Cover Story: A hated man

If, by the end of this story, you find yourself hating Rob Martinson, you're probably one of two kinds of people. If you're the first kind, you have no sympathy for former drug addicts. You're suspicious of ex-cons. You believe that when it comes down to it, people don't change, that there are no second acts.

If you're the other kind of person, your mental calculus is much simpler. You see him not so much as a flawed man, redeemed or otherwise, but as an unavoidable pest of the Internet age — the kind who infiltrates your computer, who hijacks your homepage, who makes surfing the Web more pain than pleasure.

If you hold this latter view, you're not alone. In the past year, entire message boards have been devoted to Atlanta businessman Rob Martinson and his products, Mail Wiper and Spy Wiper. He has been called scum, his bloodline has been cursed, and he's been threatened with imaginative forms of violence.

The vitriol has spread to the courts, where at least two computer users have filed lawsuits against Martinson. The Better Business Bureau in Atlanta has quietly compiled a folder of dozens of complaints from computer owners across America and Canada. And in Washington, D.C., the Center for Democracy and Technology, a policy organization that advocates privacy and free expression on the Internet, earlier this year filed a 24-page complaint against Martinson's company with the Federal Trade Commission.

Yes, the 44-year-old Martinson is in a lot of crosshairs — of people who've never even seen him, much less know him. Which raises some questions: Who is Rob Martinson? Where did he come from? And does he deserve all this hatred?

Although Martinson wouldn't talk in any detail to CL, public records and interviews with former colleagues show that his journey to becoming such a vilified figure has come via a circuitous and tortured route.

In 1987, Robert Ripberger was an undergraduate at the University of New Orleans, studying computer programming. One of his projects was a software program that was designed to help companies with their scheduling and internal messaging. Ripberger posted his software on the Internet, which at that time was little more than a collection of text bulletin boards, used by academics and techno-geeks.

One day, Ripberger got a call from a man who introduced himself as Rob Martinson. Martinson explained he was a computer reseller in California and that he'd seen Ripberger's software on an Internet bulletin board. "Your software is too good," Ripberger recalls Martinson telling him. "It should be sold commercially."

Ripberger flew to California to meet Martinson. "He was a good motivator," Ripberger says. "He could sell anything to anybody."

They set up shop outside New Orleans, eventually naming the company Futurus. Their product was Ripberger's software, which they called Right Hand Man and which they constantly tinkered with to keep up-to-date. In many ways, the partnership was a cliche — Ripberger was the quiet, studious type, while Martinson had the flash and boundless energy. Ripberger recalls him staying up all night to get ready for trade shows.

"Looking back, it was a good beginning," Ripberger says. "But after we were in business awhile, he thought the company was all his." As Ripberger recalls, the two had agreed from the outset that they eventually would be equal partners, once the company was established and out of debt. "But the numbers [of my share of the company] kept going down, the percentages. Forty percent, then 30 percent. Finally I said the hell with this and left in 1990."

In 1991, the two sued each other in federal court in Louisiana. Says Ripberger: "I thought the software was mine. He thought the software was his." In 1992, a consent order stipulated that Martinson pay $250,000 to Ripberger, spread out over monthly installments. In return, Ripberger says, Futurus continued selling his software, while he was free to continue developing it on his own. Today, that software is a foundation of Ripberger's current company, Lan-Aces, based in Houston.

Less than a month after the lawsuits were first filed, Martinson announced he was moving Futurus to Atlanta. In an upbeat story in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution that November, Martinson explained that after considering Boston, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles and San Francisco, he settled on Atlanta because of its pool of available talent. He cited annual revenues of about $3 million. "We're finding Atlanta is becoming the Silicon Valley of the South," he was quoted as saying.

By 1993, Futurus was boasting in press releases that its software packages were installed in more than 450,000 computers worldwide. It employed 40 people.

But by the mid-'90s, the founder of Futurus was in crisis. Martinson and his wife divorced. He turned to drugs. In January 1995 he was given four years' probation after being charged with cocaine possession. When a drug test turned up positive a few months later at his probation office, he was sentenced to two to four months in the Colwell Probation Detention Center in Blairsville.

Things would get worse. On Feb. 8, 1997, police responded to the report of a demented man in the lobby of a Fairfield Inn in Gwinnett County. It was Martinson. In his room, police found crack cocaine on the bed.

Martinson was in jail for nine days before he called Warren Furlow, then a programmer at Futurus. Furlow put up the $1,700 to bond Martinson out, and the two met at the bondsman's office. Facing mounting legal and personal troubles, Martinson signed over his shares in the company to Furlow.

Within weeks, Martinson would sue Furlow, claiming his employee had taken advantage of Martinson's "duress." Martinson wanted the deal voided. His lawsuit provided in detail the extent to which his personal problems had put his company in jeopardy. (Furlow declined comment for this story.)

In the lawsuit, Martinson explained that he suffered from both a cocaine addiction and bipolar disorder. The two illnesses combined to wreak "havoc" in his personal life, the lawsuit read, and ate away at the economic foundation of Futurus, which was Martinson's "alter ego." His relapses had led to prolonged absences from the offices, and his mood swings "created severe stress in the ranks of the employees, affecting morale and productivity." Nevertheless, the lawsuit claimed, Futurus and Martinson were inextricably bound, and one could not survive without the other.

"It was a ploy to get sympathy," says one former colleague of Martinson's. "You feel sorry for him, until he pulls you into his nightmare."

There is little doubt, however, that 1997 was the year Rob Martinson hit rock bottom. He'd lost his marriage, his business, and, because of the latest drug charge, his freedom. Creditors were hounding him, including Mercedes-Benz, which won a $28,000 judgment against him. That fall, his lawsuit over Futurus fizzled after a judge granted Furlow's motion for summary judgment.

Finally, on Nov. 16, 1998, 18 months into a five-year sentence, Martinson was paroled from Rivers State Prison and set about rebuilding his life.

Details surrounding Martinson's immediate post-prison life are sketchy. He remarried. He bought a house. He sold software.

In May 2002 he registered a domain name called postmasterdirectmail.com. Three months later, a New York City company called NetCreations filed a complaint against Martinson with the National Arbitration Forum. NetCreations operated an e-mail marketing service to computer users who had "opted-in," or agreed to receive mass e-mailings. The e-mail address NetCreations used was postmasterdirect.com.

"What we thought was going on was Martinson was using a domain that was similar to NetCreations' in order to lure people into thinking they were opt-in e-mail," says Eric Prager, an attorney who represented NetCreations in the complaint. "We think he was using the NetCreations name to help his spam business."

The arbitrator evidently agreed, ruling that Martinson "presumably engages in this conduct for financial benefit from sending out the 'spam' e-mails." Martinson's tactics, the arbitrator concluded, ensured a "high likelihood of consumer confusion." In October 2002, Martinson was ordered to turn over the domain name to NetCreations.

But Martinson didn't lose a step. Four months later, he was a guest on "WebTalkGuys," a syndicated radio show out of Seattle. The subject? Martinson's new product, Mail Wiper, which claimed to eliminate 100 percent of — what else? — spam.

"He's the man of the hour, our new hero!" WebTalkGuys co-host Dana Greenlee said by way of introducing Martinson. "His cool new software has just come out ... and it's ready to wipe out junk mail forever!"

For the next half-hour, Martinson discussed his $29.95 product and its "five bulletproof software mechanisms" that root out spam while letting legitimate e-mail through. He explained the inspiration for Mail Wiper.

"I was hearing in the industry that children were getting hit with pornography [spam]," he said. "And I just felt that that was very evil and it was time for someone to bring that to an end. There's just some real horrible, awful pornography spams that are running around the Internet. So I've dedicated my life to getting rid of it."

The hosts offered enthusiastic endorsements. "From what I've seen of your software, it seems to be the solution," said co-host Rob Greenlee, who explained that after installing Mail Wiper on his own computer, he went from 100 spam e-mails a day down to zero.

Martinson did admit that he wasn't happy with how his new product was being marketed; after all, sending out what amounts to spam to advertise a product that's designed to eliminate spam may seem counterproductive. "Basically, there's two kinds of people when they get e-mail from us from an opt-in list," he said. "They can feel offended or they can thank us that this is the best bulk mail I ever got because it helped me get rid of the junk."

Indeed, Martinson — like thousands of other Internet retailers — was relying on affiliates to advertise for him. Affiliates act like online ad agencies, carrying the message of their clients to millions of computer screens. For example, Claria, the company that is the focus of so much spyware litigation, acts as an affiliate for companies such as Netflix and Orbitz.

In Martinson's case, he pays 45 percent of whatever sales are made from an ad for his product that's carried by an affiliate. Unfortunately, it was a deal struck with one such affiliate that sent Martinson's reputation, which he had quietly built up since leaving prison four years earlier, tumbling into Internet infamy. And, as it turns out, the man behind that affiliate is one of the most notorious spammers in the history of the Internet.

Sanford Wallace is not from Atlanta, but he's well known in the local Internet industry. In 1998, EarthLink won a $2 million judgment against Wallace, who was often called "Spamford."

Wallace loved his nickname, and he'd also earned it. At one point, his business, CyberPromotions, was sending out 25 million spam e-mails a day. After the decision, he announced his retirement from spamming. He dabbled in some other Internet ventures and also worked as a radio DJ in New York.

In 2002, he purchased Plum Crazy, a nightclub in New Hampshire, from an old friend and spamming buddy, Walt Rines. Wallace spins records at Plum Crazy under the name DJ MasterWeb. But he hasn't abandoned the Internet.

Plum Crazy's holding company is called Seismic Entertainment Productions. Besides being in the nightclub business, Seismic apparently is also in the Internet marketing racket. And one of its clients, as it turns out, was Rob Martinson, who was selling a new product, Spy Wiper. Like Mail Wiper, Spy Wiper cost $29.95, but Spy Wiper claimed to eliminate spyware from your computer. Spyware, which refers to programs that secretly monitor your Internet browsing habits, is replacing spam as the biggest headache on the Internet. (See sidebar .)

In November 2003, complaints started trickling in to the Atlanta office of the Better Business Bureau. The nature of the complaints was similar: While the computer user was surfing the Web, his CD-ROM drive door mysteriously opened. A pop-up ad appeared on his screen that said, "WARNING!" It went on to explain that if the CD-ROM drive opened, "you DESPERATELY NEED to rid your system of spyware" and that you should "download Spy Wiper NOW!"

While that alone may have been obnoxious, it could have been tolerable if the problem went away by simply closing the pop-up window. Except there was more. Each time thereafter, when the computer user launched his browser, he found his home page had been switched to a page that advertised Spy Wiper. And the CD-ROM drive opened again. And up popped the warning screen.

The complaints varied in intensity. A Kentucky woman wrote, "If I try to leave their site, my computer freezes up or it takes me directly to a porn site. It also made itself my home page. Every time I restart my computer, the same ad pops up again and takes me through the same ordeal. ... Just get them to leave my computer alone!"

A Maryland woman wrote, "I am not able to access ANYTHING but their Web page, and since I will not download their spyware, I am locked out of the Internet. I am being held as a cyber hostage by this company."

A Michigan woman wrote, "I am unable to surf the Internet on my home computer at ALL without getting one of their many messages. I feel as though I am being harassed to purchase their product."

Some did fork over the $29.95, with mixed results. A Wisconsin woman wrote, "I have ... stopped payment. It was a nightmare and my husband is furious." A Pennsylvania man wrote that after "paying the price of $29.95, the ads and pop-ups kept occurring, and the ad for Spy Wiper kept popping up and opening my CD-ROM drive."

In a written response to one of the complaints, Mail Wiper pointed the finger elsewhere. "The ad that [the complainant] is claiming she continues to receive is for Spy Wiper. Our pop-up ad appears as one of many advertisements on a network which is neither owned by Mail Wiper not [sic] operated by Mail Wiper. We have no ability to change home pages; therefore, the consumer has inadvertently blamed us."

The response, which was written by Martinson's wife, Kathy, went on to chide the victim for not doing her homework.

"In reality, if [the complainant] had documented the URL that her home page was switched to and investigated further, she would have discovered the true identity of the website responsible."

Kathy Martinson went on to name the real culprit — default-homepage-network.com, a website registered to Seismic Entertainment.

Nowhere in any of the responses reviewed by CL at the Better Business Bureau does Mail Wiper say they'll tell Seismic to stop. Instead, Kathy Martinson gives instructions on how to reset the home page, but never apologizes for what she calls her affiliate's "aggressive advertising methods."While some victims of the advertising scheme were complaining to the Better Business Bureau, others took to the Internet. "Hope to read about you in the obituary section," wrote one enraged victim, referring to Martinson. One Englishman wrote, "What a wicked ploy. I do hope you guys over the pond can shut these scumbags down for good." Others threatened violence, including one man who wrote, "I hope to God I never meet one of those fuckers, because if I do, a busted nose is the least of their problems. ... I'm fucking tired of my disc drives popping open and my fucking computer screen going blue and all my icons disappearing. I hate Spy Wiper, all the motherfuckers who work for that bullshit company and I would just like them to know that one day they will get theirs, each and every one of them."

Others took to the courts. In March, North Dakota attorney John Gosbee sued Martinson under that state's computer fraud and racketeering laws. In his response, filed through a North Dakota law firm, Martinson used the same pass-the-buck defense as he did with the Better Business Bureau complaints — namely, that any problems computer users encountered were due to visiting Web pages beyond Martinson's "responsibility or control."

While that case hasn't been resolved, a similar lawsuit was settled quickly. In February, Michigan attorney Glenn McCandliss sued Martinson, charging him with, among other things, "illegally market[ing] their product in a manner equal to extortion."

In an affidavit filed in response to McCandliss' suit, Martinson said he became aware of Seismic's infiltrating tactics in the fall of 2003 and "demanded that it immediately cease marketing Spy Wiper using these methods. When Seismic did not immediately cease and desist, Mail Wiper discontinued all business with Seismic. Mail Wiper will not accept orders from Seismic nor will Mail Wiper pay any commissions to Seismic. To the extent that Seismic continues to market the Spy Wiper software, he does so against the express demands of Mail Wiper." Nevertheless, in June, Martinson's attorneys offered to settle the matter for $2,000, while still making it clear that the offer "should not be construed as an admission of any allegation or of liability on any claim."

In February, the Center for Democracy and Technology filed an extensive complaint with the Federal Trade Commission against both Mail Wiper and Seismic, claiming Internet users had suffered "substantial injury" because of the advertising methods for Spy Wiper. As far as Martinson's "It wasn't me" defense, the center has little sympathy. "If Mail Wiper knew or should have known about the actions of its affiliates, the company should be held liable. It is important that it be clear to companies that invoking an affiliate relationship does not allow them to avoid liability for business partners' actions from which they gain advantage."

In its complaint, the CDT says that "affiliate" relationships, like the one between Mail Wiper and Seismic, "obscure responsibility" behind a "dense network of business-to-business relationships." They're right there. For instance, the registered agent for Seismic is a New Hampshire attorney named Mark Hanlon. Reached by phone at his office, Hanlon expressed ignorance that Seismic was anything more than a nightclub: "There's no computers there. It's a nightclub. They serve food there." Asked about Wallace's history as a spammer, Hanlon responded by asking for clarification of what spam is, explaining he's "just a small-town lawyer."

As for Martinson, CL caught up with him one Friday afternoon when he and his wife pulled into the driveway of their handsome home on a quiet cul-de-sac in north Fulton County. Told the subject of this story, Kathy Martinson said they didn't want to comment. But from behind the wheel of his BMW, Rob Martinson offered a few words before pulling into his garage and shutting the door.

"It's helping people," he said of his product. "And if we weren't helping people, then we wouldn't be supporting them, and we support them all day long."

CL hoped for a more extensive interview with Martinson, but a follow-up e-mail and a subsequent letter asking for further comment went unanswered.

Traditionally, the FTC has been slow to take on spyware cases. The agency would not confirm whether the Center for Democracy and Technology complaint against Martinson and Seismic has prompted an investigation. It currently has not taken a single enforcement action against a purveyor of spyware. At a recent congressional hearing on spyware, an FTC commissioner merely said "there are some things pending that I can't talk about."

This has frustrated agencies like the CDT, whose associate director, Ari Schwartz, also testified at the hearing. "If a consumer walked into a store and the door was locked behind them and they were forced to buy a product, we would expect law enforcement to do something about it," he said. Yet the online equivalent, he testified, has "not been a serious area of action for any law enforcement body to date."

Still, word seems to have gotten out. For instance, the Seismic page that once hosted the Spy Wiper ad is now blank, except for a single statement: "Due to new laws being enacted and controversy surrounding our business model, we have voluntarily decided to implement the cease of all current business practices by the end of June 2004." Martinson has a new company, called Spy Deleter — although Spy Wiper and Mail Wiper websites are still taking orders.

Some victims of the Spy Wiper home page hijacking are skeptical that passing a law is the answer. Gosbee, the North Dakota attorney, likes his approach best — sue the bastards. "A U.S. attorney is not going to drop a drug case to go after Rob Martinson. Get some private attorneys to sue him. A few of those and that'll stop him. And even though I'm a conservative Republican, I believe that."

But McCandliss, the Michigan attorney who scored a settlement from Martinson, says there needs to be some way to stop such marketing tactics.

"I'd like to see how much money they've made, because your average Joe would just buy this software. [Martinson is] sending this out to a hundred million computers. I take my hat off to the guy. He's found a way to infiltrate computers. But it's not a fair use of that technology. I'm a hard working taxpayer. I got a wife, kids, a small house, a small car. If he wants to look on my computer, it oughta cost him a few shekels."

steve.fennessy@creativeloafing.com