When Donald Trump was charged with 34 felony counts for falsifying business records — the legal fallout from the alleged 2016 bribe payment to Stormy Daniels to stay quiet about their affair — and descended on lower Manhattan like a perfectly toasted Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I remembered how I felt the day that Harvey Weinstein was convicted of assault by a jury in 2020. I was meeting a friend for lunch and saw two women embracing in celebration on the street in Tribeca, a neighborhood Weinstein used to dominate, where he had once berated me and assaulted my colleague. My friend greeted me with jubilation: Have you heard?! I had. And I felt nothing. No pleasure; no sense of justice served.
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