[Interview] One of Epstein’s youngest survivors: ‘I was 14, and I hoped the money I earned from sex would repair my relationship with my mother’

Marina Lacerda was born in Brazil. She was eight years old when she moved to the United States with her mother. She was fourteen when she first stepped inside the New York residence of serial sex offender and trafficker Jeffrey Epstein.

In investigative documents, Lacerda appears as Jane Doe 1 — the first underage girl to file an anonymous complaint about Epstein’s sexual abuse. ‘Jane Doe’ is a legal placeholder in the Anglo-Saxon legal system used for women whose identities are unknown, unverifiable, or deliberately kept confidential.

She later came forward publicly on 3 October, 2025, giving statements to the media.

This article was first published in the Czech Heroine magazine, and is part of the Denník N and Heroine series Epstein Was Not Alone, which examines the networks of Jeffrey Epstein, his associates, and those who exploited modelling as a vehicle for sexual exploitation.

In this piece, reporter Lukáš Houdek speaks with Marina Lacerda, one of Epstein’s youngest victims.

This text contains descriptions of sexual violence and deeply distressing testimony. If these subjects cause you discomfort or distress, please consider whether you wish to continue reading.

 What kind of family did you come from?

I was born in Brazil. When I was seven, my mother left for the United States. A year later, I followed her to New York. My mother found a partner — my stepfather — and within a few months he was watching pornography in the living room.

He would send me to his study and drape a blanket over my head. It seemed suspicious. Once, I peeked out from under it and secretly watched with him.

He then went on to sexually abuse me regularly until I was twelve.

It was a nightmare. Simply a nightmare. I was ten when my mother found out. She was furious. She fought with him. At that point, I didn’t even fully understand that something wrong was happening. She explained it to me and promised it would never happen again.

But my stepfather continued. When I told my mother, she made him stop for a while. Later, when I came to her again, she hit me.

It was pure hell. And we never moved out. Each time, my mother chose to stay. We rented out several rooms, and I had a roommate. She too began to be abused by him.

One day she came to me and said she knew he was abusing me as well. She suggested we go to the police. That’s how, at twelve years old, I went to file a report.

How did that go? 

I went to the Astoria police precinct in Queens. It was a fairly brutal interrogation. 

At first, they didn’t believe me. So I downplayed what had happened. I described how he had touched me and said it had only been going on for a year. I was scared. 

The officers initially told me I was probably just jealous of my newborn baby sister. I was terrified they would take me away from my mother. I didn’t tell them that my mother knew about everything.

We fought a lot back then. I would scream at her, asking why we stayed. Why she didn’t find work so we could be independent. She always said we were just immigrants. She was afraid we’d be deported. She couldn’t support me and my little sister on her own. She always had some excuse.

When my stepfather was finally arrested, my mother blamed me. I felt responsible for the fact that he was in prison. 

I had already been working odd jobs at a real estate agency, but after his arrest, out of guilt, I looked for more ways to earn money. I wanted to help my mother. The situation felt hopeless.

And then Jeffrey Epstein appeared. I was fourteen. 

How did you end up in his orbit? 

A friend of mine from the Brazilian diaspora told me about a man who had a lot of money and liked having young girls give him massages. She described him as a kind, older man who lived in Manhattan.

She offered to take me along sometime. For a half-hour massage, I could earn three hundred dollars.

It seemed strange. I didn’t understand why he would want me specifically to massage him. I hadn’t taken any massage courses. I knew nothing. My friend said the man simply enjoyed spending time with young girls. She said I had nothing to worry about — the only thing I’d need to do was take off my top. She compared it to walking on the beach in a bikini. 

She spoke about it so casually that it started to feel completely normal. Suddenly it didn’t seem so bad. I’d already been through far worse things in my life. And besides, if I could earn three hundred dollars in half an hour, I’d be helping my mother. I wanted to shine in her eyes, to get back on track and restore our relationship. 

 What was your first encounter with Epstein like? 

The moment I walked into his house, I was stunned. Waitstaff. Luxury furniture. ‘This is something else,’ I thought to myself. At the time, my mother, my sister, and I were living in a four-bedroom apartment in Astoria. We occupied one room; the others were rented out. We ate fifty-cent Chinese noodles. We couldn’t afford real food. Every day was a fight to survive. 

When I went to Epstein’s, I felt as though I had found the answer to all our problems. His housekeeper opened the door and led me into one of the rooms. 

While I waited, I looked at the framed photographs on the walls — images of him with prominent figures: Prince Andrew, Bill Clinton, Donald Trump. I didn’t recognize most of them at the time. 

Those photographs were hanging on the walls of Epstein’s house? 

Yes, though many were also propped on dressers. Like a photo of Ghislaine (Ghislaine Maxwell, Epstein’s longtime companion). At the time, I didn’t know who she was either. 

The housekeeper came back and led me away. We took a lift to the third floor, passing drawings of nude women on the way to the massage room. 

The massage table stood in the center of the room; beside it was a small table with a telephone on it. Clouds had been painted on the ceiling. The windows were covered with curtains. There was a wardrobe stocked with Victoria’s Secret lotions and other luxury brands I’d never heard of. They smelled incredible.  As a teenager, I loved Victoria’s Secret products. 

When he entered, he introduced himself. ‘I’ve heard only the best things about you,’ he said.

He lay down and asked where I was from, how old I was, whether I lived with my parents. I told him that every single day was a struggle to get by. I didn’t mention that my stepfather had abused me. 

By then I had already removed my top and was massaging him. Everything was going according to plan. He was very kind to me. Then suddenly he reached for the phone to exchange a few words with someone. 

Then he turned toward me. 

The towel wrapped around his waist slipped off. I didn’t understand why he was facing away. My friend, the one who had brought me, was on the other side of the room. The man asked whether I wanted to take off my bra. I refused. 

He then touched my breast. “That’s uncomfortable for me,” I objected. 

That irritated my friend. “Don’t act like a little girl! Why can’t we have a bit of fun? He’s a nice guy.”

I froze. I didn’t know what to do. We were on the third floor of his house. There was no one else on that floor. I couldn’t remember where the lift was; I didn’t know whether there were stairs. I was trapped. Just like with my stepfather, who had hurt me when I refused to do what he wanted. 

The last thing I wanted was for this man to do the same. 

Did your refusal stop Epstein? 

My acquaintance walked over to him, pushed me aside, and began touching him quite aggressively. She pressed hard on his nipples, and the man soon climaxed. Then he simply said, “We’ll meet again soon.”