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JAMES PATTERSON

“carries the wrong impression. I don’t see what it adds to the piece. And that makes me unhappy.”

If some sort of criminal investigation had taken place, that would have been one thing. But, at that time, no criminal investigation into Epstein’s affairs had been launched. And in the absence of an investigation, the rumors of Epstein’s dealings with very young women seemed to be just that—rumors.

Graydon Carter consulted his lawyers, his editors, and his fact-checkers. And then something odd and disturbing happened at the Condé Nast building, then in Times Square.

As usual, Carter had come into the office early. He swiped his key card in the lobby, pressed the elevator button, and arrived in the hallway outside the reception area on the twenty-first floor.

It would have been a perfect time to review Ward’s story.

Her description of Epstein’s town house—which is said to have been the largest private residence in New York City at the time—was priceless: “Inside, amid the flurry of menservants attired in sober black suits and pristine white gloves, you feel you have stumbled into someone’s private Xanadu,” she’d written. “This is no mere rich person’s home, but a high-walled, eclectic, imperious fantasy that seems to have no boundaries. The entrance hall is decorated not with paintings but with row upon row of individually framed eyeballs; these, the owner tells people with relish, were imported from England, where they were made for injured soldiers. Next comes a marble foyer, which does have a painting, in the manner of Jean Dubuffet… but the host coyly refuses to tell visitors who painted it. In any case,

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[Top Right Photo Caption]: One of the photographs captured on video during the Palm Beach Police Department search warrant walk-through of Epstein's El Brillo Way residence (Palm Beach Police Department)

[Bottom Right Photo Caption]: Jeffrey Epstein, Coney Island circa 1969 (Anonymous)

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