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THE FAKE IDS, PART TWO
The gray Jeep Commander drove along California Street in San Francisco, weaving in and out
of traffic. Inside the big SUV one man steered the vehicle while the other studied the map on
his smartphone, offering instructions to go left here and right there.
It was late afternoon on July 26, 2013, when the Jeep pulled up to 2260 Fifteenth Avenue in San
Francisco. Pulling the Jeep to a stop, Dylan Critten, an agent with the Department of Homeland
Security, reached for his bag and a printout of a California driver’s license.
Dylan looked like he was born to work in law enforcement. He had a cop’s buzz cut, broad
shoulders, and a face that could easily have been hammered out from a single cinder block. As he got
out of the SUV, he looked up at the house in front of him, a sort of Spanish-style place with a white
exterior and brown terra-cotta roof.
A day earlier Dylan had been asked by his old buddy from the Department of Homeland Security,
Agent Ramirez, to follow up on a lead about nine fake IDs that had come in from customs agents at
San Francisco International Airport’s mail center. Agent Ramirez had almost given up on the IDs
before he realized that he had gone to the wrong home two weeks earlier to do a knock-and-talk,
driving to 2260 Fifteenth Street instead of 2260 Fifteenth Avenue.
Now it was Dylan’s turn to go to the right place. With his partner by his side, Dylan ascended the
front steps and looked through the glass front door down a long hallway. At the exact moment he lifted
his fist to knock on the door, he saw a man, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, appear in the hall in
front of him. Dylan froze, his fist a mere inch from the door, stopping before it touched the glass.
Ross Ulbricht froze too.
Dylan looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, then back at the man now standing half
naked in the hallway. Without any question, they were the same person. The man on the nine fake IDs
was now walking toward the front door, turning the handle, and pulling it open. There Ross stood, no
shirt, no shoes, just a pair of dirty khaki shorts, looking at the strangers in front of him and seemingly
assuming—hoping, even—that they were at the wrong house.
“Hello, my name is Agent Critten,” Dylan said as he turned to look at his partner. “And this is
Agent Taylor.” Ross’s facial expression started to look strained. “And we’re from the Department of
Homeland Security.” As those words hung in the air between the three men, Ross’s demeanor
morphed into one of terror. “Can you step outside so we can talk to you?” Dylan asked.
Oh, dear God. This is it. The end.
Ross took a few steps outside, and Dylan raised the printout of the fake IDs so Ross could see it.
“We’re here to talk to you about these counterfeit documents that were set to be delivered here,”
Dylan said, watching as Ross’s grimace turned stark white with dread.
This is it. Fudge!