Dangerous: an in-depth investigation into the life of John McAfee

Dangerous an indepth investigation into the life of John McAfee
Brian Finke

On 5 December 2012, John McAfee was arrested in Guatemala for illegally entering the country. Belizean police also wanted to speak to him in connection with the murder of his neighbour.

Six months earlier, Wired's Joshua Davis began an in-depth investigation into McAfee's life.

Twelve weeks before the murder, John McAfee flicks open the cylinder of his Smith & Wesson revolver and empties the bullets, letting them clatter on to the table between us. A few tumble to the floor. McAfee is 66, lean and fit, with veins bulging out of his forearms. His hair is bleached blonde in patches and tattoos wrap around his arms and shoulders.

More than 25 years ago, he formed McAfee Associates, a maker of antivirus software that went on to become immensely popular and was acquired by Intel in 2010 for $7.68 billion (£4.75 billion). Now he's holed up in a bungalow on his island estate, about 24km off the coast of mainland Belize. The shades are drawn so I can see only a sliver of the white sand beach and turquoise water outside.

The table is piled with boxes of ammunition, fake IDs bearing his photo, Frontiersman bear deterrent, and a single blue baby's dummy.

McAfee picks a bullet off the floor and fixes me with wide eyes. "This is a bullet, right?" he says in the congenial southern accent that has stuck with him since his boyhood in Virginia. "Let's put the gun back," I tell him. I'd come here to try to understand why the government of Belize was accusing him of assembling a private army and entering the drug trade. It seemed implausible that a wildly successful tech entrepreneur would disappear into the Central American jungle and become a narco-trafficker. Now I'm not so sure.

But he explains that the accusations are a fabrication. "Maybe what happened didn't actually happen," he says, staring hard at me. "Can I do a demonstration?"

He loads the bullet into the revolver and spins the cylinder. "This scares you, right?" he says. Then he puts the gun to his head. My heart rate kicks up. "Yeah, I'm scared," I admit. "We don't have to do this." "I know we don't," he says, the muzzle pressed against his temple. And then he pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens. He pulls it three more times in rapid succession.

There are only five chambers. "Reholster the gun," I demand.

He keeps his eyes fixed on me and pulls the trigger a fifth time. Still nothing. With the gun still to his head, he starts pulling the trigger incessantly. "I can do this all day long," he says to the sound of the hammer clicking. "I can do this ten thousand times. Nothing will ever happen. Why? Because you have missed something. You are operating on an assumption about reality that is wrong."

It's the same thing, he argues, with the government's accusations. They were a smokescreen -- an attempt to distort reality -- but there's one thing everybody agrees on: the trouble really got rolling in the predawn murk of April 30, 2012.

It was about 4:50am. A TV flickered in the guard station of McAfee's newly built, one-hectare jungle outpost on the Belizean mainland. In the guard station, a drunk night-watchman gaped at Blond Ambition, a Madonna DVD.

The guard heard the trucks, then boots hitting the ground and the gate rattling as the lock was snapped with boltcutters. Dozens of men in camouflage were streaming into the compound. Many were members of Belize's Gang Suppression Unit, an elite force trained in part by the FBI and armed with Taurus MT-9 submachine guns.

Their mission was to dismantle criminal organisations.

The guard observed the scene then sat back down. After all, the Madonna concert wasn't over yet. "This is the police," a voice blared over a bullhorn. "Everyone out!" Deep in the compound, McAfee burst out of a thatched-roof bungalow. He was naked and held a revolver. Things had changed since his days as a high-flying software tycoon. By 2009 he had sold almost everything he owned -- estates in Hawaii, Colorado, New Mexico and Texas as well as his ten-passenger plane -- and moved into the jungle. Now his stronghold was under attack. There were 31 commandos converging on him. He was outgunned and outmanned. McAfee walked back inside to the 17-year-old in his bed. She was sitting up, naked, her long frizzy hair falling around her shoulders and framing the stars tattooed on her chest. She was terrified.

As the GSU stormed up the stairs, he put on some shorts, laid down his gun and walked out with his hands up. The commandos slammed him against the wall and handcuffed him. "You're being detained on suspicion of producing methamphetamine," one of the cops said.

McAfee twisted to look at his accuser. "That's a startling hypothesis, sir," he responded. "Because I haven't sold drugs since 1983."

Nineteen eighty-three was a pivotal year for McAfee. He was 38 and director of engineering at Omex, a company that built information storage systems in Santa Clara, California. He was also selling cocaine to his subordinates and snorting massive amounts himself. When he got too high to focus, he'd take a Quaalude. If he started to fall asleep at his desk, he'd snort some more coke to wake up. McAfee had trouble making it through the day and spent his afternoons drinking Scotch to even out the tumult in his head.

He'd been a mess for a long time. He grew up in Roanoke, Virginia, where his father was a road surveyor and his mother a bank cashier. His father, McAfee recalls, was a heavy drinker and "a very unhappy man" who McAfee says beat him and his mother severely. When McAfee was 15, his father shot himself. "Every day I wake up with him," McAfee says. "Every relationship I have, he's by my side; every mistrust, he is the negotiator of that mistrust. So my life is fucked."

McAfee started drinking heavily in his first year at Roanoke College and supported himself by selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. He would knock and announce that the lucky resident had won a free subscription; all they had to do was pay a small shipping and handling fee. "So, in fact, I am explaining to them why it's not free and why they are going to pay for it. But the ruse worked,"

McAfee recalls. He learned that confidence was all that mattered.

He smiled, fixed them with his penetrating blue-eyed gaze, and hit them with a nonstop stream of patter. "I made a fortune," he says.

He spent his money on booze but managed to graduate and start a PhD in mathematics at Northeast Louisiana State College in 1968. He got kicked out for sleeping with one of his undergraduate students (whom he later married) and ended up coding old-school punch-card programs for Univac in Bristol, Tennessee. That didn't last long, either. He was arrested for buying marijuana, and though his lawyer got him off without a conviction, he was fired.

While in Belize, McAfee collected a retinue of dogs, bodyguards and young womenBrian Finke

Still, he had learned enough to gin up an impressive, totally fake résumé and used it to get a job at Missouri Pacific Railroad in St Louis. It was 1969 and the company was attempting to use an IBM computer to schedule trains. After six months, McAfee's system began to churn out optimised train-routing patterns. Unfortunately, he had also discovered LSD. He would drop acid in the morning, go to work and route trains all day. One morning he decided to experiment with another psychedelic called DMT. He did a line, felt nothing, and decided to snort a whole bag of the orangish powder. "Within an hour my mind was shattered," McAfee says.

People asked him questions, but he didn't understand what they were saying. The computer was spitting out train schedules to the Moon; he couldn't make sense of it. He ended up behind a garbage can in downtown St Louis, hearing voices and desperately hoping that nobody would look at him. He never went back to Missouri Pacific. Part of him believes he's still on that trip, that everything since has been one giant hallucination and that one day he'll snap out of it and find himself back on his couch in St Louis, listening to Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon.

From then on, he felt like he was always one step away from a total breakdown, which finally came at Omex in 1983. He was snorting lines of coke off his desk most mornings, polishing off a bottle of Scotch every day and living in fear that he would run out of drugs. His wife had left him, he'd given away his dog, and in the wake of what he calls a mutual agreement, he left Omex. He ended up shuttered alone in his house, doing drugs for days on end and wondering whether he should kill himself just as his father had. "My life was hell," he says.

Finally he went to a therapist, who suggested he go to Alcoholics Anonymous. He attended a meeting and started sobbing.

Someone gave him a hug and told him he wasn't alone. "That's when life really began for me," he says. He claims he's been sober ever since.

When the Madonna concert ended, McAfee's guard strolled over to find out what was going on. The police surrounded him. They knew who he was: Austin "Tino" Allen had been convicted 28 times for crimes ranging from robbery to assault, and he had spent most of his life in and out of prison.

The police lined everybody up against a rock wall as the Sun rose. As an officer headed toward an outlying building, one of McAfee's dogs cut him off, growled and, according to police, went in for an attack. The cop shot the dog through the ribcage. "What the fuck!" McAfee screamed. "That's my dog."

The police ignored him and rummaged through the compound. They found shotguns, pistols, a huge cache of ammunition and hundreds of bottles of chemicals they couldn't identify. McAfee and Allen were loaded into the back of a pickup truck and heading towards Belize City at 125kph.

McAfee tried to stay calm, but he had to admit that this was a bad situation. He had walked away from a luxurious life -- mansions on multiple continents, sports cars, a private plane -- only to end up in the back of a pickup cuffed to a notoriously violent man.

Allen pulled McAfee close so he could be heard over the roar of the wind. McAfee tensed. "Boss, I just want to say that it's an honour to be here with you," Allen shouted. "You must be a really important person for them to send all these men to get you."

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In 1986, two brothers in Pakistan coded the first known computer virus aimed at PCs. They weren't trying to destroy anything, they just wanted to see how far their creation would travel, so they included their names, addresses, and telephone numbers in the code of the virus. They named it Brain after their computer services shop in Lahore. Within a year the phone at the shop was ringing: Brain had infected computers around the world. At the time, McAfee had been sober for four years and had security clearance to work on a classified voice-recognition program at [link url="https://www.wired.co.uk/search?q=Lockheed"]Lockheed[/link] in Sunnyvale, California. But then he came across an article in the San Jose Mercury News about the spread of the Pakistani Brain virus in the US.

He found the idea terrifying. Nobody knew at the time why these intrusions were occurring. It reminded him of his childhood, when his father would hit him for no reason. Then, he wasn't able to fight back. Now, faced with a form of attack that was hard to rationalise, he decided to do something.

He started McAfee Associates out of his 65-metre-square home in Santa Clara. His business plan: create an antivirus program and give it away on bulletin boards. McAfee didn't expect users to pay. His real aim was to get them to think the software was so necessary that they would install it on their computers at work. They did. Within five years, half of the Fortune 100 companies were running it, and they felt compelled to pay a licence fee. By 1990, McAfee was making $5 million (£3.2 million) a year with few overheads and little investment.

His success was due in part to his ability to spread his own paranoia, the fear that there was always somebody about to attack. Soon after launching his company, he bought an eight-metre Winnebago, loaded it with computers and announced that he had formed the first "antivirus paramedic unit". When he got a call from someone experiencing computer problems in the San Jose area, he drove to the site and searched for "virus residue". Like a good door-to-door salesman, there was a kernel of truth to his pitch, but he amplified and embellished the facts to sell his product. The RV therefore was not just an RV; it was "the first specially customised unit to wage effective, on-the-spot counterattacks in the virus war."

It was great publicity, executed with drama and sly wit. By the end of 1988, he was on The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour telling the US that viruses were causing so much damage, some companies were "near collapse from financial loss". He underlined the danger with his 1989 book, *Computer Viruses, Worms, Data

Diddlers, Killer Programs and Other Threats to Your System*. "The reality is so alarming that it would be very difficult to exaggerate," he wrote. "Even if no new viruses are ever created, there are already enough circulating to cause a growing problem as they reproduce. A major disaster seems inevitable."

In 1992 McAfee told almost every major news network and newspaper that the recently discovered Michelangelo virus was a huge threat; he believed it could destroy up to five million computers. Sales of his software spiked, but only tens of thousands of infections were reported. McAfee was criticised for his proclamation, but it worked in his favour, as he explained in an email in 2000 to a computer-security blogger: "My business increased tenfold in the two months following the stories and six months later our revenues were 50 times greater and we had captured the lion's share of the anti-virus market."

This ability to infect others with his own paranoia made McAfee a wealthy man. In October 1992 his company debuted on Nasdaq, and his shares were suddenly worth $80 million (£51 million).

The jail cell was about 3m x 3m. The concrete floor was bare and cold, the smell of urine overpowering. A plastic milk container in the corner had been hacked open and was serving as a toilet. The detention centre was located in the Queen Street police station, but everybody called it the Pisshouse.

No charges had been filed yet, though the police had confiscated what they said were two unlicensed firearms on McAfee's property; they still couldn't identify the chemicals they had found. McAfee said he had licences for all his firearms and explained that the chemicals were part of his antibiotic research. The police weren't buying it. He was supposed to be living out a peaceful retirement in paradise. Now he was in jail. "Welcome to the Pisshouse," said Allen, smiling.

McAfee lived in Silicon Valley for nearly 30 years.

Outwardly he seemed to lead a traditional life with his second wife, Judy. He was a seasoned businessman to whom startups turned for advice. Stanford Graduate School of Business wrote two case studies highlighting his strategies. He was regularly invited to lecture at the school, and he was awarded an honorary doctorate from his alma mater, Roanoke College. In 2000 he started a yoga institute near his 9,000-metre-square mansion in the Colorado Rockies and wrote four books about spirituality. Even after his marriage fell apart in 2002, he was a respectable citizen who donated computers to schools and took out newspaper ads discouraging drug use.

But as he neared retirement age in the late 2000s, he started to feel like he was deluding himself. His properties, cars and planes had become a burden, and he realised that he didn't want the traditional rich man's life any more. It was time, he felt, to try to live more rustically. "John has always been searching for something," says Jennifer Irwin, McAfee's girlfriend at the time.

She remembers him telling her once that he was trying to reach "the expansive horizon".

He was also hurting financially. The economic collapse in 2008 hit him hard, and he couldn't afford to maintain his lifestyle. By 2009 he'd auctioned off almost everything he owned, including more than 400 hectares of land in Hawaii and the private airport he'd built in New Mexico. He was trying in part to deter people from suing him on the assumption that he had deep pockets. He was already facing a suit from a man who had tripped on his property in New Mexico. Another suit alleged that he was responsible for the death of someone who crashed during a lesson at a flight school McAfee had founded. He figured that if he were out of the country, he'd be less of a target. And he knew that, should he lose a case, it would be harder for the plaintiffs to collect money if he lived overseas.

In early 2008 McAfee started searching for property in the Caribbean. His criteria were basic: he was looking for an English-speaking country near the US with beautiful beaches. He came across a villa on Ambergris Caye in Belize. In the early 90s he had visited the nation of 189,000 people and loved it. (Today the population is around 356,000.) He took a look on Google Earth, decided it was perfect, and bought it. The first time he saw it in person was in April 2008, when he moved in.

McAfee was spellbound. "Belize is raw and in-your-face. There's an opportunity to see something about human nature that you can't really see in a politer society, because the purpose of society is to mask ourselves from each other," McAfee says. The jungle, in other words, would give him the chance to find out exactly who he was, and that opportunity was irresistible.

So in February 2010 he bought a hectare of swampy land along the New River, 16 kilometres upriver from some Mayan ruins. Over the next year, he spent more than a million dollars filling in the swamp and constructing an array of thatched-roofed bungalows. While his girlfriend, Irwin, stayed on Ambergris Caye, McAfee outfitted the place like Kublai Khan's sumptuous house of pleasure. He imported ancient Tibetan art and shipped in a baby grand piano even though he had never taken lessons. There was no internet. At night, there was just the sound of the river flowing quietly past. He sat at the piano and played exuberant odes of his own creation. "It was magical," he says.

He didn't like the idea of getting old, though, so he injected testosterone into his buttocks every other week. Plus, he wasn't looking for a quiet retirement. He started a cigar manufacturing business, a coffee distribution company and a water-taxi service that connected parts of Ambergris Caye. He continued to build bungalows on his property even though he had no pressing need for them.

In 2010 McAfee visited a beachfront resort for lunch and met Allison Adonizio, a 31-year-old microbiologist who was on holiday.

In the resort's dining room, Adonizio explained that she was doing postgrad research at Harvard on how plants combat bacteria. She was particularly interested in plant compounds that appeared to prevent bacteria from causing infections by interfering with the way the microbes communicated. Eventually, Adonizio explained, the work might also lead to an entire new class of antibiotics.

McAfee immediately proposed they start a business to commercialise her research. Within minutes he was talking in rapid-fire bursts about how this would transform the pharmaceutical industry and the entire world. They would save millions of lives and reinvent industries. Adonizio was astounded. "He offered me my dream job," she says. "My own lab, assistants... it was incredible."

Adonizio said yes on the spot, quit her research position in Boston, sold her house and moved to Belize. McAfee soon built a laboratory on his property and stocked it with tens of thousands of dollars' worth of equipment. Adonizio went to work trying to isolate new plant compounds that might be effective medicines, while McAfee touted the business to the international press.

But the methodical pace of Adonizio's scientific research couldn't keep up with McAfee's enthusiasm, and his attention seemed to wander. He began spending more time in Orange Walk, a town of about 13,000 people eight kilometres from his compound. McAfee described it in an email to friends as "the asshole of the world -- dirty, hot, dilapidated." He liked to walk its poorly paved streets and take pictures of the residents. "I gravitate to the world's outcasts," he explained in another email. "Prostitutes, thieves, the handicapped... I have always been fascinated by these subcultures."

Though he says he never drank alcohol, he became a regular at a saloon called Lover's Bar. The proprietor, McAfee wrote to his friends, was partial to "bad Mexican karaoke music to which voices beyond description add a disharmony that reaches diabolic proportions." McAfee noticed that it doubled as a whorehouse, servicing, as he put it, "cane field workers, street vendors, fishermen, farmers -- anyone who has managed to save up $15 (£10) for a good time."

This was the real world he was looking for, in all its horror.

The bar girls were given one Belize dollar for every beer a patron bought them. To increase their earnings, some of the women would chug beers, vomit in the toilet, and return to chug more. One reported drinking 50 beers in one day. "Ninety-nine percent of people would run because they'd fear for their safety or sanity,"

McAfee says. "I couldn't do that. I couldn't walk away."

McAfee started spending most mornings at Lover's. After six months, he sent out another update to his friends: "My fragile connection with the world of polite society has, without a doubt, been severed," he wrote. "My attire would rank me among the worst-dressed Tijuana panhandlers. My hygiene is no better.

Yesterday, for the first time, I urinated in public, in broad daylight."

McAfee knew he had entered a dangerous world. "I have no illusions," he noted in another dispatch. "We are tainted by everything we touch."

Evaristo "Paz" Novelo, the Belizean proprietor of Lover's, admits to a long history of operating brothels and prides himself on his ability to figure out what will please his patrons. Early on, he asked whether McAfee was looking for a woman. When McAfee said no, Novelo asked whether he wanted a boy. McAfee declined again. Then Novelo showed up at McAfee's compound with a 16-year-old girl named Amy Emshwiller.

McAfee’s girlfriend Amy Emshwiller, now 18Brian Finke

Emshwiller had a brassy toughness that belied her girlishness.

In a matter-of-fact tone, she told McAfee that she had been abused as a child and said that her mother had forced her to sleep with dozens of men for money. "I don't fall in love," she told him. "That's not my job." She carried a gun, wore aviator sunglasses and had on a low-cut shirt that framed her ample cleavage.

McAfee felt a swirl of emotions: lust, compassion, pity. "I am the male version of Amy," he says. "I resonated with her story because I lived it."

Emshwiller, however, felt nothing for him. "I told him my story because I wanted him to feel sorry for me," she says. "A millionaire in Belize, where people work all day just to make a dime? Who wouldn't want to rob him?"

McAfee soon realised that Emshwiller was dangerous and unstable, but that was part of her attractiveness. "She can pretend sanity better than any woman I have ever known," he says. "And she can be alluring, she can be very butch-like. She's a chameleon." Within a month they were sleeping together.

Visiting from Ambergris Caye, McAfee's girlfriend, Jennifer Irwin, was flabbergasted. She asked him to tell the girl to leave, and when McAfee refused, Irwin left the country. McAfee hardly blames her. "I canned a solid 12-year relationship for a stark-raving madwoman," he says. "But I honestly fell in love."

One night Emshwiller decided to make her move. She slipped out of bed and pulled McAfee's Smith & Wesson out of a holster hanging from a gong in his bedroom. Her plan was to kill him and make off with as much cash as possible. She crept to the foot of the bed, aimed, and started to pull the trigger. But at the last moment she closed her eyes, and the bullet went wide. "I guess I didn't want to kill the bastard," she admits.

McAfee leaped out of bed and grabbed the gun. He couldn't hear out of his left ear and was trying to get his bearings. Finally he told her he was going to take away her phone and TV for a month.

She was furious. "But I didn't even kill you!" she shouted.











McAfee became convinced that he was being watched at all hours.



She wasn't comfortable there and left the country.











McAfee and another of his many girlfriends, 20-year-old Samantha VanegasBrian Finke


When I tell him that the locals I spoke to can remember only two murders in the past three years, he argues that I'm not asking the right questions. To illustrate his point, he takes out his pistol. "Let's do this one more time," he says, and puts it to his head.






I suggest he gets some rest. He sounds frantic and scared. "They're coming back," he says suddenly. "This is too fucking much. I'm hanging up. I'm going."

The line goes dead.





Brian Finke

On Friday 9 November, I receive an email from McAfee telling me that "a contingent of black-suited thugs" disembarked on the dock next to his property at 10:30pm. The men dispersed on the beach. "A half-hour later all of my dogs had been poisoned," he writes. "Mellow, Lucky, Dipsy, and Guerrero have already died. I had to call Amy and tell her about Mellow. She is hysterical."

The next morning, November 10, 2012, McAfee calls to tell me that his dogs died horrific deaths. They were vomiting blood and convulsing on the ground. McAfee shot them to end their suffering. "It was an ugly thing," he says. "I've tried calling Amy twice.

She's not answering. She's not doing well."

I suddenly recall a conversation I had with Emshwiller in August. She was describing someone in Carmelita who tortured dogs and, with a chill, I remember her reaction: "Mess with my dog, you're gonna get it, man," she'd said. In another conversation, she also said she had become profoundly committed to McAfee. "If he asked me to blow someone's brains out, I would," she said.

Still on the phone to me, McAfee is searching for clues to explain the dead dogs and notices that the fence around his property is surrounded by "military-style boot prints", and cites this as evidence that the police were involved.

I point out that his neighbours had been complaining about the barking. In August, Vivian Yu, operator of a bar up the beach, asked one of McAfee's guards to control the 11 dogs. McAfee hired a carpenter to build a fence to corral them.

Greg Faull, a neighbour two houses to the south on Ambergris Caye, was particularly incensed by McAfee's mutts. Faull was a big man who owned a sports bar in Orlando, Florida, and spent part of the year in Belize. It was a tropical paradise to him, except for the nuisance the dogs created.

Faull had confronted McAfee about the dogs in the past.

According to McAfee, Faull once threatened to shoot them, but McAfee didn't believe he'd do it. Allison Adonizio, who had stayed at Greg Faull's house when she first moved to Belize in 2010, says there was bad blood between the two men back then. "McAfee hated his guts," she wrote in an email to me.

Earlier in the week, Faull had filed a formal complaint about the dogs. McAfee dismisses the suggestion that any of his neighbours could have been involved in the apparent poisoning of the animals. "They're dog lovers," he says. "No one here would ever poison the dogs."

He speaks specifically about Faull. "This is not something he would ever do," McAfee says. "I mean, he's an angry sort of guy, but he would never hurt a dog."

On Sunday morning, Faull is found lying face-up in a pool of blood. He's been shot once through the back of the head, execution-style. A 9mm Luger casing lies on the ground nearby.

There are no signs of forced entry. A laptop and an iPhone are missing, police say.

That afternoon, Belizean police arrive at McAfee's property to question him about Faull's death. McAfee sees them coming and is sure the authorities are intent on tormenting him again. He quickly digs a shallow trench in the sand and buries himself, pulling a cardboard box over his head. He stays there for hours.

The police confiscate all the weapons on the property and take Mulligan in for questioning. When they leave, Cassian Chavarria, McAfee's groundskeeper, tells him that Faull has been killed.

According to McAfee, that was the first he heard of the murder. His initial reaction, he says, is that it was the GSU trying to kill McAfee himself. "They mistook him for me," he says. "They got the wrong house. He's dead. They killed him. It spooked me out."

McAfee decides to go on the run and begins calling me at all hours. I ask him if he shot Faull. "No sir, no sir," he says. "That's not even funny." (Emshwiller also denies any involvement in Faull's death.)

All McAfee knew about the murder, he says, was that the police were after him, and he believed that if they caught him, he would be tortured or killed. "Once they collect me, it's the end of me," he says.

Over the next 48 hours, McAfee bounces from place to place around Belize, aided by a network of "people who can't be followed", he tells me. "There are a lot of risks, and people could turn south at any minute." Samantha Vanegas, one of his girlfriends, is with him, and he says that they've been subsisting on Oreo Cakester cookies and cigarettes. On Tuesday morning, he says, the police raided the house next door, but they evaded capture, eventually landing in a house with no hot water and a broken toilet. There is, however, a working TV. "We watched Swiss Family Robinson," he says. "It's about castaways. It was like, wow, we could do that. We could get bamboo and build something like that."

The movie had a happy ending. McAfee liked that.

As we went to press, John McAfee had been arrested and was expected to be deported to Belize. Joshua Davis is a contributing editor to US Wired