In July 2024, The New York Times published a piece featuring Brooklyn artist Lindsey Acree. She described a party in the Hamptons in 2011, saying she had a glass of wine in a hot tub and then blacked out. Her only memory? Being pinned down in a sauna by Tal Alexander and another man she’d just met. “I drank the wine, and then it’s just nothing,” she told the paper. “I have no idea what happened to me. I have no idea what happened to my body.”
Fast forward to June 2025. Acree now claims—via a civil lawsuit covered by the Miami Herald—that she was raped twice by the Alexander brothers. First by Oren in his apartment months before the Hamptons party. Then again by Tal and an unnamed “John Doe” at the party itself, where she says she was drugged, partially conscious, and filmed with a tripod Tal allegedly brought into the room.
So which is it?
If Acree blacked out and “had no idea what happened” to her body—as she told the Times—how is it that, one year later, she remembers being crawled on the floor, being laughed at, Tal returning with a tripod, her hair extensions being waved at her, and conversations that supposedly took place “perhaps days later”?
This is not a minor discrepancy. This is a wholesale transformation of the narrative.
The New York Times version offered ambiguity. The Miami Herald version is full-blown horror story—with cinematic detail, multiple locations, and serial coordination. The timeline also raises eyebrows: Acree claims to have been raped by Oren first, then invited to a “luxury weekend” by a friend (who she later alleges was part of a setup) and handed off to Tal and another man at the Hamptons property. That friend—identified only later as Hana Balout—allegedly deceived her into coming.
Also worth noting: despite claiming she was unconscious and drugged, Acree says she remembers being checked on to make sure she was “out.” She remembers a tripod. She remembers being taunted for her nail polish and extensions. She remembers rape in “multiple locations of the vacation home.”
These are not the words of someone who “has no idea what happened to her body.” These are vivid, sequential, and emotionally charged details—many of which strain credibility if the central allegation is that she was drugged into a near-lifeless state.
Even more bizarre: the Times made no mention of the first alleged rape by Oren Alexander—at his apartment months earlier. If that allegation existed in 2024, why was it absent from their report? Did Acree not tell them? Or did the Times choose not to publish it?
And now, in 2025, Acree is filing a civil suit—after speaking to the media, participating in group legal actions, giving lengthy interviews, and showcasing a symbolic painting of three shadowy crowned figures. She has taken her story public in every way possible. But when asked to identify herself in court, she resisted—until a judge ruled anonymity wasn’t warranted.
Let’s be clear: if Lindsey Acree is telling the truth, justice should prevail.
But if she’s not—if the timeline is manipulated, if memory is being reconstructed, or if the lawsuits are driven more by spectacle than substance—it represents one of the most cynical abuses of the #MeToo era. Allegations of this magnitude, especially when amplified by powerful media outlets, deserve scrutiny—not just sympathy.
Stories don’t just evolve this drastically. Either Acree told the Times an incomplete story, or she’s telling the Herald a distorted one. Both can’t be true.
And we should stop pretending that’s normal.
This is really great journalism!