Ik had haar kunnen vertellen over het subsidievoorstel dat ik had geschreven, waarmee internettoegang werd gerealiseerd in achtergestelde gemeenschappen.
Ik had haar kunnen vertellen over de talloze studenten, onderzoekers en ondernemers die ik in de afgelopen dertig jaar had geholpen.
In plaats daarvan zei ik:
“Je moet weer naar binnen gaan. Marcus zal zich afvragen waar je bent.”
Ze keek me lange tijd aan en ik zag iets in haar gezicht dat meer pijn deed dan haar woorden.
Teleurstelling.
‘Ja,’ zei ze uiteindelijk. ‘Dat zou ik moeten doen.’
Ze ging weer naar binnen.
Ik ging naar mijn auto, maar ik ging niet naar huis.
Ik ben naar de bibliotheek gereden.
Ik had de sleutels, uiteraard.
Het gebouw was leeg op dit tijdstip. Alleen de beveiligingslampen brandden en er hing de vertrouwde geur van papier en de belofte van mogelijkheden.
Ik ging naar mijn kantoor, zette mijn computer aan en begon te graven.
Onderzoek doen is mijn vak. Dat heb ik altijd al gedaan.
En als je weet waar je moet zoeken, als je begrijpt hoe informatie met elkaar verbonden is, naar elkaar verwijst en op elkaar voortbouwt, kun je bijna alles herleiden tot de bron.
Ik ben begonnen met de Open Commerce Insights-repository. Ik heb deze lokaal gekloond en ben de codestructuur gaan onderzoeken.
Vervolgens vond ik de website van Velocity Analytics en begon ik elk technisch detail dat Marcus openbaar had gemaakt te analyseren.
Openbare blogberichten. Documentatie. Die demo-video op hun landingspagina.
Tegen 2:00 uur ‘s ochtends had ik 43 afzonderlijke gevallen waarin de implementatie van Velocity Analytics exact overeenkwam met Open Commerce Insights.
Niet vergelijkbaar.
Identiek.
Variabelnamen. Commentaarstructuren. Zelfs de spaties en inspringpatronen.
Marcus was niet alleen geïnspireerd door Open Commerce Insights.
Hij had het overgenomen, de naamsvermelding verwijderd, het een nieuwe merknaam gegeven en het als zijn eigen gepatenteerde innovatie gepresenteerd.
Ik had triomfantelijk moeten zijn. Ik had me gerechtvaardigd moeten voelen.
In plaats daarvan voelde ik me misselijk, omdat ik wist wat ik moest doen – en ik wist wat het me zou kosten.
Ik heb de volgende drie dagen besteed aan het controleren van alles. Ik ben methodisch ingesteld, getraind om bronnen te controleren en beweringen met elkaar te vergelijken.
Ik nam contact op met een van de belangrijkste ontwikkelaars van Open Commerce Insights, een vrouw genaamd Patricia Chan, die lesgaf aan Carnegie Mellon.
Ik heb uitgelegd wat ik had ontdekt en haar het bewijsmateriaal gestuurd.
Binnen een uur kreeg ze antwoord.
“Dit is een flagrante schending van de GPL. We moeten actie ondernemen.”
Ze bracht me in contact met twee andere ontwikkelaars en een advocaat die gespecialiseerd was in open-source licenties.
They were grateful, angry, determined. They’d spent three years building Open Commerce Insights as a gift to the community, and someone had taken it, monetized it, and was now raising millions on the theft.
“We’ll send a cease and desist first,” the lawyer explained on our conference call. “Give him a chance to make it right. If he refuses, we file suit and contact his investors.”
“How long?” I asked.
“For what?”
“How long until his investors know? If he doesn’t comply with the cease and desist.”
“Three, maybe four days. News travels fast in the tech world, especially news about IP theft.”
I hung up and stared at my phone.
I had a choice here.
I could still walk away. Pretend I’d never noticed the similarities. Let Marcus build his company on stolen code.
It would collapse eventually. These things always do.
But maybe not for years. Maybe long enough for Sarah to realize who he really was on her own terms.
Or I could do what I knew was right and lose my daughter in the process.
The choice should have been easy.
But it wasn’t.
That night, Sarah called. First time in two weeks she’d initiated contact.
“Dad, I want to apologize. I was really harsh the other night. Marcus said I should call you.”
“Marcus said that?”
“Yeah. He feels bad about how things went. He wants to make it right.”
“We want you to come to dinner this weekend. His parents are flying in from Palo Alto and he wants you to meet them. Like officially as family.”
My throat tightened.
“Sarah, I need to tell you something.”
“Can it wait? I’m actually at the office helping Marcus with investor follow-ups. It’s been crazy since the launch. Three more VCs want to meet with us next week. It’s important.”
“Is it about Marcus? Because, Dad, I really need you to try with him. I know he’s different from what you’re used to, but he’s brilliant and ambitious and he makes me happy. Can’t that be enough?”
I wanted to tell her everything right then, but I could hear the hope in her voice—the plea for me to just accept this, to be happy for her.
And I thought about how hurt she would be when this all came out. How betrayed she’d feel. How she might blame me for not warning her sooner.
“Dinner sounds good,” I heard myself say. “Text me the details.”
I hung up and immediately called Patricia Chan back.
“We need to move faster,” I told her.
Before the weekend, the cease and desist letter was sent to Marcus Webb and Velocity Analytics on Thursday morning.
By Thursday afternoon, Sarah’s phone had been ringing off the hook. By Friday, tech blogs were running the story.
By Saturday, three of Marcus’ investors had pulled their funding commitments.
Sarah didn’t call me. She didn’t text.
For three days, there was just silence from her end.
While I watched the story unfold online, the evidence was damning.
Side-by-side code comparisons. Documentation showing the original Open Commerce Insights development timeline.
Testimony from developers who’d contributed to the project.
Marcus’ own statements claiming proprietary innovation, which made it clear this wasn’t an innocent mistake.
Tech Twitter was merciless.
The think pieces wrote themselves.
The dangers of move fast and break things culture.
Why open-source licensing matters.
The Stanford MBA who forgot about intellectual property.
On Tuesday, a week after the launch party, my doorbell rang at nine in the evening.
It was Sarah.
Her eyes were red, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing sweatpants and one of my old UT Austin sweatshirts I’d given her years ago.
“Did you know?” she asked. “At the launch party. When you left early, did you already know?”
I stepped aside to let her in.
She walked past me into the living room—the same living room where she’d done homework at the coffee table, where we’d watched movies on Friday nights after her mother died, where I’d taught her to play chess when she was seven.
“I suspected,” I said. “I confirmed it that night.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
She sank onto the couch.
“No, probably not.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“He’s been lying to me about everything. The code, the investors, even his parents.”
“Did you know his dad is a venture capitalist? He’s an accountant in Palo Alto. His mom’s a teacher. Marcus made up this whole background because he thought it sounded better.”
I sat down beside her, careful to maintain some distance, unsure if she wanted comfort or just someone to talk at.
“The lawyers say he’s going to lose everything,” she continued. “The investors are suing him for fraud. The Open Commerce developers might press criminal charges.”
“And I’m—”
She stopped, swallowed hard.
“I moved in with him, Dad. I left my apartment. I’ve been helping him pitch to investors, using my firm’s resources, my contacts, people I’ve worked with for years, and now they all know I was part of this.”
“You didn’t know.”
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