A retired New York City financier once known as the “right-hand man” of billionaire George Soros has been indicted on charges of abusing women.
According to the New York Post, Howard Rubin, 70, allegedly used his Manhattan penthouse as a “secret sex dungeon” at the center of the case.
In a statement released Thursday, the Justice Department said Rubin and his assistant, Jennifer Powers, have been charged with trafficking and transporting women across state lines for sexual encounters with Rubin.
A bank fraud charge was lodged against Rubin “in connection with misrepresentations made to a bank in the course of financing Powers’s mortgage for the Texas home of Powers and her husband,” according to the
“It is in this secret sex dungeon that Rubin, now 66, is accused of having committed violent acts and sexual assault against a number of women, including actual Playboy playmates. A civil trial, with six of his seven alleged victims seeking at least $18 million, is scheduled for November,” The Post reported.
Among other alleged acts of deprivation, The Post reported that Rubin has been accused of “beat[ing a woman’s] breasts so badly that her right implant flipped” — an injury so severe that, according to court documents, her “plastic surgeon was not even willing to operate on her breasts.”
Prosecutors allege Rubin paid women up to $5,000 for BDSM encounters. However, several women contend they never consented to the level of violence and humiliation they say he carried out during those sessions.
Another plaintiff claims that, while Rubin allegedly had her bound in his ‘dungeon,’ he told her “I’m going to rape you like I rape my daughter” and then, according to the complaint, forced sex on her against her will.
“Rubin has three children with his estranged wife, including at least one daughter,” The Post added.
“I thought he was a nice guy. He was a nebbishy Jewish guy and totally normal. I was surprised to hear about him having that apartment [with a sex dungeon],” a trader who worked with Rubin at Soros Fund Management, created by billionaire investor George Soros, told The Post.
“As alleged, the defendants used Rubin’s wealth to mislead and recruit women to engage in commercial sex acts, where Rubin then tortured women beyond their consent, causing lasting physical and/or psychological pain, and in some cases physical injuries,” Joseph Nocella Jr., United States Attorney for the Eastern District of New York said in the DOJ release.
“Today’s arrests show that no one who engages in sex trafficking, in this case in luxury hotels and a penthouse apartment that featured a so-called sex ‘dungeon,’ is above the law, and that they will be brought to justice. Human beings are not chattel to be exploited for sex and sadistically abused, and anyone who thinks otherwise can expect to find themselves in handcuffs and facing federal prosecution like these defendants,” he added.
“For many years, Howard Rubin and Jennifer Powers allegedly spent at least one million dollars to finance the commercial sexual torture of multiple women via a national trafficking network. The defendants allegedly exploited Rubin’s status to ensnare their prospective victims and forced them to endure unthinkable physical trauma before silencing any outcries with threats of legal recourse,” stated FBI Assistant Director in Charge Christopher G. Raia.
“The FBI will continue to apprehend any trafficker who sexually abuses others for twisted gratification,” he added.
“This was not a one-man show. While Rubin dehumanized these women with abhorrent sexual acts, Powers is alleged to have run the day-to-day operations of the enterprise and got paid generously for her efforts,” said Harry T. Chavis, Jr., IRS investigative special agent in charge.
If you tuned in for a political debate and expected dignity, you must have missed Gavin Newsom’s latest televised train wreck. What unfolded wasn’t just a clash of ideas—it was a rhetorical massacre, a public shaming so severe it should have come with a warning for sensitive viewers. Megyn Kelly didn’t just challenge California’s governor; she vaporized him, leaving nothing but smoldering ambition and a trail of shattered sound bites.
From the opening moments, Newsom looked less like a seasoned leader and more like a man desperate for attention. Every time his opponent scored a point, Newsom interrupted, talking over arguments with the finesse of a middle schooler in a class debate. Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover it. When Newsom tried to outsmart Megyn Kelly, he walked straight into a buzzsaw of receipts, firepower, and enough sass to leave a Real Housewife speechless.
This wasn’t a takedown—it was a roast, dripping with scandal and extra heat. By the time the cameras stopped rolling, Newsom probably wished he’d stayed tucked away at his French Laundry table, far from the public eye.
Newsom strutted into the spotlight like California’s favorite failed influencer, grinning as if he’d saved a kitten from a tree—when in reality, he’s the reason the whole forest is burning. He looks like he was engineered in a lab to package disappointment: designer suits, perfect teeth, and hair so slick it could cause an oil spill, but with zero direction. Give him a GPS, a compass, even a sherpa, and he’d still guide the state straight into a flaming dumpster stuffed with Whole Foods receipts and shattered climate promises.
A simple Google search about himself would serve Newsom well before he makes sweeping claims. On the trans and children’s issues, he tried to act like the reasonable moderate—a lie so transparent it could be used as a window. His state’s policies are radical, his rhetoric even more so.
Megyn Kelly didn’t need to shout. She came armed with the quiet fury of someone who’s sat through one too many press conferences, watching Newsom grin like a ventriloquist’s dummy programmed to repeat, “We’re making progress,” while stepping over entire tent cities. Under his watch, the so-called California Dream comes with an eviction notice and a free side of fentanyl.
Homelessness has exploded. Crime is through the roof. Gas prices are so high you’d have to auction off a kidney on Etsy to fill your tank. Meanwhile, Newsom jets off to red states, bragging about how wonderful things are back home. That’s like your plumber flooding your house, then giving a TED Talk on water damage prevention.
He governs like a failed motivational speaker—buzzwords galore, results nowhere. Everything is bold, historic, or transformational. Translation: completely imploding. But at least the lighting is perfect.
Newsom is obsequious, a chameleon who tries to please everyone but stands for nothing. He steps into the spotlight like a man announcing the cure for cancer, when in reality, he’s serving up a crisis buffet. Education shattered, housing in ruins, infrastructure held together with duct tape and nostalgia. Yet there he is, flashing movie star teeth, promising this time it’ll be different.
Public safety in California feels like a choose-your-own-adventure book where every ending is a robbery. Crime has become so casual it might as well be selling its own merch line. While Newsom is busy adjusting his cufflinks, California stores are locking up toothpaste like it’s a set of nuclear codes. This isn’t reform—it’s an open casting call for Grand Theft Auto: San Francisco Edition.
His solution to homelessness? Pour billions into programs that somehow create more tents, leaving California with more tarp per capita than Amazon has cardboard boxes. Walk through LA and you’re guaranteed to trip over an encampment while a Gavin Newsom flyer floats by, promising the exact fixes he’s failed to deliver for three straight years.
Before students even graduate, Newsom’s hypocrisy is already on full display, performing Olympic-level gymnastics to dodge accountability. Lockdowns were ironclad for everyone—unless you scored an invite to one of his private Napa Valley dinners with the elite. Small businesses were chained shut like Fort Knox, but Gavin’s social calendar stayed wide open.
He delivered pandemic briefings like a Netflix villain, smirking through a monologue before hitting the self-destruct button. His COVID strategy? Pure jazz: all improv, no structure, and absolutely no one had a clue what was happening. Parents begged for schools to reopen, businesses collapsed daily, and Gavin starred in glossy PSA videos whispering about togetherness while his wine cellar expanded by two shelves.
Question him and watch how he freezes, buffers, then blames someone else. Ask about homelessness? He points to mental health. Ask about mental health? He shifts to housing. Ask about housing? Suddenly, he’s flashing charts on electric vehicles. To Newsom, every crisis is someone else’s responsibility, yet every camera flash is his to claim.
If posture, parade, and privilege counted as policy, Newsom would have solved climate change, fixed income inequality, and ended the opioid crisis before brunch. On climate, he struts around like he personally invented the sun, posing in front of wind turbines and solar panels while California literally burns behind him. Rolling blackouts, bone-dry reservoirs, wildfires ripped from Armageddon—all just another photo op for Planet Gavin, where every disaster comes with the perfect Valencia filter.
He bans gas-powered lawnmowers and declares victory for the planet, while wildfires consume entire zip codes. It’s like watching a guy torch his own kitchen, then march next door to criticize your landscaping. And while he’s busy throwing shade at Florida, Californians are fleeing to Texas like it’s the last helicopter out of Saigon. The U-Haul shortage isn’t random—it’s a full-blown mass exodus from Gavintopia.
California used to be the Golden State. Under Gavin, it’s become a cautionary tale served with artisanal kale. You can’t even call it governing anymore—it’s performance art. The cracks, the chaos, the curated incompetence, it’s all part of the act. He preaches equity while his policies price entire communities out of their homes. He brags about safety while criminals stroll free and law-abiding citizens install panic rooms inside studio apartments. He boasts about progress while every measurable sign screams decline.
If irony were a renewable energy source, California could power the entire country on nothing but Gavin’s speeches.
His best trick? Being everywhere except where the crisis actually is. Sacramento on fire? He’s in Miami. Northern California wildfires? He’s on a podcast about existential leadership. Statewide water crisis? He’s busy filming a TikTok about hydrating with glacier water in BPA-free glass bottles.
Gavin is the influencer of American politics, sponsored by Disaster, partnered with Delusion. He doesn’t solve problems. Gavin Newsom is what happens when style takes substance hostage, shoots it in the foot, and runs for higher office with a smoothie in one hand.
At this point, Gavin Newsom isn’t leading a state—he’s hosting a live-action disaster documentary, complete with commercial breaks for luxury skincare. And the people? They’re done with the show. They want off this ride. They want someone who doesn’t treat real-world collapse like it’s part of an awards season campaign. But Gavin? He’s too busy practicing his 2028 inauguration pose in a mirror made of ego and blind ambition.
And that’s the real punchline. He still thinks he’s winning. Winning. That’s the biggest joke of all.