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Interviewer: “It’s the Icarus story—someone who flies too close to the sun.”
Jeffrey Epstein: “Did Icarus like massages?”
—New York City, 2007
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Late one afternoon, while taking a leisurely stroll on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Tim Malloy, a friend of mine and a collaborator on this book, nearly ran into a trim, silver-haired neighbor of ours from Palm Beach.
The man was walking down Madison Avenue, and several things about him were striking. For one thing, he was wearing slippers. Expensive, embroidered, monogrammed slippers. But slippers all the same.
For another, he was accompanied by two attractive women. Even in Manhattan, an island that attracts beautiful women from all over the world, these women stood out.
As the man half shuffled, half walked down the avenue, the women walked slightly behind him, as if they were attendants or staff.
Tim followed, keeping a respectable distance, as the threesome made a right onto 71st Street and headed toward an enormous town house—a house that was almost a fortress—right in the middle of the block. The imposing residence had a stone facade and a fifteen-foot-high front door that wouldn’t have looked out of place protecting a castle. And, like our neighbor’s slippers, the house had a monogram: raised brass letters that spelled out JE.
The house and, quite possibly, the two women belonged to Jeffrey Epstein, a rich and powerful man who was also a registered sex offender with a strong taste for underage women.
Not just sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. But younger girls as well.
Epstein was alleged to have abused dozens of young women, or, more accurately, girls. He’d settled potential lawsuits with some of them. He’d done a bit of prison time for his crimes. A bit of time. And now here he was, out in the world again.
Accompanied by two beautiful young women.
I had been hearing hair-raising stories about Jeffrey Epstein for a couple of years. Our interests could not have been more different, but Palm Beach, where we both live, is small and tightly knit, and we knew some of the same people.
Epstein’s arrest had made headlines in papers all over the world. But in Palm Beach, it caused a scandal that continues to set off aftershocks and leave a bad smell.
So I had followed Epstein’s case in the media and talked about it over dinners with friends. I wondered why it had taken so long for the Palm Beach police to catch up with Epstein. And, once they did, why he had served so little jail time.
Those were the obvious questions, but there were others: How had Epstein made his money, possibly billions? No one seemed to know. And while the news media had some details about the underage girls, reporters seemed only to know what had happened at the moment of his arrest.
Epstein definitely liked his massages. He got them from two, even three, young women a day, right in his mansion on the island. He’d been operating on an almost industrial scale. But who were these girls? Where had they come from? How did they find their way to his home on a secluded street in Palm Beach?
Epstein had powerful friends. He’d flown Bill Clinton around in his private jet and rubbed shoulders with heads of state, Nobel Prize winners, any number of billionaires. Prince Andrew, the man sixth in line to the British throne, had been a close friend.
Were any of these connections the reason that Epstein was now a free man?
I wanted to know. After all, our homes were a half mile apart, and Epstein’s actions had had an undeniable impact on the town where I lived. Stirred by that sighting of Epstein up in New York, Tim Malloy and I began to investigate.
We partnered with John Connolly, a tough, no-nonsense journalist who had once been a cop with the NYPD and had been following the Epstein story for close to ten years.
Working together, we interviewed Epstein’s friends, going all the way back to his childhood; we met with Epstein’s acquaintances, employees, neighbors, and business associates, and finally with the families of his victims. We interviewed law enforcement officers who’d worked on the investigation in Palm Beach and lawyers on all sides of the resulting court cases, some of which are still working their way through the court system.
Combining our interview material with evidence obtained from court filings and other investigations, such as the one conducted by Connolly’s Vanity Fair colleague Vicky Ward, we began to put the pieces together.
In a few instances, we have re-created brief scenes and snatches of dialogue. These are based on interviews, police investigation documents, and court filings. We changed the names and identities of the girls, hoping to protect them from more embarrassment and harm.
There never was any doubt that Jeffrey Epstein was guilty. He admitted as much in the non-prosecution agreement he agreed to sign in 2007. The question is, what exactly was he guilty of?
This book attempts to answer that question and many others about this strange and mysterious man. These days people all around the world are angry about and suspicious of the super rich and powerful. The story of Jeffrey Epstein is an object lesson about why we ought to be. To put it simply, some people think they can operate outside the law. And that’s what they do.
—James Patterson, Palm Beach, February 20, 2016
PART I
The Crime
CHAPTER 1
Mary: February 2005
It’s a typically slow South Florida Sunday, and Mary’s staring into the mirror, trying to wipe the morning cobwebs away from her dark, sleepy eyes.
She’s a pretty girl, tiny—just five feet three inches tall—but tanned and athletic, with curly black henna-streaked hair.* Her bedroom’s a playland of pinks and pastels, stuffed animals, and boy-band posters. But Mary’s a teenager now. Fourteen years old. She even has a boyfriend. He’s cute and popular. Joe† is the heartthrob of her school, and Mary’s feelings for him are new to her, powerful, hard to untangle. She’s thinking of Joe as she presses the Play button on her iPod.
The MP3 player’s on shuffle. There’s no telling what song will come up, and Mary’s head drops dramatically in anticipation. Then a loud, sexy throb spills out of the earbuds: Britney Spears. The bass line takes over, and she starts to dance, moving her hips as she lip-synchs the lyrics:
With a taste of a poison paradise…
Mary’s swept away by the song. She’s twirling around and around, flinging her arms out to grab the clothes hanging up in her closet—it’s like embracing ten thousand fans! Then she stops and pulls out the earbuds. Suddenly she’s become fourteen again. Just a girl, jittery, nervous.
What she’s thinking about now is what she will wear to the big fancy house.
Mary desperately wants to make an impression. This will be her first trip to the house. She does not want to look like a child on this outing.
She picks out a pair of skinny white jeans, puts on a freshly washed halter top that leaves her flat stomach bare. The cross that Joe gave her last Christmas han
gs from her neck.
Think of the money, she thinks.
For Mary, it’s incredible money. Several weeks’ wages at Mickey D’s. And just for giving some old man a massage? She twists the earbuds back in, dives into the closet, sings along with Britney Spears:
Don’t you know that you’re toxic?
The tight white jeans fit Mary perfectly. She turns to check herself out in the mirror, cropping the scene with her fingers to block out the Barbies behind her. Over on the Gold Coast, girls in big, high-ceilinged bedrooms have American Girl dolls. Dolls with natural smiles, perfectly vacant moon faces. American Girl dolls are beautiful. They’re expensive. But you have to have one if Mom and Dad are willing to pay. Over on the Coast, most mothers and fathers are. But out in the sticks, where Mary lives, you get Barbies—passed down from mother to daughter, from sister to sister. They’re rail-thin, missile-breasted. There’s a touch of knowingness to the curl of their otherwise innocent mouths. American Girl dolls are girlie, but Barbie’s like Britney Spears. Barbie’s dangling her long legs over the line that separates girls from women.
Be like Barbie, Mary thinks.
She can’t be nervous. Not now. Not today.
What she tells herself, over and over again, is: It’s not that big a deal.
But, of course, it is a big deal. Before long, Mary’s visit to the big fancy house will become part of a months-long Palm Beach police investigation—an affidavit for probable cause, filed by the Palm Beach PD—and, finally, the arrest and conviction of the home’s owner, Jeffrey Epstein.
CHAPTER 2
Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005
Jeffrey’s morning routine is precise and unvarying. First he spends twenty-five minutes in silence, visualizing the day ahead as he digests the guava, banana, and Müeslix that his chef prepares for him—the same way every day—at six in the morning. Then Jeffrey walks a third of a mile up to South County Road, pausing once in a while to take deep, restorative breaths.
It’s a slight slope that leads toward the ocean. Jeffrey’s home on the Intracoastal Waterway is behind him now. The morning’s not windy. The Atlantic is calm and glittery, and fishing trawlers bob gently on distant waves.
Jeffrey’s partial to monogrammed sweatpants, monogrammed fleece pullovers, and hoodies. Casual attire offset by embroidered Stubbs & Wootton slippers—the kind that sell for hundreds of dollars a pair. His hair, which is thick, has turned silver. But Jeffrey Epstein does not have a paunch. For a fifty-two-year-old man, he’s extremely fit. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, brown eyes, a strong jawline.
He’s never been a drinker. He doesn’t smoke or take drugs, and he takes care good care of his body as well as his mind.
It’s a magnificent mind. His gift is for numbers: complex calculations, abstract formulas. Even as a child, Jeffrey could untangle math problems that would stump most smart adults. Numbers just fall into place for him, forming in ranks he can bend, twist, manipulate—and multiply. He could have been a scientist or a mathematician. As a young man, he taught calculus and physics. Then he became an investor—a very rich man. Then he became a philanthropist, like Bill Gates. His love for science has inspired him to give millions to academics and institutions committed to studying mysteries of the brain and the arcana of physics. He’s given millions to Harvard. And he’s given money to politicians: Governor Eliot Spitzer, of New York, and Governor Bill Richardson, of New Mexico, where Epstein owns the largest home in the state.
Epstein’s flown Bill Clinton to Africa on a private jet—not the Gulfstream he owns but his Boeing 727, customized with its own trading floor—so that the former president could promote his various and worthy causes.
Just for fun, Chris Tucker, the comedian, and Clinton’s pal Kevin Spacey had tagged along for the ride.
“Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of twenty-first-century science,” Clinton would say through a spokesperson. “I especially appreciated his insights and generosity during the recent trip to Africa to work on democratization, empowering the poor, citizen service, and combating HIV/AIDS.”
But is Jeffrey thinking about that trip now?
His first guest is due that morning at nine, and that leaves him enough time for a shower, a lunch, and a few phone calls before the second girl arrives.
Sarah has scheduled that girl for one.
For Jeffrey, it’s just part of the daily routine.
But on this day, there’s a delicious twist.
One of the girls is a first-timer.
CHAPTER 3
Mary: February 2005
Downstairs, the doorbell is ringing. Mary’s father shouts, gruffly:
“Ella está aquí. Su amiga con el camión.”
“She’s here. Your friend with the truck.”
Mary runs down the stairs. It’s game day, and Dad’s already got the TV on. Her stepmom’s out running errands. Mary’s twin sister has gone out, too, Rollerblading with a few of her friends.
“Going shopping,” she yells, and she pops a piece of Dubble Bubble into her mouth.
“¿Dice quién?”
“Says who?”
Mary’s already halfway out the door. Her father calls out again, but on Sundays there’s no getting him out of his chair. Besides, Mary knows he’ll be happy when he sees the money she’s made. Real money, like Joe’s cousin Wendy Dobbs, is making.* And it’s not like she’s running off to do something crazy. After all, Wendy’s assured her already that there’s nothing to worry about.
Mary’s father is Cuban—an immigrant—a self-made man who runs a contracting business. He’s wise to the ways of the world and highly protective of his two daughters. They’re good girls, he knows. Almost angels. As far as he knows, they don’t drink. They’ve never tried drugs. They love clothes and, especially, music—Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Maroon 5, the boy band with that dreamy lead singer. Mary loves California, which she’s never seen but daydreams about. She just knows she’ll live there someday—a plan that’s okay with her father as long as Mary keeps up with her homework and chores.
What he worries about, in the meantime, is the crowd that Mary runs with.
Joe is a fine boy. More responsible than most American boys his age. But Joe’s cousin, Wendy, is another story. Mary’s father doesn’t like Wendy at all and would have liked her even less had he known about Wendy’s intentions.
In just one hour, Wendy’s told Mary, she can make more money than her father makes in a day: “This guy in Palm Beach. He’s rich. Very rich. He has an airplane. He owns an island, you know?”
Like a lot of kids who live inland, away from the Florida coast, Mary’s dreams reach way beyond the dull, scrubby flatlands and strip malls she’s grown up around. There’s so much that she wants to do and see. But for her the Gold Coast, twenty miles away, might as well be another country.
“Yes,” she had said, without even thinking about it.
Then there was Joe to contend with.
“Who is this guy?” Joe had said, shaking his head. “You don’t know a thing about him.”
“Hundreds of dollars,” Mary had whispered. She couldn’t quite look at Joe, but she was firm: “I can make that in one hour.”
Joe seemed to think they were actually talking about it. A conversation—some back-and-forth. But the thought of not going hadn’t even crossed Mary’s mind. If anything, she hoped that it would become a regular thing.
“To rub his feet? Are you kidding? If you’re not worried about it, why haven’t you told your dad?”
“It’s your cousin, Joe! Some girls go three times a week.”
“The guy’s feet must be killing him.”
“Shut up!”
“Tell your father.”
“You know how Dad is. You don’t tell your parents everything.”
“I’m not going to some freak’s mansion to rub his feet.”
“That’s right. I am.�
��
“And if I told your father? Or mine?”
“You’d never see me again.”
Mary felt bad as she said it. She felt bad for lying.
She knew that it would be more than a foot rub.
Wendy had told her that much, at least.
CHAPTER 4
Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005
John Kluge, the media magnate, has bought up several lots around here, torn down the mansions, and built a grand, sprawling estate. But Epstein’s neighbors have blocked his own efforts to buy more land and increase his holdings.
Epstein’s address in Palm Beach is 358 El Brillo Way. Built in the fifties by a totally run-of-the-mill architect, the house has none of the elegance of his neighbors’ homes. It’s big, with a big swimming pool—that’s the most you can say for it. It’s totally bland. But it’s the last house on a dead-end block, the last block of the street, and this makes it very secluded.
Tonight, one of Epstein’s black Escalades will whisk him away, taking him to the private terminal at Palm Beach International Airport. Then a short flight down to Little Saint James—or, as he likes to call it, Little Saint Jeff’s—the seventy-eight-acre island he owns in the Virgin Islands. But for the moment, there are still things to attend to in Florida. Business and pleasure—although, in Epstein’s experience, the two have always fit together nicely.
He strolls through the gate, past the guard, up to the side door that leads to the kitchen. Inside, he ignores the maid doing dishes and climbs a wide, winding staircase to the second floor. He walks down a hallway, one that’s lined with photographs of naked women. Then, in his bedroom, he opens a closet. Inside, there are many more photographs. Erotic photos, tacked to the wall, of girls who have come to the house.
Familiar faces, familiar bodies. That’s what makes the first-timers so special.
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