BLOOD MONEY
Houston, Texas. November 9, 1988. High Noon.
“You wrote this patent, right? What do you think of it?”
So began my grilling by a bevy of skeptical potential investors, oil-funded venture capitalists, in a skyscraper high above the gray shroud of oil refineries dotting Houston’s horizon, hovering over me holding a copy of a patent I wrote. Outside the cool comfort of the conference room where we played Q and A, it was roasting–barbecue weather. Inside I was being turned like raw meat on a Texas spit.
“Have you ever seen anything like this invention before? How is it different? How does it work? What do these terms mean? Do you think the patent is valid and enforceable? Why would anyone invest in it?” The knives and forks were out, jabbing, and I was feeling the heat.
Mark L. Yelderman, M.D., M.S.E.E. (Stanford) was an entrepreneur on the verge of a big deal. He had flown me that morning from Palo Alto, the heart of Silicon Valley, where the air—both kinds—is blessedly cooler. Mark needed funding for his new company, Interflo Medical, and he had gone hunting for it in Texas.
Mark wanted to exploit an invention he said he had made on his own time while working at Stanford Hospital. U.S. Patent No. 4,507,974,[1] filed five and a half years earlier, had finally been issued on April 2, 1985, following a round of negotiations with the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Entitled “Method and Apparatus for Measuring Flow.” The patent described a novel way to measure blood flow in patients, with the accuracy of a Swiss watch. It used some of the same signal processing technologies as radar.
Stanford had acquired ownership rights from Mark on the grounds that he was an “employee” when he made his invention, then licensed it back to him to allow him to take his invention to the next step: commercialization. Three and a half years after the U.S. patent was issued and after a number of equivalent foreign patents had been secured, Mark was ready to invite investors to supply the start-up money for his new venture.
In Houston that day I was on the hot seat. As the venture capitalists quizzed me about the law and technology behind Mark’s patent—as well as my personal experience as a patent lawyer—I explained exactly how I had worked with Mark in formulating his claims, namely the legal description of his invention, using my knowledge of radar and signal processing as an electrical engineer, to prepare the patent application. My enthusiasm was obvious, even to me. Mark and I had achieved a human version of the engineering phenomenon known as impedance matching, meaning we were able to communicate at the same level of mutual understanding. In other words, we clicked. As a result, the process of working through the patent application and negotiating with the Patent Office—what lawyers call “patent prosecution”—was efficient and successful. The result was a pretty good patent.
After several hours, the potential investors seemed satisfied, and I was summarily released—freed from the prairie heat to return to pleasant Palo Alto. I had spent less than a day in Houston, a momentary blip with an unknown outcome. I didn’t learn the full significance of my grilling until years later. . .