Court Adjourned, Questions Pending.
Nothing adds up—and now we’re getting out early?
I keep trying to tell myself this isn’t personal. That I’m just a journalist, a writer, an observer. But it is. I’ve spent days away from my family, sleepless nights reading court filings, digging through transcripts, chasing down names no one wants to say out loud. I want to be there. In the courtroom, in the chaos but I can’t. Not yet. So I show up like this. Because I care.
And I care not just about the victims who are finally speaking. I care about the ones who never will. The ones still locked in hotel rooms, trapped in mansions, flown across borders with no passports and no choices. The ones we never hear from. Most of all the children. Some were born into it. Others were found at malls, in group homes, in foster care. Told they were special. Promised a future. “Just take a few pictures.” And then they vanish.
The lucky ones resurface in modeling agencies run by people like Rachel Chandler or Kate Moss. The rest disappear into luxury apartments owned by Epstein, Brunel, Wexner. They are trafficked through fashion shows, yacht parties, closed-door casting calls. This isn’t a conspiracy theory. This is the business model. And it’s been working for decades.
We mock the visible ones. Justin Bieber, the Jenner sisters, like they asked for any of this. But they were born into contracts, handed off to brands, branded before they could vote. If they got chewed up on camera, imagine what’s happening to the invisible ones. The ones we never even get the chance to fail.
This isn’t just a scandal. This is a system. And this trial is just one crack in its foundation.
And yet? It’s giving press tour. It’s giving HBO limited series. It’s giving “we’ll circle back,” Jen Psaki energy, while the most vulnerable people in this story continue to suffer in silence.
Judge Subramanian: Calm, Clocked In, and Kinda Over It
He walked in that morning with headphones on, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking less like a federal judge and more like a casually overqualified grad student who wandered into the wrong building but still completely in charge. The vibe was unbothered. Efficient. Like he already knew how much of his time people were about to waste.
Before things even got rolling, the defense started pushing back on a juror who’d worked for Her Justice, trying to suggest she was too biased to be fair. Judge Subramanian didn’t miss a beat:
“Maybe the defense just doesn't like her prior employment. That’s why you have peremptory challenges.”
Dry. Surgical. No warmth. If Christina Yang were a federal judge, this would be her opening line.
But let’s be serious, this woman worked on the Fall of Diddy documentary. Like, you were in the edit bay cutting together allegations, and you thought jury duty on this exact case was an option? Be for real. That documentary made even me start questioning reality. I learned things about Diddy I hadn’t even begun to process and still haven’t. Some of it is dark. And you thought you were going to sneak onto this panel unnoticed? Lady, no.
Later, when faced with the endless parade of names tied to the case, he dropped a line that made everyone stop and stare:
“It’s like the appendices from Lord of the Rings.”
Wrong universe, right energy. Because let’s be real, this trial is pure Wonderland: too many names, half the rules, and no map. He’s the only one who seems remotely unfazed.
And then there was the Juror 317 moment. A man who casually told the court he knew Subramanian from antitrust class actions and might have worked for Diageo. The judge laughed. I did not.
And in my Carrie Bradshaw voice, I couldn’t help but wonder, what was he listening to in those headphones? A mindfulness podcast? A murder mystery? Or was it... Diddy?
Moniker Madness (And Not the Shannon Beador Kind)
At one point, things got so clumsy it felt like we were watching a Real Housewives moment but somehow less coherent, which is saying a lot. Imagine a Real Housewives dinner party, tension in the air, someone says something cryptic, and then silence. Except instead of flipping a table or screaming “prostitution whore,” everyone just stares at each other, totally confused, pretending this is normal courtroom procedure.
Judge Subramanian: “Who is the second witness?”
AUSA: “Moniker…”
And then dead air. No name. No number. No clarification. Just the word moniker, tossed out like it meant something. The courtroom paused, confused. The judge blinked and said, “Email, and copy the defense.” Translation? We’ll figure it out later. It’s not even in the docket.
Here’s what actually happened: the prosecution has been using pseudonyms to protect victims’ identities, standard in sex crime cases. But during a moment when they were supposed to clearly refer to who was coming next, they just... couldn’t. They didn’t say a name. They didn’t use a pseudonym. They just said the word moniker as if that was enough. It wasn’t. The defense looked confused. The judge looked annoyed. And everyone else just looked around, hoping someone knew what was going on.
It’s the kind of moment that seems small. Until you remember what’s at stake. This isn’t a seating chart mishap. This is a federal trial involving rape, trafficking, and organized abuse. Every victim’s identity is supposed to be protected. Every move has to be airtight. But instead, the government is fumbling basic witness coordination like it’s amateur hour.
And again, how is this happening in front of a jury? What if they had slipped and said a real name? What if someone misunderstood, like me, sitting there for a second thinking “Wait, is a Housewife about to be called?” The whole thing felt like a glitch in a script no one had rehearsed.
If this is how they’re handling witness logistics, I am terrified to see how they handle live testimony. Because the defense is watching. And they’ll exploit every slip.
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Sidebar Shenanigans: The Geragos Glitch
Let’s talk about Mark Geragos. Because even the government had enough and filed a motion asking the court to admonish him and he’s not even officially on the case. No notice of appearance. No formal role. Just vibes, podcast appearances, and a seat at the defense table next to his daughter, Teny Geragos, who is actually on Diddy’s legal team.
The prosecution didn’t mince words. They pointed out that Geragos had been making public statements about the case on his podcast 2 Angry Men, the same show where he hosted the creator of the Fall of Diddy documentary and, at one point, interviewed Teny herself. The motion cited Local Rule 23.1, which prohibits attorneys connected to a case from making public statements likely to interfere with a fair trial. And that’s exactly what they said he was doing.
He made remarks about the Intercontinental Hotel surveillance footage. He described the government’s case as “character assassination.” He even previewed the defense’s strategy on air. Saying Diddy has a temper, that drug use plays a role, but “that isn’t what he’s charged with.” Like… sir. This isn’t post-trial analysis. This is jury selection week.
And when called out, Geragos basically shrugged and said, “Well, I’m not on the record.” Not in so many words, but the energy was: If I didn’t sign in, I can say whatever I want. You cannot make this up.
The motion even referenced concerns about creating a “carnival atmosphere.” And honestly? That’s exactly what it feels like. A celebrity trial with a lawyer dad podcasting from the courthouse hallway while his daughter whispers at sidebar. It’s messy. It’s performative. And it’s reckless.
And look, I know I’ve said it before, but this is why I was against the documentaries dropping before trial. Everyone said it was about awareness. I said it was about control. And here we are: courtroom chaos, public narratives, and a defense team that can’t even keep its lawyers in line.
Midday Mystery: Why Did Court End So Early?
Things were starting to unravel. The prosecution looked scattered. Fumbling the witness sequence, confusing pseudonyms, and tripping over their own paperwork like it was opening night and no one had read the script. One moment, they didn’t even announce the next witness. They just vaguely gestured toward a name that wasn’t in the docket, whispered something off-record, and had to privately email it to the defense. In a federal trafficking trial. The vibe wasn’t just unprofessional. It was borderline theatrical. Like we were one step away from surprise celebrity testimony or a mid-courtroom plot twist.
And then court ended.
Judge: “You are all finished for the day. Do not read anything on the Internet. You may be called back for May 12.”
It was barely Wednesday. Jury selection isn’t even done. The judge has been moving this thing like it’s on rails and now we’re calling it early?
I kept refreshing, waiting for a reason. Nothing. And sure, I was grateful. I needed the nap. But it didn’t sit right. Not with this pace. Not with this case. Not when everything feels like it’s teetering just beneath the surface.
And maybe this is exactly why my husband didn’t want me coming in the first place. Because of moments like this—when court ends early without warning, and I’m left wandering around Manhattan, killing time and spending money we don’t have, chasing a story that keeps slipping just out of view.
Jurors Say the Wildest Things
Just a few of today’s standout moments from the jury pool because why not end Wednesday on a fever dream:
Juror 317 (male): “We did antitrust class actions together. I also knew former US Attorney Berman. May have worked for Diageo.”
The judge laughed. I did not.
Juror (female): “I can’t speak about sex. In school a teacher brought up blow jobs and I fainted.”
Judge: “I excuse you for cause.”
Juror 240 (male): “I saw social media, nothing too deep. A video at the hotel, that was about it. Everything is circumstantial.”
Sir, that’s called evidence.
Juror 143 (male): “I read an article going home from the courthouse. About the jury selection process.”
Judge: “You weren’t supposed to.”
At some point I stopped asking “How is this happening?” and just started documenting it like a wildlife researcher. These people are not OK. One fainted over the word “sex,” another confessed to light stalking on his way home, and someone else might be a Diageo exec. It’s giving Bravo casting call. Only none of them are holding a peach. They’re holding the future of this case.
Final Thoughts
At some point, I stopped wondering what the hell was going on, because honestly? It felt like a never-ending circus of fuckery and my brain just couldn’t hold any more. I had to move on to a different question: Will I ever actually get to go? Will I get to sit in that courtroom and watch it all unfold in real time? Watch Diddy. older, smaller, trying to disappear behind designer frames and see King Combs, the son who looks exactly like him, sitting there too? The one I haven’t had direct contact with, but who has absolutely seen the Instagram stories I’ve tagged him in.
And the things I tag him in? They’re not light. They’re not flattering. They’re the articles I write about his father, about this case, about the world he was born into. And sometimes I pause and think, Should I really be tagging him in this? But then I remind myself, he’s not just a teenager. He’s not just someone’s son. He’s part of the machine. He has his own allegations now. And I can’t help but think: like father, like son?
Diddy aka “Love,” which is honestly disgusting now knowing what we know, was always in rotation. Front and center in my fully-faced, three-piece stereo system from Best Buy. It had a CD recorder in the middle, a tape deck, and a massive pull-out carousel that held literally 100 CDs. Not an exaggeration. A full hundred. And there he was: Bad Boy Records, top shelf? 112, Mase, Faith Evans, and Puff Daddy’s No Way Out and Forever albums.
“The sun don’t shine forever, but as long as it’s here then we might as well shine together. Business before pleasure, P. Diddy and the Fam. who you know do it better?” That song? Victory? The beat was sick. I remember dancing in my room on my Nanny’s carpet like I was one of the background dancers and now I’m so grateful I wasn’t.
My mother wasn’t there. I was abandoned, cast off before I even understood what that meant. But my grandparents, especially my Nanny, tried to give me a good life. A beautiful one. Still, the dream was always there. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be chosen. I would’ve joined any band, any show, any label. Just to be seen. Probably because of the trauma. And that’s what makes it so dangerous, isn’t it?
It’s not just kids on the street. It’s not always broken homes. Some of these girls had families. They had bedrooms and birthdays and people who loved them. And they didn’t disappear. They were trafficked. Coerced. Used. Look at Cassie. She wasn’t hidden away. She was everywhere. Red carpets. Music videos. Headlines. And behind it all? She was being beaten. Controlled. Drugged. We all thought she had the dream life. Until we zoomed in and saw the bruises. The signs were there. We just didn’t know how to see them.
Better now than never? Puff and the Fam? You couldn’t tell me that wasn’t the dream.
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