Another Weinstein verdict is upon us – but what’s changed?

This year, for the third time in my career, I found myself reporting on Harvey Weinstein. The first time was in 2017, when The New York Times and the New Yorker both published sweeping reports of the allegations against him. The second time was in early 2020, when Weinstein’s first criminal trial took place in New York. (My last “normal” day of work before the pandemic sent us all home for months was the hearing during which he was sentenced to 23 years in prison after being convicted of third-degree rape and a criminal sex act.)

The third time is now, and it’s ongoing. Weinstein’s second criminal trial opened in Los Angeles earlier this year, and, as I type this, we are still awaiting a verdict. It’s difficult to predict which way the jury will rule. Weinstein is facing seven counts (two of rape and five of sexual assault). Jurors could find him innocent on all counts, guilty on all counts, or they could have a mixed verdict, as they did in New York, acquitting on some counts and convicting on others. (For one of the counts, they even have a choice of convicting or acquitting him on a criminal count or a lesser misdemeanour.)

There is often the temptation to view any development in Weinstein’s legal cases as a referendum on #MeToo. But as the year draws to a close – the fifth year during which I’ve devoted a significant chunk of my professional life to Weinstein – I am struck by how much bigger the movement has grown.

When I think back to the reporter I was in 2017, I see how much #MeToo changed me and my industry: it brought concepts such as sexual harassment, bullying, and assault squarely into the mainstream. It put words on actions that previously existed in an amorphous, uncomfortable space. It enabled us to point to a range of behaviours and firmly label them as unacceptable. This infrastructure of knowledge, and the clarity it has enabled, is here to stay, no matter what happens in one specific case.

#MeToo also introduced me to the concept of trauma-informed journalism, an ensemble of best practices for journalists whose jobs put them in the position of interacting with people who have experienced trauma such as sexual assault, domestic violence or the sudden or violent death of a loved one. Such guidelines apply to a wide range of situations, and it ranges from things that should probably go without saying (“Clearly identify yourself”), to things that make sense but may not be entirely intuitive (“You can say you’re sorry for the person’s loss, but never say ‘I understand’ or ‘I know how you feel’”), to things reporters can do to make sure people feel a bit more comfortable (“Don’t overwhelm with the hardest questions first”). (All these are from the Dart Centre for Journalism and Trauma.)

Trauma-informed reporting is more than a list of tips, of course. It’s a practice and a mindset. It’s a reminder of our responsibilities when we have to interact with other people’s pain in the course of our job.

All this extends far beyond one trial, one wave of headlines and, certainly, one man.

Yours,

Clémence Michallon

Senior people writer