The Epstein Scandal Is Now a Chronic Disease of the Trump Presidency
Briefly

The Epstein Scandal Is Now a Chronic Disease of the Trump Presidency
"Within hours, there were reports about Epstein's correspondence with Steve Bannon, Larry Summers, and Michael Wolff. One Epstein e-mail suggested, but offered no proof, that Trump "knew about the girls," many of whom were later found by investigators to have been underage. Another missive from Epstein implied, mysteriously, that he had spent the first Thanksgiving of Trump's Presidency in Palm Beach, in close proximity to him, years after the two had supposedly broken off all contact. Several other e-mails also hinted at ongoing ties."
"In a twist that took me by surprise but I suppose shouldn't have, the e-mails also revealed that Epstein corresponded with a wide network of international contacts about Trump in the years before he died, including attempting to pass along a message to Russia's foreign minister, Sergei Lavrov, in advance of Trump's 2018 Helsinki summit with Vladimir Putin. It was, in effect, an invitation to get the scoop on the American President, relayed via Thorbjørn Jagland, a former Prime Minister of Norway who was then serving as head of the Council of Europe. "I think you might suggest to putin that lavrov can get insight on talking to me," Epstein wrote."
More than twenty thousand pages of Epstein's estate documents were released after a congressional subpoena. The records contain thousands of references to Trump and correspondence tying Epstein to political figures such as Steve Bannon, Larry Summers, and Michael Wolff. One e-mail implied Trump "knew about the girls," many later identified as underage; another suggested Epstein spent the first Thanksgiving of Trump's presidency near him despite a purported break. Multiple messages hint at ongoing ties. Epstein also sought international access, attempting to pass a message to Russia's foreign minister ahead of the 2018 Helsinki summit via Thorbjørn Jagland and noting conversations with Vitaly Churkin.
Read at The New Yorker
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