Yesterday, Democrats released what they described as another tranche of “bombshell” images from the Epstein files, prominently featuring a decades-old photograph of Donald Trump. The clear intent was to suggest that Trump is somehow implicated in Epstein’s criminal conduct. But the photo in question is not evidence of wrongdoing. It is a textbook example of false light—a legally recognized form of reputational harm that relies on implication rather than fabrication.
False light is a tort claim under U.S. law that applies when a person is publicly portrayed in a misleading way that would be offensive to a reasonable observer, even if the underlying image or information is technically true. In short, false light occurs when someone is made to “look guilty” by context, framing, or omission rather than by facts.
That is precisely what is happening here. The image I’m referring to shows Trump surrounded by six women whose faces have been blacked out. Presented without context, it strongly implies sexual impropriety, exploitation, or worse. The visual message is unmistakable—and deliberate.
Yet when the image is placed in its actual historical context, the implication collapses. The photo was taken in the early 1990s at a public social event—likely a nightclub or high-profile party. The women were adults, commonly identified as models or event attendees. There is no evidence of sexual activity, coercion, abuse, or illegal conduct. Trump was already a well-known public figure at the time and frequently photographed at similar events. The image captures a posed moment, not misconduct.
No one seriously disputes the authenticity of the photograph. What makes it objectionable is not that it is fake, but that it is being used deceptively. The image has been cropped and framed to heighten salaciousness, stripped of time, place, and explanation, and paired—implicitly or explicitly—with headlines and commentary designed to invite viewers to draw conclusions that the facts do not support. That is the essence of false light: creating a false impression without uttering a literal falsehood.
Legally speaking, however, the odds of any remedy are almost nil (more on this tomorrow.) Because Donald Trump is a public figure—and now President of the United States—he would have to meet the extraordinarily high actual malice standard to prevail in a false-light claim. That would require showing that the publisher knew the implication was misleading or acted with reckless disregard for the truth. In today’s political and media environment, that standard is almost impossible to meet. And so, the tactic persists.
Politics has never been a “short-pants game,” but the willingness to weaponize implication—to demonize, malign, and vilify through suggestion rather than evidence—appears to have no limiting principle when it comes to Donald Trump. The First Amendment protects even ugly speech. It protects misleading insinuation. It protects political hardball. But that doesn’t make this conduct honest, ethical, or admirable.
The photograph doesn’t prove what its publishers want viewers to believe. It proves something else entirely: that in modern politics, character assassination often comes not through lies—but through images carefully designed to let the audience lie to itself.
God bless the First Amendment. Even when it’s abused.