In April, Harvey Weinstein’s third New York trial began in Manhattan criminal court without leaving much of an impression, even at the courthouse. There were no lines and few news cameras; far more people were camping outside the federal courthouse a few blocks away, where a soldier was pleading not guilty to using confidential information to bet on the ouster of Venezuelan president Nicolás Maduro.
“Surveying the empty pews in the room, I wondered if I was in the wrong place. Two seasoned court watchers assured me I wasn’t. (‘Did I meet you at Diddy?’ one asked.),” writes Irin Carmon. “When the once-feared mogul — now close-shaven and pale — was wheeled in from Rikers, there were fewer than ten spectators in the courtroom. Only a few more trickled in as testimony began.”
Weinstein was the Ur-villain of the Me Too moment, the one everyone was supposed to agree on. The reporters who broke the stories about him shared a Pulitzer Prize; the women who put themselves on the line were
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