Goodbye Jeffrey (Epstein)
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Life Lessons, Prison, Jeffrey Epsein, Life, Paul Manafort

If you’ve never been to prison, let me give you a hint. It’s a really strange place for a “civilized” inmate. Especially when you miss the train to Camp Cupcake and end up in a shithole like MCC federal prison — surrounded by a division of drug and gun slingers.

Generally tax fraudsters like me get locked up with other white collar criminals. But because I suffered a pending state charge (in addition to the federal one) and would have to make appearances in State court — and was a local with a “short” sentence (a year and a day), the Federal Bureau of Prisons parked me 300 yards from that New York State court — at the aforementioned MCC.

I tell y’all this because finding friends with whom to relate on any intellectual or spiritual level was probably the worst part of prison.

And while Paul Manafort (my 5th celly) wasn’t exactly my style, and Jeffrey Epstein was addicted to having sex with teenagers, they at least had some gray matter between their ears.

A breath of fresh air is all relative when you’re incarcerated in a prison with no “yard” — literally and figuratively.

And so with the exception of just two or three inmates during my entire stay, Manafort and Epstein were really the only two guys I could stand being around for more than a few minutes. (Actually, that’s not entirely true. I liked the Mexican dishwashers down on kitchen duty.)

Manafort was my celly. We lived in 70 square feet together. Hence, we were able to spend too much time in each other’s company. But Epstein was different. With the exception of the first day or two of his incarceration, Jeffrey was either in the SHU (special housing unit — protective custody) or a suicide watch cell because after a few days locked up in solitary, Jeffrey decided he might be better off dead than alive.

In total, Jeffrey spent two or three weeks in a suicide cell (he bounced back and forth). And I, as inmate companion coordinator (another of my prison jobs), made out the schedule to which all suicide watchers were subjected. I say “subjected” because there were times I had to assign inmates 3 AM shifts when I didn’t have enough “watchers” to accommodate their wishes.

But I digress. I made the schedules. And because I worked in the kitchen from 1 PM — 7 PM, I assigned myself the 7 PM suicide watch — so I could a) keep myself out of the unit where I really didn’t like to be…and b) hang out with my boy Jeffrey.

Because we were almost the same age, same religion, and grew up within a few miles of each other, Jeffrey and I had a lot in common. In fact, the first words out of my mouth when I first met him were (to the best of my recollection) “my name is Mersey. I’m here on a tax fraud charge for not paying my fair share on money I earned running an adult advertising agency for New York prostitutes. You don’t have to worry about me. I have my own money. I don’t need yours.”

After that overture, I quickly became his favorite inmate. “Mersey! You coming back tomorrow, right?” he asked once or twice when I left at the end of my four hour shift watching him. During one of the probably 10 or so 4 hour shifts I spent watching Jeffrey, an inmate named Lopez (another suicidal prisoner who was in the cell next to Jeffrey’s) told me that earlier in the day, the shrinks had visited Jeffrey and he’d requested me as his bunky. (Jeffrey was convening with his lawyers at the time Lopez old me this and wasn’t in his cell.)

I was his salvation in the inmate community. And once my rocket scientist friend had gone home (yes, I had a fellow inmate at MCC with a PHD in Astro-physics from Berkeley), I was really hurting for anybody to talk to. Jeffrey became my salvation as well.

Sometime in early August of 2019, I heard from the psychs that Epstein was going back to the SHU the next day. And I knew that night might be the last time I’d ever see him. He knew it as well. As soon as I sat down at my post, Jeffrey sat up and asked “Mersey! You need any money?”

Somewhat startled at his question, I managed to respond “I could always use money from a billionaire.” He laughed and answered “spell your last name and give me your reg number and I’ll put some money on your books.” (This could be done via his lawyer.)

I can’t remember what we talked about that night. But at 10 PM, Epstein excused himself to pass out (which was his usual routine. Come around 10 PM, he’d lie on his back with a sock over his eyes and be snoring within two minutes.) There was only one suicidal inmate that night. And once Jeffrey fell out, it was just me all alone with my thoughts.

Realizing I might never see Jeffrey again, I wrote him a note ridden with cliches along the lines of “one step at a time,” and “day be day,” et al, and slipped it under his door. I wanted him to feel he still had a friend in spirit — if not in his immediate vicinity.

The next day, Jeffrey was placed back in the SHU and we heard nothing until about a week later when at the usual time our cells would be unlocked and the boys would line up for breakfast, we were informed “you guys are locked in. Epstein killed himself and there are federal gents all over the building.”

I was at once stunned, saddened, and angry that because Jeffrey had “hung up,” I was now stuck in my cell and eating bologna sandwiches for the duration. Well…what can I say? Another day at MCC federal prison — but this one without the expectation that I might see my buddy ever again. And no, he never put money on my books…if you were wondering.