Nobody's Girl — Chapter no 15

FIFTEEN

A Bridge Too Far

pstein once told me that every girl he’d had sex with had benefited inE one of three ways: either he gave them money to better their lives or he helped jump-start their career or he married them off to one of his successful friends. All the girls in Epstein’s household knew, for example, that in 1994 a former girlfriend of Epstein’s—a woman in her twenties— married another man in his social circle. (Several of us had met this man.) More than once, Epstein had brought up his ex-girlfriend’s marriage to this man as proof of his largesse, as if he’d arranged it. He told me he’d be willing to do the same sort of matchmaking for me. When he said this, he clearly believed that what he was offering me was a life-changing gift. He clung to the idea that, at his core, he was a generous benefactor. Meanwhile, he also fantasized about improving the human race by fathering children who carried his “superior” genes. Sometimes he’d talk about his plans to use his Zorro Ranch as a literal breeding ground to propagate babies. Who would birth these imagined offspring? The girls he kept in his orbit, of course, and he thought we’d see it as an honor.

Maxwell was a different animal—selfish, certainly, but more fragile than Epstein. Especially after she turned forty, on Christmas Day 2001, the insecurities that lurked under the surface of her outgoing persona emerged.

A blazing beauty when she was young, Maxwell was still attractive. But her short haircut—while provocatively stylish for a woman of twenty or so— looked a bit haggard on someone twice that age. Increasingly, it was as if Maxwell was trying too hard. While she still prided herself on being the matron of Epstein’s house, she seemed to chafe, more and more, at being seen as matronly.

After I returned to the fold, she started to take these frustrations out on me in brutal new ways. I’d always believed her when she said she wasn’t possessive of Epstein and didn’t care whom he had sex with. Now, though, she seemed fiercely jealous of anyone to whom Epstein showed affection.

Maxwell was a lot of things—glamorous, captivating, boldly sexual in a way that many men found alluring. But she was not a nurturer, and I think she and Epstein could both see that I was. “You have a very maternal instinct,” he’d said to me more than once, and now he immediately resumed our nightly tuck-in routine. In response, Maxwell began lashing out at me during our threesomes. For example, she would grab a larger-than-life-size dildo and use it to hurt me. If I complained, she hurt me more. For some time now, she’d teased me that soon I’d be too old for Epstein. If I—an eighteen-year-old—was too mature for him, she had to know that he saw her as downright ancient.

But while her motivations were unkind, Maxwell was right to warn me about the implications of getting older. In the context of Epstein’s world, if I wanted to glimpse my future, all I had to do was look at Sarah Kellen. For a few years before I’d met her, she’d serviced Epstein sexually, or so I’d been told. But as she entered her early twenties, she’d aged out and was forced into a new phase of servitude: recruiting others. My sense of guilt about the times I’d recruited girls had been steadily growing. Now I began to worry that if I stayed with Epstein and Maxwell much longer, I’d soon be like Kellen, responsible for luring an unending parade of young girls into a [*]situation that I knew would damage them forever.

If there was one thing I knew about, it was damage—the lasting reverberation of past trauma. I had been trafficked to dozens of men by this point, and I remembered their faces clearly. There were old men and even older men; nerdy, shy men and boorish, arrogant men. There were men who wanted me to wear outfits and men who wanted to see me naked and men who didn’t notice if I was clothed, as long as I touched them. There were men who couldn’t get or maintain erections. There were men who behaved as if I were lucky to be with them. There was at least one man who ignored me as I serviced him sexually, preferring instead to focus his eyes upon, and

even to fondle, Epstein. Some men seemed grateful for my attention, particularly the septuagenarians, many of whom thanked me afterward, calling me “a good girl.” While I appreciated that these ancient men were less brutish than others, I still felt sick when they said that. Their words made it undeniably clear that for them, my childlike appearance was part of my sexual appeal. It is truly impossible to say how many men there were, in part because I didn’t keep count, and in part because my interactions with many of them were so similar. Still, I was expected to make all the men happy, even though doing so made me miserable.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse for me, they did: Epstein trafficked me to a man who raped me more savagely than anyone had before. We were on Epstein’s island when I was ordered to take this man to a cabana. Immediately it was clear that this man, whom I’ve taken pains to describe in legal filings only as “a well-known Prime Minister,” wasn’t interested in caresses. He wanted violence. He repeatedly choked me until I lost consciousness and took pleasure in seeing me in fear for my life.

Horrifically, the Prime Minister laughed when he hurt me and got more aroused when I begged him to stop. I emerged from the cabana bleeding from my mouth, vagina, and anus. For days, it hurt to breathe and to swallow.

Afterward, I tearfully begged Epstein not to send me back to the Prime Minister. I got down on my knees and pleaded with him. I don’t know if Epstein feared the man or if he owed him a favor, but he wouldn’t make any promises, saying coldly of the politician’s brutality, “You’ll get that sometimes.”

Today I know that Epstein liked to tell friends that women were merely “a life-support system for a vagina.” I didn’t know that then. Today I know that Epstein made the following chilling distinction: “I’m not a sexual predator; I’m an ‘offender.’ It’s the difference between a murderer and person who steals a bagel.” I didn’t know that then either. Today I see how little he cared about the girls and women he abused. But for a long time, I couldn’t see it. Or maybe I didn’t want to see it. My experience being

brutalized by the Prime Minister—and the way Epstein glossed over it— changed that for me.

Before the Prime Minister’s attack, Epstein had me fooled. I thought that Epstein’s predilection for childlike girls was a sickness, but that in his twisted way he meant well. After the attack, I couldn’t stay a fool. Having been treated so brutally and then seeing Epstein’s callous reaction to how terrorized I felt, I had to accept that Epstein meted out praise merely as a manipulation to keep me subservient. Epstein cared only about Epstein.

At that point, I hit bottom. I now knew I wouldn’t survive. I saw only two possible options: either someone Epstein trafficked me to would kill me or I would take my own life. About eight weeks or so after my encounter with the Prime Minister, Epstein informed me, as he often did, that he wanted me to service an important friend on one of his jets. Epstein told me what time to be at the private airport in Palm Beach and said I’d only be up in the air for an hour. Taking him at his word, I got Tony and some of his friends to drive me there, then asked them to stay and wait until I returned. I had no idea who I was meeting that day as I climbed the stairs that led to the plane. Then I ducked my head and stepped inside.

“Hello again,” said the Prime Minister, the man I feared more than any other.

The blood rushed to my head, and I could barely breathe. “Will he kill me this time?” I wondered, and for a dizzy moment, I thought I might faint.

The pilot discreetly closed the door to the cockpit, and we took off. For the next hour, I was on high alert, braced for a fatal blow. As it turned out, this second encounter with the Prime Minister was more typical of those I’d had with other men—his only goal was ejaculation. Still, it was the longest sixty minutes of my life as I anticipated the Prime Minister once again injuring and asphyxiating me. When the airplane touched down, I emerged in a daze, stumbling back to the car where Tony and his friends were waiting.

I didn’t know it then, but my second interaction with the Prime Minister was the beginning of the end for me. My behavior began to change. I’d bump into a beautiful young stranger in my favorite bookstore, realize she’d be perfect for Epstein, and then intentionally leave without getting her

number. A new sense of agency was taking hold inside me. While I couldn’t yet save myself, at least I could spare one girl at a time.

Then, sometime in the summer of 2002, Maxwell and Epstein pushed me past my breaking point. The three of us had spent an afternoon snorkeling in the shallow reefs around Epstein’s island. As we dried off on the dock, I noticed Epstein share a glance with Maxwell before he sat down next to me. He put his hand on my back—a fond gesture that was rare for him. “I hope you know how much I appreciate you for embracing my lifestyle,” he began, as Maxwell cozied up next to me too. “Over the past several months, you’ve shown me a devotion that is difficult to find. The friends I’ve introduced you to agree: you are a delightful young woman.”

He took a breath, and I wondered where all this was going. Then he came out with it: “Jenna, I want you to have our baby.”

Though I’d heard him talk hypothetically about seeding the human race with his DNA, his proposal shocked me. I remember trying not to flinch as Maxwell joined in with the financial particulars. “You’d have round-the- clock nannies to help you,” she said, her voice oddly chirpy. “Jeffrey would buy you a mansion in Palm Beach or New York—your choice!—and you would have a hefty allowance.” If memory serves, she floated the astronomical figure of $200,000 per month. But then came the conditions: like a modern-day handmaid, I would have to sign over to Epstein and Maxwell all legal rights to the child. I would have to travel with the child wherever and whenever Epstein wanted. I would have to attest, in writing, that Epstein and I were not a couple, and that the baby would remain with him if we ever had “a falling out.” That’s how Maxwell put it, as if it were conceivable that the end of Epstein’s and my relationship might ever be a mutually-agreed-upon parting. That was laughable to me. Everybody knew that Epstein was the one who ended his relationships with young girls— never the other way around.

Up to that point, the idea of having kids had been a distant dream. I still felt like a child myself sometimes, so it was hard to imagine being a mom.

Given what that doctor had told me the year before, I wasn’t even sure I could get pregnant again, let alone carry a baby to term.

But still, everything about Epstein and Maxwell’s brazen request felt wrong. There was no way I wanted to bring a child into the world for them to raise. What if the baby were female? Was the plan for Epstein and Maxwell to have me bring that little girl up until she reached puberty, then hand her over for them to abuse? I wanted no part of it. Epstein and Maxwell had made so many demands that I had met, ignoring my own feelings in the hope of pleasing them. But this proposal would endanger another person: a helpless child. It was a bridge too far.

Today I’m sad that I found it easier to stand up for an as-yet-to-be- conceived baby than for myself. With perfect clarity, I simply knew that I couldn’t agree to their proposal. That said, I also knew I couldn’t just tell Epstein and Maxwell no. That was too dangerous. For the first time in more than two years, I began actively seeking a way to escape, buying time by pretending to think over their offer. After a few days, I came up with at least part of a plan. I told the two of them that, yes, I’d have their baby, but first I hoped they would deliver on the promise they’d dangled in front of me the first day we met. At long last, would they help me get formally trained as a masseuse? I politely asked them to consider it.

It was just before my nineteenth birthday when I got my answer. We were on Epstein’s island again when Epstein gestured for me to sit on his lap. “First of all, happy birthday,” he said, his face close to mine. “We know how hard you’ve worked, and we agree you deserve something special. So, we are sending you to Thailand.” I must have looked confused—I’d assumed if Epstein agreed to get me trained, it would happen somewhere closer to home. But Epstein said that Maxwell had found a school in Chiang Mai, in the northern part of the country, where I could get certified in Thai massage in just eight weeks. I started to thank him, but he wasn’t finished.

“Just one more thing,” Epstein said. “While you are in Chiang Mai, I will need you to get to know a particular girl.” He told me her name—it sounded Thai to me—and said if I thought she met his criteria, he would have her flown to the United States. “So even when I’m far away, I’ll still be recruiting?” I asked myself silently. At the same time, though, I realized this might be my only chance for an exit and I’d be crazy not to seize it. So

I smiled and gave him a warm hug. It was important to make Epstein and Maxwell believe I was on their side.

Over the next few weeks, Maxwell arranged for me to attend the International Training Massage School, which had a reputation as one of the best centers for the study of Northern-style Thai massage. She bought me a coach ticket and reserved me a room at the Dusit Royal Princess, a four-star hotel. Epstein paid the bill in advance.

I was sent home to Florida to pack and say my goodbyes. By this point, Tony and I had moved in with his parents, so I spent most of my time there, trying to decide what to put in storage and what I should try to carry with me. While I didn’t know what the future held, I sensed that I should take with me anything I couldn’t live without. I also visited my parents, and my brother Danny and his new wife, Lanette, came to see me off. I remember I took Skydy—then fourteen—aside and told him I’d always be there for him. For those few days, I pretended I was a normal girl preparing for an exotic vacation, not a prisoner plotting her escape.

In mid-September 2002, Epstein and Maxwell arranged for me to return to New York; I’d continue on to Thailand, solo, from there. On the morning my commercial flight was leaving Miami for New York City, I said one last goodbye to my dog, Mary-Jane, and then Tony and I loaded my many suitcases into my Dodge truck. I’ve never been a light packer, but this time I was even heavier than usual. My luggage held every memento and photo that was important to me. We wrestled my many bags out of the truck, which I was letting Tony use in my absence, and he helped me haul everything to the ticket counter. Luggage finally checked, we headed for security. That’s when I broke down, weeping. Tony was mystified. Hadn’t I been away for several weeks before? What was making me so emotional? I couldn’t explain it, even to myself, but I had an inkling that I wouldn’t be coming back. I hugged Tony tighter than I ever had that day and told him how much I’d miss him. “Take care of the pup,” I said, as I always did when I was jetting off somewhere with Epstein. Tony said he would, and I gave him one last kiss, then walked away.

For the next several days in Manhattan, Epstein and Maxwell put me to work training Epstein’s new “assistant”: a Czech beauty named Nadia Marcinkova, who he said would be filling in for me while I was away.

Marcinkova was about three years younger than me—the same age I’d been when I’d first met Epstein—and he required that she and I “massage” him together, much like Maxwell and I had done back in 2000. “Follow Jenna’s lead,” Epstein told Nadia that first session. I could see how hungrily he looked at her then, and this stirred up some feelings in me. All those stories I’d told myself about being needed, about mattering, about being the only one who could take care of him—all that was so obviously untrue. As much as I wanted to disappear from Epstein’s life, it stung to be so easily replaced.

On September 21, Epstein and Maxwell were leaving New York on an extended trip to Africa. Marcinkova was flying with them on Epstein’s Boeing 727, as were several high-profile guests: the actors Chris Tucker and Kevin Spacey and former president Clinton, not to mention six US Secret Service agents. (Clinton has said the trip was a humanitarian mission that included stops related to the work of his foundation.) Before they left, Maxwell sat me down for a serious chat. Once I landed in Chiang Mai, she said, I needed to immediately track down the Thai girl Epstein was interested in. Maxwell wanted to hear from me regularly about my progress on that. She handed me my travel documents, which included locations of Western Union offices where she’d be wiring me money. I still have the envelope all this came in. On the outside, Maxwell had written the name of the Thai girl and two phone numbers: her own cell phone and that of Jojo, Epstein’s New York butler. “CALL MS. MAXWELL!” she commanded, in all capital letters.

“See you in two months,” Epstein said before he and Maxwell left. I nodded, and as the door shut behind them, I felt a mix of elation and tension. Freedom like this was rare for girls in Epstein’s orbit, but in truth, I felt I’d been trapped since the age of seven. Run. Survive. Run. Survive.

That had been my rhythm even before I met Jeffrey and Ghislaine. After

more than two years, I was about to break out of the gilded cage they had built for me. Now I just had to keep them from putting me back in it.

Six days later, I boarded a commercial jet headed for Bangkok, buckled my seat belt, and closed my eyes. Everybody knew that Epstein was the one who ended his relationships with young girls—never the other way around.

I knew that too. But there’s a first time for everything.

SKIP NOTES * Kellen would later claim that she, too, was a victim of Epstein’s. But at Ghislaine Maxwell’s trial, Kellen was identified by victims as having booked them for “massages” with Epstein. And at Maxwell’s sentencing in 2022, Judge Alison Nathan named Kellen as “a knowing participant in the criminal conspiracy.”