Listen up. They say the truth’s a slippery thing, especially when the powerful try to bury it under a mountain of lies. But down here, where the shadows are long and the whispers turn to shouts if you listen close enough, we know a thing or two about digging.
This ain’t no soft-focus expose. This is a cold hard look at the kind of connections that make a seasoned gumshoe like me, reach for another stiff drink. We’re talking about the big man, the one who used to own hotels and now owns headlines, tangling with a couple of names that reek of back-alley deals and underage nightmares: Epstein and Maxwell.
They tried to sweep it under the rug, of course. They always do. But the dust just settles, and the outlines of the truth get sharper. Here’s what my contacts whispered, what the files hinted at, and what the street knows, laid out in twelve brutal points. No pretty words, just facts, hammered home:
The Trump-Epstein Connection: A Dirty Dozen.
Part I: The Brotherhood of the Filthy Rich.
- Old Pals Act: This ain’t some fleeting handshake. Trump and Epstein? They were tight, from the late 80s right up until the walls started closing in. Pictures don’t lie, and there are plenty of ’em – Epstein grinning, Maxwell lurking, at Mar-a-Lago, for God’s sake. A regular club for the “elite.”
- The Jet Setters: Fancy jets, fancy names. Epstein’s private bird, the “Lolita Express,” had Trump on the manifest. Seven times, at least, between ’93 and ’97. Domestic hops, they say. What was exchanged on those flights? More than pleasantries, I’d wager.
- The Birthday Book Bomb: A “bawdy” letter, penned by Trump himself, ended up in Epstein’s 2003 “birthday book.” What kind of message warrants that description? And why was it in that particular book? You tell me.
- “Terrific Guy”: Back in ’02, Trump spilled the beans to a reporter. Called Epstein a “terrific guy” and let slip that Epstein liked his women “on the younger side.” A slip of the tongue, or a window into a shared understanding? My gut tells me the latter.
- Files Don’t Lie: The feds were circling Epstein for years. And Trump’s name? It kept popping up in those Justice Department files, multiple times. Not a casual mention. A pattern.
- The Stare Down: A witness, Maria Farmer, recalled an incident back in ’95. In Epstein’s office, no less. Trump was there, giving her the kind of stare that made her skin crawl. No direct accusation, but it paints a picture, doesn’t it? A picture of a man who knew what kind of business was being done in those rooms.
Part II: The Whispers of a Victim.
- “Jane Doe’s” Story: In 2016, a woman, “Katie Johnson” or “Jane Doe,” slapped Epstein and Trump with civil lawsuits. Said they assaulted her when she was just a kid – 13. A detailed account, no less, of being tied up, raped, and threatened. Promises of ruin if she ever spoke a peep.
- The Affidavits: Her story wasn’t alone in the dark. Anonymous witnesses, “Tiffany Doe” and “Joan Doe,” backed her up with their own sworn affidavits. More eyes, seeing more ugliness.
- The Disappearing Act: Just when the heat was on, the lawsuit vanished. Abruptly withdrawn in November 2016. The word on the street? Threats. Threats against “Jane Doe,” the kind that make people disappear.
Part III: The Pageant Predicament.
- Dressing Room Antics: He owned beauty pageants, Miss USA, Miss Teen USA. And the whispers from former contestants – Tasha Dixon, Mariah Billado, Bridget Sullivan, Victoria Hughes – were loud and clear: he’d walk into their dressing rooms while they were undressed. He even admitted it, the brazen so-and-so.
- The Grab Bag: Cassandra Searles, a former Miss USA, publicly alleged he “grabbed” her at a pageant event in 2016. Beatrice Keul echoed the sentiment about a 1993 incident. Not a handshake. A grab.
- Daddy Dearest: White House Aides said he talked about Ivanka Trump’s breasts, her backside, and what it might be like to have sex with her, remarks that once led John Kelly to remind the president that Ivanka was his daughter”
There you have it. Twelve points. Enough to make you wonder what other skeletons are rattling in those gilded closets. In this town, the only thing thicker than the smog is the silence around certain names. But Newz Hammer? We’re here to break it. And we don’t care who gets splinters.
Yours Truly, Jack Hammer.
