Maxwell Trial Recap pt.1
Collected notes from inside the Ghislaine Maxwell trial
I’m laying in a sun baked corner of an otherwise cold house on a Friday afternoon scrolling through Twitter when I catch a glimpse of the first scenes of the Ghisaline Maxwell trial unfolding online. The videos come from a bearded man with a microphone spouting rhetoric for his YouTube channel while standing outside the Thurgood Marshall Courthouse. He’s pointing at a bare curbside where one would imagine throngs of reporters would be staked out to cover the world's most prolific sex traficking trial that’s just kicked off in Manhattan.
I walk out to the back deck where the rain has stopped and Mike is waxing a newly glassed surfboard for our middle son. “Can you believe this is the crowd for THIS trial?” I say, forcing my phone in front of the tangerine board he’s circling.
“You know, you should probably just go there?” He says, “Don’t you think?” As if this suggestion is the most perfectly practical solution to ease my current frustration. As if a spontaneous East Coast jaunt, during peak holiday chaos, when a hundred different plans are cramming my calendar, makes all the sense in the world.
Once he says it though it occurs to me that maybe he’s right. Why couldn’t I cover a story I’ve been following and dissecting now for years? Not with the same intentions of a seasoned court journalist but in a way that would take my audience right there along with me, tethered by real time coverage, instead of peeling slivers of information from sparse Twitter posts and soulless big media recaps offering only the bare boned details.
I figured if I went I’d be catering to those who are just as interested in the nuanced details as me.
Two hours later, after mapping the distance from the courthouse to Jess’s house - seeing how conveniently close the two were, I booked my flight. A red eye to get me there on the first day of the second week of trial.
A trial initially expected to last six weeks.
DECEMBER 6th
I arrive exhausted, drop my bags and head straight to the courthouse where I send all my belongings through security, check my phone, and wander aimlessly around the stunning halls of a whitewashed marbled courthouse before being directed to the 5th floor during morning break. One of five “overflow” media rooms dedicated to rouge journalists, independent reporters, podcasters, youtubers, you name it.
One woman with a tattered blue binder is casually ranting about how this whole trial is just one big elaborate set up to publicly crucify Trump. She catches my eye so I smile politely (as much as one can behind a blue face mask) She doesn't smile back.
I introduce myself to the young woman next to me (a law student on vacation from a place I can’t remember) We sit one row behind a guy from the Epoch Times chatting up a reporter from the Enquirer. The young couple to our right introduce themselves as members of “Anon.”
I sit for a minute trying to determine exactly what that means before finally breaking down and asking.
“There is Q - who gives us the puzzles, and Annon, who figures them out.” She tells me.
The explanation doesn’t offer me the clarity I was hoping but I figure I’m familiar enough with the bullet points to carry a conversation. And, I can pivot.
I sit anticipating tales of satanic sacrifice, MK Ultra, bio weaponry, and the unfulfilled promise that Trump was put here to save the world from a seedy underbelly of wealthy pedophiles guised as beloved celebrities and powerful political heads (Which, to their defense, sounds a lot less crazy at the tail end of 2021 sitting courtside at the Maxwell trial. With a little black book at the center of focus, littered with thousands of names of the most powerful people around the world at the core of this whole salacious scandal)
The topic of conversation however, is centered on Maxwell’s submarine license. “Do you know how fucking smart you have to be to operate a submarine?” one guy says. His girlfriend, nodding her head in agreement.
Together, they discuss reports of Ghislaine’s much noted intelligence, leaning into the Israeli spy claims and generational espionage - “rumors” that have long shadowed the Maxwell family name. They also have colorfully constructed theories pertaining to her mysterious underwater excursions. The motives behind her wanting to “own” the high seas. And what about all the alleged tunnels around Epstein’s island estate where the Q and the Annon both believe children were being heavily trafficked through.
“Maritime Law,” The Epoch Times man replies. “Lawless territory. Waters are the Wild West.”
The conversation moves from underwater conspiracies to Epstein’s insatiable sex drive. Because “Who in the world has this much sex?” a women asks. “What is up with these people’s sex drives. What supplements were, these, people, on?”
It’s a question I myself have been pondering too. Mostly wondering, how in the midst of a seemingly non stop routine of sex romps, three time a day “massages,” continual grooming, soliciting, orgies, pool parties, and mid day high school stalkings, these people ever managed time for actual business dealings to keep all the money we keep hearing about, rolling in?
With all the sex wrangling and procuring going on, how was there ever time for work?
The money though has never really added up. Even with all that’s been uncovered up to this point, no one has been able to fully nail the roots of their gross wealth. Some claiming the money was methodically syphoned by the calculated crimes of a young brilliant Epstein, designed to drain mass funds from unsuspecting billionaires - Hoffenberg & Wexler. While others swear the bulk of that early fortune belonged to the late Robert Maxwell. “Dirty Money” Ghislaine inherited from funds overseas and needed to funnel into the states, using Epstein as her main laundering source. The latter, lending itself to the theory that Ghislaine is in fact the real mastermind pulling all the strings, the evil architect behind this entire operation.
Perhaps why contractors who were hired to renovate one of the estates, recall Ghislaine correcting them once when they complemented Epstein’s lavish adobe, allegedly telling them “No, darling, all of this is mine.”
From Epstein’s sex drive we move onto other breaking news of the day - a civil lawsuit filed against Epstein that’s just resurfaced on Twitter, from 2020. Claims that Jay Z attempted to purchase a 5 year old girl with intentions of long term abuse. A horrifying accusation (especially for a long time Jay Z fan) The details of which, punch at my brain. And on this exhausted hour, details my sluggish brain simply refuses to accept. They dive further into the skins of conspiracy, unrolling dark tales of sacrificial rituals inside Bohemian Grove. Where I know peak Qanon has arrived.
When the topic of andrenochrome is raised, someone suggests this is maybe why Ghislaine’s skin is so smooth.
“Or, perhaps just good French genetics?” I say. This loses me instant credibility. Respectively.
Thankfully the conversation takes another twist. This time a topic that doesn’t warrant any brain beating. Or blood spill. The one and only time I’m relieved to hear The Kardashian name break up a dialogue. The brunette girl with the glasses is telling us about Corey Gamble (Kris Jenner’s boyfriend.) That his family roots are a well kept secret for good reason.
“What’s the reason?” I ask, (Until now I haven’t given it much thought, but actually, now that we’re here, who the hell IS Corey Gamble?)
“If you look deep into who his mom and dad are you’ll see that they are the founders of Mary Kay cosmetics” She says, her eyes steadily scanning mine. I make a mental note. I’m not sure what it means but I know it’s the kind of fluff side story I’m absolutely going to google when I’m reconnected with my phone and back in the land of Wifi.
“So Kris Jenner is actually dating her best friend’s son. It’s like, they bred him for her!” The girl exclaims.
This has nothing to do with anything. But I’m mildly intrigued. Until they inform me that he’s not only the secretly adopted son of a prominent cosmetic company - a “bred” boyfriend for his mother’s best friend, but also, a clone.
I feel my brain recoil.
When the break wraps we return our attention to the TV screens mounted around the room where things appear to be taking shape in the courtroom. Ghislaine Maxwell saunters in. Escorted by two young ponytailed paralegals on either side of her. My first impression is that she appears more youthful than the court sketches (the public’s only current image of this woman) suggest. Her features are sharp, her skin taunt. She resembles the younger version of herself we recognize from all the magazines in the 90’s showing a posh, raven haired accessory to Epstein’s denim clad cocky smirk. She is tall and noticeably thinner than in recent photos. Hair cut squarely into a thick, wavy, shoulder length bob, parted heavy on the side. Wearing an olive green cashmere turtleneck, black pants, black mask across her face.
She settles into her chair. Gaze locked straight ahead.
The first witness to take the stand goes by “Kate.” A 44 year old actress and model from the UK. Groomed for Epstein’s predation when she was 17. However, because this is over the age of consent in the jurisdiction, Judge Nathan tells the jury Kate is not to be considered one of Maxwell’s victims. “I Instruct you that this witness is not a victim of the crimes charged of the indictment,” Nathan reminds them.
Prosecutors consider Kate’s testimony relevant to show Maxwell’s modus operandi.
Kate recounts the details of her introduction to Maxwell in Paris. Introduced by her boyfriend, an old college friend of Ghislaine's. Which leads to an invitation to her London house for tea which Kate describes as ‘intimidating.” Because Ghislaine was “so pretty,” so “put together” and “well spoken.”
“I had a really lovely time, I felt special,” Kate tells the court, explaining how she and all the other girls in this twisted family unit fed off of Ghislaine’s attention. How much they looked up to and wanted to be “just like her.”
“She seemed very exciting, like everything I wanted to be” Kate says.
She recalls, on another phone call following the tea date, being asked to fill in for Epstein’s masseuse. Describing how when she arrived she was led into a “dimly lit” room inside the London flat where she was greeted by Epstein naked at the door. A door Maxwell closed behind her.
Ghislaine, when it was over, asking “How did it go? Did you have fun? Was it good?”
“She seemed excited and happy and thanked me again.”
Kate tells the court how Ghislaine would occasionally lay out schoolgirl uniform for her to wear to serve Epstein tea in. And that once she became a regular at the house, Ghislaine asked her if she knew anyone who could come give Jeffery a blow job because it was a “lot for her to do.
“You know what he likes. Cute, young, pretty like you.”
These encounters between Kate and Epstein continued into adulthood. After marriage, until a child came along. A fact the defense zeros in on heavily. Ultimately revealing emails from Kate to Epstein during his short lived jail stint. Promising him photos, ending letters with affectionate sign offs. The character attacks set to undermine her credibility, go deep.
“She led a jet setter lifestyle.” Bobbie Sternheim tells the jury “Before meeting Ghislaine and Epstein, she was in a relationship with a man twice her age, a former Oxford classmate of Ghislaine, a friend of Ghislaine, a prominent older British Gentlemen.”
Sternheim details a public scandal in the UK in 1999, which Kate was involved with. A sting operation set up by a tabloid who paid her 40,000 to ask Tom Parker Bowles (son of Camilla) to buy drugs for her. Which he did, and was “greatly humiliated” in the grand unraveling of it.
When the topic of her drug addiction is brought up, the defense insinuates this could have impacted her memories. A suggestion Kate vehemently rejects.
“The memories I have of significant events in my life have never changed,” Kate says, before she is released from the stand.
I realize that what we’ve just witnessed is the main strategy Maxwell’s whole defense is built on. Character attacks, memory skepticism, doubt in the details.
I predict it to be a grave mistake that first day in the last of my journal entries.
The next morning I’m there dark and early. Determined this time to make it inside the courtroom instead of landing myself in the 5th floor overflow situation again. But I have no idea what to expect. Or how likely my chances are.
To my shock and delight, I make it inside. At 8:45 am I am one of four people from the public claiming a seat on the back row bench. Wedged amongst a small pool of journalists from outlets like NBC, ABC, CNN, The Daily Mail, and The Independent.
The morning erupts with drama. The defense is antsy. Ghislaine, for whatever reason, is jovial. I watch her sneak a few words (in French) with her siblings. Her presence, in person, is weighing. Evident as soon as she enters the room in a way I haven’t experienced from anyone else in my life before. Palpable, almost to the point of being uncomfortable. I can see, based on the apparent intrigue on the faces around me, that everyone else in there feels it too. Her eyes scan the room, hand waves and smiles are directed at Isabel (who sits beside their family friend and devoted attorney, Leah Saffian, and their brother, Kevin)
I watch the display of affection between Ghislaine and her legal team before the judge enters. They come nose to nose during side discussions. Warm, lingering embraces between them are frequent. Ghislaine, occasionally scanning the room behind her with swift side glances.
Once Judge Nathan opens court, Laura Menage is at the microhone fuming. The defense has been made aware that “Jane” (the previous week’s witness)’s brother has been in recent contact with his sister, who they say likely warned him about certain aspects of the trial. And (according to this loose lipped brother) called Menninger, in charge of Jane’s cross examination, a “word that rhymes with front.”
The prosecution tries to dismiss this as a “conversation between two siblings” but the defense isn’t having it. They want repercussions. They want her testimony stripped from the record. And Menninger, by the looks of it, might want an apology.
Once we move past the four letter insults and the quarreling between the two teams, we are directed towards a screen for a slide show detailing the love affair between Jeffery and Ghislaine, photos the FBI seized during their 2005 raid from Epstein’s personal collection. Photographic proof of a long standing devotion to one another throughout the years.
It begins with them in the early days of their relationship, looking as if they had just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad in plaid blazers, headbands and faded blue jeans. Young lovers embraced in matching ski suits in front of a snowy backdrop. Bright smiles on a red motorcycle ride in the country. Kissing on forgein streets lined with rustic adobe buildings. Her cheek pressed against his at a society event clad in kilts and black bowties. Then outstretched on the front of a yacht in the middle of a blue sparkling ocean. His arm pulled tight around her neck at a charity event where she is beaming.
In a handful of images only the jurors are allowed to see we hear descriptions of the couple swimming naked together in a pool.
Then the images start to age before us. A decade long stretch of time passing, evident by varying haircuts and changing styles. Ghislaine, in her signature cropped pixie cut, oversized pearl earrings, and pointed black sunglasses. Jeffery, in sweats, white haired and smirking on the phone while a young girl in the corner in a white tank top watches him.
We see the couple relaxing side by side at the Queen’s log cabin. Aboard his private jet en route to one of his exotic estate getaways. Ghislaine, mid flight, rubbing Jeffrey’s foot, which is pushed into the cleavage that is spilling out of her unbuttoned white blouse. Jean Luc-Brunel, the French modeling scout, sits beside him smiling.
From another angle of the same scene, Ghislaine appears slightly disheveled, staring straight into the camera, an edge of deviance in her eyes. Looking less like the posh media baron’s daughter and more like a starstruck servant for the man who kept this whole lavish lifestyle afloat.
Almost as if, in that single frame, the core nature of their relationship is exposed.
The prosecution calls an FBI agent to the stand to document the origins of Maxwell’s computer. They grill him on the logistics of dissecting a hard drive, leading up to the confirmation of Maxwell’s email account. We see an email from Ghislaine scolding a maintenance worker for leaving the massage room in disarray. Then evidence of a flyer drafted under her account in search of a massage therapist. The lure of “excellent pay” at the end of it.
In an essay written under the same address “GMAX” we see descriptions Ghislaine allegedly used to describe her relationship with Jeffery in a fawning account of the couple, written in third person.
“Jeffrey and Ghislaine have been together, a couple, for the last 11 years. They are, contrary to what many people think, rarely apart — I almost always see them together.
“Maxwell is highly intelligent, speaks five languages and has many hobbies and interests, including photography, flying helicopters, skiing and scuba diving.
“She is “independent and strong willed — something which Jeffrey loves about her.”
“Jeffrey and Ghislaine complement each other very well and I cannot imagine one without the other.
“On top of being great partners, they are the best of friends.”
“That's exactly what you're looking at in these photographs,” Alison Moe tells jurors. “ The relationship that you saw in those photos was the same relationship described in that essay. It’s the same relationship, cheek-to-cheek, arms wrapped around each other.” She says. Driving home a connection and devotion to one another, that lasted well over a decade.
Carolyn, the third victim, identified by her first name only, is next to take the stand.
She paints the picture of a pained childhood in New York. Growing up in broken home with “no rules,” and a mother who neglected her. She talks about being sexually abused by her grandfather as a child. And moving to Palm Beach in ‘99, which sets the tone for a languid preteen existence. Hanging with friends and smoking weed. An education, she says, that ended in 7th grade.
The couple seated next to me are her relatives. They sit on the edge of their seat as she unravels the harrowing memories of life leading up to her introduction to Jeffery Epstein. Where she names Virginia Roberts as her connector. A high school friend who asks one day out of the blue if she’d “like to make some money giving an old guy a massage?”
Carolyn is 14 on that first visit.
She recalls how Virginia first drove her to the lush tree lined street in Palm Beach, to a perfectly manicured mansion in an area that felt like another universe compared to the crumbling suburbs these girls were from.
She describes being greeted by an “older lady with an accent and shoulder length brown hair.” Who was “very friendly” with a name she couldn’t pronounce.
To this day she still refers to Ghislaine as “Maxwell.”
Like Kate, the scene is similar. She is led up a winding staircase to the master bathroom where she recalls a polka dotted couch and photos of naked women lining the table next to bottles of lotion and massage oils.
She remembers Jeffery Epstein was brushing his teeth.
The courtroom is silent as she leads us through all the details of an unraveling nightmare she’s reliving again in front of us. Where a massage table is pulled out, the girls are asked to undress, a timer ticks along tracking the hour, and three hundred dollars lay on the sink for their pay.
The appointment, she says, begins with a massage and ends with Virginia “climbing on top of him” and having sex with Epstein while Carolyn sits on the polka dotted couch and watches them.
When a photo of Epstein is shown to the court she begins to cry softly. Describing how she became a regular after this first appointment, visiting the mansion “at least 100 times.”
Sometimes three to four times a week.
When they ask how many times Ghislaine saw her naked, she anwers “at least thirty.”
Describing, in graphic detail, what was expected from this rotation of teenage girls during these 45 minute appointments. How, when she refused to have intercourse with Epstein he would have sex with another girl while instructing her to engage with a third.
She mentions one incident where Ghislaine came into the room when she was naked, fondling her breasts and hips, telling her she had a “great shape for Jeffery and his friends.”
The details of her teen years are interwoven with these descriptions of abuse. A period plighted by struggles with anxiety, addiction and depression.
She says from fourteen to eighteen she worked for Epstein, with a brief hiatus at sixteen when she took off to Georgia with a boyfriend to try and escape troubles at home, returning one last time at after giving birth to her son, where she realized - when Epstein asked if she had any younger friends - that she was “too old” for him.
During Carolyn’s testimony, I catch Ghislaine’s eyes scan the clock twice within the hour. She nudges her lawyer occasionally to whisper something in his ear. Her reading glasses come on and off, but mostly she’s concentrated on taking notes. Occasionally passing them along to a member of her team.
The defense’s cross examination that follows is painful to watch. Carolyn at this point is starting to crumble. Her attention is frayed, her emotions, running raw. She is angry and not at all interested in hiding it. She’s having a hard time following the questions which often have to be repeated for her. At one point she throws her binder down in front of her, frustrated by the continued rewording of her previous statements.
Without any prompt she breaks off topic abruptly to explain how she lives in a constant state of paranoia because of what she’s been through. Confessing a dependency on prescription pills that help keep her anxiety at bay because she’s terrified that her own daughters will be trafficked, abused, or kidnapped, and suffer the same way she did.
When the issue of her 2007 FBI disposition is raised she starts to visibly shut down. The defense is dead set on exposing discrepancies in her testimonies to highlight numerous inconsistencies. They reiterate how she claimed Epstein penetrated her twice but that she stopped him. And that Ghisaline is the one who made the calls to set up the appointments. But in the 2007 interview she states there was never intercourse of any kind between them. And Ghislaine’s name is not brought up at all in the documents. Detailed statements the defense reads aloud.
“What does any of this have to do with anything?” Carolyn yells.
The focus turns to her filing for the Epstein victim’s fund which awarded her (like all of the victims) over 2 million dollars. And later, $450, 000. The defense noting how the terms in this settlement were “strict” - should she be caught lying about any of the on record statements, the money would be taken back.
“Was that the incentive to tell the truth back then?” the defense ask.
This prompts a breaking point in Carolyn.
“No amount of money will ever make up for what that woman did to me!!!” She yells, breaking onto tears, pointing directly at Ghislaine. Who stares back, unmoved.
The cross examination goes harder.
They press at further discrepancies, paragraph by paragraph, recounting every aspect that linked her to Epstein but did not directly include Ghislaine. When Carolyn (on the brink of breaking) is finally released from the stand, she hurries out in a flood of anger and tears. The couple sitting next to me rush after her.
I watch them leave. Relieved that the pressures of that stand have unclenched her. And us.
The whole room feels deflated when she’s gone.
By the end of my first week at the courthouse I’ve fallen into a vague routine. Where I arrive as early as possible, stand in line with the handful of journalists I’ve befriended and take turns holding spots for one another while we walk to Starbucks to grab coffee, check emails, and defrost our feet in rotating 20 minute intervals. Most mornings it’s so cold our fingers won’t work. Texting in 30 degree temperatures proves impossible.
Inside we eat eggs in the cafeteria together before court begins. Breakfast talk revolves around the trial, and all the stories, and articles, and books and theories attached to it. Vicky Ward, the notorious Vanity Fair journalist who Epstein threatened with a Voodoo curse on her unborn twins, back in 2007, is friendly and engaging from the start. She knows nothing about me or what I do but is open and generous with her insight (Which I appreciate) The anticipated nature of a journalist of her stature is typically competitive and closed off. Vicky is anything but.
She shares tales about her days as a young journalist battling the monumental efforts of Epstein and Ghislaine to control what and how she was reporting about them with scathing threats and legal action. Her inside London scoop is top notch as well. She has some fast opinions on Megan Markle, which of course I eat right up.
The gossip about Ghislaine in her college days is pulled from shared acquaintances. “Good people” with “strong moral compass,” Ward says. People, who still can’t reconcile the fate of their old friend as it sits today.
“This is not the Ghislaine they know" she assures us.
Over second cups of coffee we are indulged with lurid details about the Oxford graduate, “Good time Ghislaine” known for a sharp wit and fierce charm. Described by her former classmates as “incandescent” “the life of the party” and a “fantastic flirt.”
At one point, caught courting Borris Johnson. As his sister, a fellow classmate recalls “I wandered into Balliol JCR one day in search of its subsidized breakfast granola-and-Nescafé offering and found a shiny glamazon with naughty eyes holding court astride a table, her high-heeled boot resting on my brother Boris's thigh.”
Vicky backs up these accounts with her own tales of young men around town, on the London party scene in the late 90’s, bragging about their late night run ins with Ghislaine Maxwell. Explaining how they stayed up till dawn talking about sex with her at house parties after the clubs had closed.
Her intellect, back then, apparently as defining as her sexual proclivity. None of which was viewed as “sordid,” in those days though, she explains. More, the allure of a young woman with a reputation for liberal philosophies in every aspect of life. And “highly adventurous” which her collected kin (made up of Oxfords brightest most promising bunch) greatly admired about her as well.
Back then she was “very much her own woman” Ward explains.
But obviously, New York, and Jeffery Epstein “changed all of that…”
December 10th
At the end of the week, because Isabel Maxwell and her multi colored berets have become a quirky and unexpected focal point in this trial (and my coverage) I decide to wear one myself. If only to add a slice of humor to the day. A camel colored version borrowed from Jess’s accessory drawer.
Mind you, up until this point the Maxwell family had gone out of their way to distance themselves from us during breaks, so I was certainly not expecting the scene in which I walk into an elevator at lunch, wearing a trench coat, amber tinted Rayban sunglasses (the only prescription I have after my reading glasses went missing) and find Isabel there in the corner next to Kevin, the two of us standing face to face in matching berets.
My outfit, I realize, is suddenly ridiculous. I’m standing in front of Ghislaine Maxwell’s sister in a full length trench, sunglasses, and beret - as if to say “Look. Now we’re both spies.”
Part of me is mortified by the moment, part of me, stupidly amused. At the very least I can appreciate the pure absurdity of it.
Though my interest in these seemingly superficial details invite online criticisms. Not everyone loves the fashion footnotes included in my coverage. At the end of the week I read a handful of messages from people who are bothered that I give attention to such trite details. Especially under such grim scenario.
I disagree entirely. The wardrobe selections, I argue, are just as calculated as anything else in the trial. Every aspect of the clothing here is carefully selected to secure a certain desired image. Which, in my opinion, is a point worth examining.
Everything here is part of the spectacle.
Bobbie Sternheim, for example: outfitted in bold, oversized popped collars, black shiny loafers, and printed ascot ties. Her hair tinted purple, thick round glasses on her face. It all sets a tone. She is force to reckon with. Whereas Ghislaine, in a rotation of fitted turtlenecks and black pants, is highlighting her figure without showing an inch of skin. A respectably provocative choice. It could have just as well been button down blouses, or sweaters, but she choose the snug turtlenecks.
Laura Menninger in her tailored black power suits, means business. While Isabel, with the switch of a hat, becomes a French enigma in her colored berets and quilted Patagonia overcoats. All of them become characters in this trial (which feels at times a lot like a poorly produced production of the real trial we’re supposed to be sitting at)
Like Leslie says, “It’s all theater”
The prosecution, it should be noted - a lot less interesting in their styling. Which is why I didn’t focus much on them. Almost like their bleak wardrobe is trying to convince us of how smart they are. Head of the high school debate club, with the promise of Harvard at their flat heeled feet, smart girl image secured.
Later, it’s the topic of Ghislaine’s hair that invites fresh controversy. Jess tells me over wine one night after a long day in court that some people on the internet are accusing me of being a “Ghislaine sympathizer.”
WINE CONVO BETWEEN US:
“Why?”
“I think because you keep talking about how good her hair looks.”
“Well, it looks good. She cut it herself using fingernail clippers in jail. I can’t help if I’m impressed by that.”
“Maybe less emphasis on the hair.”
“You know I like when wealthy women wear a blunt bob like that.”
“I do. But remember, she’s on trial for sex trafficking.”
“Right. But people are also wildly fascinated with deranged serial killers, and mob bosses, and drug lords, all kinds of evil male dictators in history, right? How many times have we been told how handsome Ted Bundy is?”
“Ted Bundy?”
“I’m not going to apologize for being fascinated by a woman who speaks five different languages, can operate a submarine AND a helicopter, was probably manning the world’s biggest ‘honey pot’ operation for overseas intelligence, while simultaneously decorating various properties around the world, blackmailing the highest powers of the elite, and still finding time to show up to every major society party to pleasure George Clooney in a bathroom stall, or pick up Bill Clinton in a private helicopter, before going out to make terrible tattoo decisions like all the rest of us. This woman has lived 100 different lives. I don’t need to be morally aligned with her to find her fascinating. She’s sitting there in front of us everyday holding the biggest secrets to the worlds most powerful men and might very well be casting spells on us at the same time … which feels a little worth mentioning.”
“All I’m saying is maybe just less hair complements.”
“Fine.”
2 minutes later …..
“How do we feel about the gold boot earrings?”
I love this! It's like reading a letter from a glamorous pen pal. So happy you've set up substack, this is the only writing I've ever subscribed for and I adore it💜 Thanks Jessica xx
I started following you on IG and got sucked in immediately and now here we are….I can’t quit you and signed up for the first subscription like this. I can already tell that this is going to be a wild ride and I’m all in. ✌🏻
Love your style woman.