Ghislaine Maxwell

“"Hello," the woman says warmly. She looks to be in her late 30s, and her British accent reminds me of Mary Poppins. I couldn't tell you which designers she's wearing, but I bet her purse cost more than my dad's truck. The woman extends her manicured hand for me to shake. "Ghislaine Maxwell," she says, pronouncing her first name "Giilen". I point to my name tag. "I’m Jenna," I say, smiling like I've been told to smile. The woman's eyes alight on my book, which I've jammed with sticky notes. "Are you interested in massage?" she asks. "How wonderful!"”

“As a fresher I wandered into Balliol JCR one day in search of its subsidised breakfast granola-and-Nescafé offering and found a shiny glamazon with naughty eyes holding court astride a table, a high-heeled boot resting on my brother Boris's thigh. She gave me a pitying glance but I did manage to snag an invite to her party in Headington Hill Hall—even though I wasn't in the same college as her and Boris. I have a memory of her father, Bob, coming out in a towelling robe and telling us all to go home.”

“Ghislaine controlled the girls. She was like the madam. She was like the nuts and bolts of the sex trafficking operation ... to make sure that the girls were doing what they were supposed to be doing... She knew what Jeffrey liked. She worked and helped maintain Jeffrey's standard by intimidation, by intimidating the girls, so this was very much a joint effort."”

“I don't recognise that picture and I don't believe it is a real picture. There's so many things wrong with it. There is no original and there isn't a true picture and there are that many other things besides that I cannot hardly get into . . . I don't know how many points there are, but there are over 50 problems with the picture.”

“It looks real. I think it is.”