She smiled
sweetly at Mendax and asked if he would move it for her. He obliged.
The police finally left Mendax's house at about 3 a.m. They had spent
three and half hours and seized 63 bundles of his personal belongings,
but they had not charged him with a single crime.
When the last of the unmarked police cars had driven away, Mendax
stepped out into the silent suburban street. He looked around. After
making sure that no-one was watching him, he walked to a nearby phone
booth and rang Trax.
`The AFP raided my house tonight.' he warned his friend. `They just
left.'
Trax sounded odd, awkward. `Oh. Ah. I see.'
`Is there something wrong? You sound strange,' Mendax said.
`Ah. No ... no, nothing's wrong. Just um ... tired. So, um ... so the
feds could ... ah, be here any minute ...' Trax's voice trailed off.
But something was very wrong. The AFP were already at Trax's house,
and they had been there for 10 hours.
The IS hackers waited almost three years to be charged. The threat of
criminal charges hung over their heads like personalised Swords of
Damocles. They couldn't apply for a job, make a friend at TAFE or plan
for the future without worrying about what would happen as a result of
the AFP raids of 29 October 1991.
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