Court Was Canceled, But My Inbox Wasn’t!

He mouthed, “How are you?” to a pregnant reporter!!

Yup, he sure did!

There was no court on Thursday. And I for one was very excited! My daughter wasn't feeling the best. Costume pick up for the recital was today. And of course I just wasn't feeling the day in general…

But then I got to thinking. No jury box drama. No motions, no sidebar whispers mic’d through the wrong channel. Just quiet. Technically. For inside and outside the court.

AI Dids.

If you thought the drama took the day off, though, you’d be wrong. Because while the courtroom sat still, my life turned into a full-blown subplot.

The day started a little chaotic. My teenage son didn't get up on time…of course. My daughter, trying to be tough like her dad. Wanted to go to school so bad, but I could tell she wasn't feeling the best. After arguing with her for 3 short but internally, agonizing minutes. I decided she was OK enough to brave school.

My mother's instincts have never been that good, though. Later in the day; that was confirmed again when one of the Dance Moms called me and told me that Presley wasn't feeling the best.

Mom fail. Start listening to your gut, Alice!

After everyone left in the morning though; I was reading through dockets, preparing Canva slides, and going through unread and hidden Instagram messages.

Then, I had this chilling thought, “I wonder what Dids ( I call him Dids.) is doing? He doesn’t have court today!”

A little confused. It suddenly hit me. Like a rip current. Again.

Why am I feeling sympathetic towards this man?

What the hell is wrong with me?

Some men don’t leave; they linger. In comments, in silence, in the spaces you used to feel safe. In your head.

Men whom you didn't even think had an effect on you. But they do.

Diddy has managed to leave a mark on me, and every day since the arrest.

I was a teen. Watching JLo and Diddy walk through on the VMA red carpet. Jlo. Abs tight. Like she probably has done a thousand sit-ups before she hit the red carpet. The adorable white bandana with rhinestones and her cute Sean John crop top. I was never a thin girl. So watching women like her and Christina Aguilera, I was so envious, and watching these men drool over these women? Made me want to be them even more!

I wanted to be on Diddy's arm. I wanted to be on the VMA carpets in that cute white rhinestone crop top. Proudly representing my man's label across my chest. I used to be obsessed with Diddy. Not the way tabloids throw that word around. I mean obsessed. Pictures on my walls. I wanted to be in his music videos. I wanted to be the girl he wrote songs about. I wanted the lifestyle: the mansions, the yachts, the private jets, the glam. I wanted to be chosen. I wanted to be one of the girls. I wanted to be his. I wanted to be a dancer. A singer, even though I couldn’t really sing. But I didn’t care. Because when you’re that young and he’s that powerful, the fantasy drowns out the red flags. The promises he could’ve made would’ve been enough to keep me. That’s what makes it all so dark and so devastating. Because now, I sit here writing about this with a daughter of my own, thinking about how insane it all is. Parents didn’t know back then. How could they? He was a global icon. A trusted name. Would mine have let me go to his studio? Maybe. Probably. He wasn’t just a rapper. He was a mogul. A brand. And that brand masked a monster.

Let me ask you this question? If your son was obsessed with football and Tom Brady said that he could stay with him all summer and Mentor him would you let him go?

Because let me tell you that's what a lot of parents back then thought. Famous people equal safe and security.

The internet is readily available to tell us what to believe aka ‘facts’ anytime we need it. Society is now more aware of the dangers that lurk beneath the celebrity persona.

The lore and presence he carried was magnetic. Especially for the Black community. He was proof you could come from nothing and build an empire. He gave us hope, pride, and the illusion of protection through proximity to power. But isn’t that the way it’s always been designed? To seduce us with representation while hiding exploitation in the fine print? To give us kings just long enough to crown them. Before the curtain pulls back and reveals a kingdom built on broken girls?

I wasn’t one of his girls, though. Nor would I ever be. Thank God.

The way that he left bruises on these women…Not just on their bodies, but on their egos and hearts.

I was hunted all the same. I would've been lured in by charm, captured by a myth. I believed in the story he sold. The empire he built was on charisma and fear. I didn’t need to be in his bed to feel his shadow. He tracked women like prey. Not always for flesh, but for belief. For loyalty, for silence, for power. And I gave him that, for a while. That’s the thing about men like him. They don’t always need to touch you to leave something inside you.

Lately I’ve been watching the YouTube breakdowns, listening to the podcasts, and slowly connecting the dots. Realizing in horror the kind of monster he really was. The fact that I was spared from any proximity to that world isn’t just luck; it’s divine protection. A full-blown testimony to the grace of God.

What’s wild is how invisible the danger was back then. When we’re young, we’re not trained to see the monsters. Especially not the ones in designer clothing, hiding behind hit records and VIP passes. We mistake the glamour for safety. But looking back now? It’s chilling how close the darkness really was.

At that age, I would’ve given anything to be at the VMAs. To be noticed. To be chosen. And if one of Diddy’s creepy bodyguards. Or whatever they were, like Harvey Pierre. Had he looked me in the eye and told me I was beautiful? Especially with the kind of abandonment issues and trauma I carried? I would’ve been all in. Diddy Party, male attention, and free drugs…

Yes, please.

Harvey and Dids.

That’s the terrifying part. When you grow up craving validation, you’re susceptible to exploitation. It’s not just about fame. It’s about filling a void and predators know exactly how to find girls like that. Girls like I was.

We know from the R. Kelly documentary that predators don’t work alone. They send men, grown men, to wait outside high schools and watch for vulnerability. They don’t just stumble into victims; they seek them. They scan for softness, for trauma, for the perfect combination of broken and eager. If that had been me? I would’ve been in that limo. No questions asked. And who knows where I’d be now a missing person, a prostitute, still being trafficked, or dead in a forest somewhere with nobody even knowing how I got there.

And that’s why this trial matters. Because it’s not just about drugs or money or celebrity scandal. It’s about trafficking. It’s about how young women, children in most cases. They get folded into systems of power, violence, and silence, dressed up in glitz to hide the rot. Diddy didn’t just manipulate adults. He allegedly helped engineer a machine that pulled in the vulnerable and spit out silence.

And I thank God I never got close enough to be a name on that list.

---

And then—court ended. Just like that.

There’s been a lot of talk about how no-nonsense Judge Arun Subramanian is. And he is. The man runs his courtroom like a bullet train. No delays, no fluff, no emotional detours. He speaks fast, moves faster, and makes it crystal clear: this trial will not be derailed.

Which is why Thursday felt… off.

After three days of madness, jurors fainting as a young kid over the word Blow Job, name-dropping celebrities, casually mentioning organized crime, and literally Googling the case mid-selection. Everyone expected another marathon day. Especially with jury selection still unfinished.

But instead? The judge looked out at the courtroom and said:

“You're all finished for the day. Do not read anything on the internet. You may be called back for May 12.”

And that was it? REALLY?!

No explanation. No emergency. Just a sharp dismissal, and the shuffle of confused shoes on the courtroom floor. A few glances exchanged. A handful of lawyers blinking like they'd missed a line in the script.

Why did court really adjourn early?

Was there a sealed filing? A last-minute witness issue? Something political? Something tactical? The energy shifted, and it wasn’t just me who felt it. Something’s brewing beneath the surface. You can’t run a courtroom this tightly and suddenly get casual unless you’re setting something up.

And me?

I was sitting there like a courtroom junkie being told the tap ran dry. No filings. No updates. No Instagram Stories of defense attorneys trying to delay the inevitable. Just... silence.

I didn’t have enough of my fix. I was still hungry. Still hungry for the next strike, the next crack in the mask, the next name that slips.

Who will it BE?!

The final stage of jury selection will take place on Friday at 9 a.m., where legal teams will select 12 jurors and six alternates from a pool of 45. Additionally, a court reminder was issued regarding obligations under Local Rule 23.1, and a motion at ECF No. 319 was ordered to be terminated by Judge Arun Subramanian on March 8, 2025.

Click the Banner.

Diddy docket today:

Local Rule 23.1. The Court reminds all parties, and Mr. Geragos, of their obligations under Rule 23.1. Terminate the motion at ECF No. 319. SO ORDERED. (Signed by Judge Arun Subramanian on 3/8/2025)."

And that’s when the drama slid into my DMs—not from the courtroom, but from Jessica Reed Kraus’ husband.

Because of course it did.

Why wouldn't my day go without some mental test from God?

Ya know…

---

Latex Queens

While I was trying to study up on one of the most high-profile sex trafficking trials of our time! This man, this grown-ass man, married, father of 4 boys, was in my DMs trying to go back and forth with me like a spoiled fucking Serena Vanderbilt. Emotional. Desperate to get the last word.

"I do tag, you do it for likes. YIKES! I drop receipts but you chase the hype."

Okay maybe those aren't the exact lyrics but…

This is what he said: “Jessica would never associate with someone like me.”

And I couldn't help but Wonder…( In my Carrie Bradshaw voice.)

Really? I co-hosted a podcast on your wife's substack SIR?! Still on her page, btw!

I worked with Emilie. The same Emilie Jessica later doxxed and publicly accused of having an Adderall addiction.

Jessica reposted my work multiple times.

She didn’t have a problem until I stopped playing her game and so did everybody else.

I admired her once. Thought she stood for something. Thought she was fighting for truth, for justice, for women. And maybe part of her was but the rest? The rest was mean. Manipulative. Power-hungry. She doesn't want a movement. She wants a spotlight.

She just wanted to make it big. To go viral. Probably like everybody does…let’s be real.

Even I would love to have a huge platform. A voice. For people to actually listen when I speak. And I’m not perfect. I go back and forth sometimes because I believe in the truth. But what I would never do is this:

I would never turn my back on the people who helped build me. Nor would I send my husband to do my dirty work.

The people who spent time away from their families, their relationships, their lives. To help her. To believe in her. And for what? To be discarded. Disrespected. Gaslit. Like the only time she was happy was when her wine glass was full and her Substacks were popping.

Once you really learn who she is, how two-faced she is, how quick she is to cancel paying subscribers, how fast she turns on the people who helped lift her. You can’t unsee it. She’s not leading anything. She’s stepping on people to climb.

And Mike? And his Joe Goldberg ways; stalking my life today… what the fuck is up with that?!

This man out here following latex fetish pages, furry porn accounts, and “Divorce for Men is Hard” really had the nerve to come for me over follower count. Told me his dogs could get more followers in a day than I have right now.

Cute.

Half the reason anyone even knows your name is because you ride your wife’s coattails like it’s a job. And the rest? Comes from pretending you’re some kind of rugged, hands-on guy—when really, you spend your nights following trans content and trolling stay-at-home mothers who are just trying to make a living. Or maybe just a little extra cash to support their families. Kind of like your wife started out doing, before she sold the whole thing for status and clicks.

Your comment tantrum? Your string of clown emojis? That didn’t humiliate me. It boosted my numbers.

So thank you, Mike.

For the traffic. For the screenshots. For proving exactly who you are and who your wife is.

And humbly, you were right.

Your petty, attention-starved ego actually did help me.

I’ve got the screenshots of you saying you “wanted to help” obviously sarcastic. But the thing is?

It worked.

My story views spiked. I gained a few thousand followers. And sure, that might not mean much to you but for someone who’s rebuilding, who lost her platform, who’s just trying to get back on the radar?

Sorry not sorry...

It means everything.

You told me I’d never amount to your wife.

That no one knows who the f*** I am and never will.

But riddle me this, Mike:

Who the f* are you?**

You’re not the main character.

You’re not even in the credits.

And one day your sons will Google you.

Let’s hope they never scroll far enough to see what you were really doing!

---

What’s Coming Monday

I slept great last night.

And honestly? I don’t know why.

My nerves should be wrecked. I’ve been bugging my husband about going to the trial—even though I know that’s not a realistic option. The money. The logistics. The timing. It’s stress for both of us.

But still. I keep pushing.

Because the truth is… I’m scared to miss it.

Not just the trial.

The opportunity.

And I think that’s always going to be on my heart.

The idea that maybe, just maybe, someone might notice me. That all of this work, all of these words, might finally matter to someone who could open a door. Maybe it’s an article. A chance. A real paycheck. Even if it’s just a few pennies a word, like Carrie had at Vogue.

Because that’s what this has always been about.

Helping my husband.

The man who has always worked so hard for me, for our kids, for this life.

And I’m so grateful to live it. To be a stay-at-home mom. Because let’s be real… I don’t think I have the mental capacity to work a 9-to-5 job. And the fact that he’s okay with that? That he supports that?

It speaks volumes.

I just want to give a little of that back. I want to show him I can do this. That I am doing this.

And so yeah… maybe that’s why I finally slept.

Maybe it wasn’t peace. Maybe it was purpose.

Because something’s coming.

Final jury selection starts at 9 a.m. sharp.

Twelve jurors. Six alternates. No more pre-screening. No more filters.

Because beneath all the headlines, all the strategy, all the courtroom theater, are the victims.

Some we know. Most we don’t.

People who’ve waited a years to be heard. Who were silenced, dismissed, buried by power and money and NDAs.

People who are still healing.

Still hiding.

Still hoping this moment means something.

This trial isn’t just about Sean Combs. It’s about all of them.

The ones who ran. The ones who stayed. The ones who didn’t survive.

It’s about pulling something that was kept in the dark for decades into the light and asking the world to look at it, really look, and not look away this time.

1 John 3

Because for every man with power like Diddy, there are smaller versions of him walking among us.

Men who weaponize humiliation. Men who mock women when they start telling the truth.

Some of them hide behind fame. Others just hide behind their wives.

So yeah. Final jury selection is at 9 a.m.

And I’ll be watching. Closely.

For them. For us. For all of it.

---

Thank You…Next.

And before I go, I just want to say thank you.

Truly.

Not just for caring about the case or the peopleat the center of it but for caring about me. For sticking up for me when not a lot of people ever have. For showing up when it would’ve been easier to scroll past.

You’re helping me rebuild.

You’ve given me back something I didn’t even know I lost my voice, my fire, my place in this conversation.

And I hope deeply I’m making you proud.

For live updates on the Diddy trial tomorrow, follow me on Instagram @AliceRedpill12. I’ll be there. Minute by minute. Quote by quote. You’ll hear it all.

And don’t forget my new podcast, Alice Uncoded. Combs Confidential: The Weekly Wrap-Up, drops this Sunday.

The headlines won’t tell you everything.

But I will.

Also I want to hear your opinions!! Would you let your kid be mentored by a famous athlete or musician or artist in the world right now?

Comment below!!