He'd pushed for it in the United Nations, asking repetitive (they said, abusive) questions about rapes by UN peacekeepers and the UN's links to Ghislaine Maxwell, until they threw him out.

          After months trying to cover the UN from the public library on 46th Street by watching its webcasts, running out from time to time when the limousine of Secretary General Antonio Guterres and his spokesman Stephane Dujarric pulled for to stuff their faces at Artesky's Patroon restaurant across the street, Kurt had finally found a new beat.

          He had settled into covering the Federal Court downtown, trying to get along with everybody, keep his head down, only occasionally file motions to unseal exhibits, or in the DDC Capitol breach cases he covered by phones, videos of the heaving crowds on the West Terrace that January 6.

          But when in the weeks before the Ghislaine Maxwell trial the call-in line for that was suddenly cut, Kurt was like a moth to a flame. He wrote a first letter to the judge, pointing out that DDC still had call-in lines, and even some judges in the New York federal court.

          Nothing happened.

          So Kurt wrote a second letter, this times asking why the first had not been put in the docket, as more anodyne emails had been. This one went into CourtListener, along with a paragraph denying the request for a call in line, saying they were not illegal when clearly they were not.

          Kurt, being Kurt, decided to publicly disagree with a Federal judge on the way up as to what the law is.

          Would the First Amendment protect him, as it hadn't up in midtown, east of First Avenue?

* * * *

II.

          Michael Randall Long didn't care about the Ghislaine Maxwell trial. In fact, it mostly made him angry, to see the inordinate focus on his one procuring pedophile while other cases, other sets of victims, went unremarked.

          Long had a sex trafficking case, the son of a mid-level Serbian war criminal who had fallen into the entourage of the now-dead emo rapper Lil Peep and been charged with arranging the travel of eager fans from the Carolinas to the Peepster's tour bus. Across state lines, as they said.

          His client was in the Metropolitan Detention Center like Maxwell. But there were no Daily Mail interviews, no rich relatives filing complaints with the UN, no memory loss experts and team of six lawyers. There was just him, who had dozens of other cases. It pissed Long off. But what could he do about it?

III.

          Kurt was on the 4 train, earlier than usual, when he saw the Australian journalists congratulating each other. No they were not on the subway, where a carpenter forgot the carpet cutter which fell out of his back pocket against the gray plastic bench of the IRT. They were online, like everything else, sharing photos of themselves on line, or on queue as they put it, waiting to get into the courthouse.

          "One way or another we will see Ghislaine," the man who seemed to be the on-air talent tweeted. His producer retweeted it and from there is was further shared, presumably by their Aussie viewers, hungry for the nailing down of the scandal of the now-dead Epstein.

          Kurt felt himself lucky, to no longer have to wait in line. He'd done it for the first five trials he'd covered in this court, every day in fact, whether there was a trial deemed big or not. But after proving himself in this way, and publishing six and then ten stories a day about the court, he had got the in-house badge, now with the additional sticker showing that he was vaccinated. That's why he was coming at 8:30 am and not 5:30 like the Aussies.

          Kurt restarted his smart phone, now with the crack on the front glass spreading, so that it would have maximum memory when he arrived in Foley Square. Twitter had killed off its perfectly good Periscope app so Kurt no longer live-streamed. But he shot one minute video stand-up with the phone's Beauty Face setting then uploaded them from the courthouse, labeling them Vlog 1 (UN), Vlog 2, Vlog 3. He was almost like the Australian TV duo, just without the support network or the salaries.

          The subway slowed after Canal Street and pulled into Brooklyn Bridge - City Hall. Kurt got off and turned his phone's camera on, to get some B-roll of the south exit signs saying Court Houses. He pointed up at the surveillance camera over the turnstile that so many hopped.

          It was here that the skeletal man from The Bronx had been captured after writing racist graffiti on the African Burial Ground around the corner. Kurt had covered that trial, such as it was, before a Magistrate Judge who had ordered him not to publish the man's address.

          Kurt hadn't had his pass yet, and so not him computer. He went out at the lunch break and wrote a blog post about prior restraint and censorship. The Magistrate read it and relented. But she never forgot and did her best to make Kurt uncomfortable when he called to cover her cases. No action without a reaction, in journalism as in physics.

          Even at subway entrance in front of 2 Lafayette, city workers were gawking at the gawkers, the long line of people waiting to try to get into the overflow courtrooms for the Maxwell trial. Kurt took down his COVID mask and prepared to do his stand-up. He didn't want to get so close that those on line could hear him - strange, when what he said would soon be online. It was always easier to be honest, or meaner, at that distance.

          "Here we are in Foley Square," Kurt said. "People are lined up because the call in line was denied for the Maxwell trial. Even today, all travelers from South Africa and neighbors are banned from coming to New York - countries visited by Epstein's Lolita Express, with Bill Clinton and comedians aboard." Kurt paused.

          "Who's laughing now? And the United Nations? Don't get me started." He ended with that New York line, as the timer hit one minute. That was the length of a video on Instagram, one Kurt adopted as a discipline. He walked past the journalists interviewing each other, and a man ranting even then into a bullpen, seemingly with a permit to do so. Freedom isn't free, someone said. The circus had come to town.

IV.

   After a morning pissed away on jurors who wouldn't get paid for more than two week while the trial threatened to go six, and another whose spouse had surprised them with a pre-paid trip between Christmas and New Years when the trial was set to sit, finally the opening statements began.

  Assistant US Attorney Lara Pomerantz went specified, albeit with a protagonist victim with a pseudonym. Jane had been only fourteen when Ghislaine had picked her out of a summer camp and groomed her to be Jeffrey Epstein's masseuse.

   Pomerantz used the words vibrator and vagina and Kurt found himself typing then deleting them before sending out the tweet. The first began "equipment;" the second he didn't use. It wasn't that he was squeamish. He thought he might get banned from Twitter again, or locked out from his account, even thought he'd be reporting what was said in court.

   Bobbi Sternheim, the only one of Ghislaine's many lawyers who also represented clients in the crack and gun cases she and Kurt both focused on most days, in the times between one circus and the next, started with the image of Eve. Ghislaine - she called her that - was like Eve, being blamed for male bad acts.

 Kurt thought, But hadn't Eve proffered the apple? But he didn't tweet that. The Eve image, and a later comparison of Epstein to James Bond, were enough to set off some Twitter-sphere firestorm. James Comey's daughter Maurene objected repeatedly to Sternheim's trashing of the accusers, whom the government called victims, as nothing by gold diggers looking for payouts from the Epstein Fund. It was as if #MeToo had never happened, or that it's Time was up.

  Hadn't that ground been caught in scandal after Andrew Cuomo had his flame out? Kurt didn't cover these issues every day. Though he had been tracking the sex trafficking case of a Serbian nationalist's son, even asking the UN about it since the father was convicted by the UN's International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia.

  Today and every day of this Maxwell trial, he intended to email the UN questions about both cases. They could ban him from the building but not his emailed questions. These, they could just steer into spam.

   After Sternheim sat down and Kurt recorded a two minute podcast in the fire stairway outside the press room, the government put on its first witness. It was one of Epstein's pilots, Larry Visoski. He said he'd been hired by Epstein in Columbus, Ohio, which immediately had Kurt and others who replied thinking of Les Wexner. But Visoski, questioned by Maurene Comey, turned to Epstein's Manhattan mansion where, he said, he both picked up passengers' luggage and "installed video equipment."

It was the line of the day, delivered four minutes before the five pm hard-stop of the trial. Would Sternheim, or whomever did the cross examination for Maxwell, delve deeper into this video equipment, and who may have been caught on it?

Kurt thought of the UN's censor, Antonio Guterres. The fat man from Lisbon both loved the patina of an intellectual salon complete with classical music and towel-less massage, and was adept at covering up the sexual abuse of children. This was how Kurt would cover the trial, a voice amid the cacophony, a blogger at the circus. Maximum Maxwell. Maxwell to the Max.

V.

   Already by Day 2 there were fewer cameras outside the Circus Maxwellius. They had moved the line up of journalists to get into the overflow rooms around the corner, avoiding the photo angle that called into question why people would be made to queue a l'Anglaise to jam together amid COVID or Omicron travel bans.

  And so only those actually using their sticks to film stand-ups, or milling with long lens paparazzi cameras for gossip shots just of the lawyer not the defendant, since Maxwell was driving in from the MDC at dawn, remained.

  Kurt did his blurry cell phone stand up from in front of 40 Foley, being sure to mention the United Nations in the final 15 seconds of the minute, and then turned to go in. But a guy called out to him, a guy who'd DM-ed yesterday, demanding to know how he tweeted.

  "It'a mystery," Kurt said. A Maxwell miracle.

  "Mind if I record?" the guy asked. Kurt never used to ask that, in his live-stream days. He nodded, and smoothed down his hair.

  "Some people think I hate Maria Farmer," he said, jumping right into the weeds. "But I don't. I only took a screenshot of when she blocked me. It's what I learned to do at the UN, after Spokesman Steph Dujarric and then China's Ambassador blocked me. But I've come to see it's different, with a MeToo victim who now has cancer."

  "How big of you," a woman who had sidled over snarked. "You should have just taken down the tweet. You've turned your trolls on her."

  My trolls, Kurt thought. It was like they'd said at the UN, just before they threw him out. That he was bringing a bad crowd in. An eclectic basket of deplorables.

  "I said I see now that it's different, and mea culpa," Kurt said, more to the woman than the vlogger's camera.

  The woman snarked again, "Does that mean you're sorry?"

  "In Latin," Kurt said for the camera. Then he turned and jogged after a group of photographers pursuing a person he didn't recognize. Maybe it was the pilot, maybe one of Ghislaine's siblings. Maximum Maxwell indeed.

   Upstairs the pilot Visoski was winding up. Maxwell's lawyer Pagliuca - he said the G was silent, like in lasagna - had gotten the pilot to admit he never say sex acts on the plane, in which he said Bill Clinton and Donald Trump, Itzhak Perlman and Kevin Spacey had all ridden. Oh and he'd let Epstein pay for his two daughter's college and go hiking with Ghislaine.

   "But did you ever let them massage Jeffrey Epstein?" Maurene Comey asked on re-direct.

  That, he had not. He was over, as a witness. Now came Victim-1.

VI.

   Maurene Comey said to call the First Victim "Jane," so Kurt did. Jane said she'd been licking an ice cream cone at the Interlochen Center for the Arts by Traverse Michigan when Epstein and Maxwell approached her. She gave her mother's phone number and that's how they proceeded.

  Where was your father, was the question.

  He was a composer and conductor but he died of leukemia, Jane answered. His employer had canceled his health insurance without telling him.

  Now there's a crime, Kurt tweeted. Some said it was tone deaf. Probably the same ones who pushed the mandate, others replied. It emerged that Greece was fining those who wouldn't get vaccinated $115 a month.

  Jane was flown to New Mexico to the ranch, or raunch. There she was summoned to service Jeffrey and not for the first or last time.

   Comey asked, Did he used sex toys?

   Jane paused, sobbed, and said yes. Like a weapon. A large back massager.

  Kurt found his finger resisting tweeting this. But wasn't court reporting, in part, simple recording for history, in the moment, what was said? Leaving in the instances of  "Strike that" and what came after?

  How much did you get from the Victims' Fund, Comey asked, to take that off the table for the cross.

  "Five million dollars," Jane said. "But I only saw two point nine."

  No further questions.

  "You may cross examining, Ms. Menninger," Judge Nathan said. Kurt opened a Dr Pepper from the little fridge's freezer and got ready. If Team Maxwell didn't knock Jane into the mud it was all over.

  "You waited twenty years," Laura Menninger began.

 "Yes," Jane said. "Yes I did."

 "And when you told someone, it was your older sister Kamilla --"

  Kurt typed it, spelling it Camilla --

 "Objection!"

  "Come to the sidebar," Judge Nathan commanded.

  Now Kurt knew, in that split second, that there would be controversy, or really, pressure to censor. If he were honest that was why he had hit Send, or Enter, faster than he could think. Let Nathan who had cut the call-in line now order him to take down a tweet. To UNreport something said in open court.

  But it was not Nathan, at least not yet, who tried to order him.  "You're doxing the victim," Kurt was tweeted it. "Take it down now. Maxwell is using you."

  Kurt almost laughed. He recorded a weekly song, five of them so far, about how Maxwell was a pedophile. While other journalists only said that, with the solemnity of a stand-up, Kurt sang it, put it with video of Maxwell at the UN, and put it online. He wasn't serving Maxwell. He was serving the First Amendment circus, the one in exile from the UN.

   "Seriously, take it down," a guy chimed in - from Saudi Arabia, no less. Kurt checked, then checked himself before making a Jamal Khashoggi joke, sure to go over well. Jamal has been ground up by Crown Prince MBS' bone saw in the Kingdom's consulate in Istanbul. Now Saudi media, or maybe a GONGO, was ordering him what to censor. Kurt refused.

  "I'll take letter briefs on this issue tonight by 10 pm," Judge Nathan said. "We are adjourned."

   Kurt held off from doing a podcast, not wanting to talk and record for posterity, as much as it existed in the age of social media platforms for sale to SPACs, what he motives had been. He waited by the PACER terminal, half asleep, until ten pm then past it. When filing Maxwell's letter went into the docket, arguing that the government itself had elicited identifiable details like the profession of Jane's dead father, Kurt put it on his Patreon, behind a paywall.

  "You just want to make money off the victims," a professional victim-supporter tweeted at him. It was doing to be a long trial. Maximum Maxwell.

VII.

    Family still structure much of (high) society and so it was in Day 3 of Maximum Maxwell. In Judge Nathan's courtroom, where Ghislaine Maxwell sat at the extreme left of the defense table glaring at Survivor Witness-1 Jane and taking notes, her family members became more active. A brother would be holding a press conference at the end of the trial day, reporters were informed.

   Kurt was in that orbit - some said he was the only way they were getting raw information from inside the Court, the way it had used to be for him inside the United Nations before they threw him out - and so decided to post his round-up stories earlier in the day to be free to go to the presser, wherever Team Maxwell chose to hold it.

  But first came more cross examination of Jane. Laura Menninger, former prosecutor from Colorado, circles round and round asking about Jane's mother. Had she ever even applied for a scholarship from that Interlochen music school in Michigan? If not, why did Maurene Comey portray her as so poor she (the mother) should face no blame for, it was implied, pimping out her daughter to Epstein and his robot or controller Maxwell?

  Jane was near tears a few times, and Judge Nathan called a break, calling it a water break. Judge Nathan again told the jurors that they could take their own break, that their "snacks" were ready. Kurt tweeted the line, and immediately some responded how inappropriate it was, to be offering snacks amid testimony of this abuse. Bread and circuses. Maxwell Circus Maximus.

  After Jane came her ex boyfriend and still TV show partner, called Matt. He too zeroed in on family. quoting what Jane said to her mother in his presence, Why did you let this happen, the Epstein's money didn't come for free. Maxwell's lawyers repeated objected, calling it hearsay. Then when their time for cross examination can they forewent it. No cross. Maybe Matt had done no damage.

  So too the final witness of the day, a CPA for the Interlochen school, authenticating donor letters to Epstein, who named a lodge and probable rape-house on the campus for himself. It was said that Itzhak Perlman had stayed there. Oh, how he used that violin, someone snarked at Kurt. He laughed and another correspondent, corporate, hushed him. There's not enough laughter in this world.

  Kurt didn't even wait to collate his Matt and Interlochen tweets into what passed for a story before running out onto Foley Square to wait for the brother's press conference. He spoke to a vlogger from Egypt; he set up a radio interview with Las Vegas for the next day's lunch break. Then the paparazzi and TV stations from London ran around the corner onto Pearl Street. The brother was on the move. Kurt ran too.

  Imperiously the brother moved through the backlit horde, to a microphone stand suddenly set up on the Centre Street sidewalk, complete with duct tape X where to stand. "Give him room!" a handler yelled, and the crowd parted.

 The brother said that Ghislaine looked good - a strange focus, Kurt thought - and that added that the family had filed a complaint about her treatment with none other than the United Nations. Kurt, who had not planned to shout a question but only film a short video for his vlog, was beside himself.

  It was like a red flag to a bull, the kind of lure he lunged at like when the pro-UN censorship alliance held a private meeting in the UN press room and he insisted on attending and film it, until Guterres' spokesman Staphane Dujarric had him thrown out, first from his then-office in the UN then from the UN itself.

  "Has the UN answered your petition?" Kurt shouted out, after Ghislane's brother's handler had said No questions. The brother seemed to take notice and said Yes, yes they have.

  Kurt knew what his next stop would have to be. What he didn't know was what it would reveal not only about the imprisonment of Ghislaine Maxwell, but also the death of Jeffrey Epstein - and even, perhaps, the death of Ghislaine's father. It would shift from Maxwell to the Max to Maxwell the Mystery. But Kurt didn't know that yet.

VIII.

   The UN and its spokespeople wouldn't answer Kurt's questions, despite Dujarric's on-camera promise to do so. But some in the UN's orbit still would, wanting to try to avoid being the proverbial baby thrown out with the UN's dirty blue bathwater, if only on Twitter.

 So it was with the International Peace Institute across First Avenue from the UN, which Kurt had exposed (along with a Norwegian newspaper, Kurt liked to give credit to show up those he said ripped his stories off) for taking Epstein's money.

 Kurt was still invited there, using its Q&A sessions with sandwiches and sometimes sushi to ask pointed questions about Guterres. He once got former UNDP head and New Zealand prime minister Helen Clark to answer that the ban on him was an outrage. But still nothing was done.

  This time Kurt went to IPI with a clearer mission - to use his dwindling access there to delve into Epstein's UN connections, and into why Secretary General Antonio Guterres had a representative on the board of directors of Maxwell's Terramar Project.

  Was it only that both Maxwell and Guterres assisted and got a kick out of enabling those who outright raped children, like Epstein or the peacekeepers Guterres sent lawless into the Democratic Republic of Congo and Haiti? Or were Guterres' links not only with Chinese bribers, the Belt and Roadkill Kurt had traveled, but with pedophiles and Ep-well and Max-Stein even more personal than a corporate structure might show?

  Wallace Scott was a former New York Time bureau chief, whose large office on the UN's fourth floor had been next to the smaller, four media office Kurt had been assigned to, to the desk of a real reporter who had been killed in Iraq. One evening when Kurt was first digging his blog into just how corrupt the UN was, he ran into Wallace in the hallway. In a tuxedo. "It's hard to do any reporting around her," Wallace told him. "So many parties."

   It turned out, Kurt later concluded or snarked, that the real UN party was the Chinese Communist Party. And that they had gone all #MeToo too, with the disappearance and then hostage video of the tennis player. But Wallace Scott was now the spokesman for IPI, in the revolving door in which no insider ever really left the UN, the money was too good.

IX.

   Kurt waited for Wallace on the 44th Street sidewalk, where a week after he was ousted from the UN he had waited for Guterres, and the UK Ambassador now in DC, Dame Karen Pierce.

Kurt had yelled that time, How can you throw out a journalist? A question from which Guterres hurried into the black limousine he had used to drive him the half block from the UN to IPI. Dame Karen had rolled her eyes. Now the UK Telegraph and Sun were using Kurt's tweet to cover the trial of "their" socialite Ghislaine. And still Kurt was banned from the UN.

  When Wallace came out Kurt approached him.

"I'm covering the Ghislaine Maxwell trial!" Kurt called out - not really yelling, not wanting to have that effect. Still Wallace winced when he saw him.

 "So I heard," Wallace said. "Pity what's happened to Ghislaine."

 Yes, Kurt thought, Maxwell was Tuxedo Wallace's kind of people. But had Wallace like some other Big Journalists flown on Epstein's Lolita Express? He would have to check.

   "But it's Epstein I was to ask you about," Kurt continued. "Beyond Epstein's loans to Terje Roed Larsen." Terje was the former head of IPI, who made it fat with money not only from Saudi Arabia but also Epstein. The latter, he took for himself and it seemed his wife, Norway's Ambassador to the UN Mona Juul, who had criticized former UNSG Ban Ki-moon, correctly, like the Swede Ahlenius, but had gone soft or silent on Guterres, significantly worse than Ban and not only in having increased cover up of the UN's child rapes.

 "Then walk with me," Wallace said. "The wife and I have opera tickets."

 Kurt didn't know they are reopened that, even with COVID's Omicron strain on the move and flights from South Africa, like the Lolita Express, all canceled. But a walk with Wallace up First Avenue to his doorman apartment on 57th Street should give him time.

(The thought of a doorman, something Kurt as an adult had never had, reminded him of the earlier MeToo testimony of Anabella Sciorra about her building on Gramercy Park where she said Harvey Weinstein raped her. Weinstein's lawyers, setting a playbook for Maxwells, had trashed Sciorra as Valium-addled, not remembering if the doorman had let Harvey up, using the same blame the victim expert Elizabeth Loftus that Maxwell would pay to talk before Judge Nathan. Doormen, it turned out, protected you from nothing.)

What  Wallace told Kurt would have to be under embargo, or put behind Patreon's porous paywall. Click here for Patreon and more.

X.

   On the fifth day of little to no sleep, Kurt Wheelock might have nodded off but for the talk of dildos. Dildos and the Pope, and no less than Fidel Castro. Trump was hum drum by now, and even Itzhak Perlman lost his shock value. But the Pope?

  Day Five of Maximum Maxwell started simply enough, with a bureaucrats from the Professional Children's School in Manhattan and then the government's grooming expert, Doctor Rocchio. Maxwell's lawyers, of course, went after both of them. They claimed that the school application, which listed Epstein as the payer, might have been forged; they called it hearsay. But it was quickly established that it was a business record, kept in the ordinary course and relied on. Judge Nathan let it in, albeit under seal.

  Doctor Rocchio - Kurt was always suspect of experts, another way he overlapped with the deplorables - said much less than at the Daubert hearing Nathan had held, as Maximum Maxwell had gathered speed in the week before the trial itself. But Maxwell's lawyer Pagliucca used the same argument as before, that Rocchio's definition of grooming would make suspect most of what grandparents do, giving gifts and treats.

  Kurt never forgot his grandfather, when his parents were away, taking him out for steak and eggs for breakfast. Later letting him drive his rent-a-car before he had even a learner's permit. Kurt crashed it, and they switched places so as to not lose out on insurance.

  Was that a Federal crime, Kurt wondered now that he covered this courthouse every day. The concepts of wire fraud and RICO were so broad much of the U.S. economy could be hauled in her. Maybe that was Pagliucca's point. But it seemed designed to anger both grandparents, and those who had been grandchildren, which was to say, the jury.

   But then came the firework, lubed up and snarky, in the shape of Juan Alessi of Quito, Ecuador. He had been Epstein's house manager in Palm Beach and he knew where the bodies were buried. Or where the dildos were stored, as it turned out.

  It started innocently enough, with Maurene Comey asked Alessi about the layout of the house, room by room. Then Comey showed him a 58 page manual Maxwell had drawn up for staff: Don't look at Mr Epstein, don't let your pockets bulge, place new tissues and the gun by the bedside table.

 From Team Maxwell: "Objection!"

  But Comey got the document in, page by page, by asking Alessi if he recognized the content, if it refreshed his recollection. Then she asked about massages.

  Alessi said that he had to clean up afterwards.

  Maurene Comey asked, What did you find?

  An enormous dildo, Alessi answered. He had washed it off and put it where it was stored.

 And where was that, Comey asked, knowing of course the answer.

  In a big basket in Ghislaine Maxwell's bathroom, which like Epstein's came directly off the master bedroom they shared. There was some inhalation of breath in the courtroom - maybe among the jury, not described in this format - and even, Kurt noted, some laughter.

  The trial day closed with Maurene Comey asking what photos were on the walls. Not the naked pictures - those were kept in Lady Ghislaine's desk. But photos of Epstein and sometimes Maxwell with what Alessi called important people.

  Like who, Maurene Comey asked. Kurt wondered if it shouldn't be "whom."

  Alessi rattled them off: Donald Trump (the Twitter-sphere broke again, into those who said "gotcha" and those who said Don't believe the hype, this is a Comey set-up), then "The Pope, I think, Fidel Castro."

  Which one was modified by "I think"?

   Kurt tweeted it, then put it in a headline. The real stuff he would put behind a paywall, not only to try to raise funds to buy a replacement for his old phone with its cracked scream and shut down when used even for Twitter, but also to keep things he was told should not be public out of public view.

  It was near midnight when Kurt finished writing up his stories, including of some criminal cases for which there had been a call-in line but for which he hadn't had time amid Maximum Maxwell. Kurt tried to put Maxwell's Household manual up for free on DocumentCloud. But readers immediate complained they could got only to page three of 57.

  Kurt for once put the document up a second time, on Patreon, with its default paywall. And as he prepared to leave came this complaint: You mean we have to pay for it?

 Kurt saw read. Did this guy subscribe to the New York Times? To Netflix? Kurt replied that he'd said "sorry" in his re-post and had more to say but wouldn't. He resolved to put more behind the paywall, the real story of not only Maxwell but Epstein, and the UN, and how this reporting was possible. Some secrets should remain so, or at least be put behind a paywall. And so it began.  Click here for Patreon and more.