I learned a lot about Marie Villafaña that day. She was the first person in her family to go to college. She had decided when she got her first job at the U.S. Attorney’s Office that she was going to work in public service forever, either as a U.S. attorney or a federal judge. She was loyal to the office, and that loyalty prevented her, despite how upset she was, from telling me all what she wanted to tell me.
Her main message that day was that she understood what Courtney had been through and appreciated why she was upset. Marie made no excuses and did not try to dissuade me from pushing forward on behalf of the victims.
Marie was concerned about how the closing of the case would make her look, but not more concerned than she was for the victims, many of whom she knew had been deeply harmed. She and I talked for more than an hour. By the time she left, I felt in my gut that if she had it her way, she would have prosecuted Epstein and his co-conspirators. She did not cave in to the NPA because she was weak, but it seemed that her loyalty to her superiors left her without a choice. Listening to her, I got the distinct impression that she would be loyal to her office even to her personal detriment.
On August 21, 2008, the court ordered that the victims could see the NPA, as long as they signed an agreement not to disseminate it publicly. It sounds as ridiculous now as it did then. The victims whose rights had been extinguished through this document were now required to keep it confidential.
The agreement was a seven-page document signed by Jeffrey Epstein, several of his lawyers, and Marie Villafaña on behalf of U.S. Attorney Alexander Acosta. On September 24, 2007—nine months before Epstein’s plea deal—this document had been signed, sealed, and finalized. While the agreement was relatively complicated, it could be broken down into simple parts.
First, Jeffrey Epstein and four named co-conspirators—Lesley Groff, Sarah Kellen, Adriana Ross (an alias for Adriana Mucinska), and Nadia Marcinkova—were granted federal immunity for all crimes they had committed between 2001 and 2007 in the Southern District of Florida (which runs from Fort Pierce to Key West, and includes Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami). As if that weren’t strange enough, apparently the government and Epstein wanted to ensure that none of his pilots, butlers, assistants, attorneys, or other friends who may have been involved in his crimes were punished, either. To that end, a catchall phrase had been thrown in immunizing any “known or unknown co-conspirators” as well. For Epstein’s part, all he had to do was plead guilty to the charges in state court that effectively labeled his victims as prostitutes, endure what would be a cakewalk sentence, and go back to life as usual.
It was a win on many levels for Jeffrey Epstein. His lawyers basically got to characterize him as a wealthy philanthropist who unknowingly had underage girls at his home—the poor guy was just trying to get a massage and he had no idea that these girls were minors. These were just regular “prostitutes” who had taken advantage of him.
There was one problem, though—surely some of these minors who were sexually abused by Epstein would file civil lawsuits against him, which could expose the criminal enterprise and risked exposing the existence of the NPA as well. The government and Epstein tried to head this problem off by adding a provision to the NPA where each of the victims would be provided a lawyer to settle all civil lawsuits for a set minimal amount of money. This was bizarre, as the government never involves itself in civil lawsuits. That is just not the function of the government.
Yet, for Jeffrey Epstein, they made an exception and decided to help him resolve his criminal exposure and any related civil claims all at once. If everything had worked as designed in the NPA, the criminal case would have gone away forever at that state court hearing on June 30, 2008, and all potential civil lawsuits against Epstein would have been wrapped up immediately thereafter for a nominal amount of money. Most important, nobody would ever even know about the existence of the NPA.
Unfortunately for Epstein and the U.S. attorney, by filing the emergency petition to enforce Courtney’s rights and obtaining a copy of the NPA, Epstein and the government’s secret agreement began to be exposed. And the plan started to slowly unravel.
EIGHT A LIGHT SENTENCE
IN THE MEANTIME, EPSTEIN WAS beginning to serve his mandated eighteen-month sentence as handed down by Judge Pucillo for the two state felonies to which he had pleaded guilty. But Epstein’s sentence didn’t look much like that of a typical convict. A review of the inmate Visitor Information sheets for Epstein revealed that he was almost never alone. He was visited every day by a number of people, including regulars Jean-Luc Brunel, Nadia Marcinkova, and Sarah Kellen. He also had steady visits from lawyers and businessmen with whom he had close ties. One such guest was Arnold Prosperi, a convicted fraudster whose sentence had been commuted by one of Epstein’s other friends—former president Bill Clinton.
Three months into his “jail” sentence, Jeffrey Epstein was approved for work release. This is a special benefit conferred on those inmates who are particularly well behaved and have earned the opportunity to work and be contributing members of society. Like the term implies, work release is supposed to consist of release from jail during the day for the inmate to go to a job, where he is constantly supervised. Epstein was a recently registered sex offender who spent so much time with his jail visitors that it was difficult to say whether he had earned the chance to be placed on work release. Then there was the fact that he didn’t really work, even before being sentenced.
Yet Epstein had set up an office on Australian Avenue in Palm Beach, adjacent to his lawyer Jack Goldberger’s office. Epstein registered his office with the state of Florida as a business known as the Florida Science Foundation, which was incorporated in Florida on November 1, 2007, shortly after Epstein had signed the NPA. The formalities ended there.
The Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office was paid more than $100,000 by Epstein for deputies to drive him to “work” and guard him while there. It was later discovered that sometimes those deputies made unauthorized detours to Epstein’s house so that Jeffrey could make sure his mansion was functioning properly.
On a typical day, Epstein would walk into the Florida Science Foundation, a do-nothing company; talk on the phone to his various employees working at his numerous mansions around the world; send emails to his former and current girls, including victims of his sex-trafficking operation; and continue to arrange for women to be flown to him for sexual purposes. He even had a new email at the time—[email protected]. It was pretty apropos considering his jail time was by most standards a vacation.
At the end of the day, deputies would drive him back to jail for the night. Jail barely changed Jeffrey Epstein’s daily routine.
During evenings in the jail, Epstein was not referred to as an inmate like everyone else. Instead, he was discussed in reports as a “client,” and because he was, according to internal sheriff’s office memos, “poorly versed in jail routine,” the sheriff authorized that “his cell door be left unlocked and he be given liberal access to the attorney room where a TV will be installed.”
Things got even better for him in July 2009, when his eighteen-month sentence was cut short by five months for “good behavior,” and he was released to begin a year of “community control,” or “house arrest.” As you can imagine, he took great liberty with this variety of confinement as well. There was a constant influx of new women flying from all over to stay with him. When that wasn’t enough, Epstein would just leave the house. Of course, that is inconsistent with the concept of house arrest, but if nobody was going to enforce it, did it really exist?
I was hearing all kinds of stories about his “house arrest.” There was the time the Palm Beach police spotted him strolling the beach with no explanation other than confusion over what the parameters of this stage of his punishment meant. On another occasion, Palm Beach detectives stopped him miles away from his house and he explained that he was walking to work. Despite the fact that he was not in an area between his home and the office
, the police officers were told by Epstein’s probation officer to just give him a warning. Other times, the probation officer would show up and be told that Jeffrey was in another area of the house and the officer would take note and leave so as not to bother Epstein. On several occasions, Epstein left the state altogether. He was still thumbing his nose at the system, and I knew it. I was already determined to hold him accountable for his crimes, but as he continued to pompously exhibit his entitlement to live above the law, bringing him down became more of a personal challenge.
NINE LET’S FIGHT
FROM AS FAR BACK AS I can remember, the world was only about competition. It wasn’t just sports: I wanted to compete in everything, from school, to grades, to who could get to the front of the lunch line first. As important to me as the competition itself was the idea that the game was fair. I despised cheaters, bullies, or those who cut corners to get an advantage. While I never cheated to retaliate, my dislike of those who didn’t play fair got me into more than my share of fistfights.
When I was really young, competing in sports like football, soccer, and basketball was my life. As I started getting older, the kids got bigger, and the competition became fierce. I didn’t take losing well. My dad would tell me, “You don’t have to like losing, but you have to learn how to lose.” Those words were meaningless to me at the time. Losing hurt me to my core. When I lost, I would turn my focus onto the person or team that beat me. I would obsess over how I was going to get them back next time. I would single out one human being and tell myself that no matter what, he was never going to beat me again. Revenge, or at least avenging or erasing the loss, became an obsession.
My lifelong competitive nature was fueled by my dad. Dad knew how much I loved to win, which made him love coaching me and my younger twin brothers, Travis and David. I can still hear him telling me to “quit loafing” from the soccer sidelines, even though I was actually going full speed all the time. He would always push me harder, no matter what. My dad wanted me to maximize whatever talent I had, and help me realize I could always improve. He wasn’t the only one pushing me. My mother’s father, whom I called Papa, knew that I would outwork and outlast anyone. That was my real strength. Dad and Papa had their own ways of conveying their wisdom to drive me well past the point where most kids my age would succumb to the feeling of exhaustion. Just before I walked on the field or court, Dad would always say, “Kick ass and take names, and don’t forget, the bigger they are, the harder they fall,” his way of telling me there was no excuse for losing.
Predictably, Papa, a true realist who knew my weapon was my will to never give up, would follow Dad’s words with “It’s never over till the fat lady sings.” Everybody loves a good comeback, and my athletic career was full of them. Of course, I never planned it that way, but anyone who says they don’t get pleasure out of wearing a stronger opponent down mentally and physically is lying. Plus, every great battle has observable momentum shifts, and every great fighter can time his strategic attack to shift the momentum in the right direction at the end.
The earliest memories I have of Papa are from going to his house at four or five years old. Every time I went to see him and Granny, I would jump out of the car, run into the house, and leap over to his La-Z-Boy recliner, which was only five feet away from the door. My goal was to catch him off guard before jumping on his lap and saying, “Let’s fight.” I would try to fight him. He would tickle me until I laughed so hard it made me cry. He would always stick his finger into the space below my collarbone and pretend like it was stuck. It hurt so bad, but not bad enough to distract me from my own laughter. He would make me say, “Mercy,” and promise to stop before he would remove his “stuck” finger. I would usually stop for about a second before attacking him again. I loved fighting Papa, and competing against him, and actually, any second I spent with him. I would give anything for one more fight in his lap in that La-Z-Boy.
As I got older, when we weren’t playing, we were usually talking about sports. I vividly remember a talk I had with Papa on the way back from a tennis tournament. That talk shaped my life. I had lost to a faster, bigger, stronger player. Out of frustration, I complained that I wasn’t tall enough, giving that as my excuse for losing. He told me something that I still tell my kids to this day: “You can’t worry about the things you can’t control. You are not always going to be the tallest, or the fastest, or the strongest, but you can always be the toughest and you can try the hardest. If you are tough enough and you try hard enough, you can overcome all of those other things. Every time you do anything, put yourself on the line and give it everything you have.”
These words can be applied to nearly all life situations. When Papa first said them, he was talking about sports, but later he repeated them when talking about school and work. Nobody likes excuses or explanations for failure. Wasting energy on things out of my control was unacceptable. And the ultimate excuse, “I didn’t try”—a cop-out many athletes mutter after a loss—is the most inexcusable. That’s what he meant by putting yourself on the line—even if you lose, you still tried your hardest from beginning to end and the other guy was just better. No doubt strict adherence to these principles made me forever tougher.
* * *
When I went to college, I believed that I was going to be a professional athlete of some sort. I played on the University of Florida tennis team, but I also badly wanted to play football. So much so that I went to the football team meeting, where it became clear the Florida Gators had probably ten quarterbacks who were all better than me. Call me hardheaded or maybe even delusional, but that didn’t stop me. I went to walk-on tryouts anyway and I made sure that I beat every single guy running the stadium stairs. I think that was the only drill I won. At five foot ten and 149 pounds, all I could do was show them that I was fast and hardworking and enjoy my two-day University of Florida football career to the fullest. It goes without saying that I didn’t make the team.
* * *
It wasn’t until my second year on the UF tennis team that I realized becoming a professional tennis player was about as realistic as playing on the UF football team. Wasn’t going to happen. So now what?
My mom, who, after Papa, was probably the biggest influence in my life, worked as a paralegal for Jay Howell in Jacksonville. I had told Mom from the time that I was very young that if I wasn’t going to be a professional athlete, I would be a lawyer, and because Mom worked for Jay, I thought representing children and crime victims was what it meant to be a lawyer.
You get to compete every day in law, so if I couldn’t be on a field or on a court, then this was the best way to spend my life. From that day forward, I only saw myself in a courtroom. This also seemed like the profession where I could play a role in evening the playing field, where true fairness could be achieved, equally for everyone.
TEN THE FUN BEGINS
IN AUGUST 2008, WHILE EPSTEIN was still in “jail,” my clients exercised their right to reject the civil settlement structure proposed by the NPA, which allowed me to file separate civil lawsuits against him on behalf of Courtney, Lynn, and Marissa. From the very beginning of the civil cases, Epstein’s lawyers fought us on everything.
Epstein was represented by Marty Weinberg, Roy Black, Guy Lewis, Michael Tien, Lilly Ann Sanchez, Jack Goldberger, Ken Starr, Jay Lefkowitz, Gerald Lefcourt, Alan Dershowitz, and locally by Bob Critton. This was a multimillion-dollar dream team of lawyers whose main defense strategy was to paper the cases to death. His lawyers filed objections to everything. They filed motions on every issue, and on every nonissue. I was quickly drowning in paperwork.
There came a point when Epstein’s growing team of attorneys was forcing me to go to court in Palm Beach, an hour from my office, multiple times a week. The other days of the week, I was up there meeting with my clients, who were being followed by private investigators and called by old friends, acquaintances, teachers, and neighbors who had been interrogated by Epstein’s investigators. His full-court press was t
aking a toll.
Courtney was working at a bagel shop when Epstein’s investigators came in and demanded that she speak with them. They told her flat out that she should not prosecute any civil case against him. Needless to say, that left Courtney scared. Another time, she was stopped at the gas station by one of Epstein’s people and boxed in while vague threats were made toward her about what would happen if she continued to pursue her civil claims against him. The best goons money could buy were out in force doing Epstein’s bidding.
Paul Cassell and I were fighting against some of the highest-paid lawyers in the country. Paul didn’t have any staff and I only had one paralegal and a law clerk. As for the lawyers on Epstein’s payroll, they were supported by large law firms employing hundreds of other staff members and associates.
Regardless, we worked long hours to hold our own. Unfortunately, my non-Epstein cases were falling behind. Far behind. The Epstein cases were consuming so much time that it was impossible to do other work. I considered my options, of course. Some fine firms in town had tried to recruit me over the years, and if ever there was a time for that, it was now. But I wanted to do it on my own terms.
* * *
By the time I’d opened my own office in 2007, I had a wife, a one-year-old son, no income, and bills that didn’t put themselves on hold while I tried to establish a law practice. Those days were rewarding, though. Cases would come in through friends at the police department, the state attorney’s office, and social workers who were in touch with victims who had been shot, stabbed, or, in some cases, sexually assaulted. I represented these clients primarily against corporate entities who failed to implement appropriate levels of security, thereby providing opportunity for criminals to hurt my clients.
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