Explained : Epstein’s Shadow, Trump’s Method, and the Politics of Intimidation and Its Impact

By Kenneth Tiven

Jeffrey Epstein cultivated the image of a mathematical prodigy with rare financial skills. In reality, he built something far more sinister: a private sexual network designed for rich and powerful men who understood one thing clearly—exposure would mean reputational suicide. Silence was the price of admission.

The forced release of Department of Justice materials—emails, text messages, videos, and still images—has ignited a bonfire of despicable behaviour across political and business elites. Many now claim ignorance of Epstein’s criminal enterprise. The files do not directly confirm acts of child rape by named individuals, but serious journalists are doing what institutions have often failed to do: connecting dates, travel records, and associations.

The New York Times identified more than 5,300 files containing over 38,000 references to President Donald Trump, his wife, Mar-a-Lago, and related terms across government records and communications. The sheer volume is staggering. Other prominent figures—domestic and foreign—appear repeatedly as well. Britain’s Prince Andrew lost his royal titles and housing over his associations with Epstein, underscoring how devastating proximity alone can be.

Mainstream media outlets tread carefully through this reputational minefield, wary of defamation lawsuits. Yet, the material is saturated with insinuation. Casual emails and texts—sent rapidly, without the deliberation once required by handwritten letters—now form a permanent digital archive. The internet does not forget.

Todd Blanche, the deputy US attorney general, has reiterated the administration’s position that no credible evidence warrants further investigation into Epstein’s network. Yet, Blanche also stated that the DOJ would not release any Epstein files depicting “death, physical abuse, or injury”—a curious caveat that raises more questions than it answers. Blanche’s loyalty appears more valued than his legal acumen, fitting a long-standing Trump preference for lawyers who do not contradict him.

The files—unevenly redacted—are peppered with references to Trump, who maintained a close friendship with Epstein until the early 2000s. Trump has consistently downplayed their bond, particularly their shared pursuit of young women, while denying any wrongdoing. Notably, none of the files contain direct communications between Trump and Epstein. Still, Trump is one of several prominent men included in an FBI summary of “salacious information,” compiled last year. Trump insists the files “absolved me.” Denial, after all, is a learned skill.

In 1973, Trump and his father hired Roy Cohn to fight a racial discrimination lawsuit involving their rental properties. While other lawyers urged settlement, Cohn advised a different strategy: never admit guilt, attack the accuser, and turn the tables on the Justice Department itself. Trump countersued for $100 million, proclaiming innocence. The case dragged on for 22 years before ending with a settlement requiring the Trump Organization to treat all tenants fairly—without admitting wrongdoing.

Cohn’s philosophy became Trump’s reflex. It persists today, from threats to sue comedians over jokes to routine claims that investigations vindicate him regardless of their substance.

Roy Cohn was a ruthless political tactician. Stephen Miller—Trump’s most ideologically rigid adviser—plays a similar role now, cloaked in legal language while functioning as a theorist of domination. Miller has openly argued that “using brute force is Trump’s preferred way in a world governed by power”. As a policy and homeland security deputy, Miller exerts outsized influence over the Justice Department and appears comfortable with retribution, humiliation, and coercion as tools of governance.

Social media supercharges this approach. Fact-free rage spreads faster than rebuttal, and repetition substitutes for truth. Trump routinely claims economic triumphs that do not exist, foreign policy victories that never happened, and international endorsements that were never given. Many supporters accept these assertions uncritically. Yet cracks are appearing.

Ten days ago, a Texas county Trump carried by 17 points in 2024 flipped dramatically. Despite massive spending, a long time local Republican official lost by 14 points to Democrat Taylor Rehmet, a machinist and union leader. Hispanic voters—once reliably Republican there—shifted decisively, driven by fear and dissatisfaction with Trump’s immigration and economic policies. A deep-red county edged towards purple and blue, hinting at broader possibilities for November’s congressional elections.

Immigration, in this context, functions less as policy than as pretext. It provides cover for dismantling constitutional protections and replacing them with a control apparatus intolerant of dissent. The overtones echo 19th-century America. Conservative institutions such as the Heritage Foundation, enraged by Trump’s 2020 loss, spent four years crafting Project 2025—a deliberately vague 900-page blueprint to remake the United States into a white, conservative, Christian fundamentalist state should Republicans regain the White House.

Domination is the sedative Trump and Miller believe produces submission most efficiently. This worldview mirrors Trump’s business history: repeated bankruptcies driven by impulsive, punitive decision-making. After narrowly regaining power, Trump accelerated institutional disruption, drawing inspiration from Hungary’s Viktor Orbán—yet rejecting Orbán’s incrementalism in favour of spectacle and shock.

Intimidation has become explicit policy. The administration suggested that federal troops would withdraw from Minnesota if the state surrendered its voter data—an illegal exchange under state law. Elections in the US are run by states, not a national authority. The proposal risked undermining electoral integrity, yet Trump insists—without evidence—that Democratic states routinely cheat.

As ICE operations escalate, the central question remains: what is the strategy? Was the goal to shock opponents into submission? Minnesota communities responded not with panic, but with civic resistance. The administration appeared unprepared for citizens standing their ground. There was no backup plan—because there was no plan. Only intent.

Now the stakes are higher than in 2020. Legal exposure looms for many who cannot imagine relinquishing power. If Republicans lose Congress, will they reject the results in a mid-term replay of January 6?

Economist and political writer Paul Krugman offers a stark warning: “Call me alarmist, but remember: The alarmists have been right, and the people telling us to calm down have been wrong, every step of the way.”

—The writer has worked in senior positions at The Washington Post, NBC, ABC and CNN and also consults for several Indian channels