In the dribbling and desultory release of Jeffrey Epstein’s emails over the past few months, one question has risen above the filthy froth: why did brilliant economists, doctors, and chieftains of industry seek Epstein’s counsel and kowtow to him? Shouldn’t they have known better?
Part of the answer is simple: his infamous black book of contacts. Among a certain set—particularly the one I grew up around in Manhattan—we salivated over whose name might be tarnished next. But as it played out, the little book served as a road map of who mattered.
