Epstein’s 40-room Beaux Arts 51,000 square feet townhouse was located at 9 East 71^st Street (below), just off Fifth Avenue, and it was manifestly the largest on the block, its nine stories towering above the rest of the street’s four- and five-story townhouses.
    Word was that Leslie Wexner had given him the mansion outright in 1996.  In 2000 Ghislaine Maxwell moved into a 7,000 square foot townhouse ten blocks away (below), purchased for $4.95 million by an anonymous limited liability company located at the address of J. Epstein & Co.
       Katie was asked to call Maxwell from outside the mansion’s door, and when she did, the 15-foot oak door buzzed and opened, where a black-coated, white-gloved manservant received her cordially and said, “Ms. Maxwell will be right down.”
       It was a wait of just a few minutes, giving Katie the time to look around the vast entrance hall.  The mansion had previously been the Birch Wathen private school, and though Katie was amazed at Vanity Fair’s description of its décor, she was unprepared for the bizarre contrast of a proper private school’s lingering ambiance and the arrant eccentricity of how Epstein had transformed it. Where framed paintings of former school deans had once hung, now there were rows of framed glass eyeballs, manufactured in England for soldiers who’d lost theirs. There was a larger-than-life-size mural of Epstein himself in a prison yard.  Most astonishing of all was a lie-size doll of a woman hanging from a chandelier, and a painting of Bill Clinton, just one year out of the White House, wearing a dress. 
       Katie was looking around for hidden video cameras she assumed were everywhere, when Maxwell appeared at the top of a grand circular staircase and descended with an outstretched hand.
       “I’m Ghislaine,” she said, “May I call you Katie? Jeffrey’s waiting for us upstairs. Have you had lunch?”
       Katie said she hadn’t, and Maxwell responded, “Good, Jeffrey’s just about to, although he calls lunch ‘tea.’ He doesn’t drink wine or liquor, you know. Just a lot of Earl Grey tea.”
       Maxwell, 40, was about five-four, dark eyed, neither slender nor stocky, with a shaggy bob she’d apparently had for years. Katie thought her handsome rather beautiful and saw a little of her father in her face, which seemed openly friendly with a touch of British reserve. She wore pale pink lipstick but little make-up. She had on black slacks and black blouse that Katie figured was either Bill Blass or Anna Sui.
       The two women climbed the stairs—“This is how I get my exercise,” said Maxwell—and entered a room lined with cordovan-colored fabric, the chairs done in a leopard print. On one wall was an intimidating painting of a woman with an opium pipe sitting atop a snarling lionskin. Next to a table lamp was a copy of the Marquis de Sade's The Misfortunes of Virtue. The room had no smell whatsoever. It was also as neat as a pin that had been honed to a fine point.
       Epstein, dressed in his daily uniform of tight bluejeans and a blue denim shirt, rose from a leather couch and put out his hand. “Come in, have a seat. May I call you Katie? I’m having some sandwiches sent up, if that’s okay.”
       Epstein, just shy of 50, about six-feet tall and fit, looked like a cross between Ralph Lauren and Burt Bachrach, with the same salt-and-pepper hair and easy grin.
       “So, tell me a little bit about yourself while we eat, then we’ll do the interview,” he said, although Katie knew he had already been well informed about her background and career. Katie made short work of the details of her life, as the tray of sandwiches and Earl Grey tea was set down on a coffee table inlaid with Chinese animal figures.
       “I hear you’re a tough investigator. Even almost got killed a few times while on a story.”
       Katie wasn’t going to say anything cliché-ed like “It’s all in the line of duty,” instead just nodding and saying, “I came close a couple of times.”
       “And Ghislaine tells me you want to talk about the bid for New York Magazine.”
       “I assume you’ve already seen my questions, as agreed?”
       “Oh, yeah, pretty straightforward. Shall we go into my office?”

    Epstein’s office ran the entire width of the house, with a gilded desk once owned by JP Morgan, a grand Steinway piano on top of which was set a stuffed black poodle; a Persian rug covered the  length of the vast room. The desk was clear of any items except copies of McClure’s in a neat pile. There were no computers anywhere to be seen, but Katie knew she was being filmed and recorded. There were, though, photos on the walls, dozens of them, most black and white, of people most New Yorkers, even most Americans, would instantly recognize, including Clinton, George Stephanopoulos, Woody Allen, Harvey Weinstein, Donald Trump, Katie Couric, Rupert Murdoch, Angus Pierce, Richard Branson (below), England’s Prime Minister Tony Blair, Prince Andrew and  Saudi Arabian crown prince Mohammed bin Salman.  In some of the photographs many of them had their arms around very young, very beautiful women. The room was so long, Katie couldn’t even see the photos hung past its middle. Katie was dying to ask about them all but her agreement and the time available to her precluded that from happening.
    “So,” said Epstein, turning up his palms. “Let’s get started. I figure we’ll be finished in what, thirty, forty minutes?”
      “If that’s what you give me, fine, as long as I can get back to you with some follow-up questions.”
        Epstein nodded and said, “As long as they fall within the subject of New York Magazine, fine.”
        Katie unfolded her notebook and asked, “Mind if I use a recorder?”
        Epstein nodded. “No, as long as you shut it off if I say something’s off the record.”   
        “Assuming you’ll tell me it is off the record before you say it, sure,” citing standard reportorial rules. She clicked on the small recorder, having tested it while waiting for Maxwell.
        “Got it. Not my first interview,”  said Epstein,  not smiling.   
        “So, what’s your interest in buying New York Magazine? As a good investment?”
       “It could be, if handled right, which it isn’t right now. It’s losing money and readers, becoming irrelevant and doesn’t cater to the people who really make this city the powerhouse it is. It’s like this iconic property that nobody talks about anymore. It’s gotten old.”
        “Do you have any publishing experience in that way?” asked Katie.
       “Not really, but I can always hire people who do.”
       “You mean, do what you want?”
       “I didn’t say that. I’d be a hands-off publisher, except to provide the direction I think the magazine should go in.”
       “Which is what?”
       “Younger, hipper, more downtown. As it is, New York doesn’t give a fuck what’s going on south of 42^nd Street except for some Soho art galleries and restaurants. But that’s where the action is now. Look, there’s so much development going on down there that the bohemians have been driven out. Always happens that way. There’s nothing for the Village Voice to write about anymore. All the hippies either died out or sold out and now live in million-dollar lofts and go to gallery openings.”

                       Eden House of Art Soho

          Katie was puzzled at Epstein’s interest in a “scene” he himself was said never to frequent.
         “Do you spend a lot of time downtown?” she asked.
       “Not really, but I have lots of friends in that scene—artists, fashion people, models, and, of course, developers and investors who are putting big money into downtown.”
       “If that’s the case, I’m curious as to why you don’t choose to live down there .”
       Epstein waved his arm and said, “Katie, look around you. Could I live anywhere else better than I do here? I have some getaway homes, too, I invite my friends to. What, am I gonna live in some 10,000 square foot loft with a freight elevator in TriBeCa?”
       “I know you’re a rich man, but the selling price for New York is rumored to be around $40 million. Do you have that kind of money to invest?”
       “Some of it, but no one uses his own money if he can use other people’s.”
       “You mean the banks?”
       “I don’t like to go through banks,” he said. “Too much bullshit and red tape. I have a lot of wealthy friends who would kill to own a piece of New York.”
       “Why?”
       “First of all, they do hope to make money, or at least get a tax advantage from it in the first few years. But, let’s face it, New York is a trophy in the media world, even if it loses money. Own a piece and you get access, meet glamorous and powerful people. It’s not like buying The Atlantic or Harper’s. And Si Newhouse owns all the Condé Nast magazines like Vogue and Vanity Fair, so they’re not going to be on the block any time soon.”
       Katie asked his opinion of the other announced bidders.
       “Pelts and Wasserstein are investment bankers. I’m not sure why they’d want to own a magazine unless it was to use it as leverage  to buy everything Henry Kravis owns.”
       Kravis’s company K-III Communications Corporation (later changed to Primedia) had gone on a media buying spree in the ‘90s, acquiring Macmillan Book Clubs, nine magazines from Murdoch’s News Corporation, including New York, Daily Racing Form, Soap Opera Weekly and Seventeen, World Almanac from Scripps Company, Cahners Consumer Magazines, including Pro Football Weekly and more. Now, he was hurting for money.
       “What about Donny Deutsch?” asked Katie.
       “I haven’t a clue. Donny doesn’t have that kind of money. It would help his ad sales if he could get the magazine.”
      

                        Mortimer Zuckerman and Arianna Huffington

       “Pierce?”
      “Ha,” laughed Epstein. “Angus would just love to own what Murdoch had already sold. Those two guys loathe each other, and while Rupert was living a wild life back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, Angus was living in some South African backwater. Angus now has the money to live large and does so. I think he’d like to have his own modeling agency.”
       “Zuckerman?”
       “I love Morty. Very ambitious, can afford to lose millions just to gain access to society and power. He thinks he’s a kingmaker.”
       “And what would owning New York do for him?”
       “Off the record?”
       “Off the record.”
       “Morty’s an ugly little man. He wants to hobnob with the beautiful people. He’s a little too old to get down and dirty, but he loves being seen with a super model on his arm at the Met Gala and have people like Anna Wintour and Arianna Huffington over to dinner. The Daily News has been hemorrhaging money since he took it over. He’d have to unload that before buying New York.”
       “Weinstein? Back on the record?”
       “Off the record, he’s another very ugly little man who has a lot of piss and bile in him. Very antagonistic guy. On the record, he’s a genius at picking the right properties as hit movies. He’s mostly in L.A. but spends a lot of time here. If he gets New York, he’s going to turn it into a fanzine like People or InStyle.”
       “Didn’t he try that with Talk Magazine that Tina Brown edited?”
       “Yeah, poor schmuck. Harvey lost about $50 million on that disaster. I’m surprised he’d be tempted again.”
        Maxwell nodded to Epstein. He looked at his Breitling watch.
       “Hey, I’m sorry, Katie. I’ve got an appointment in ten minutes. You got everything you need?”
       “Pretty much so. So, I can follow up if I need anything?”
       Epstein said, “Just call Ghislaine. She’ll set it up.”
       With that he rose from his chair and put out his hand.
       “If I buy New York, you’ll be the first to know. How’s that?”
       Katie knew it was a bullshit promise, but thanked him and left the huge room as Epstein hit a button on the phone. Maxwell shut the door behind them and brought Katie to the front door, where the manservant was standing.
       “Let me know what you need,” said Maxwell. “I’ll see what I can do.”
       Katie thanked her and exited onto the sidewalk, whose tree leaves were just about finished for the season.