“There was a lot of people down my way selling shoes, pocketbooks, CDs, movies, and fencing stolen stuff,” he told me.
“I didn’t think they’d ever look at me for what I was doing.” But the burner took forty minutes to make a single copy, and business was slow.
By the time of the party, he’d begun to experiment with the nascent culture of the Internet, exploring bulletin-board systems and America Online.
He knew a couple of employees who were smuggling them out, and a pre-release album from a hot artist, copied to a blank disk, would be valuable.
One of Glover’s co-workers was Tony Dockery, another temporary hire.
The two worked opposite ends of the shrink-wrapping machine, twelve feet apart. Most important, they were both fascinated by computers, an unusual interest for two working-class Carolinians in the early nineties—the average Shelbyite was more likely to own a hunting rifle than a PC.
Later, Glover realized that the host had been d.j.’ing with music that had been smuggled out of the plant. Plant policy required all permanent employees to sign a “No Theft Tolerated” agreement.
He knew that the plant managers were concerned about leaking, and he’d heard of employees being arrested for embezzling inventory.