The System Was Built to Let Him Walk.
From Bert and Ernie to blackmail and laced blunts. Day, whatever....
The defense wants this trial to be about memory. Not money. Not power. Not sex trafficking. Just memory.
They zeroed in on two women. Brianna and Jane. Westmoreland tried to pull their stories apart. Question by question. Text by text. Like if they poked enough holes, the whole thing would fall apart. Brianna gave them plenty to work with. She said “I don’t remember” so many times you could screen print it. She admitted to using drugs. She stayed in touch with people she says scared her. She couldn’t pin down every date. And the defense ran with it.
But Jane is still on the stand. Still going. Still holding the line.
And despite everything they’ve thrown at her, the story hasn’t broken. Because it’s not a story. It’s a pattern.
Brianna couldn’t name every hotel, but she remembers the balcony. Jane couldn’t get through a trip without ecstasy, but she remembers the oil. The red lights. The strangers. What they both remember is the setup. The same setup Cassie described under oath.
A man who flies you out. Pays your rent. Gives you pills and jewelry. Then makes you feel like your body is the trade-off.
They called it a love contract. That was his idea of romance.
The prosecution calls it something else. Commercial sex. Interstate travel. Conspiracy. And once conspiracy is on the table, you’re not just looking at one bad relationship.
You’re looking at RICO, my friends!
And if you’re still reading this thinking maybe they’re exaggerating, let me save you the tinfoil. For all the haters yelling money grab, for everyone mocking these women because they can’t recall exact dates after being drugged with ketamine, GHB, and whatever else he had in rotation. Maybe ask yourself why the details line up anyway.
Cassie. Jane. Brianna. Different moments, same architecture. The pills. The fear. The freak offs. The camera in the bedroom. The gifts that turned into leverage. The love that started to feel like blackmail.
These women didn’t have to make anything up. They knew each other, yes. Some were friends. Some stayed too long. That’s part of the pattern. That’s what makes it believable. Because it’s messy. Because it’s real. And now they’re finally talking. Not in headlines. Not in Instagram posts. Under oath.
This isn’t about perfect memory. It’s about a system designed to make sure you never trust yours again. That’s control. 100% guys.
And the only people pretending not to see it, are the ones still trying to protect the man who built it.
Brianna Bongolan: The Defense’s Favorite Witness
Let’s not kid ourselves. Brianna Bongolan’s testimony was a trainwreck. Not because she didn’t go through hell. Not because she wasn’t hurt. But because by the time she got on that stand, she was exactly what the defense was hoping for.
She was confused. She was a walking “I don’t recall.” She couldn’t remember key details, and when she could, it was always a guess. “I guess not” became her tagline. Ill be surprised if Tshirts arent made with ‘I dont remember.” Displayed across the front. Shes a designer afterall. We could see them. Haha. The defense didn’t even need to break a sweat, though. She handed them the ammo. Pew, pew.
The government brought her in to testify about being assaulted. About being thrown onto balcony furniture by Sean Combs. But the second she stepped up again? The prosecution looked tense. The defense saw blood in the water. And me? Well, I just wanted her off. She was a waste of time. The prosecution knew it too. In my opinion.
She couldn’t even remember the concert she allegedly attended with Combs. Like, girl, how do you not remember a Bad Boy reunion tour?That’s not a trip to CVS. That’s Diddy, Faith Evans, Lil Kim, and half of hip-hop history. You don’t just forget that unless you’re blacked out, sedated, or riding the high of a Cocoa Puff. Didds signature blunt rolled with weed and cocaine. Multiple women say he kept them on rotation, right next to the baby oil. Whata time.
He didn’t just get women high. He got them chemically obedient!
She admitted she was still doing drugs with Cassie even after the alleged assault! When Westmoreland showed her a photo of drugs, she responded, “Some type of drugs.” When asked how many, she said, “I can’t tell.” Confirmed she was using with Cassie on May 31, 2016. Just one month after she says Diddy threatened her life.
Then Westmoreland locked it up.
“You said Mr. Combs threatened your life.”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t scared to continue dealing with Cassie?”
“I guess not.”
Then came the moment that just blew my mind. Made me laugh out loud and say, “Is she serious?”
The defense asked her, “You agree one person can’t be in two places at the same time?”
She answered, “Hard to say.”
Hard to say? Really?! In a federal courtroom. Under oath. While accusing one of the most powerful men in music of assaulting her. That wasn’t a cross-examination.
“Hard to say.” Yup, she said it.
Then came the texts. Not to Diddy. To Cassie.
The same Cassie she says was present when it happened. The same Cassie who testified that she saw it.
And what did Brianna say to her?
“Coolio.”
“What time?”
“Luv ya. Thank you for yesterday.”
Is this how people talk after being assaulted? How someone texts the only person who supposedly helped them escape? And Brianna didn’t deny it. She said, “We were trying to be cool.”
Trying to be cool after being kicked, thrown, dragged, and threatened.
Alright.
Like, the amount of psychological points that are involved. Even writing about it. Like, obviously, I'm sensitive to the victims. And I hate that I think to myself, Why? Why this? Why that? Maybe it's because I know I'm never going to understand the Didd's point of view? So I'm trying to at least get on the level with some of the victims? I don't know, but man this is a psychological mind fuck! For everyone.
Her lawsuit was dragged into the spotlight. She was clear that she fired her original lawyer, Tyrone Blackburn, and hired a new team. Westmoreland asked if she wrote the demand letters. She said no. He pointed to the section claiming that Combs bruised her breast. She denied ever saying that.
“No ma’am.”
Then AUSA asked her directly.
“Do you demonstrate with hand motions?”
She did.
“He started at my armpit.”
“Were they on your breast?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t recall the exact date of the incident. Couldn’t explain the conflicting metadata tied to her injury photos. And when Westmoreland asked if she saw this lawsuit as a chance to make $10 million, her answer wasn’t emotional or dramatic. Just flat.
“The judge would review.”
Not a denial. Not a defense. Just a quiet punt to the system. Like she knew the real damage couldn’t be measured in money but if it had to be? That was someone else’s call now. Brianna wasn’t lying. But she was unraveling. On the record. In front of the jury. She was inconsistent. She was vulnerable. She was clearly traumatized. But this is what it looks like when someone is still stuck inside the system. When they’ve been groomed to question themselves. When they’ve spent years learning to downplay their own abuse to survive.
She didn’t fall apart because her story wasn’t real. She fell apart because the damage worked.
So for anyone in the back still calling these women liars or clout-chasers because they don’t have forensic precision under oath, maybe ask why their stories sound exactly like what abuse is designed to produce.
This isn’t about clean timelines anymore. This is about what it takes just to remember them!
Jane: Maybe G-UNIT Was A Safer Bet?
Let’s start with the part that broke the internet.
Jane said she and Diddy had nicknames. He was Ernie. She was Bert. Yes. As in Bert and Ernie. The Muppets. And once you realize federal agents raided his house and found a stash of rubber duckies, baby oil, and Astroglyde, it suddenly makes sense in the most unholy way possible.
The courtroom heard the testimony. The rest of us got the meme.
50 Cent posted a photo of Bert and Ernie in matching lingerie with the caption, “He wanted me to call him Ernie. Diddy wild.” Thousands of likes. No lies detected. And honestly, once you’ve seen that image, it’s hard to unsee it. The ducks. The nicknames. The lube. It wasn’t a phase. It was a system. A really fucked up system. And Jane was maybe one of the last girlfriends to be thrown into rotation before it all imploded.
Cassie called them freak offs. Jane had two names for them. Hotel nights. Debauchery nights. New name. Same hell.
She met him in 2020. Not in the nineties. Not at the height of Bad Boy Records. This wasn’t champagne and shiny suits. This was post-rebrand Diddy. The mogul. The mentor. The meditation guy. Black excellence on Instagram. Talking God, grief, and generational wealth while launching Revolt panels on healing and self-love. Puff Daddy had become Love. Sean Combs had become a brand. A visionary. A king.
He had just walked the runway for Dolce and Gabbana in Venice. He was hosting star-studded parties in Miami and Saint Barth’s. Young Miami was on his arm. He was talking legacy while quietly paying off lawsuits and flying out dancers. Everything about him in 2020 was curated. Luxe. Intentional. A lifestyle.
And Jane bought in.
Let’s be real. We all probably would have.
She was on a girls’ trip to Miami when she met him. He was dating one of her friends. And while the friend isn’t named in court, there’s a rumor floating around that it might’ve been Daphne Joy, 50 Cent’s ex and the mother of his son. That’s never been confirmed, so take it for what it is. Gossip. But it’s gossip with legs. The timeline matches. The circles overlap. And Daphne has been publicly linked to Diddy in the past, including in the Lil Rod lawsuit. The internet definitely thinks there’s a connection.
Still, what we know for sure is this. Jane didn’t care that he was taken. Neither did he. He made her laugh. Handed her his number like it was a casting call. A week later, she flew back. Then came the yacht. The studio. The pink powder. “One of my friends asked for drugs,” Jane said. “Someone pulled out pink powder.”
Molly. K. Coke. It was all there, day one. She didn’t run. She stayed. Diddy gave her six thousand dollars to relocate from the East Coast to Los Angeles. Saw her every other week. Put her in an apartment for ten thousand dollars a month. “We started using the L-word,” she testified. But it wasn’t love. It was logistics. Scheduled flights. Weekly rotations. Invoices disguised as intimacy.
She was on retainer, basically.
“Every time I saw Sean, there were drugs,” she said. “Ecstasy. Molly. Cocaine. Ketamine.” She listed them like she was reading off a brunch menu. “Molly made me horny. Coke made me alert. I didn’t like K. The walls would close in.”
Then came the rules. The fantasies. The directives. In the bedroom it was always the same setup. Dark. Red lights. Porn on TV. “He liked me in lingerie,” she said. “He wanted me to put baby oil all over my body. And his.”
Of course he did. The baby oil again. At this point it might as well be listed as a co-defendant. That man was fighting demons and every single one of them was slippery.
He would watch. He would film. He would masturbate. Sometimes he gave directions like he was coaching a halftime show. Go left. Moan now. Keep your back arched. That wasn’t affection. That was a man making home movies for hell.
He started inviting other men. One was named Don. “What was he wearing” the prosecutor asked. “His underwear,” Jane replied. Diddy stayed in the corner. Masturbating. Filming. “Being sweet.” Those were Jane’s words. He was sweet. “He encouraged me.”
“What did you want to do”
“I wanted to get it done” (sob)
The condom part came next. Jane asked for one. Diddy told her, “These guys get tested.”
Oh well. That clears it up. Just like produce at Whole Foods. Stamped and ready for consumption. Nothing says safety like blind trust in a random man in boxer briefs walking through a hotel room while your boyfriend jacks off to porn he curated himself.
Then, of course, came the yacht. Because nothing screams romance like being gifted saltwater and PTSD in the same 48 hours.
Jane told the jury this wasn’t a one-time thing. These hotel nights happened regularly. Diddy would fly her out, book a room, and give instructions. The sessions lasted 20 to 30 hours. Sometimes longer. “He had a travel agent,” she said. “Jess. Or KK. They’d send me flight info.”
KK, by the way, is Kristina Khorram. If you’ve been following this trtrialor me, you already know she’s not just a travel coordinator. She’s the one whose phone Cassie’s abuse texts were found on. The woman who ran Diddy’s calendar, managed his optics, and handled his messes without flinching.
The expectations never changed. Two dozen bottles of baby oil. Stripper heels. High ponytail. No talking back. If she said no, there were consequences.
“I told him I didn’t want to have sex with other men anymore,” she said. “He told me maybe I’d have three more months of rent.”
In other words, enjoy the couch.
She also said he didn’t want her on OnlyFans. “He didn’t approve.”
Why? Who knows. Maybe the competition. Maybe the lighting. Maybe because the freak offs weren’t monetized unless he was behind the camera. Either way, the defense is going to eat that line alive. Same with the ten thousand dollars a month. Same with the wired payments. The luxury hotel rooms. The escorts. The videos. None of this looks good on paper. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It also doesn’t mean Jane thought she was in danger.
Because here’s the part that matters. She stayed. Up until the moment he got arrested in 2023, she was still dating him. Knowing full well he was also dating Yung Miami. Knowing full well what the arrangement was. She told the court she accepted it. Because at the time, she thought she was the one. She thought she was his girl. She thought this was the cost of access.
She said no. Many times. Out loud. In writing. “I told him no,” she said. “So many times.” But there was always something tying her down. Rent. Money. Validation. Control. That’s how it works. You don’t have to be chained to feel like you can’t leave.
He tracked her. Pressured her. Told her how to look. He didn’t just want her body. He wanted her autonomy. Her ability to move. To think. To create. She stopped seeing her friends. She didn’t go out anymore. She lost herself.
New name. Same trap. Different timeline. Same choreography. Jane didn’t just survive it. She testified to it. Willingly. Openly. Even when it made her look weak. Even when it made her look complicit. Even when she knew people would roll their eyes and ask, “Then why did you stay”
That’s the part we need to sit with.
Because it’s easy to judge from the outside. It’s harder to admit that power can look like protection when you’re inside the room. When you’ve got kids to feed. Rent to make. And a billionaire boyfriend who promises you the world if you stay on script.
The Judge Wasn’t Having It
Diddy once said he hates the song “Tears of a Clown.” Too soft. Too sad. Not his vibe.
Which is funny. Because if you walked into that courtroom today, it looked like a one-man circus. And the clown wasn’t smiling.
While Bryana Bongolan testified, crying as she described how Combs allegedly threw her into patio furniture and dangled her off a 17th-floor balcony. He started nodding at the jury. Not a twitch. Not a reflex. Nodding. Repeatedly. Like he was trying to send a message without saying a word.
The judge noticed. And this time, it wasn’t a gentle tap on the wrist.
“Mr. Agnifilo, your client was looking at jurors and nodding vigorously,” Judge Arun Subramanian said. “This can’t continue or I will give a limiting instruction you won’t like, or other measures including barring your client from the courtroom. Do you understand?”
That warning came from the bench. In open court. In front of the jury. There was no sidebar. No apology. Just a federal judge putting Sean Combs on notice.
And it wasn’t the first time. Reports going back to opening week say Combs has been doing this since the trial began. Nodding. Staring. Making expressions at the jury. Courtroom sketch artist Jane Rosenberg even told the press she’s seen it multiple times. The man is being tried for sex trafficking, and he’s in there trying to do damage control with his eyebrows.
But Subramanian isn’t playing along.
He already denied Combs’ request to leave court for his daughter’s graduation. He’s moved quickly through objections. Reined in both legal teams. And now, he’s warning the defendant that even his face might get him kicked out.
Which brings us back to that song. “Tears of a Clown.” Not a circus anthem. A song about masking pain behind a performance. About smiling through ruin. About pretending everything’s okay when it’s absolutely not.
Maybe that’s why Diddy hates it. Because in this courtroom, nothing is okay. The music stopped. The lights are on. And the jury is watching.
Pull the File, Run the Tape
Right before Jane took the stand, the prosecution brought in Enrique Santos. Seventeen years with SDNY’s digital forensics team. More than three thousand phones extracted. And today, he had three more. All tied to Cassie Ventura.
One of those phones had been seized from Kristina Khorram at the Miami airport. Yes, her again. The woman who keeps popping up in texts and testimony but somehow manages to stay just offstage. Her official title was chief of staff. But let’s be honest. She was the one who smoothed things over. The one who knew who was flying where. The one who didn’t need to say much because she already knew everything.
Inside that phone was a message from Cassie. She said Diddy had dangled her over a balcony. The jury saw the screenshot. The text bubble read “OMG.”
Santos confirmed the phones were Cassie’s. One of them had a changed IMEI number, which usually means it was repaired. No big deal. What mattered was what stayed on the devices. Screenshots. Text chains. Metadata.
He explained how screenshots are logged. Creation time. Modification time. Where it was saved. Nothing up for debate. Just a digital paper trail that doesn’t care how expensive your lawyer is.
Then the defense stepped in and did what they do. Try to confuse the issue. Blur it. Stretch the edges.
They asked if deleted messages could still exist on the phone. Santos said yes. Because in the world we live in now, nothing really disappears. Every tap leaves a fingerprint.
Teny Geragos asked if the September 30 date shown in the screenshot was when the event happened or just when the screenshot was taken. Santos said it was the screenshot date. That was the moment the defense leaned on. The calendar game. The maybe-it-happened-maybe-it-didn’t angle. The hope that the jury would get caught up in when the message was saved instead of what it said.
But the screenshot was still there. The message still said what it said. And it came from Cassie. Sent to Kristina. Who was still working for Diddy when that phone got pulled.
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t excited when he walked in. Tech guys never bring the fireworks. He wasn’t on the stand very long and half the courtroom looked like they were waiting for the next meltdown. But it’s important. Because with everything flying around right now. Surveillance clips, leaks, rumors, doctored images. We need people like Enrique Santos. People who can say this is real. This is when it happened. This is where it came from.
And like I said, we live in a time where anything can be manipulated. Sometimes I can’t even tell if what I’m looking at is real or AI. The colors. The faces. The edits. It’s all built to confuse you.
So yes. Bring in the guy with the files. Even if it’s boring. Even if it doesn’t trend. Because his job is to tell the jury what the phone remembers.
And the phone remembered everything.
Closing Thoughts
Let’s stop pretending this was ever about justice. Federal agents raided one of Diddy’s homes on Star Island. One. Even though he owns two. Right there. Same island. Same zip code. Same man. But they only went into half his life. Make it make sense. Gene Deal, his former bodyguard, has said the feds have been watching Diddy since 2011. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of women coming forward, of NDAs, of whispers, of bruises, of stories everyone in the industry already knew. And now we’re acting like this is all brand new. It’s not. And the prosecution knows it. They sent in Maurene Comey, the softest possible face for one of the ugliest cases in modern music history.
A woman born from FBI royalty. And what has she delivered. Silence. Softball. Half-hearted pacing while witnesses fall apart under cross. No RICO. No co-defendants. No fire. Just polite courtroom decorum while women testify about being dragged, filmed, choked, threatened, and bought off. This isn’t messy. This is coordinated. Cassie said he punched her while she cried. Gina said he threw apples at her. Brianna said he slammed her arm in a car door. That he told her he was the devil. That he could kill her. That he meant it. And even she, unstable, unraveling, raw, proved the point. You don’t need clean timelines when the wreckage is this consistent. It doesn’t fall apart because it’s untrue. It falls apart because that’s what he wanted. He wanted women who couldn’t tell the story straight. Who questioned their own memories. Who stayed quiet long enough for the statute of limitations to do the work for him. And it worked. Because you and I both know how this ends. He’s not going to prison. He’s going to get house arrest. Maybe probation. Maybe some property seizure he’ll spin as persecution. He’ll shave his head. Quote scripture. Talk about healing and mental health. He’ll call it growth. Because when you’re rich enough, pain becomes PR. And power never really gets confiscated. It just gets quieter. He gets silence. The women get questioned. And the prosecutors. They get to say they tried. But you and I know the truth. They had thirteen years. They had two houses. And they still only walked into one.
What to Expect Tomorrow? Cross-examination of Jane is expected to continue. This will be the defense’s biggest swing. They already ripped Brianna apart. Now they want to shake Jane. Discredit her. Catch her slipping. But so far, she hasn’t broken. If she holds, it will be the first time in this trial that a woman stays on the stand and leaves stronger than she entered. And if she doesn’t. Well. We’ve seen what that looks like too.
Keep watching. I’m not done. Even though my story views are down terribly and I’m being shadowbanned harder than Diddy dodging subpoenas, I’m still here. I’ll be back tomorrow with every twist, every witness, every sideways look from that courtroom. No spin. No sugar. Just receipts. Follow me on Instagram at Aliceredpill12 and stream the Alice Uncoded podcast on all platforms. We say the things they delete. Loud.
You have to keep going!! I rely on you for my updates!!! I sure hope you are wrong about the outcome - and the lackluster attempt to prosecute.
its depressing but sadly youre probably spot on about the inevitable outcome