The close-knit community of coastal scientists was stunned earlier this summer when the U.S. Attorney for the Middle District announced he had indicted renowned coastal hydrologist Ehab Meselhe, along with a junior associate, for allegedly stealing intellectual property—coastal modeling software—from The Water Institute of the Gulf.
It was equally surprising when, just one month later, the U.S. Attorney dropped the charges, leaving The Institute, which had blown the whistle on the scientist in the first place, with a lot of explaining to do.
The scandal raised a lot of questions that remain unanswered—like, why did the feds, who typically take years to carefully and methodically investigate allegations, do such a hasty job in this case? How had The Institute gotten the FBI involved in the first place? And when was the last time the U.S. Attorney dropped charges against anyone?
But the incident also stripped the veneer off The Institute, which, until now, has largely been shielded from criticism and lauded, locally at least, as a repository for the best coastal science in the country. In the wake of the Meselhe affair, scientists, engineers and others in the coastal community have been emboldened to ask publicly—in letters to the editor, email chains and countless conversations—what they’ve been privately whispering for years: What does The Institute actually do and is it really necessary?
It’s a legitimate question because the research facility has largely been funded on the public dime and, as a nonprofit organization, pays no taxes. Yet it has competed for research grants against universities and for contracts against private firms, subjecting it to criticism from academia and engineers alike.
It has tried to carve out a space that is part academic, part government, part private sector, and as the Meselhe incident suggests, it’s not clear it really knows what it wants to be. It’s certain many in the broader community have no idea.
Read the rest of the latest Business Report cover story, which looks at The Institute’s muddled identity in the Baton Rouge community.
