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Dylan waited for Ross to respond, but instead he just looked back, petrified. His hands were
now visibly starting to shake. The agents could see how scared Ross was, so they began speaking
quickly back and forth, both playing good cop to try to put him at ease—the last thing they wanted was
someone who wouldn’t cooperate with them. “We’re not here to arrest you for having fake
documents,” they began. “We just want to talk to you a little about the IDs.” As they spoke, assuring
him that they were just there to talk, Ross’s hands stopped shaking and the color started to return to
his face.
“So you’re not going to arrest me?” Ross muttered, his voice brittle.
“No, no,” the agents said. “But we will need to see your real ID to know who you are.”
Ross hesitated but, knowing he didn’t have much of a choice, he went to his bedroom, returning
with his real Texas ID. Again, he asked, “So you’re not here to arrest me?”
“No,” Dylan explained as he scrutinized the license with Ross Ulbricht’s name on it. “We just
want to talk about these IDs and to make sure you are who you say are so we know you’re not a
fugitive.” Dylan also explained that, as agents, their job was to find the people who made fake IDs,
not necessarily those who purchased them.
Hearing this, Ross realized that his worst fears were simply fears. These agents were completely
unaware of whom they were standing in front of. As he became aware of this reality, he started to feel
confident.
“I understand that you don’t want to make a statement acknowledging these documents are yours,
because that could incriminate you,” Dylan said, giving Ross an out so the agents could continue
asking him questions. “So hypothetically, if I needed these kinds of documents, where would I get
them from? Just tell me in hypotheticals.”
“We’re just speaking in hypotheticals?”
“Yes,” Dylan said, “strictly hypothetically.”
It was apparent to all three of the men on that stoop that day that Ross was the smartest of them
all. His answer to Dylan’s question made it clear that he had the most hubris too. “So anyone,” Ross
began, “hypothetically, could use the Tor network and can go onto a site called the Silk Road and buy
anything they want.” He paused for a second, then concluded, “Including guns, drugs, or fake IDs.”
The two agents looked at each other, scrunching their faces, both unsure what the Silk Road was.
Ross, who a few minutes earlier had been ready to buckle at his knees, began playing with the
agents, becoming flippant with his responses. The agents didn’t know this at the time, though; to them
it appeared that the man standing in front of them with no shoes and no shirt was doing the government
a favor by offering up this information. Maybe this man from Texas could even become a source for
them?
Dylan had learned early on in his career that to get someone on your side in a case, you had to
cultivate the relationship.
“How can we keep in communication with you in the future?” Dylan asked.
“Well, I don’t have a cell phone,” Ross said.
“Do you have an e-mail?”
“Sure,” Ross said. Dylan handed him a pen and a piece of paper and Ross wrote down
“fractalform@tormail.org.” He hoped this would be the end of the conversation, but the agents had
one last question for him.