Filthy Rich:

2016·18.22 MB·english

by  Patterson

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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
I
t’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 hangs 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.