Jeffrey Epstein was born in Brooklyn to working class parents. So was I. And if you believe the official story—that he hanged himself—I’d like to sell you a very nice bridge from our home town.
Epstein dropped out of college in 1974 but was hired to teach physics and math at Dalton, an exclusive private school. Two years later, he was dismissed, but by then he’d developed a relationship with Alan Greenberg, CEO of Bear Sterns and father of a Dalton student. Greenberg hired him. In 1981, he was asked to leave Bear Sterns for “policy violations.”
Next he started his own consulting firm, where he continued to cultivate the very wealthy. By the time of his death he owned properties all over the world and had at least one phony passport. He had lots of friends in high places: Bill Clinton, Donald Trump, Prince Andrew, real estate investor and Trump friend Tom Barrack, Saudi prince Mohammad bin Salman, former Democratic Senate leader George Mitchell, and others. Apparently many of them accompanied him on his jet, the “Lolita Express,” to his private island where they enjoyed (molested) young girls.
In 2008 he was sentenced to prison for procuring underage girls for prostitution. He was allowed to spend nights in a private room of the county jail, and during the day, his own driver took him to work and other appointments.
In 2018 he bragged to a NY Times journalist about the dirt he had on powerful people. On July 6, 2019, he was arrested again on charges related to federal sex trafficking, and put in a cell with a former cop who’d been charged with quadruple murder. On July 23 he was found with unconscious with injuries to his neck. The story was that he had attempted suicide. He was given a new cellmate and put on suicide watch. Six days later he was taken off suicide watch. The new cellmate was removed, and the guards who were supposed to check on him failed to do so for three hours.
During those three hours, he purportedly hanged himself by the following method: He tied a sheet, one end to the upper bunk and the other around his neck, knelt on the floor, and threw himself against the noose so forcefully that he broke several bones in his neck. Most of the media is reporting this with a straight face. Forensic pathologist Dr. Cyril Wecht, former head of the American College of Legal Medicine, states that hanging by leaning forward would not result in broken cervical bones. I would guess that Epstein’s buddies in high places are resting easier now.
So do you want to buy that bridge?
Sigh. Men in power have been getting away with rape, pedophilia, and murder for millennia. Here’s a scene from my latest book, A Meteor Shower:
Shortly after the barley harvest, one of the bath house attendants dragged her nine-year-old daughter into the clinic. At first glance she didn’t seem particularly ill: her complexion was neither flushed nor pale nor spotted with measles. She seemed miserable enough, keeping her shoulders hunched and her chin to her chest.
“What’s your name?” Tamar asked.
The girl turned her face away.
“Qetsiyah,” the mother said.
“All right, Qetsiyah, may I look at your eyes?”
The girl glanced up for a second and then back at the floor. Her eyes were clear but the skin around them was red and puffy, as though she’d been crying.
“What’s the matter?” Tamar asked.
“It wasn’t her fault,” the mother said. She lifted the girl’s dress up to display dark bruises on her thighs. “I was in the bath house, scrubbing a lady’s back. The laundress was carrying a basket of towels downstairs. She heard a scream from one of the storerooms and ran to help. They were in there—he was on top of my daughter. She pleaded with him to stop but the other two—his friends—they grabbed her and, and, and they held her down until he was through, and—” She bit her knuckle but the tears streamed down anyway. “Is there anything you can do, any medicine that will fix her? Qetsiyah’s father is out of town but when he finds out—”
“Who did it?” Tamar asked.
The woman looked terrified.
“Look, the law says he’s got to marry her,” Tamar continued, “and pay the full bride price. That’s fifty silver shekels. He can’t divorce her, ever. Even if her father won’t let the scoundrel have her—and I certainly hope that’s the case—the man still has to pay.”
“He’ll kill us!” the woman wailed.
“Let me talk to her alone.” Tamar ushered the girl into a private room. “Listen, Qetsiyah, I’m not going to touch you without your permission. No matter what you say, I won’t tell anyone, not even your mother, unless you say I can. Do you know the physician’s oath?”
An almost imperceptible shake of the head.
Tamar recited it, and then explained, “If I tell any of my patients’ secrets, the goddess ‘Anat will strike me dead.”
A spark of curiosity in Qetsiyah’s eyes. “Really really?” she whispered.
“Really really. So is there anything you want to tell me?”
Tamar changed the subject. After perhaps half an hour of conversation she let Tamar examine her. The bruising was worse even farther up. As expected, the man had taken her virginity. He’d also torn into her anus.
“Who did this?”
The girl hung her head again.
“Why don’t you whisper it in my ear?”
Qetsiyah’s whisper was so soft Tamar made her repeat the name. “Ahaziah. The king.”
I’ll be reading from the book on September 8, 2-4 pm, at Two Rivers Bookstore, 8836 N. Lombard St., Portland OR. If you’re not in the Portland area, you can buy my books on line at www.ebisupublications.com.