How well do we really know our friends?

The question came to my mind the other day with the release of the Jeffrey Epstein files. A lot of people are saying they shouldn’t have been hanging out with the guy or going to his party island. If they are sincere and not just reacting to headlines and public pressure, I suppose that’s a good thing … and in some cases necessary to help them save face.

I don’t know who did what with Jeffrey Epstein, but I’m guessing that some of the people who knew him weren’t aware of what a really terrible guy he was. They were enjoying the perks of running in an elite social circle. They were drawn to power and influence. It happens all the time.

I’m not defending them or him. What’s the old saying? If you lie down with dogs you end up with fleas?

I do know that a similar thing happened to me when I was very young and extremely naïve. I would even say that it was the most shocking thing I have ever experienced, even to this day.

It was back in the late 1960s. I was fresh out of journalism school and starting as a reporter for The Indianapolis Star. The city room was mostly filled with men. They were the stereotypical newspaper people of that time: heavy drinkers and smokers, full of interesting stories and adventures. Some were missing an arm or a leg because of the war.

I was 22 and in awe of all of them. Being a newsie at the state’s largest daily was my dream job. I was particularly fascinated by a reporter in his thirties—a widower whose wife had died after a riding accident. Or so he said. I later wondered if that was a true story or just another lie on his part.

Phil was charming and fun and had a convertible that he let me drive occasionally. Everyone liked him and enjoyed the dinner parties where he fixed his specialty, a dish called bami goreng. One of his most admirable traits was his desire to help young men, who had been released from prison after committing a minor offense. He would open up his apartment to them as a kind of a halfway house.

Phil, myself, and four other male reporters even traveled to Florida one spring. I had my own place to stay, but the other few woman who worked at the newspaper were scandalized. I didn’t care. I was having fun.

Phil left the paper after a couple of years and went to work for a local television station and then moved to a position with the state teachers’ union. I lost track of him until that fateful day when I picked up an early copy of the morning paper and saw his picture on the front page.

He had been arrested for picking up young boys at the bus station, taking them to his home, chaining them up in his basement, and taking nude photos of them. The police didn’t say what else might have happened to the unfortunate boys, but there was a lot of speculation.

This had to be a bad dream. This wasn’t my fun-loving friend. This was some deviate monster. Others on the staff were also shocked and began speculating that Phil’s bad behavior might have extended to the young former inmates who stayed in his home.  

Newspaper people are not usually surprised by the actions of others. You come to expect the unexpected. But this was a head-shaker.

His story haunts me even today. How did we not suspect the dark secrets our friend was hiding? You can say it was a different time, and all of us were more innocent. But we were reporters and supposed to be able to ferret out the bad guys. In this case, we totally missed the signals he must have been sending.

It’s still a source of embarrassment that I once called this man a friend. I wonder if some of the people on Jeffrey Epstein’s list feel the same way I do: wished I had known what was going on and done something about it.