Predator-in-Chief: The Docket of Trump’s Crimes, and America’s Burial of the Evidence

A two-part investigation into the sexual misconduct record of Donald J. Trump—twenty-five women, civil verdicts, Epstein ties, and the American institutions that helped him bury it all.

Jul 09, 2025

Part I — The Ledger and the Lie

ONE MUST ADMIRE the efficiency of certain American institutions. It took six years, two presidencies, one federal conviction, and a flotilla of corpses before the Department of Justice and the Federal Bureau of Investigation reached their final determination: Jeffrey Epstein committed suicide, had no client list, and left behind no further suspects worth pursuing. Case closed. Justice lies on the autopsy table, drained, perfumed, and zipped into the body bag of official memory. With the July 2025 joint memo, the DOJ and FBI issue their final rites—“no further disclosure would be appropriate or warranted”—and entomb the record beside the man.

Jeffrey Epstein—an international trafficker of girls and procurer of flesh for the famous—was, we are told, a statistical anomaly. His network of wealth, surveillance, and organized rape existed in a vacuum. No clients worth questioning, no buyers worth unmasking, no accomplices worth inconveniencing—just one well-placed cadaver and the pornographic efficiency of a system that devours the girls and anoints the men who paid for them. Only the saintly prosecution of Ghislaine Maxwell (who, to remind readers, was convicted of sex trafficking to no one) remains on the record. And now, the FBI has scrubbed the ledger. The flight logs have faded, the vaults are bare, and the temple doors are bolted shut. But somewhere beneath the Department of Justice, there is a circle of hell with better records and worse company.

But the dead have a way of haunting the living. And no poltergeist looms larger than Donald J. Trump—Epstein’s fellow host, financier, and confidant. In a 2002 profile for New York Magazine, Trump called Epstein a “terrific guy” and remarked, “He’s a lot of fun to be with. It is even said that he likes beautiful women as much as I do, and many of them are on the younger side.” We have, on public record, footage of Trump and Epstein at Mar-a-Lago in 1992, nodding and laughing as cheerleaders grind before them. The gesture spoke not of mere acquaintance but of appetite—two men at ease in their element, enjoying the shared spoils of power. No fleeting brush in the halls of Davos; this was comfort, complicity, camaraderie.

In 2016, amid the whirr of another Trump campaign, a lawsuit was filed by a woman under the pseudonym “Jane Doe.” She alleged that Trump had raped her at age 13 at Epstein’s Manhattan townhouse in 1994, during one of the now-documented “model parties.” The details of the lawsuit, later filed under her name—Katie Johnson—are appalling even by the feral standards of Manhattan’s dungeon elite. “I loudly pleaded with Defendant Trump to stop, but he did not,” Ms. Johnson wrote in a formal declaration accompanying her recent suits. “Defendant Trump responded to my pleas by violently striking me in the face with his open hand and screaming that he would do whatever he wanted. ... Immediately following this rape, Defendant Trump threatened me that, were I ever to reveal any of the details of Defendant Trump’s sexual and physical abuse of me, my family and I would be physically harmed if not killed.” The case was dropped days before the election, citing threats to her life. The press—our heroic pillar of truth—retreated with astonishing speed.

But the specter returned in the form of a woman who would not be silenced. In 2019, longtime columnist E. Jean Carroll accused Donald Trump of raping her in the dressing room of Bergdorf Goodman in the mid-1990s. Trump responded with the reflexive venom of a man long inoculated against consequence—calling her a liar, a political operative, and, most famously, “not my type”. One might pause to ask which part of the accusation he found less plausible: rape or taste. The trial began in April 2023 in the Southern District of New York. By May 9, after less than three hours of deliberation, a jury of six men and three women unanimously found Trump liable for sexual abuse and defamation, awarding Carroll $5 million in damages. In his deposition, he confirmed what the tape had long foretold: “Historically, that’s true”.

The verdict marked a first in American jurisprudence: a president, past or present, legally branded a sexual predator. And it did not end there. In January 2024, a second jury awarded Carroll $83.3 million, after Trump repeated his slanders from the podium and the internet with the feral entitlement of a man who still believed no one could touch him. The judge dismissed Trump’s countersuit and ruled that Carroll’s accusation of “rape” was “substantially true”. When Trump appealed the original verdict, it was upheld on December 30, 2024—cementing the record like a tombstone. The criminal courts may have declined to speak, but the civil courts did not stutter: he is a liar, a predator, and a man who thinks power entitles him to the body of anyone he desires. And still, he walks free—now president once more—dragging a jury’s unanimous verdict behind him like toilet paper stuck to the heel of his golf shoe.

Let us now pause to admire the grotesque symmetry. Trump, Epstein’s associate, is the only man to emerge from that ring of hell with a legal finding of sexual abuse—while Ghislaine Maxwell, Epstein’s longtime accomplice, received a 20-year prison sentence for sex trafficking in 2021. Everything else—other powerful figures, potential clients, and institutional inquiry—was sealed off and sterilized by the FBI and DOJ. No names to summon, no charges to file, no trail of currency or carnality worth pursuing. Not a single subpoena for Trump’s flights, his contacts, his cameos in the archive of abuse. His evasion of criminal prosecution for the rape allegations themselves is not a vindication but rather an indictment of process—a system so calcified by theater and proximity to power that it cannot prosecute its own disease. The only person from that network to serve time beyond Epstein was a woman. The only man legally branded a predator now snarls at reporters from the West Wing, dismissing any further questions about Epstein as a “desecration”:

“Are you still talking about Jeffrey Epstein? This guy’s been talked about for years. You’re asking — we have Texas, we have this, we have all of the things. And are people still talking about this guy? This creep? That is unbelievable.”

Then there is the matter of minors, which Trump treated less as a red line and more as décor. In a 2005 interview on The Howard Stern Show, Trump boasted:

“Well, I’ll tell you the funniest is that before a show, I’ll go backstage and everyone’s getting dressed… no men are anywhere, and I’m allowed to go in because I’m the owner of the pageant and therefore I’m inspecting it. You know, I’m inspecting because I want to make sure that everything is good… the dresses. ‘Is everyone okay?’ You know, they’re standing there with no clothes. ‘Is everybody okay?’ And you see these incredible looking women, and so, I sort of get away with things like that.”

Several Miss Teen USA contestants corroborated the story, saying he walked in while they were changing, some as young as fifteen. But this was hardly an isolated moment of sleaze—it was a lifelong pattern. In a 1992 video, Trump gestures toward a group of preteen girls and, when one says she’s “going up the escalator,” turns to the camera and declares, “I’m going to be dating her in 10 years. Can you believe it?”

He would later refer to his own daughter, Ivanka, as someone he “might be dating if she weren’t my daughter,” during an appearance on The View. And in another 2006 interview with Stern, Trump nodded along as Stern called his daughter “a piece of ass.” Trump even deployed adultery as spectacle—while Melania was pregnant with Barron, he allegedly carried on an extramarital affair with adult-film star Stormy Daniels, hiding hush‑money payments orchestrated by Michael Cohen. This is not a quirk—but a worldview. A man who reduced teenage pageants to hunting grounds, joked about incestuous desire, and paid to conceal adultery has no place near public trust. He is not merely unserious—he is morally inert and unfit for any office that doesn’t come with a registry of his victims.

The pattern is surgical in its repetition. Jill Harth, a business associate who worked with Trump in the early 1990s, filed a lawsuit in 1997 alleging that he groped her, attempted to rape her in his daughter’s bedroom at Mar-a-Lago, and forcibly kissed her against her will during a business dinner in 1992. In her sworn affidavit, Harth stated that Trump “was relentless,” and that she only withdrew the suit after reaching a confidential settlement related to a separate business dispute. She later reaffirmed the sexual assault allegations in multiple interviews and under oath. Summer Zervos, a contestant on The Apprentice, accused Trump of aggressively kissing her, grabbing her breast, and thrusting his genitals at her during a 2007 meeting at the Beverly Hills Hotel. After Trump publicly called her a liar, Zervos filed a defamation lawsuit in 2017. The case proceeded through discovery and depositions—including Trump’s—before she dropped it in 2021, citing threats, legal delays, and the toll of the process. Alva Johnson, a campaign staffer, alleged that Trump forcibly kissed her without consent at a 2016 rally in Tampa. She filed suit in 2019, stating she was subjected to a racially hostile work environment as well. Although the case was dismissed on jurisdictional grounds, the judge did not evaluate the merits. Johnson released contemporaneous texts and a video that appeared to corroborate her account. And then there is Ivana Trump, his first wife, who stated during their 1990 divorce proceedings that Donald raped her during a violent encounter. In a sworn deposition, she described an assault in which Trump tore out a handful of her hair and penetrated her against her will in retaliation for a painful cosmetic procedure he blamed her for. Though she later softened the language under pressure, the original account remains on the record—and was detailed in the 1993 book Lost Tycoon: The Many Lives of Donald J. Trump by Harry Hurt III. These horrific allegations come not from political enemies or distant observers, but from women who knew him, worked with him, married him. The consistency of the conduct, the settings, the aftermath—each testimony clicks into place like coordinates on a map of buried screams.

In Trump’s world, every woman is a liar, and every lawsuit is a hoax. “Every woman lied when they came forward to hurt my campaign,” he shouted during a 2016 rally. When Brett Kavanaugh wept and whimpered his way onto the Supreme Court, Trump lamented that “it is a very scary time for young men in America.” And now, in 2025, his DOJ quietly wipes away the last traces of Epstein’s empire of procurement—without so much as a footnote mentioning the man who shared his parties, his jet, and his perverse perspective.

It is not difficult to see the choreography. The girls disappear. The files disappear. The clients dissolve into rumor. The legal mechanisms sputter and die. And the former defendant—civilly liable for sexual abuse, named in lawsuits across four decades, caught on tape describing his method—now signs executive orders from the Resolute Desk. He does not campaign for power; he governs in its aftermath. If Epstein had lived, he wouldn’t have needed a defense attorney—only a cabinet position.

What the DOJ has buried is not merely a man or a case, but a ledger of national shame. In the space where prosecutions should bloom, we now have memo and myth. The archive is ash, the evidence embalmed, and justice gagged with its own red tape. There is no client list, they say. And in saying so, they make clear who the client was all along.

In Part II, we follow the predator-in-chief into the record he could not erase: not the rumors, not the headlines, but the sworn affidavits, the court rulings, the payouts, and the threat he continues to pose to the very concept of consent.