This week I was BUSTED for the crime of REPORTING. A journalism professor is even on the case. And it’s true: I met Jeffrey Epstein once for coffee.
When I was a reporter on the New York Times business desk in the fall of 2018, a representative for Epstein invited me to have coffee with him. I was curious.
I googled Jeffrey Epstein one last time and popped my head above my cubicle to ask colleagues: “Should I really do this? Would I be killed inside the largest home on the Upper East Side?”
There were a few stories I thought he could be useful for—the curious and ubiquitous Russian woman who made the introduction was potentially a profile, though The Wall Street Journal had just done one; Epstein’s effort to reemerge on the social scene, and the many famous people who were in his orbit, was absolutely a story; and various tech stories I was doing at the time could have an Epstein angle.
A colleague in the newsroom assured me I’d be safe and that Epstein was an occasional source for business reporters at the Times. So I agreed to meet the man for coffee. I’ll never forget ringing the doorbell of that mansion. Doors the size of a truck swung open and an elegant woman in her late 20s welcomed me in.
