The Epstein case would never have grown into a global scandal had transparency prevailed from the beginning. If the files had been open during the earliest investigations, many of the later crimes could have been prevented. People engage in such conduct only when they believe they are shielded—by networks, by silence, by institutions that look away. Had those involved known their names would be exposed and that accountability was inevitable, much of what followed would never have occurred. This is why the question of disclosure is not merely procedural; it is structural.
Yesterday’s hearing in the U.S. Congress made unmistakably clear that the redactions in the Epstein files are not a bureaucratic formality. Everyone now knows that the names of powerful individuals were concealed. But Bondi’s conduct during the hearing revealed something deeper: the redactions are not only about hiding information—they are about avoiding responsibility. The way she evaded questions, disrupted the flow of the hearing, and resorted to personal attacks made visible that what is being protected is not merely paper, but people. People who do not want their roles exposed. People who do not want their power scrutinized.
Bondi’s Strategy: Disruption Over Disclosure
Bondi entered the hearing room carrying an oversized binder that Representative Jared Moskowitz later mocked as her “Burn Book.” Whenever a question became too pointed, she opened the binder, flipped through its pages theatrically, and sidestepped the issue. The binder became a symbol of her strategy: distraction instead of disclosure, performance instead of transparency. She repeatedly interrupted lawmakers mid-sentence, especially when questions touched on the redacted names of influential men. When Representative Dan Goldman attempted to finish a question, even Republican Chairman Jim Jordan had to intervene to restore order. These interruptions were not accidental. Disrupting the process is a way of controlling it.
Politico documented how Bondi insulted Democratic Representative Jamie Raskin as “a washed up, losing lawyer—not even a lawyer.” The attack was not spontaneous. It was a signal: those who demand transparency will be discredited. Those who challenge institutional power will be personally targeted. Bondi’s rhetoric was less an outburst than a demonstration of authority.
While Bondi engaged in personal attacks, the central questions remained unanswered. Why were the names of powerful men redacted despite legal requirements for broad disclosure? Why were intimate details about victims released while the identities of influential individuals remained hidden? Why did the Department of Justice miss the statutory deadline for full publication? Her refusal to answer became a message in itself: transparency is not a duty—it is a threat.
Survivors and the Politics of Visibility
Behind Bondi sat roughly ten Epstein survivors, brought into the room by Democratic lawmakers to ensure their presence could not be ignored. Bondi offered a single, generic apology for “the suffering of every victim,” yet refused to turn toward them when Representative Pramila Jayapal asked her to do so. When Jayapal asked who among them had never been contacted by the Department of Justice, every survivor raised a hand. The moment exposed the chasm between institutions and those they claim to serve. Survivors were not treated as moral authorities but as disruptions to the institutional narrative.
Republican lawmakers also expressed sharp criticism. Thomas Massie, who championed the disclosure mandate in Congress, questioned why the names of influential men were redacted despite the law’s clear requirements. At the same time, intimate victim data had been released—an error Bondi acknowledged but dismissed as “unintentional.” Massie later remarked that it had “taken Bondi a long time to find my insult card,” adding, “No one wants to take on Trump… That will change once our primaries are behind us.” His comment revealed a deeper truth: power is not only expressed through speech, but through silence — and through the fear of breaking it.
Politico further reported that several Democratic lawmakers interpreted Bondi’s behavior as a gesture of political loyalty. She had, one member claimed, “spoken for one person in the audience: Donald Trump.” Whether this interpretation is accurate is secondary. What matters is that such perceptions arise when institutional transparency collapses. Where information is withheld, the space for political influence—or the suspicion of it—expands. Bondi’s vague reference to “ongoing investigations,” which Politico noted may relate to inquiries “initiated at President Trump’s direction,” intensified this impression. When an attorney general refuses to specify who is being investigated while signaling political allegiance, a vacuum emerges that speculation inevitably fills.
Power, Redactions, and the Fear of Accountability
Trump’s earlier remark that Epstein “likes women, particularly the younger ones” shows, in hindsight, that there were signals that could have been taken seriously. There is no evidence that Trump knew Epstein was abusing minors. But it is equally undeniable that no one in Epstein’s circle raised alarms or contacted authorities. This inaction is part of a broader pattern. Even today, no one in political leadership is pressing for full disclosure of the files. Bondi does not operate in isolation; prosecutors follow political cues, and the absence of pressure from above reinforces the impression that the system is more invested in avoiding accountability than establishing it. When warnings are ignored and transparency is not demanded, a space emerges in which perpetrators can act and victims must remain silent. This is why the Epstein case grew so large—and why identifying its root causes is essential to preventing future failures.
The selective transparency of the Epstein files is not a technical oversight but an institutional pattern. The law explicitly requires the Department of Justice to release the files with minimal redaction. Yet Bondi presented documents in which the names of powerful men were carefully concealed while intimate details about victims remained visible. This discrepancy is not accidental; it reflects a dual system of justice: visibility for the vulnerable, invisibility for the influential.
The missed deadline, the ambiguous references to “ongoing investigations,” the selective redactions, and the absence of meaningful engagement with survivors form a coherent pattern: institutions protect themselves by controlling the visibility of power. Bondi’s behavior appeared chaotic, impulsive, even uncontrolled. But the impression is misleading. Her interruptions, her personal attacks, her theatrical use of the “Burn Book,” her refusal to face survivors—all followed a pattern. Destabilizing the process prevents clear accountability. Creating disorder controls the narrative. And controlling visibility means controlling power.
The Epstein case demonstrates why records must be visible, why procedures must be transparent, and why equality before the law is essential for institutional stability. A justice system can only inspire trust when all individuals—regardless of influence, wealth, or political proximity—are subject to the same degree of scrutiny. When transparency becomes selective, power becomes invisible. And when power becomes invisible, the real danger begins.
