effort was to identify a dozen or so promising algorithms (each quant is effectively hawking his secret sauce algorithm) and invest up to $5 million with each. I knew paltry little about this and so rather found myself identifying with the young women to whom Epstein was explaining the basic math and mechanics—out of my league, but grateful for the lesson. The Epstein house/office is, by careful design, exclusive and club like, part hang out, part secret society. Along with the difficulty in explaining why, even after his jail term, the rich and powerful have yet beaten a path to his door, it’s also notable in the fixed hierarchy of who comes to whose turf, that everybody, when they went to see Epstein, comes to him. A week in late September, U.N. week as it happened, began, on Sunday, at Epstein’s house with a colloquial for billionaires—Gates, TK, TK, TK. Epstein, preternaturally responsive to both the price of oil and to the politics of the middle of East, entertained that evening a delegation from Qatar, including Sheikh Hamad, the foreign minister. Hamad, indeed, lives across the street in a similarly furnished house—he and Epstein have the same decorator. Epstein, in his relaxed and amused demeanor, kept prodding: “Why are you financing the bad guys? What do you get out of that?” The Qatarians, in some mild diplomatic discomfort, seemed most worried that their bid for the World Cup might be compromised by bribery allegations. At 9:00 next morning, Epstein is joined for breakfast in the dining room by Reid Weingarten, who’s represented among other fat cats in trouble, Worldcom’s Bernie Ebbers and Goldman Sach’s Lloyd Blankfein. Weingarten, horse, with a cold, and dejected, is just back from a failed defense of former Connecticut Governor John Rowland. (Epstein: “You actually believe he was getting fucked?” Weingarten: “From minute one. I’m not a virgin. But his was the worst I’ve ever seen. It was like an assassination. ) After a short discussion of the Q