Speaker 1: Top Clue Paul, It's top get fortune Yo to the great.
Speaker 2: Joy the album. I wrote this with the hook and
my enemies of course you.
Speaker 3: Okay. I jumped my.
Speaker 2: Martians like That'shtra mat insip. Jump on the beat that's
not ride like porsches, hold on like horses for rob beats,
like engines, up robe that ship upending. I get to
spend the spin like a spinder. Make that bitch god
sy sis doing the one and ben the sad bitches
like my name? What's Tracy? No? I do not save
her her loves no album, Oh my birth be hat
your thought don.
Speaker 3: Jumps like y m c MB top for the food chain,
see your fortunes in t that's my name.
Speaker 4: Then the bailiff called her name. Jaguar Wright, singer activists
Unfiltered Firestorm. She walked in wearing all black, Bible in
one hand, folder in the other. She didn't look at Diddy,
didn't look at the jury. She looked at the judge
and nodded. Once the gallery leaned forward, everyone knew something
was about to drop. Nobody expected it to explode. From
the moment she sat down. Jaguar didn't ease into anything.
I came here with the truth, she said, gripping the
mic like it owed her an apology. The judge asked
for calm, and she didn't raise her voice yet, but
it was the kind of still boiling energy that makes
you sit up straight. I've seen what these parties look like.
I've seen what they cover up, and I've seen what
happens when people try to leave. The defense objected speculation.
The prosecution countered foundation will be laid. The judge allowed
her to continue, and that's when it started to unravel.
Jaguar described it plainly. She wasn't just talking about or
she was talking about systems. NDA's passed out, like party favors,
women escorted in, phones taken at the door. Puffy didn't
just throw parties, He ran up, she said. She mentioned
people being recruited. You'd be singing one week, then someone's
assistant the next, and you'd think it's career building until
you realize it's a trap. The jury scribbled, The gallery
was dead silent, and then she said it. I know
one of those boys who got caught in the trap.
The judge leaned forward. I want his name on record,
she said, voice tightening. The judge cautioned her again. Jaguar
stood up halfway trembling. You want to talk about real victims,
then write this down. She slammed her hand on the table.
Brischard gray gasps echoed across the court room. Diddy's team
immediately objected, miss right, you will maintain composure, the judge ordered,
but she didn't stop. You think that boy just lost
his mind for no reason. You think he just snapped,
he was broken. That's when the judge banged the gavel
and called for order, but the damage was done. After
a five minute recess, Jaguar returned, this time seated calmerk.
She apologized to the court, but her words didn't lose weight.
I saw Bryscher at one of those parties. He wasn't partying,
he was surviving, she said. She recognized the look. It's
the look of someone who's been promised everything. Then handed
trauma in instead. The prosecution asked her to clarify, Are
you alleging a She didn't blink. Yes by Ditty and
others gas again, but this time no one interrupted. The
courtroom had crossed into territory. It couldn't retreat from. The
judge leaned back, no questions this time just silence. Even
Diddy's lawyers, who had objected every other minute, stayed quiet,
like they knew pushing now would only make it worse.
Jaguar took a slow breath. She looked straight at the jury,
then back at the prosecution. I know what I saw,
and I know what that boy was going through because
I've been through it too. The prosecution nodded for her
to go on, and what came next felt less like
testimony and more like a warning. You don't walk into
those parties thinking it's gonna happen. You think it's a
vibe and opportunity. Then you realize you're in a house
with no locks on the inside, just handlers, just cameras,
and puff always somewhere in the background watching. There were
no gasps this time, just tension, the kind that hangs
in the air like smoke after something burns. Jaguar opened
the folder she brought in inside, a printed email chain
dated and signed. This was sent to me by mistake.
Names redacted, but y'all know who you are. The prosecution
handed it to the judge. It was reviewed in silence.
Then Jaguar looked back at the gallery. You want to
know why this trial matters, she asked, because there are
more Brysers, more young black boys who went in thinking
it was mentorship and came out shattered. She stopped talking,
that she didn't need to say more because at that
moment it was already too much and just enough. The
prosecution resumed, slow and careful. Now, miss right, were there
other witnesses to this party, people who might corroborate what
you saw? Jaguar nodded, yes, but they won't talk, not
unless someone else speaks first. They're scared. Some of them
signed things they didn't understand. Some of them they're still
under him. Did he stirred at the table for the
first time, He looked at Jaguar, not with arrogance, but
with something closer to fear, like a ghost from a hallway.
He thought he'd board it up. The prosecutor pressed, do
you believe did he targeted vulnerable people? Yes, she said,
and that's the whole point. You don't build empires like
this by accident. You pick your prey, You throw just
enough fame at them to keep them chasing, and if
they fall apart, that's on them, not you. The defense
finally stood objection, speculative, Your honor sustained. The judge said,
mis right, Please stick to direct observations. She nodded. Then
let me say what I observed. She leaned in closer
to the mic. I observed handlers with ear pieces. I
observed back rooms with no cameras. I observed guests being
separated based on who brought them and who was expected
to perform. And I observed puff disappear right before things
went left courtroom still everyone holding breath. The prosecutor held
up a photograph. Is this from the night you're referencing?
Jaguar scanned it? Her face changed. That's the one They
handed it to the judge. Time stamp two thirteen am.
A dim hallway, blurry figures, but Diddy's face clear as day.
More murmurs, the air getting tied again. If the prosecutor
asked the judge to submit the photo into evidence, defense objected,
claiming lack of context, but the judge allowed it pending
further testimony. Then came the next question, Were there miners
present that night Jaguar hesitated? Not that I saw directly,
but I heard whispers. I heard a girl crying in
one of the rooms. I wasn't allowed in the door
was locked. A chill passed through the r You say
you weren't allowed in. Who stopped you? A man in
a black hoodie, he said, it wasn't for me. That
I was too loud to be trusted, The prosecution asked,
and who brought you to that party? Jaguar looked down
for the first time, Andre Harrold. You could feel the
shift Andre Diddy's mentor, now deceased. The room tilted slightly
at the weight of that name. He invited me, told
me it would be a night of opportunity, said people
would be there who could make my career move. And
did they know? Jaguar said, they made sure it didn't.
She explained how after that night phone call slowed, collaborations vanished.
I went from being in every studio to nobody picking
up Jaguar pause. The courtroom was still hanging on her
last words. Then she shifted direction, subtle but deliberate. I'm
not the only one who's seen it, she said. There
are executives, big names who've helped cover this up, not
because they didn't believe the victims, but because they were
part of the machine. The prosecution asked her to clarify
who she meant. She exhaled, eyes low. There's a certain producer,
big time grammy consultant. You'd know his name. Everybody does.
He isn't here, so I won't say it. But his
parties they were step two after ditties. He cleaned up
what puff left behind. Nobody said his name, but everyone
felt it, and the gallery caught the implication. She continued,
explaining how young talent, especially young black men, were often
funneled through both camps. They think they were being mentored,
but they were being molded, broken, and replaced. The prosecutor
leaned in, flipping to a new file. Miss Wright, are
you saying there's a system in place that rewards silence
and punishes resistance? She nodded slowly. It's not just a system,
it's a ritual. You survive it or you disappear. Then
she pulled out a printed message text threat, she said,
holding it up from someone who got out, someone who
watched brisherd break. The judge reviewed it, admitted into sealed record,
and then Jaguar dropped another name, and she said the
talent scout responsible for bringing Breescher to that infamous party
was still working in the business, still scouting young black men,
still unbothered. She didn't need to name him. She just said,
he's at every awards show, every press junket. You've seen
him smile on red carpets. That's the face of fear
wearing power. And in that moment, the courtroom began to
understand this wasn't just about ditty anymore. It was about
an entire food chain, one that started at the top
and fed on silence all the way down. Jaguar sat back,
her breathing steady now, but her eyes scanning the courtroom
like she was measuring how much truth they could handle.
Bruiser isn't the only one, she said, softer this time.
He's just the one who's pain made the headlines. There
are others, boys whose names you never knew, girls who
never made it past the first meeting. You want to
know why so many young artists fade after one hit.
It's not always the industry. Sometimes it's what they survived
to get there. A murmur rose in the back. The
judge raised a hand in silence returned. Then Jaguar leaned
forward and whispered into the mic. This ain't just about music.
This is about conditioning, grooming, and the system's favorite word, consent.
She explained that at Ditty's parties, consent was a trick
of lighting and mood goffered like candy contracts slipped between drinks,
and if you said no, she said, eyes locked on
the jury, you were never invited back, and if you talked,
you disappeared. The prosecution asked if she had ever been
invited to one of these events. She nodded twice. I
went once, never again. She described walking in velvet ropes, valet,
taking her phone, candles, bunning like it was a chuch,
but the kind that worshiped power, not God. I saw
Bryscher that night, and I saw the fear in his eyes.
He wasn't drunk, he wasn't high. He was trapped, She said.
He looked younger than his age, isolated in a room
full of stars not shining. Then she dropped the most
damning detail yet. He mouthed something to me. I was
across the room, couldn't hear him, but I know what
he said. She paused, blinked, and then whispered into the mic.
Help me. The gallery froze, no music playing, just silence,
that kind of silence that screams, and I did nothing.
I turned away. Her voice cracked for the first time
because I was scared, and I've carried that moment with
me for years. The judge called a brief recess, not
out of protocol but humanity. When court resumed, Jaguar wasn't shaken,
she was steeled. The judge asked her to continue only
if she was emotionally capable. Jaguar gave a curt nod
and straightened her spine. I'm not here to relive trauma
for headlines, she said. I'm here because the silence costs
more than the truth ever could. The prosecution shifted the direction,
asking about other parties, other names. Jaguar hesitated, then mentioned
a name most people didn't expect, a powerful female executive
known in entertainment circles, often seen as untouchable. She wasn't
a guest, Jaguar said, plainly. She was logistics. She described
a call sheet, yes, a literal call sheet, that tracked attendees, handlers,
and which NDA each guest had signed. Jaguar had seen
it once years ago, after a heated argument with someone
in Ditty's circle. They kept files, she said, on everyone.
The prosecution asked how she knew it was real because
my name was on it. There were whispers from the gallery.
Reporters started typing faster. Jaguar clarified. They labeled me a watchdog,
said I had too many questions. I never got invited
back then, as if timed for drama, the prosecution revealed
an old Revolt email chain leaked during an unrelated internal
probe listing potential disruptors in their ecosystem. Jaguar's name was third.
Diddy's lawyers objected to relevance, but the judge allowed pattern
and credibility. He ruled Jaguar took the moment to pivot.
Y'all act like this is new, but it's always been here.
It just wore better suits. She mentioned a night in
Miami years ago, not a party, but a cleansing. That's
what they called it. She was told it was a
gathering of safe souls who could be trusted to stay quiet.
It felt like church, she said, if church served champagne
and handed out silence. She left early again, no phone,
no photos, no trace, But the faces I saw there,
you'd recognize them. Some of them are posting quotes about
healing right now. Her voice was calm, but the heat
behind it scorched. Breischer's name is just the start, because
this trial ain't just about puff, It's about what this
whole machine was built to protect. The courtroom by this
point had shifted. It was no longer just a trial.
It was a reckoning. The prosecution brought the focus back
to Bryscher. They asked Jaguar how ctin she was, how
she knew what he had experienced was more than just
Hollywood bone out. Jaguar didn't flinch. I saw the way
he looked at the door every ten seconds. I saw
him shrink when Diddy walked in, and I heard him
cry behind the bathroom wall. The jury was still even
Diddy team stopped scribbling. Bruscher wasn't a guest, She said,
he was collateral. She then described a moment brief but
burned into her memory when Brisher whispered to her, I'm
not supposed to be here. She said. He looked like
a kid trying to disappear, and then he was gone.
She said, it just gone, pulled out of that room
like a mistake. The prosecution asked, have you tried to
contact him since Jaguar hesitated? I did once a year later,
got a call back from someone else, warning me to
leave it alone. That's when the prosecution shifted gears. They
introduced a sealed envelope, a document they said corroborated Jaguar's timeline.
The defense objected, but the judge allowed it for in
camera review. Jaguar didn't even look at it, and she
was already on the next name. There was a singer,
She said, he was rising, real talent. Then suddenly nothing.
The courtroom braced. Jaguar paused, then changed course. And I'm
not naming him, she said, because he didn't survive it
the way I did. The judge let the moment hang,
and then, with the whole room barely breathing, Jaguar leaned
into the mic. You think this is about celebrity, but
it's about captivity, and the moment you forget that, you
become part of the machine too. Court was quiet, now,
not out of respect, but out of fear. Jaguar had
shifted the air. Nobody was ready for what came next.
The prosecution asked her, one last time, do you believe
mister Colmbs is dangerous? She looked directly at the jury.
I believe he's protected. The words hit harder than if
she'd called him a predator. Because protection meant infrastructure, it
meant in neighblers, it meant people in high places, keeping
the truth from ever seeing daylight. She tapped the folder
she brought in. This ain't just my story, she said.
It's a ledger, a catalog of silenced voices, people you've
never heard of, people you thought were crazy, people who
were disappeared by reputation first and then by silence. One
juror swallowed hard. Jaguar closed her folder slowly. I wasn't
supposed to make it here. I was supposed to overdose,
or break, or get locked up for losing it. She
looked over it diddy, but I didn't, And with that
she stepped down. No applause, no noise, just to weight,
settling into the walls like dust that would never shake off.
The judge called for recess. Reporters scrambled out, turned back on.
Head Lines were already forming before the elevator doors opened.
Inside that courtroom, a story long hidden had found daylight,
and outside the wall was about to catch up. It's