Frank Black. Freak Offs. Federal Agents.
I was running on fumes yesterday. The kids had their last week of school. I had a house to clean. I spent half the day scrubbing paint out of the carpet and glitter off the walls. Meanwhile court let out at three o’clock which apparently is just how things go in federal court. That would’ve been helpful to know before I built my entire week around a full trial day.
Somewhere between Clorox wipes and existential dread I realized I had missed one of the wildest pieces of testimony so far. Diddy was using the name Frank Black. Not for hotel check-ins or fake Instagram accounts. For prescriptions. On paper. In pharmacies. Frank White was Biggie’s persona. Frank Black was Diddy’s DIY version. It wasn’t an alias. It was an identity. And nobody batted an eye.
We’re not just dealing with power and abuse. We’re dealing with delusion. And yesterday’s testimony only made it more obvious. Let’s get into the mess.
I Plead the 5th
George Kaplan walked into court yesterday and made it clear from the jump. He was pleading the Fifth. Not just once. Not selectively. He was invoking his right to remain silent across the board. Before lunch, he told the court he wasn’t answering questions. Not about Diddy. Not about the abuse. Not about anything.
This was supposed to be one of the government’s star witnesses. Kaplan wasn’t just an assistant. He was in the room. He helped coordinate logistics. He witnessed the aftermath. He saw what happened between Combs and multiple women including Kathy. He had the text messages to prove it.
So when he refused to testify, the government pivoted fast. They offered him immunity. By the time court resumed, Kaplan was back. And this time, he talked.
He confirmed what many suspected. His job was never just booking flights or managing schedules. It was prepping hotel rooms with liquor, Gatorade, baby oil, condoms, and candles. It was picking up MDMA. It was making sure no one saw what they weren’t supposed to. He once found a brown crystallized powder on the bathroom counter of a hotel. He didn’t test it. He cleaned it. Because that’s what you do when the image matters more than the truth.
Kaplan also said he was constantly threatened with being fired. That he felt trapped. That working for Combs meant living on edge. His testimony wasn’t theatrical. It was clinical. And that’s what made it brutal. He wasn’t describing one incident. He was outlining a routine.
The Raid That Missed a Mansion
Then came Special Agent Gerard Gannon from Homeland Security. The man who led the raid on Diddy’s Star Island mansion in March 2024. He testified about what they found and why they were there. The jury heard about weapons. Sex toys. Designer boots stuffed with cell phones. Over a thousand bottles of baby oil. MDMA. Cocaine. Ketamine. Ecstasy pills with Tesla logos stamped on them like a luxury brand endorsement for federal charges.
But here’s the part that’s not sitting right with me.
Star Island isn’t just home to one Diddy property. There are two. And federal agents only raided one of them.
Let that sink in. One house was hit. The other, untouched.
And just a few weeks later, King Combs, Diddy’s son, drops a song with lyrics that couldn’t have been more direct if he faxed them to the prosecution. He rapped:
“Knock these doors down like them feddy boys running both our cribs. Too bad they ain’t know we bought the one next door cause that’s the one missed.”
That’s not just a flex. That’s a confession. That’s a digital smirk in the face of a federal investigation. And if the agents missed the other property because the paperwork didn’t list it or the purchase was hidden under a shell company or someone’s name got conveniently scrubbed from the records, then this raid wasn’t just incomplete. It was compromised.
Gannon gave the jury a full inventory of what they did seize. But no one asked about what they didn’t. And that silence speaks louder than the Tesla pills.
EXHIBIT B: Lube, Labels, and Luxury Delusion
Presented in open court, by your friendly neighborhood federal agents
Let’s talk about the exhibits. Because nothing screams “this is normal” like dozens of bottles of Astroglide, Johnson’s baby oil, and an entire woven basket full of lube stacked like a Costco endcap for freak-offs.
This wasn’t a drawer. It was a stockroom.
And right next to the lubrication depot? A towering orange box of EuroGas-branded nitrous oxide, aka laughing gas, aka what you absolutely shouldn’t be inhaling during sexual assault. But this is Diddy’s world. Consent is negotiable. Party favors are industrial.
Then there’s the bathroom — marble walls, glammed-up counter, and on the mirror in red marker, the kind of phrases you’d expect from a hostage letter.
“What do you WANT?”
“(Didds)YOU!!!”
“You a legend keep going”
Affirmations or manipulation tactics. You decide.
Move a little to the side and you get the sex kit deluxe. Ropes, glass heels, restraints, lingerie, and a copy of WhipSmart Heartbreaker. Of course it’s neatly boxed. Abuse is always better when it’s curated.
But then came the real twist. The meds.
One bottle stood out more than anything else.
Name on the label: Frank Black.
Prescription: Clonazepam. From Walgreens.
This is how you know it wasn’t just an alias for show. Diddy was living as Frank Black. Filling scripts under it. Masking a legal trail under a persona. Frank White was Biggie. Frank Black was the knockoff empire.
Then came the pills. Loose tablets. Bright pink powder in zip bags. Xanax bars. Adderall. MDMA in rainbow colors. Tesla logos stamped into pressed ecstasy like this was Silicon Valley after dark.
And yes. Guns.
Not just one. Multiple AR-15 parts. Laid out neatly beside a tactical mag and what looked like a shipping box. Just in case the sex and drugs didn’t keep things quiet.
Everything they said was conspiracy? It’s evidence now. Photographed. Catalogued. Entered into the record under seal.
This wasn’t a party scene. It was a production set. The government’s job is now to convince a jury that none of it was consensual. But they don’t have to work too hard. The photos are doing the talking.
Dr. Dawn Hughes: The Trauma Map and the Man Trying to Erase It
Dr. Dawn Hughes took the stand like she had done this before. Because she had. She was the forensic psychologist who testified for Amber Heard in the Depp trial. The same one who was ripped apart on the internet for explaining how abuse can condition the brain. Back then it was a media circus. This time it was federal court.
And the defense did not want her in that courtroom.
They fought to keep her out. Said her testimony would be too emotional. Too inflammatory. Too speculative. What they meant was that it would be too convincing. Too real. Too hard to un-hear. Because what Dr. Hughes brought to that stand was not theory. It was a clinical breakdown of how power, fear, and psychological manipulation create compliance.
She talked about Cassie. About the surveillance. The sexual coercion. The control. She explained how trauma bonding works. How a victim can feel affection and terror at the same time. How the cycle of abuse rewires someone to stay. To love the person hurting them. To text I love you after being hit. To comply in order to survive.
And then the defense brought out their new guy. Bach. A litigator from New York. Yale undergrad. Yale Law School. Known for corporate defense and federal-level courtroom brawls. The kind of guy you call when you need surgical aggression delivered in a calm voice. He hadn’t been present in the courtroom for most of the trial. But they brought him in specifically to go after Dr. Hughes.
He tried to dismantle her credibility. He questioned her methodology. Accused her of testifying too often for the prosecution. He painted her as someone who takes the stand for the side she’s paid by. A trauma mercenary in a black blazer.
But it didn’t land.
Dr. Hughes explained the mechanics of abuse with the same cool precision she’s known for. She walked the jury through trauma bonding. Explained how abusers mix control with affection. How they isolate their victims. How they use cycles of violence and affection to build dependency. She showed how psychological control can feel like love and how breaking free can feel like betrayal.
She wasn’t just talking about theory. She was talking about Cassie. She referenced the surveillance. The forced encounters. The fear of retaliation. She told the jury that survivors often stay not because they want to but because they believe they have no choice. Because the cost of leaving is higher than the cost of staying.
Bach pushed harder. He raised his voice. Rephrased his questions. Tried to trap her into a contradiction. She didn’t give him one.
By the time Dr. Hughes stepped down, she had done what she came to do. She made the invisible visible. She took the psychological patterns that run beneath abuse and laid them out like a blueprint. And she did it with a Yale-trained shark circling her the entire time.
Courtroom Vibe Check: Muzak, Sidebars, and a Judge Who’s Over It
By mid-afternoon, the courtroom felt like a group project running on caffeine and passive aggression. The witness testimony was powerful, but the momentum kept getting dragged down by an endless string of sidebars. Whispered objections. Huddled conferences. Legal scrimmages that left the jury sitting in awkward silence while everyone else disappeared behind white noise machines and low voices.
Judge Arun Subramanian tried to keep it moving, but you could see the patience thinning. Every ten minutes it was another sidebar. Another issue with wording. Another lawyer needing to clarify something that probably could have been emailed. He made a joke about playing Muzak during the wait, just to cut the tension. At one point he looked out and asked if anyone had Spotify. The man was seconds away from streaming elevator jazz on government time.
The jury looked tired. The reporters looked twitchy. Even the court staff looked like they were timing their blinks.
And the judge wasn’t hiding his frustration. Not at the witnesses. Not at the process. At the pace. At the constant interruptions. At the lawyers treating this like a never-ending tech rehearsal instead of a federal criminal trial.
This wasn’t strategy. It was delay. So much delay that some of the witnesses weren't even able to testify yesterday. Like Cudi.
And while the jury didn’t see what was happening inside those sidebars, they felt it. The stall. The weird silences. The start and stop. It breaks the spell. It kills the rhythm. It makes you wonder what everyone is trying to hide.
By the time court wrapped at three, the judge’s voice was flatter. The lawyers were still arguing over logistics. The jury was dismissed. And the vibe was clear.
And then Diddy cracked.
He had been mostly still all day. Blank face. Leaned back. Playing the role of misunderstood mogul. But as the sidebars stacked up and the energy in the room stalled out, he started slipping. First it was the shifting in his seat. Then the eye rolls. Then the sighs. And then he started slapping his Post-itnotes. Or something to that effect. Not writing on them. Not using them. Just smacking them at his lawyers apparently.
I'm assuming he's writing things on notes to tell his lawyers to ask. Quietly. Repetitively. Like a man who’s used to controlling rooms and now can’t even control the tempo of his own trial. It wasn’t explosive. It was irritated. Trapped. The kind of fidgeting I do when i realize I might be in trouble.
This trial is getting heavier. Not because of emotion. Because of drag.
Procrastination
By the time court wrapped at 3:00, it was noon here. I had to go pick up my son. I had a house to clean. So I’m sorry I didn’t get this out to you earlier. But the truth is, the courtroom didn’t give us a grand finale yesterday. It gave us cracks. It gave us delays. It gave us a judge who was clearly over it, a defense team fumbling to keep control, and Diddy slapping his Post-it notes like that was going to change the facts.We got trauma. We got text messages. We got a former assistant pleading the Fifth before lunch and talking under immunity by afternoon. We got weapons. We got Frank Black. We got enough baby oil to stock a FEMA shelter.
And yet somehow it still feels like we’ve only scratched the surface.
Tomorrow or today, rather, it starts again.
Great read. I love your writing so much and I find this trial very interesting. Now I cannot stop thinking about all of the evidence they did not find in that house nextdoor.
Are we ready to talk about the pornification of society and the monsters hiding in plain sight thanks to our collective embrace of this degenerate madness? These activities are beamed into every boys bedroom to thunderous applause and laughter