Part 14 (1/2)

At that point Ev had received more offers to buy Twitter than he could count. Yahoo!, Google, Facebook, Microsoft, a former vice president, celebrities, and rappers had all made overtures toward Twitter, and each time Ev had said no.

But it wasn't the money that made him turn down Facebook's proposal. It was that Twitter and Facebook were two completely different companies, with different goals and, as Ev saw it, vastly different morals. Twitter's ideals had been cemented when Ev started Blogger almost a decade earlier, forming his resolute belief that blogging, and now Twitter, should offer people a microphone that allowed them to say whatever came to mind. It was the same reason Ev had hired Amac, who had become a staunch proponent of free and open speech on the Internet while at Google. The same reason Goldman worked there. The same reason Biz was so important to Twitter's moral fabric. They all believed that these technologies, first and foremost, should be a mouthpiece for everyday people.

In the past, when government officials had come knocking on Twitter's door demanding information about people on the service for any number of reasons, Ev, Biz, Goldman, and Crystal, who managed Twitter's support team, had always said no, ”not without a warrant.” Such a stance would become the conviction of Twitter over the years. And it would be the DNA that made it a different kind of company in Silicon Valley. Twitter, with Amac at its legal helm, would eventually fight a court order to extract Occupy Wall Street protesters' tweets during protests. It would stand up to the Justice Department in a witch hunt for WikiLeaks supporters online. And in stark contrast to Facebook, Twitter would eventually allow newcomers to opt out of being tracked through the service.

Facebook had a completely different approach to free speech and tracking, often infringing people's privacy and sometimes removing content that violated its strict terms of service. Facebook also demanded people use their real names and dates of birth on the site. Twitter, on the other hand, was as open as a public swimming pool. That was the way Ev liked it. Push-b.u.t.ton publis.h.i.+ng for the people, now in 140 characters.

As Ev still owned the largest majority of the company, he would become a billionaire in a sale to Facebook or any other big suitor. But it wasn't about the money for Ev, it was about protecting the sanct.i.ty of Twitter and giving a voice to the people who used it.

”I appreciate the offer,” Ev responded to Mark in his living room, using a polite tone to show respect. ”But I don't think anything is going to change for us for now.”

They agreed to keep talking, and the meeting wrapped up with a few handshakes. ”We'll be in touch.”

As they walked outside, past the planters, past the browning gra.s.s, away from the tiny house of the accidental billionaire, Goldman looked at Amac and quietly whispered, ”See, I told you!”

The Coach and the Comedian.

Every aspect of the company was growing. The number of sign-ups, the number of people visiting the site each minute, and every other Twitter-related metric continued to double, triple, and quadruple. In 2007 people had been sending 5,000 tweets a day. By 2008 the company had been processing 300,000 tweets each day. As 2009 rolled on, that number grew by 1,400 percent to 35 million tweets sent each day.

But the number of employees at the company had grown slowly and was still in the double-digit range. Although the board had been pressing Ev to hire a new CTO, COO, and CFO, among other high-level jobs, Ev couldn't decide which candidates were the right ones. In typical Ev fas.h.i.+on, he preferred to pick from a litter of friends, people he trusted who wouldn't try to undermine him or hurry his slow decision making.

This was something Ev had promised himself he would never do again-take too long to make a decision.

Back in 1996, when he was twenty-four years old, Ev had moved back to the family farm after the company he had started in Lincoln, Nebraska, had flopped. ”We're giving up the office,” he told his employees and friends one afternoon. ”Everyone just go home.” Then, penniless and crushed, he packed up his life and drove the eighty-five miles back to Clarks.

The company, which was called Plexus-a name he had randomly found in the dictionary that meant ”a network of nerves or vessels in the body”-had been run by Ev and his brother and, before they shut the doors, had employed ten part-time staffers, most of whom were Ev's friends.

Ev had pitched his father, Monte, on the idea a year earlier: ”The Web is going to be huge,” he'd explained. Plexus could be the biggest Web shop in all of Nebraska. Monte trusted his nonconformist son and agreed to bankroll the business. After nearly a year, his father's money was completely gone; some of his friends.h.i.+ps, destroyed; his relations.h.i.+p with his brother, splintered.

After the company flopped, Ev sat at the table where he had once toiled over algebra and history homework and played back the past year in his mind. He took a deep breath, put his pen to paper, and started to make a list.

One, two, three, four, five ... He paused as he rounded the corner past ten. Before long, he made it all the way to thirty-four.

The list was a collection of all of the ideas he had come up with while running Plexus. But this wasn't a good list. Instead it was a collection of thirty-four abandoned hatchlings, thirty-four concurrent projects he had started and never finished. He knew the company hadn't failed because it didn't have enough work. Quite the opposite. It had cracked because each week Ev would come in and announce to his friends and employees that he had a new idea, a new project, a new focus. When Plexus had finally focused on a single project, Ev couldn't make a final decision about when to release it. He had been like a geologist searching for oil and changing the drill site before his workers had even cleared the ground to start digging.

Eventually the projects had piled up and fallen under their own weight. The feeling of guilt from squandering his father's money-savings that had been slowly collected by toiling in fields and irrigating crops-added to the defeat.

In that moment, looking at the list, he made two promises to himself: First, he would repay his father. Second, if he ever had an opportunity to run another company, he would never lose focus like that again; he would always make a firm decision and stick to it.

The former would eventually happen, and Ev paid his dad back with interest and much more. The latter wasn't as easy to solve. Coming up with ideas was what made Ev Ev.

Ev was doing his best to avoid this at Twitter in 2009 and focused on helping the company navigate the unrelenting attention it had been receiving for its role in everything from America to Iran, Oprah to Obama, businesses to protests. He was also overseeing the latest round of funding, which would put Twitter in an entirely new league.

Although Ev had originally set out to raise fifty million dollars in venture money for the company's fourth round, there was so much interest in Twitter that he would end up raising one hundred million dollars, with New Yorkbased Insight Venture Partners leading the round, which valued the company, for the first time, at one billion dollars. But Twitter's revenue was still stuck at that same number from three years earlier: zero. Now, as with Plexus, Ev's hesitation when making final decisions was starting to slow Twitter's business growth.

Earlier in 2009, at Fenton's urging, the board had encouraged Ev to adopt a CEO mentor to help him manage these decisions better. Fenton had pitched the idea of bringing in Bill Campbell, a legendary CEO coach, who had mentored Steve Jobs and a long list of other t.i.tans. But to his surprise, both Ev and Campbell said no. ”Twitter? Not interested,” Campbell told Fenton, ”I don't need a CEO coach,” a.s.serted Ev.

But Fenton wasn't the type of person who understood the word ”no.”

He called Campbell every few days and shared news snippets about the company with him.

One weekend Campbell set out on a fis.h.i.+ng trip with some bigwig friends. Among the people on the boat was a friend's technology-savvy son. And instead of reeling in trout, the friend's boy spent the entire trip using Twitter. Campbell returned to Silicon Valley realizing that there was more to the Twitter story than he had first thought, and he told Fenton he would take Ev on.

”Campbell is the real deal,” Fenton explained to Ev, trying to convince him to meet with the mentor. ”He's coached Eric Schmidt, Larry and Sergey, and Steve Jobs. He's a f.u.c.king legend.” Ev finally agreed to the meeting.

Campbell was an inst.i.tution in Silicon Valley. A former Ivy League football player, he was nicknamed the Coach by those who knew him. Although he was in his late sixties, he still carried around a bulky physique. His hairstyle, which hadn't changed in decades, parted on the left and drifted across his scalp like choppy white water.

As the first meeting approached, Ev, now thirty-seven years old, was excited about what he might be able to learn from the man, the legend, the Coach.

He sat on a couch in Campbell's office, one hand firmly gripping his notepad and the other grasping a pen, ready to jot down Campbell's advice. Fenton watched the two of them with excitement. Campbell leaned back in his chair and began his role: coaching. He ranted, raved, and yelled, throwing out one-liners as if he were telling Ev to rush a ball into an end zone. And he cursed. Like a hammer striking metal, the word ”f.u.c.k” was used in place of the period at the end of each sentence. f.u.c.k this ... f.u.c.k that ... f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k.

When it was Ev's turn to talk, he asked his first question: ”What's the worst thing I can do as CEO to f.u.c.k the company up?”

Without skipping a beat, Campbell responded: ”Hire your f.u.c.king friends!” He went into a ten-minute tirade about friends and business and how they don't mix. Ev scribbled in his notepad.

Ev was smitten with Campbell. They shook hands and agreed to start meeting once a week. Fenton was elated. ”This is going to be great!” Campbell said as he slapped Ev on the back. ”Just f.u.c.king great!”

One of the reasons Fenton and the board had been pus.h.i.+ng for Ev to see a CEO mentor was Ev's insistence on hiring his friends at Twitter. Ev didn't see this as a problem. Most of his friends were the few people he could relate to about technology, and they had often fit perfectly into the companies he had started over the years. He also saw his success as a lot of hard work and a little bit of luck, and he wanted to give the people he knew the opportunity to be a part of it. He had hired his sister, a chef, to run the kitchens at Twitter. His wife, Sara, had been hired to help design the new Twitter offices. Numerous friends from Google were employed working on engineering and design at Twitter.

Ev also reasoned that his friends would never betray him.

While Ev was willing to hear Campbell's advice, he still had one last buddy to hire, his good friend d.i.c.k Costolo, whom he had met at Google a few years earlier.

In 2009 d.i.c.k was forty-five years old and lived in Chicago with his wife, Lorin, and their two young children. Although he wasn't as young and hip as most tech founders, he was well known in the tech scene and had become close friends with Ev.

d.i.c.k had grown up near Detroit and studied computer science at the University of Michigan. During the first semester of his senior year, he decided to take an acting cla.s.s to fill one of his open cla.s.ses, figuring that acting wouldn't require much additional homework. This way, d.i.c.k reasoned, he could spend his evenings focused on his computer science a.s.signments. Yet after the first thespian session he was hooked, and he signed up for another acting cla.s.s the second semester.

Before he knew it, he started ignoring his computer science a.s.signments and instead spent his evenings on a small stage near campus performing stand-up comedy. Although he graduated with a number of job offers from big tech companies, d.i.c.k instead chose to pursue his new and improved dream of becoming a world-famous actor, comedian, or both. He packed his bags and set out to Chicago to join the Second City sketch-comedy and improv troupe in hopes of eventually making it on Sat.u.r.day Night Live or getting his own TV show.

It didn't work out that way.

Although d.i.c.k was a talented comedian, he found himself doing improv shows at night and working in a Crate & Barrel, wrapping flatware and selling place settings, during the day to pay the bills. Eventually this wore thin, and in the early 1990s he decided it was time to put his computer science degree to work and took a job at Andersen Consulting to subsidize his comedy career.

On numerous occasions he walked into work and explained to his bosses that there was this new thing they should all be paying attention to called the World Wide Web. But his superiors laughed it off, thinking it was just another d.i.c.k Costolo joke.

He eventually grew tired of the corporate atmosphere and quit. Rather than return to comedy, he corralled a small group of coworkers, and they started their own consulting firm, called Burning Door Networked Media, which specialized in building and managing Web-based projects. Before long he was creating and selling companies, three in all, and making millions of dollars in the process. One of the companies that put him on the map was Spyonit, a service that notified people when a Web site they were interested in had been changed. Finally, in 2007, d.i.c.k hit the jackpot when he sold a company called FeedBurner, which helped bloggers syndicate their blog posts, to Google for more than one hundred million dollars. Along the way he met Ev, and the two became close friends.

In 2009, after running into d.i.c.k at a party in San Francisco, Ev asked if he would be interested in managing the Twitter employees while Ev went on two weeks' paternity leave with his first child. The conversation quickly escalated to Ev asking if d.i.c.k would be interested in a full-time job as chief operating officer of Twitter. Until then no one had held the role, but Fenton and the rest of the board had been pressing Ev to hire someone.

At first Bijan and Fenton were not interested in hiring d.i.c.k, noting that he was just another friend of Ev's. Fenton was particularly sceptical and believed that the wrong appointment would cause chaos. Bijan agreed, questioning whether they should go outside to fill the role rather than hire another of Ev's friends.