“When morality comes up against profits, it is seldom that morality wins.” — Shirley Chisholm
Shirley Chisholm’s words feel uncomfortably prophetic when examining the Virgin Islands’ relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. They capture, in one sentence, how money can eclipse conscience—and how power, when lubricated by wealth, too often looks the other way.
In the Virgin Islands, we often speak about protecting our children, preserving our culture, and honoring our values. Those words ring hollow if we are unwilling to examine moments when access to power appears to have outweighed moral clarity.There are moments in public life when silence becomes complicity. The relationship between money and political power in the Virgin Islands is one of those moments—especially when that money came from Jeffrey Epstein after he was known, convicted, and classified as a high-risk sex offender.
By 2005, law enforcement in Palm Beach, Florida, was investigating Epstein after a parent reported that he had sexually abused her 14-year-old daughter. In 2008, Epstein pleaded guilty in Florida state court to procuring a child for prostitution and soliciting prostitution.By 2009, he was a registered sex offender. In November 2011, he was classified as a Level 3 sex offender—the highest risk category, indicating a serious threat to public safety and a high likelihood of re-offense.
This was not melee.These facts were not secret. They were public. They were documented. They were known.
Yet even after Epstein’s convictions and sex-offender classification, his money continued to circulate— finding its way into political campaigns, social institutions, civic life, and circles of influence, including here in the Virgin Islands. That reality is not something we can dismiss as an excuse of “how things were done.” It requires reflection, especially from those entrusted with public leadership.
That reality also raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: What does it say about a political culture when money matters more than morality?
Campaign finance laws may allow contributions from many lawful sources, but legality is not the same as ethics. When elected officials or candidates accept money from a convicted sex offender—particularly one designated as a Level 3 risk—the message sent to victims, parents, and the broader community is devastatingly clear: access can be purchased, and accountability can be ignored.
The real question is ethical: What does it say about a political culture when elected officials or candidates accept money from a convicted, high-risk sex offender?
The answer is deeply troubling.
Money buys more than advertisements and campaign mailers. It buys access. It buys proximity to power. It buys silence. It creates comfort where discomfort should exist.And in the Virgin Islands, Epstein’s money appears to have bought something else as well: a willingness to compartmentalize, to rationalize, and ultimately to ignore the human cost attached to his wealth.
That is exactly the dynamic Chisholm warned about—when morality collides with profit, morality rarely wins.
In the Virgin Islands, where our communities are close-knit and our children are precious, that moral failure cuts especially deep. We cannot credibly claim to protect children while benefiting from the resources of someone whose wealth was inseparable from documented harm to minors. We cannot claim moral leadership while accepting funds that carry such a heavy human cost.
Epstein did not donate out of altruism. His giving was transactional. Like so many powerful figures before him, he used wealth strategically to secure legitimacy, influence, and insulation from scrutiny. When public officials accept that money, they become participants—whether knowingly or not—in a system that allowed abuse to continue unchecked for years.
The harm is not theoretical. It lives with survivors whose trauma was minimized, with families who trusted institutions that failed them, and by a public that is left to wonder whose interests truly come first.
This is not about partisan blame or retroactive purity tests. It is about standards. It is about whether public officials believe that there are lines that should never be crossed—even when crossing them is legal, convenient, or profitable.Leaders who will say no—not because the law requires it, but because conscience demands it.
In a Daily News weekly column dated February 15, 2019, writer Mariel Blake reflected on one such Virgin Islands leader who understood the true cost of power—the late Senator Ruby M. Rouss, a woman who knew how to say no. I remember watching Senator Rouss on television, holding up a campaign contribution check she publicly refused to cash because, as she explained, she would not be beholden to anyone simply because they donated to her campaign.
Ms. Blake noted that many who opposed Senator Rouss derisively labeled her firm principles a “morality kick,” a characterization Rouss wore as a badge of honor. That kind of integrity stands in stark contrast to how power is often wielded when money is allowed to dictate access and influence. It is especially sobering to confront this reality during Black History Month. Recent revelations that Jeffrey Epstein allegedly instructed recruiters not to approach girls of color—using a racial slur to describe them—force us to confront an uncomfortable truth: despite our shared humanity, there are powerful people who view communities like ours as disposable, exploitable, or invisible. As a predominantly Black community, we must be clear-eyed about how people like Epstein see us—and why leaders like Senator Rouss, who refused to sell their conscience for money or favor, matter now more than ever.
Public service is a public trust, not a transaction. In a community as small as ours, the acceptance of money is never just transactional. It carries meaning. It signals values. It tells people—especially parents and survivors—what matters and what can be overlooked. That the source of money matters as much as the amount. That there are some profits too costly to accept.
Shirley Chisholm was right. Too often, morality loses when it confronts profit. The Virgin Islands is not immune to that truth.But acknowledging that truth is the first step toward changing it.
Reflection is not weakness. It is leadership.
The Virgin Islands is not a place that prides itself on being anonymous. We are small by design, relational by nature, and bound together by shared history, shared schools, shared churches, and shared responsibility for one another’s children. That closeness is our strength—but it also means that when we fail morally, we do so in ways that are deeply personal.
If we are serious about protecting children, restoring public trust, and breaking the corrosive grip of money on politics, then we must be willing to say that some money comes at too high a cost. That public service is not just about winning elections but about modeling the values we expect our children to live by. That there are moments when saying no matters more than the resources gained by saying yes.
The Virgin Islands deserves leaders—and a political culture—that understands this distinction.
Morality may not always win when it confronts profit. But it should never be absent from the conversation. And it should never be sacrificed without acknowledgment.
That reflection is long overdue.
This is an opinion piece from the author, not a news report. It does not reflect the views of the station.
