From: Inmate #02879-509, Federal Prison Camp, Bryan
I’m writing this at 3 A.M. in my cell, since I’ve been unable to sleep after reading the transcript of my recent meeting with Deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche. I realize now that I left out vital information and details, so I’d like to take this opportunity to clear up any lingering doubts, particularly in regard to President Trump’s involvement in Jeffrey Epstein’s life.
First off, I want to reiterate that, although President Trump did have a friendship with Epstein, I can state unequivocally that he never did anything wrong—ethically, morally, or legally. On the contrary, all the girls held him in the highest esteem and had nothing but the greatest admiration for him. Many of them called him Uncle Donald, and one of the Latina girls even referred to him as El Magnífico, which always made him blush, endearing him to them even more.
In fact, he was a rock for those girls. A shoulder to cry on. He was someone to whom they could confide their innermost thoughts and secrets without being judged or criticized. He was part therapist, part chaplain, and part teacher. Every night before bed, all the girls would gather in the main house in their pajamas in front of the fire, and Uncle Donald would read the classics to them. Shakespeare was his favorite, and he would often perform some of the Bard’s greatest soliloquies. The awestruck girls never failed to give him a standing ovation, and he would always respond with an exaggerated, comedic bow, which delighted them to no end.
And nobody told funnier stories. A highlight was the one about the time a Black woman tried to rent an apartment in one of his buildings and he told her that it was ten thousand dollars a month. His imitation of her reaction was pure vaudeville and had the girls in stitches. He also tutored them in math and was a whiz at calculus, able to solve complex problems in his head on demand. He said that he had the same gene as his Uncle John, who’d taught Ted Kaczynski at M.I.T.
Making sure the girls got plenty of exercise was a top priority for Uncle Donald as well, which included coaching them in daily rounds of golf. One of the girls—let’s call her Donna—became his regular caddy and liked to secretly improve his ball position by kicking it and moving it all over the course. Had he known, he never would’ve tolerated it. Cheating in any way, at anything, was anathema to him. But Donna did it anyway, because she knew that nothing made him happier than winning. Back at the lodge, he would recount his round, his cheeks flush with excitement, his strong, elephantine hands wildly gesticulating. It was a sight to behold.
Of course, it was inevitable that some of the girls would fall in love with him. Donna became inconsolable when he told her that she was too young for him. He asked her to wait five years, but, when you’re fourteen, five years seems like an eternity. Unfortunately, her obsession got the best of her and, one night, distraught, she walked into the ocean. Uncle Donald, who was doing his regular evening meditation at the time, sensed that something was amiss. In spite of his bone spurs, which have caused him a lifetime of intense pain with nary a complaint, he ran into the surf fully clothed to save her. I still have the red tie he was wearing that night. It’s one of my most treasured possessions, reminding me of his bravery and what the human spirit can accomplish.
I only wish I could say the same for some of the others who were on that island, two of whom were former Presidents. That’s right—two. I’m not making this up. Nobody’s putting words in my mouth. And no one on the island liked either of these former Presidents. One was a bad tipper who the girls liked to call El Producto because he smelled of cheap cigars. And the other was known as Biscuit because he always wore an unflattering tan suit. Then there was the woman who was Speaker of the House and would walk around talking to herself, screaming out epithets to imaginary people. Crazy! And the former goody-two-shoes Vice-President who’s not actually so goody and lacked the courage to do the right thing on January 6th.
There was also that Republican congressman who co-hosts a morning show and happens to be a murderer. (I’ve got proof!) And let’s not forget the Senate Minority Leader who got caught stealing sunblock and Q-tips. Finally, Jeffrey had to tell him not to come back. The guy cried like a five-year-old lost at the beach, but Jeffrey held firm.
There were Hollywood people as well. One was a bald comedian with glasses who complained constantly and had an inordinate fear of halitosis. He spent more time on that island than anyone. Once, when he was stung by a jellyfish, he kept calling out for his mother and demanded to be airlifted to a hospital in Miami. Jeffrey said he was the worst guest that he ever had.
All this is just the tip of the iceberg. And, again, I want to reiterate that I’m not writing this expecting or seeking any pardon or commutation. I’m merely telling the truth about what I observed, both on and off the island. As far as the girls—grown women now—are concerned, they are all doing well, leading happy, productive, and, from what I understand, very luxurious lives.
Uncle Donald would be proud.
Yours sincerely,
Ghislaine Maxwell
