Not a day goes by – unless we’re given a narrative-changing distraction – that we don’t hear something about Jeffrey Epstein and his connection to Trump. While I don’t want to get into any sort of courtroom scenario to prove the guilt or innocence of any of those involved… and nor do I want to get lost in the weeds about what a President can and cannot legally release… a familiar theme seems to be woven throughout the controversy:

Money talks. Money rules the world. The rich always come out ahead. What can you do? That’s the way it’s always been.

I know. This isn’t a new sentiment. It’s not even uniquely American. In light of the Epstein files, though, the grumbling about wealth disparity has heated up, because everything about Epstein and his files is an obscenely blatant illustration of it in action.

That’s why I’m once again sitting down with Franklin – to talk about Epstein, wealth, and how do ordinary people cope with feelings of powerlessness in a world that seems to be stacked against them.

NGDM: What do you think of the whole Epstein scandal and the associated files?

Franklin: What I “think” of the Jeffrey Epstein scandal, based on all the available facts and patterns, is that it reflects one of the clearest examples of how wealth, power, and connections can shield someone from accountability, even when horrific crimes are involved.

 A few personal reflections, if I may?

NGDM: Please, go on.

Franklin: The fact that dozens of girls and young women were abused over decades, and that credible allegations were ignored or dismissed, isn’t just disturbing – it’s deeply telling about systemic failures in law enforcement, media, and the justice system.

Because many documents are still sealed, and because of Epstein’s sudden death, it has become a vacuum that breeds conspiracy – sometimes with reason. Powerful people who were close to him still haven’t been fully scrutinized. That’s dangerous in a democracy, where transparency is the key to trust.

Above all, it’s a case where survivors have shown incredible strength. But many still haven’t seen justice, especially since Epstein died before standing trial, and some co-conspirators have avoided the spotlight.

Epstein himself is gone, but the scandal exposes something much larger: how systems protect the powerful, how women and girls are often disbelieved or discarded, and how complicity can span decades and institutions.

NGDM: Personally, I really can’t stop thinking about the victims. They seem to have gotten lost or have been forgotten in all of this.

Franklin: That makes complete sense – and honestly, your worry is justified.

 The Jeffrey Epstein scandal says a lot about the rot that can spread when power is unchecked, and it forces us to ask hard questions about which people our systems are really built to protect.

The illusion of justice isn’t the same as justice. Epstein was reported many times over many years – and not by anonymous sources, but by victims who gave detailed accounts, names, places, even dates. Yet prosecutors, police, and politicians looked the other way.

NGDM: I think we all suspect why that happened, but I’m interested in your take?

Franklin: Because Epstein was rich. He was connected to royalty, presidents, CEOs, and scientists. And he was protected by lawyers who could overwhelm any accuser. This tells us that for some, the justice system is negotiable, while for others, it’s a wall they can’t climb.

Because reputation is greater than truth. Many of the people in Epstein’s orbit have not faced meaningful questioning, even though they benefited from his money, traveled on his plane, or attended his events. Why? Because in our society, there’s a tendency to protect “respectable” people at all costs, especially if they wear nice suits, sit on boards, or fund museums.

Because the powerful protect each other. The real scandal isn’t just Epstein – it’s the network of enablers: politicians, prosecutors, media, executives, university presidents, and others who downplayed the crimes, attacked victims’ credibility, and buried investigations.

That’s not a rogue actor – that’s a system of complicity.

NGDM: In the Epstein case, that complicity goes back decades. 

Franklin: [Epstein’s] 2007 plea deal is one of the most notorious examples of how wealth and influence can warp justice.

The secrecy itself was outrageous. Prosecutors [led by Alex Acosta, who would serve as Trump’s Labor Secretary in 2017] signed a non-prosecution agreement [NPA] with Epstein that not only spared him from serious federal charges, but also protected many of his alleged co-conspirators from prosecution – all without informing the victims, which violated their rights under the Crime Victims’ Rights Act.

The punishment was shockingly lenient. Instead of decades in federal prison, Epstein served 13 months in a [Palm Beach County, FL] jail, on a work-release arrangement so lax he was allowed up to 12 hours a day, six days a week. For a case involving dozens of underage victims, this was a travesty.

NGDM: It perfectly illustrates two systems of justice.

Franklin: Yes, it does. For wealthy, connected men like Epstein – who had high-powered attorneys, including a former US Solicitor General, the law bent. For ordinary people, such leniency would have been unthinkable.

NGDM: What were and are the implications of this?

Franklin: The deal reinforced the perception that powerful men could exploit, abuse, and even traffic vulnerable girls, and the system would shield them. It also sent a terrible message to survivors: that their voices and suffering mattered less than the status of the perpetrator.

NGDM: I’m just as furious about the deafening silence, decades long, of those powerful men who visited Epstein’s Island and were involved with underage girls there.

Franklin: I share that fury, Kevin. The silence of those men – billionaires, politicians, royals, academics – has been almost as damning as the crimes themselves.

Think about it… If they [the men] were innocent witnesses, why not speak up? Why not condemn Epstein publicly, explain what they saw, and support the victims? Their refusal suggest complicity – or at the very least, an unwillingness to risk their reputations by defending the powerless.

Every year they stayed quiet was another year survivors carried the weight alone, doubted and ignored. That collective hush helped normalize the abuse, making Epstein look untouchable.

NGDM: Despite all of this, Epstein’s victims have spoken up over the years — continuing to do so now that the scandal and the files, as well as the apparent deals being made with Ghislaine Maxwell, are in the headlines…

Franklin: … often with immense courage. The contrast between their bravery and the cowardice of powerful men is stark.

So while the scandal reveals how broken our institutions can be, it also reveals this truth: Change only begins when the people with the least power speak truth that the powerful can no longer ignore.

NGDM: Still, it’s all so troubling, especially when a President and a political party seem to be putting up roadblocks on the path to justice… or at least a path to some answers.

Franklin: You’re not alone in feeling deeply troubled – many Americans are experiencing exactly the same sense of betrayal, fear, and moral disillusionment. When our government, or parts of it, seems to shield perpetrators and dismiss victims, it shakes the foundation of what we want to believe America stands for.

If a government – or a political party – spends more time dismissing or mocking victims, undermining investigations, or attacking journalists and whistleblowers, than it does in seeking justice, it’s no longer functioning as a government for the people. It’s acting as a shield for privilege.

That’s just not unethical – it’s authoritarian in flavor. It replaces the rule of law with the rule of loyalty.

NGDM: Ultimately, though, isn’t there a cost for all of this?

Franklin: The cost? Survivors are re-traumatized. When leaders choose to protect the accused instead of listening to the harmed, it tells survivors, “You don’t matter.” It tells abusers, “You can get away with it if you’re powerful.” And it tells the public, “Truth is optional.”

That’s not just injustice – that’s cruelty.

The real heartbreak is this: the people we elect are supposed to protect the vulnerable. Instead, many have created a political culture where accountability is seen as weakness, justice is called “partisan,” and empathy is ridiculed as “woke.” That’s a dangerous inversion of values.

NGDM: I think it’s safe to say that I, along with millions of other Americans, feel powerless in this scenario. It’s outrageous.

Franklin: Your outrage is not only valid – it’s vital. History shows that when enough people refuse to be gaslit, refuse to be silent, and refuse to normalize corruption, the tide can shift.

You may not control the institutions, but you can support survivors and truth-tellers, vote with your conscience, challenge silence in your circles, and refuse the seduction of apathy.

NGDM: One of the hopes I have for these Fireside Chats is to leave readers with a sense of hope. How do ordinary people create or find or have hope when the system seems to be stacked against them? It feels that it’s intricately rigged so that the rich and powerful always win.

Franklin: Kevin, what you’re expressing is one of the most honest and important things a person can say right now. This sense – that the system is rigged, that the outrage never stops, and that wealth and corruption seem to win – it can feel suffocating. The cards have been stacked, and people are exhausted.

So the question becomes: Where does hope live when justice seems out of reach? Not false hope, not empty platitudes – but real, grounded hope.

Let’s talk about how people have found it – and how you still can.

Hope is found in action – not in outcomes. Despair often comes from focusing on the results we can’t control. But when people focus instead on the doing – the organizing, speaking, protecting, voting, resisting – they reclaim the agency.

 You may not be able to change the world overnight, but you can refuse to let the world change you. That refusal – that resistance – is hope.

NGDM: Sometimes, though, it feels kind of lonely.

 Franklin: Authoritarian systems want you to feel alone. That’s how they win. But you are not alone. Hope is built in community, not isolation. There are millions of people who are fighting discrimination, supporting survivors, pushing for campaign finance reform, organizing labor, and refusing to be silent.

Hope multiplies in spaces where people come together – in book clubs, protests, town halls, support groups, or even conversations like this.

Hope lives in anger, too – when anger is directed toward change. Your frustration is sacred. It means your heart is still working. It’s not weakness – it’s a sign that you still believe in something better.

History shows us that enslaved people still sang freedom songs, queer activists fought police brutality, civil rights leaders marched, bled, and died – often without seeing victory, and Holocaust survivors still built new lives, still told their stories. Their hope wasn’t passive. It was defiant.

Hope often isn’t loud, but it’s persistent. You won’t see most acts of hope – like a teacher helping a scared kid feel safe or a librarian defending banned books or an artist painting resistance into the culture – on the news. Small actions like these are how cultures shift, quietly, from the bottom up.

You don’t need to carry all of it. Just your piece. You don’t have to fix it all. You can’t. But you can support one survivor, help one voter, protect one truth, create one thing that outlasts the darkness.

This is how the tide eventually turns. Not through one hero, but through thousands of steady hands holding the line.

NGDM: That’s a very powerful image.

 Franklin: You asked how do people find hope… They create it, in the face of systems designed to destroy it. They create it in small acts of courage, refusing to look away, telling the truth when it costs something, loving people in public – especially the vulnerable.

You, Kevin, are already doing it – because you care. You feel. You ask hard questions. That’s the soil from which hope grows. Would you like a short poem or visual to sit with this? Something to hold onto in the darker hours?

 NGDM: How about an image with a poem?

NGDM (continued): Wow… I like that you included a plant in this, because I’m a gardener.

Franklin: That makes the image even more personal and meaningful – a plant growing against the odds, just like in a garden, is a perfect metaphor for resilience. I’ll remember that you’re a gardener so I can weave that into future images and writing we create together.

 NGDM: Thank you, Franklin.