely adjourned when the ringing of my phone became as constant as the cooing of my wife’s white dove, peacefully caged nearby.
When I came in from working, the answering machine tape was full and the phone was still ringing. By now the late-afternoon winter sky was dark, a harbinger of things to come.
Among the messages was an ominous one from Dave. He said the motion to disclose had contained the names Diagonal Gulch and McClellan Gulch.
I knew there was no such place as Diagonal Gulch; that was just a code name used by Ted to conceal the location of his secret cabin. It was more a geographic description than a name, one that Ted used to mask his hideaway in the journals. What he meant was that his secret cabin was situated in a gulch that ran diagonally off the main gulch, which was McClellan. It was a clever way to disguise the real name of that gulch. McClellan was a different story. It could be found on virtually every map.
Dave’s message went on to say that Jerry Burns at the Forest Service had just called and said his office was being flooded with media calls asking about the location of McClellan Gulch.
Almost everyone in Lincoln could give directions to McClellan and my home, so about the only thing I could do was brace myself for the fury that would soon be headed up the Stemple Pass Road.
Looking out the window, I could already see vehicles driving slowly past the entrance to my gulch.
Dave ended by saying, “I’m sure that you have the weather on your side now to help keep those folks out. Good luck with the media—I feel for you.”
I decided to call Bobby Didriksen and see what he knew.
He had successfully run cover for me so many times in the past that people often called him to find me.
Bobby said he had been trying to call me.
He said there was a man from ABC at his house, eager to talk to me; they had flown into Lincoln by helicopter and landed just west of town.
Bobby said they wanted to take me for a ride in the helicopter to get some pictures at the secret cabin site.
“Why don’t you talk to him, he’s a nice guy,” Bobby said. “His name is Mike and he’s sitting right here.”
With that Mike took the phone.
He had been on assignment in Seattle when the call came in that Ted’s secret cabin had been the topic of a court hearing. He was told to get to Lincoln without delay.
Mike asked if I would go up in the helicopter with them, take them to the site and help them shoot some video.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I said.
Even though I would have enjoyed a helicopter ride, there was no way I’d divulge the location of the secret cabin to the media, or anybody else for that matter.
“The mountains are steep, rugged, and covered with timber, and there’s no place to land either,” I explained to Mike. “The cabin can’t be spotted by air, even with a helicopter.”
I wasn’t lying. Dave and his pilot were unable to spot it from the air even after they were told exactly where to look.
I knew it was only a matter of time before other media people approached me.
I told Mike I’d tell my whole story to someone soon, depending on the trial, and wondered if he was interested.
“Very much so,” he said.
I told him I owed it to both Betty and me to carefully weigh how the story would be handled before I talked to anyone. Then we talked about some of the pictures, evidence and other items I had in my possession.
We decided to meet that night or the following morning.
“I’m in room number seven at the Sportsman’s Motel,” he said.
That evening among all the messages was one from a reporter at the Sacramento Bee. I knew they were the paper of record for the trial, so I wanted to return the call. They had called several times since Ted’s arrest.
The reporter said my name kept coming up in conversations with different people, and he wondered if I could tell him about Ted’s secret cabin.
Just the day before, I had refused to let the same reporter quote me, but today was a different story. Everybody in the media knew about McClellan Gulch and that I owned it.
I told him that he could print a quote from me in the paper. I said, “The rumors about a secret cabin are true. There is a secret cabin. The FBI did not find it. I did, more than a year ago.” I explained that I did live in McClellan Gulch, how long I had known Ted, that I had taken the FBI to the cabin the previous summer, and that I had worked closely with the FBI. That was all I wanted to say at the time.
The phone rang into the night, and began again the next morning.
I told Betty I was going to Lincoln to visit Bobby and to see what was happening in town.
At least one or two mobile satellite uplink trucks were already setting up for on-the-scene reporting. The town was crawling with reporters, every motel and room was booked, and out-of-town vehicles were everywhere. I decided to take a back route to Bobby’s house.
He met me at the door and said many people were looking for me. “Really, I would have never guessed,” I replied.
We laughed and then both noted the town looked similar to the way it did when Ted was first arrested.
I told Bobby I was headed down to see Mike from ABC.
“Mike has already called to see if you were in town yet,” he said, and added, “NBC has called, too. The woman you and Betty know is also in town and would like to see you.”
I called Mike and told him I’d be over shortly. He said the story was far bigger than he would have believed and told me an ABC crew was working in Sacramento on a documentary. He felt that type of format would best cover my situation.
I agreed. I appreciated how ABC’s 20/20 had handled my earlier interview. But I told him I had to leave for a minute. I promised I’d be right back.
In the few minutes while I drove to the NBC crew’s motel, the trial effectively ended.
Court had convened in Sacramento at 8:01 A.M. Pacific Time, almost an hour ago. Just now, the defense had proposed a plea agreement.
When I arrived, the NBC crew members already were talking about the plea and advancing theories about what it meant to their Lincoln story. Essentially, they decided the plea agreement had diminished the importance of my story.
I was amazed, but at the same time relieved. First, I wouldn’t get caught up in a long, drawn-out trial; second, a lot of information that I was privy to wouldn’t make it into court proceedings and become a matter of public record; third, I felt liberated from the shroud of secrecy. I could talk now!
I favored the longer documentary type format and I decided right then to go back to ABC. Mike had me talk to a producer named Peter Bull, who said he would come to Montana soon, and I agreed not to make any commitments until he arrived.
I left for home, anxious to tell Betty of the new developments. She would be very glad to hear I wouldn’t be stuck in Sacramento for the trial, and I knew the ABC proposal would please her. And, indeed, she was as relieved as I to hear the case was over.
At 3:22 P.M., January 22, 1998, as the court adjourned, the criminal case of the United States versus Theodore John Kaczynski was in the history books.
Ted had pleaded guilty unconditionally to all offenses, in both the California and New Jersey cases. He would spend the rest of his life in prison without the possibility of parole. All that was left was the formal sentencing, which wouldn’t occur for several months.
As Betty and I talked about the sentence, and how we were glad Ted wouldn’t be put to death,
we thought our lives might start to return to normal. I had lost my ability to discern normalcy, whatever that was.
ABC producer Bull arrived in Lincoln the following week, and we met for lunch at a local cafe. We worked out the details and by the end of the week his film crew was in Lincoln. They wanted to air an hour-long Turning Point documentary on the day of the sentencing. We had mixed weather for the taping, but it was nice enough to do some outside work. Things went well, and Peter and his crew packed up and left Lincoln. He told me it was going to be a tough squeeze, considering the amount of footage he had. I told him I understood and was confident they would do a good job.
Betty and I were more relaxed during the next couple of months than we had been in two years.
I had sent the last batch of photographs to Dave before the end of the trial. His wife, Sue, left a message that he received the package and would call at a later date. I was going to miss talking to him, but I knew they would return sometime for a vacation and we all could have a reunion along with Jerry Burns and his wife.
Dave shared a funny story during one of our last conversations about Ted.
Prisoners are not normally taken to court together, but on one particular day Ted was forced to ride in the back of a vehicle with another prisoner. The driver sternly told Ted and the other inmate that he didn’t want to hear one word from either of them.
Sitting there quietly, Ted was obeying the command when the other prisoner started talking softly to him. Ted turned and whispered very seriously to shush, he didn’t want to get into any trouble.
He didn’t want to get caught talking, against orders, but he had no problem sending lethal bombs to people.
Actually, the story spoke volumes about how Ted would get along in prison. He’d be just fine, would keep to himself and not cause trouble.
On May 4, Ted was given an airtight sentence. For the five counts of transporting and of mailing his bombs that caused three fatalities, he received five life sentences, to be served concurrently. Also concurrent would be four twenty-year terms for transporting and for mailing two bombs that resulted in injuries. Following these were three life sentences to be served consecutively: two for carrying firearms while committing a crime and the third for transporting one of the bombs that resulted in injury. Consecutive to those life sentences came a thirty-year term for carrying a firearm while transporting one of the bombs that resulted in injury.
He was fined $650.00, but the fine was waived because Ted was “without the ability to pay.” Any proceeds Ted received from books, articles, or films about him would be paid to the United States Attorney General. Finally, he was ordered to pay restitution to victims in the amount of $15,026,000, and allowed no possibility of parole.
The reign of the notorious Unabomber was over.
Many factors came into play in the government’s decision to do what it had sworn not to, and that was plea-bargain the case.
Dr. Sally Johnson’s psychiatric report certainly played a pivotal role in the decision. Johnson spent twenty-two hours interviewing Kaczynski in his Sacramento County jail cell and also studied his writings. She concluded Ted was paranoid schizophrenic, but competent to stand trial.
Ever aware of his public image, Kaczynski sent the Helena newspaper this gracious note in 1996.
With Johnson’s report, the government realized that if tried and found guilty, Ted might not receive the death penalty anyway. But when the defense demanded disclosure of the information about the secret cabin and evidence included therein, the government surprised everyone by accepting a plea bargain the very next day.
Prosecutors at once saw how much the secret cabin buttressed the defense’s portrayal of Ted’s isolationism in a mental-defect defense. Weighing the odds of obtaining a death sentence considering those factors made them realize the whole process wasn’t worth it.
The plea bargain appealed to Ted. It was a sure way to save his life, but equally importantly, to prevent the court and the nation from learning all the sordid details of his acts.
He could also avoid being further embarrassed before the public, especially the people of Lincoln, who would have learned about all the “unchargeable offenses”: acts of vandalism, thefts, shootings, etc., which might have been part of a trial.
Ted always had and continues to have a great concern for the public’s perception of him.
As one reporter asked me, “Why would Ted’s public image even matter to him? He’s admitted to the bombings.”
The reason is Ted, in his own twisted way, could justify the killings to save the planet from the evils of technology and satisfy his need for revenge.
It was an evil means, but in his mind it was justified by the end.
But how could he justify the vicious, selfish, and criminal acts he committed right here in the Lincoln area? Those acts had nothing to do with his cause of saving mankind from technology.
Ted will spend the rest of his life in prison, but he didn’t have to go to trial and face the public he had terrorized for two decades.
A Closer Look
Ted Kaczynski’s life was, is, and always will be an enigma to anyone who studies it. Even though I knew Ted for nearly the entire twenty-five years he lived in Lincoln, I really didn’t know him.
I have many regrets regarding my relationship with Ted. Perhaps nothing would have slowed his pell-mell charge toward infamy. But everyone who ever knew him must have the same thoughts as me, that somehow we could have sidetracked him and helped him solve his problems short of violence.
In Ted’s journals he said he made a conscious effort to overcome his middle-class inhibitions, becoming free to commit crimes without the burden of guilt. He deprogrammed society’s norms and the training of his early years. He then reprogrammed his mind so he felt satisfaction from violence, even murder, acts that seemed to cleanse his mind and ease the hatred temporarily. His reprogramming, which crystallized around ideas developed early in his life, led him to adopt a twisted logic and situational ethics.
His primary reasons for committing crimes were hatred and revenge. But in later years, as he tantalized the media and the FBI with his letters and manifesto, he found it advantageous to advance a more acceptable justification for his crimes, i.e., saving the world from the evils of technology in order to preserve individual freedom and the environment. Even if he were captured and threatened with the death penalty, Ted could then become a martyr for his cause.
KACZYNSKI JOURNAL, APRIL 1971
My motive for doing what I am going to do is simply personal revenge. I do not expect to accomplish anything by it. Of course, if my crime (and my reasons for committing it) gets any public attention, it may help to stimulate public interest in the technology question and thereby improve the chances of stopping technology before it is too late; but on the other hand most people will probably be repelled by my crime, and the opponents of freedom may use it as a weapon to support their arguments for control over human behavior.
I have no way of knowing whether my action will do more good than harm. I certainly don’t claim to be an altruist or to be acting for the “good” (whatever that is) of the human race. I act merely from a desire for revenge.
Twenty-five years later, just before his arrest, Ted again wrote that his personal resentment of the technological system, not the good of mankind, was the motivating energy behind his actions.
JAN. 23, 1996 (RECOPIED BY TED FROM EARLIER ENTRIES)
I now have more of a sense of—mission—a concern with issues wider than personal resentment of the technological society. Never the less, it should be made clear that the motivating energy behind my actions comes from my personal grievance and personal resentment of the technological system. I certainly wouldn’t take such risks from a pure desire to benefit my fellow man. I imagine that anyone who ever makes great efforts or takes great risks on account of social issues has some powerful personal motive, even if he persuades himself that he is actuated by pure altruism.
&nbs
p; Ted’s personal motivation was reinforced further by his sense of superiority over most everyone else.
UNDATED JOURNAL ENTRY
I believe in nothing. Whereas I don’t even believe in the cult of nature-worshippers or wilderness-worshippers. (I am perfectly ready to litter in parts of the woods that are of no use to me—I often throw cans in logged-over areas or in places much frequented by people; I don’t find wilderness particularly healthy physically; I don’t hesitate to poach.)
Kaczynski’s pocket notebook: news of the manifesto’s publication, philosophy, and key to caches.
UNDATED JOURNAL ENTRY; STRIKE-THROUGH IN ORIGINAL
The fact that I was able to admit to myself that there was no logical justification for morality illustrates a very important trait of mine. I have always had a strong tendency to admit an unpleasant truth to myself, rather than trying to push it away with self-deception or rationalization. I am certainly not claiming that I’ve never indulged in self deception—I only claim that I have much less tendency to self-deception than most people.
This requires an important qualification….
Thus I tended to feel that I was a particularly important person and superior to most of the rest of the human race. Generally speaking, there was nothing arrogant or egotistical in this feeling, nor did I ever express any such feeling outside the immediate family. It just came to me as naturally as breathing to feel that I was someone special.
In Ted’s early writings he tried to justify his need for revenge within the parameters of the fading influence of his middle class morality and his past experiences, until he made a breakthrough.
UNDATED JOURNAL ENTRY
I’ll just chuck all of this silly morality business and hate anybody I please. Since then I have never had any interest in or respect for morality, ethics, or anything of the sort.
Ted’s ideas of revenge and his ability to carry out terrorist acts fit neatly with this belief that it was all right for him to hate anybody, but he was angry that he required further “deprogramming.”