Smile, Please
by Sarah Weinman
On the last day of February, logging in to a social media site I frequent too often, a half-dozen people I follow shared the same New York Times story about the “small stable of doctors” who gave discreet and preferential treatment to Jeffrey Epstein, and to the girls and women in his orbit. I knew the story would depress me, as every story on Epstein I’ve read has done, so I avoided clicking on it for a few hours. I admire all of the journalists investigating the fallout, because reading these stories jumbled my nervous system in a way that all of my prior work as a journalist never had before.
Also, there was a niggling feeling that I could not really avoid. The enormity of the Epstein Files, and the neverending revelations erupting from three million documents dumped on the public without much in the way of vetting (or redaction), means that anyone might be connected to some degree, Kevin Bacon-style, to the dead billionaire sexual predator. I figured I’d find some connection, be disappointed, and lose whatever sliver of journalistic objectivity I might once have had into the bargain.
I just never expected my connection to come through my dentist.
Keep us breathing fire!
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