The rumors I’d heard were not sexual in nature. To be clear, Harvey Weinstein never laid a hand on me personally. I didn’t get the job in 2008, nor was I hired when they called me in again, in 2009. That time, I met with a young man currently serving as one of Harvey’s senior assistants. This second meeting was one of the strangest I’ve ever had, in that it didn’t feel so much like a job interview as a not-so-subtle warning to run for the hills. Only a few times did he look me in the eyes, and when he did I saw his own were brightly bloodshot. In a flattened tone, he told me what I already knew — what I assumed everyone knew: That Harvey was a tyrant. That he screamed and threatened and demeaned his staff to the point of terror. That in taking this job, I would be signing up for a season of abject misery and abuse in exchange for the right to put “Weinstein Company” on my resumé. At the end of his weary spiel, the young man hunched over the conference table and shrugged. By now, any pretext of a formal interview had gone out the window, so I went ahead and asked: “Is it worth it?” He smirked.