Nobody's Girl — Chapter no 13

THIRTEEN

Life with “Other-Man”

ve said that Epstein seemed to be placing more trust in me. Now heI’ began requiring me to travel more with him alone, without Maxwell or anyone else. On one trip in February 2001, we went to Zorro Ranch, where we saddled up two horses and rode together for hours. I was still his sexual servant, but this trip, in particular, had a familial feeling. I think it was here that Epstein tried to teach me how to drive in a car that had a manual transmission (I say “tried” because my stop-and-go grinding of the clutch scared him to death. He couldn’t wait to get out of the vehicle).

From New Mexico, we flew to Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, where Epstein had meetings. At a seaside hotel, we checked into adjoining rooms, as we almost always did. I didn’t know it then, but I’ve figured it out since: Epstein was in town for the so-called Billionaires’ Dinner hosted by John Brockman to coincide with the annual TED conference in Monterey.

Brockman, whom Slate once called “the literary superagent who seems to represent every scientist who’s ever written a bestselling book,” had become something of a fixer for Epstein, connecting him with scientists who were doing research that Epstein was interested in. Epstein, in turn, donated money to many of those research efforts and to Brockman’s nonprofit, The Edge Group, whose stated goal was (and remains): “to arrive at the edge of the world’s knowledge, seek out the most complex and sophisticated minds, put them in a room together, and have them ask each other the questions they are asking themselves.” Epstein regularly attended Brockman’s Billionaires’ Dinner at TED, hobnobbing with a who’s who of academia, literature, tech, and show business/entertainment.

During the 2001 conference, when Epstein was busy, I wandered around the picturesque European-style village of Carmel-by-the-Sea. The

main street was like something out of a fairy tale, with curved-roof cottages and asymmetrical stone chimneys. As I meandered through the shops, I met a beautiful blond girl with a Southern accent who I guessed was in her late teens. She told me she was on a road trip with her best friend, who was sleeping off a hangover. We smoked a joint together as I weighed whether to ask her to meet Epstein. Finally, I came out with it, describing what Epstein was looking for. Instead of taking offense, the girl said she needed the money. I didn’t think much about the consequences she’d face if she did my bidding; I just asked her to come to our hotel that afternoon and told her which door to knock on. At the appointed time, she slipped into my room, and I ran her a bath and told her to wait in the tub. When Epstein returned, I brought him to my bathroom and revealed my “big surprise.” When he saw the girl, he looked at me with such gratitude that I knew I’d done well. And that was more important to me at that point than any stranger’s feelings.

While I knew what I was doing was wrong, I focused only on meeting Epstein’s needs. For the rest of her life, that girl would have a horrific night to remember, and I am responsible for that.

The next day, Epstein and I continued on to Los Angeles. On this leg of the trip, the cartoonist, animator, and Simpsons creator Matthew Groening [*] hitched a ride with us on Epstein’s jet.I’m not sure how the two had met,

although Groening, too, attended Brockman’s dinners at times. I just recall that Epstein required me to massage Groening’s feet, which were calloused and sweaty and in terrible shape. I did as I was told, as usual, tempering my disgust with the knowledge that I’d now met the genius who’d invented the dysfunctional family—Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa, and Maggie Simpson— that had helped me survive my own family. Before we touched down, Groening kindly drew me two sketches that I asked him to sign for my little brother and my dad. I never had any sexual contact with Groening. But in due time, Epstein would force me to have sex with at least two other people in Brockman’s circle.

In Los Angeles that night, we stayed with a woman Epstein described as a former girlfriend (which I think meant former abuse victim). A tall blond, she lived in an apartment Epstein said he paid for near the beach in

Malibu. Epstein and I went out for breakfast the next day, and he told me another person was going to be joining us: a young woman he’d recruited when she was a teenager. I know this woman’s name, but out of respect for her privacy, I won’t use it here.

She was now in her early twenties and working in California. Epstein implied to me, maybe falsely, that he’d helped her along in her career. So when Epstein was in town, she felt obligated to be available. On this day, Epstein seemed eager to get the two of us alone together. We headed back to Malibu, where he told our host we needed to use her bedroom. Once the three of us were behind closed doors, he directed the scene, with me and this young woman as his costars. He told us how to touch one another and how to touch him, and each of us dutifully played our parts. We were so different—in our looks, in our origin stories—but Epstein had forced us to be the same: submissive, resigned victims of his abuse.

I don’t know how to reconcile this sordid scene with the worldly reputation that Epstein seemed intent on projecting. This was a man who displayed framed photographs of himself with the Dalai Lama, with the pope, and with members of the British royal family. A photo in his Palm Beach house showed Epstein posing behind the podium of the White House briefing room. This was a man who’d had former president Bill Clinton over for dinner (I was at the table that night) and who’d hosted Al and Tipper Gore as well (again, I was there). More than once, I’d been on Little Saint James when Epstein hosted his friend Leslie Wexner, the billionaire founder of L Brands, which owned Victoria’s Secret and Abercrombie & Fitch. (Epstein often told girls, falsely, that he was a Victoria’s Secret “scout.”) Epstein had managed some of Wexner’s money at one time, and Wexner was the previous owner of Epstein’s lavish Manhattan home, which by some accounts he’d sold to Epstein for one dollar. I’d met all these people because I was in Epstein’s orbit. Can you forgive me for wanting to feel that some of their power and importance might rub off on me? If someone as well connected as Epstein thought I had the makings of someone special, as he often said, I wanted to believe he was right.

Sometimes after Epstein had lent me out to someone with a boldface name, he’d reward me with a solo trip to Zorro Ranch. He knew how much I loved to ride the horses there. I think he also knew the place was so remote, there was no way I could escape, even if I’d tried to. During these trips, I stayed in a cottage in Epstein’s little town, since the idea of rattling around alone inside his grandiose “castle” scared me. Every morning I’d get up early and head for the stables, choosing a fresh horse and heading out into the open terrain. In winter I could see snowcapped mountains in the distance, and the brisk air was clean and sharp. In summer I marveled at how big the sky was. At dusk the heat rose from the dusty earth, refracting the light and blurring my vision. It was rare, but in these moments, I could remember what it felt like to be free.

—

BACK IN FLORIDA, Tony and I developed a shorthand. Instead of “Jeffrey,” we called Epstein “Other-Man.” We’d hit on the nickname as a joke, but over time, it became less funny. Mostly Tony accepted that my “work” for Other-Man supported our lifestyle, but thinking about the details of what went on between us also made him angry. While I was on trips with Epstein, which often lasted weeks, Tony would act out, throwing parties and trashing my apartment. More than once I caught Tony with other girls. “But a girl in my situation can’t be picky,” I thought to myself. Most guys wouldn’t have put up with sharing their girlfriends with one other man, let alone many. So I took the bad parts of Tony with the good. When we finished out the lease on the Royal Palm Beach apartment, Tony and I rented a small house in Loxahatchee. After sexually servicing men who were three and four times older than me, it was nice to have someone my age to come home to—someone who knew my name.

I had gotten my passport, as Maxwell had commanded, and now she told me we would put it to use. In March 2001, Epstein, Maxwell, Emmy Tayler, and I boarded Epstein’s biggest plane—a Boeing 727 that he (and later the news media) liked to call “The Lolita Express”—at the Palm

Beach International Airport. The interior of this plane, whose tail number (N908JE) incorporated Epstein’s initials, had been retrofitted and bore almost no resemblance to that of a commercial jet. The seating for up to twenty-nine passengers included velvet-upholstered couches and lounge chairs in various earth tones, all arranged in roomy common spaces. Several private cabins, meanwhile, were equipped with queen-size beds.

“Paris, here we come,” Maxwell exclaimed merrily once we all were on board.

Epstein owned an eight-thousand-square-foot apartment on Avenue Foch, near the Arc de Triomphe, in the Sixteenth Arrondissement. But it was being renovated, so we stayed in a hotel overlooking the Champs- Élysées. For three days, we saw the sights, visiting the Eiffel Tower and wandering the narrow streets of the Marais. I was beginning to become interested in art history—particularly paintings—and one day Epstein, Maxwell, and I spent hours touring the galleries of the Louvre. Anyone who overheard Epstein lecturing me on the provenance of the tapestries, or who saw how Maxwell hovered close, like a mother hen, surely assumed I was their daughter.

On March 8, the four of us got back on the jet, but this time, we had guests with us: famed interior designer Alberto Pinto, his sister Linda, and the noted Mexican architect Ricardo Legorreta. Epstein had retained Pinto and Legorreta to remodel Zorro Ranch, and we were all headed to Granada, Spain, to tour the Alhambra, one of the best-preserved palaces of the historic Islamic world. For a few hours, we wandered the palace’s patios, gardens, and galleries as the designers gathered inspiration for Epstein’s project. Then we flew to Morocco and checked into a hotel overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar and the Bay of Tangier: the El Minzah. The place was rated five stars, with bold Spanish-Moorish decor. But when I entered my room, I found that a monkey had crawled through an open window and relieved itself on my bed. Maxwell called housekeeping, and my linens were promptly changed. Still, Maxwell couldn’t resist turning the whole incident into a joke. “Maybe you should leave the window ajar tonight,” she

teased. “That might be the way to find you a husband before you get any older.”

It must’ve been that same afternoon when, against the advice of the concierge, I decided to walk to the village market and take some photographs. I was in Africa, after all, for the first and perhaps last time in my life. It would be a shame if all I saw was the inside of a hotel. As I set out, I’ll admit I was taken aback by how many beggars lined the streets. I soon found myself surrounded by children, many of them tugging on the sleeve of my jacket, their palms outstretched. Some were painfully thin, and I could see hunger in their eyes. I turned a corner, and the crowd around me dispersed but for two young boys just ahead of me. They looked like brothers, and as I watched them kicking a tin can back and forth in the street, I was struck by their joyfulness. They were just as skinny as the other kids I’d noticed, and their clothes were dirty. But when I caught up with them, they spoke to me in English, and their enthusiasm and curiosity won me over. I asked them why they weren’t in school, and they said their family was too poor to send them. Maybe it was my own regret about quitting school before graduating, but the way they talked made me sad.

The boys seemed to accept that kicking a can in a dusty street was all they could hope for. For a second, I was reminded of myself—so used to unacceptable living conditions that I had stopped even hoping for what I lacked. But then I felt guilty about the comparison. How could I feel sorry for myself, a well-fed, well-dressed American who was staying at the El Minzah? Without thinking, I opened my purse and emptied my wallet, pressing nearly two thousand US dollars into the boys’ hands. Before saying goodbye, I handed a disposable camera to a passerby so the brothers and I could pose for a photo. (I’d keep that photo for years, until one of my lawyers asked for—and then lost—it.) When I got back to the hotel, Epstein made fun of me for giving so much money away. But it felt good to try to help someone whose circumstances seemed bleaker than mine.

A day later, the architects and designers peeled off, and our original foursome flew from Tangier to London. We arrived late in the afternoon, and Tayler headed off to visit family (her father was a professor at Oxford

University). The rest of us went to Maxwell’s pied-à-terre—a white mews house in Belgravia, a short walk from Hyde Park. Epstein and Maxwell were going out to dinner, but I begged off, claiming exhaustion. With the house to myself, I took the opportunity to call my parents and was thrilled to find that both my brothers were there. As they passed the phone from person to person, I strived to paint a glowing picture of their adventurous sister, making good money and seeing the world. After I hung up, however, I felt exhausted and empty. It had been hard work to project positivity when at my core I was struggling. Eager to be unconscious, I took a sleeping pill and fell into bed.

The next morning, on March 10, 2001, Maxwell woke me up by announcing in a singsongy voice: “Get out of bed, sleepyhead!” It was going to be a special day, she said. Just like Cinderella, I was going to meet a handsome prince! Her old friend Prince Andrew would be dining with us that night, she said, and we had lots to do to get me ready.

Maxwell and I spent most of that day shopping. She bought me an expensive purse from Burberry and three different outfits. When we got back to her house, I laid them out on the bed. There were two sexy, sophisticated dresses she’d picked out and a third option that I’d lobbied for: a pink V-necked, sleeveless mini-T-shirt and a sparkly, multicolored pair of jeans embroidered with a pattern of interlocking horses. After I showered and dried my hair, I put on the jeans and top, which left a strip of my stomach exposed. Maxwell wasn’t thrilled, but like most teenage girls then, I idolized Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, and the third outfit was something I imagined the two of them might wear. I told Maxwell it felt more like “me.”

When Prince Andrew arrived at the townhouse that evening, Maxwell was more coquettish than usual. “Guess Jenna’s age,” she urged the prince, after she introduced me. The Duke of York, who was then forty-one, guessed correctly: seventeen. “My daughters are just a little younger than you,” he told me, explaining his accuracy. As usual, Maxwell was quick with a joke: “I guess we will have to trade her in soon.”

In contrast to his appearance today—stout, white-haired, and jowly— Prince Andrew then was still relatively fit, with short-cropped brown hair and youthful eyes. He’d long been known as the playboy of the royal family, and as a divorcé (he and his wife, Sarah Ferguson, or “Fergie,” had split in 1996) he was holding tight to that role. That night he wore slacks and a light-blue dress shirt, open at the collar, with French cuffs, and elegant cufflinks. When I noticed that Epstein called the prince “Andy,” I began to call him that too.

As we chatted in Maxwell’s entryway, I suddenly thought of something: my mom would never forgive me if I met someone as famous as Prince Andrew and didn’t pose for a picture. Excusing myself, I ran to get a Kodak FunSaver from my room, then returned and handed it to Epstein. I remember the prince putting his arm around my waist as Maxwell grinned beside me. Epstein snapped the photo.

After a bit more small talk, the four of us headed out into the cold spring air. The prince rode with his security detail. Epstein, Maxwell, and I were in a separate car. We went to a restaurant for dinner and afterward to an exclusive London nightclub called Tramp. The prince went to the bar and came back with a cocktail for me. Then he invited me to dance. He was sort of a bumbling dancer, and I remember he sweated profusely. I had another drink, and the prince did too. We then headed back to Maxwell’s, again in two cars. On the way, Maxwell told me, “When we get home, you are to do for him what you do for Jeffrey.” I knew better than to question her orders. That empty feeling descended upon me again. More and more, it felt like my default state.

Back at the house, Maxwell and Epstein said goodnight and headed upstairs, signaling it was time that I take care of the prince. In the years since, I’ve thought a lot about how he behaved. He was friendly enough, but still entitled—as if he believed having sex with me was his birthright. I took him first to a bathroom, where I drew him a hot bath. We disrobed and got in the tub, but we didn’t stay there long because the prince was eager to get to the bed. He was particularly attentive to my feet, caressing my toes and licking my arches. That was a first for me, and it tickled. I was nervous

he would want me to do the same to him. But I needn’t have worried. He seemed in a rush to have intercourse. Afterward, he said thank you in his clipped British accent. In my memory, the whole thing lasted less than half an hour.

The next morning, it was clear that Maxwell had conferred with her royal chum because she told me: “You did well. The prince had fun.” I nodded appreciatively, as I always did, but in truth, I didn’t feel so great.

Soon, Epstein would give me $15,000 for servicing the man the tabloids called “Randy Andy”—a lot of money. But while being pimped out to strangers was something I thought I had to endure and had even become used to, it was wearing me down.

When I was sure I couldn’t be overheard, I called Tony and told him what had happened. I hadn’t wanted to have sex with the prince, I said, but I felt I had to. Our livelihoods depended on it, for one thing, but I also truly believed there was no way for me to free myself from Epstein and Maxwell’s grip. While traveling, Maxwell had made me hand over my passport. That night Tony’s voice sounded worried. He was scared that I was alone in a foreign country with people so powerful; he said he understood why I felt powerless. Less than four years earlier, Lady Diana had died in a car accident, prompting some conjecture (never proven) that the royal family had somehow been involved. Tony and I had no way of knowing if this was true, but we were sure that I was surrounded by people who wielded vastly more clout than I ever would. After a few more minutes of trying to soothe each other’s paranoia, we said goodnight—but not before Tony and I agreed that, especially while I was abroad, I needed to keep Epstein and Maxwell happy.

After we returned to Florida, I took my FunSaver cameras to a one-hour photo developer near my house in West Palm Beach. Thanks to the store’s system of marking the back of each print, I can tell you exactly the date I first held the image of me, Prince Andrew, and Maxwell in my hands: March 13, 2001. I showed the four-by-six-inch photo to Tony. At the time, we were both just glad I’d made it home in one piece; we had no idea what a commotion this photo would later cause.

SKIP NOTES

* Thanks to flight logs that have been made public in various court proceedings, we know the exact date of the flight that Matt Groening was on: February 23, 2001.