An extract is published from Nobody's Girl, the memoirs of one of the deceased victims of sexual abuser Jeffrey Epstein, Virginia Roberts Giuffre. "How pretty, she's still wearing little girl's panties," she explains what he told her, while subjecting her to practices that are horrifying, if you think of a minor of only sixteen years old; one of those students we see, every day, leaving school with a backpack and a snack.
In the sordid story of rich people paying for girls from lower social classes, the most sinister character is his wife: Ghislaine Maxwell, accomplice, cover-up artist. She was in charge of recruiting the minors, whom he would later rape under the guise of massaging them. She was present and "participated" in it all. This "nobody's girl" writes, for example: "Epstein took a vibrator, which he forced between my thighs, while Maxwell told me to pinch Epstein's nipples while she rubbed her breasts and mine together." It reminds me of the behavior of some murderers' wives, like the one in the Gloucester "house of horrors," who did more or less the same thing. She helped him kidnap him and participated, as a supporting actor, in the torture. She seemed jealous of the victims, but by participating in it—who knows, perhaps pretending to be fine—she joined the executioner, who didn't love her as he loves everyone else, who wasn't satisfied with her. She had to be the pimp or she was nothing. Ghislaine Maxwell is a woman, so her role seems terrible to us women. He was God, the leader of the cult, the pampered king. She was the accomplice, the mother, the daughter, the co-rapist, the one who, who knows, has to pretend, because she's a poor wretch, that she likes what's happening.
