Esra Hudson, arguing for Lively, countered that the distinction between Lyle and this case was that Baldoni and Heath targeted her specifically, rather than just subjecting her to a generally inhospitable atmosphere. The relevant issue, Hudson argued, was consent—and Lively never gave it.

That was the moment, perhaps tellingly, Judge Liman pressed hardest. What was the limiting principle, he asked—in other words, how do we keep a consent rule from swallowing everything? Don’t directors have the ability to improvise? If kissing is off-limits, what about a hand on an actor’s back? And if consent is the sole measure, what is the role of intimacy coordinators or nudity riders in contracts? “Your position would seem to have every issue decided by a jury,” Liman observed, “and that can’t be right.”

To some, this might just sound like routine probing by an engaged judge, testing the edges of each side’s argument before issuing a ruling. But as I sat in the New York courtroom, Liman’s approach felt familiar. About a year ago, he pursued a strikingly similar line of questioning during a hearing on Leah McSweeney’s lawsuit against Bravo over alleged mistreatment on The Real Housewives of New York City. The former castmember claimed producers discriminated against her as a recovering alcoholic, “weaponizing” her alcoholism and exploiting her relapse for a storyline.

During that hearing, Liman pressed counsel to articulate limiting principles and openly wondered whether the theory advanced by McSweeney’s attorneys would spell the end of reality television. Ultimately, Liman concluded that producers were entitled to cast participants willing to consume large amounts of alcohol, and that creative freedom outweighed the state’s regulatory interest. He dismissed much of McSweeney’s case, though he allowed a narrower hostile-work-environment claim to proceed. It’s not hard to imagine a similar trajectory here, with Liman substantially narrowing Lively’s case before trial, even if he stops short of tossing it outright.

There are a few factual disputes, most notably over the circumstances in which Heath entered Lively’s trailer while she was nearly nude. Beyond that flashpoint, however, the parties largely agree on what happened, even as they fiercely disagree about what it means. That’s often the ideal setup for a judge inclined to write doctrine rather than defer to a jury. In other words, this case has all the ingredients for a sequel to the Friends case. Some 20 years from now, it wouldn’t be surprising if lawyers are citing whatever Liman writes next.

Liman must also decide how to handle Lively’s claim that Baldoni and other producers publicly maligned her in retaliation for her complaints about on-set conduct. This is the strand of the case that has attracted the most attention—remember the New York Times “Hollywood smear campaign” headline?—and generated the most anticipation about what Lively’s legal team, led by Michael Gottlieb at Willkie Farr, might uncover. Would discovery expose a covert social media operation, orchestrated by Baldoni, that reshapes our understanding of the modern crisis-management dark arts?

The short answer: Not really. Despite a tranche of documents that were unredacted on the eve of the hearing, Lively’s lawyers struggled to point to evidence supporting the theory that Baldoni coordinated a press and social media campaign to bury her. They highlighted instances in which Baldoni’s P.R. team—led by Melissa Nathan and Jennifer Abel—shared talking points with digital influencer Sage Steele ahead of a pro-Baldoni video. But overall, they appeared to concede that the investigative haul was thin.

That disappointment now underpins a sanctions motion—Lively’s team argues that the absence of evidence is itself evidence, accusing Baldoni’s camp of switching to Signal and enabling auto-delete just when communications should have been preserved. They’re asking the court to draw the inference that Baldoni did, in fact, execute a plan to undermine her publicly—and, if the case reaches trial, to bar him from offering any rebuttal.

Lively’s most formidable obstacle, however, may not be the evidentiary gaps, but whether Lively was truly an employee, as her side claims. If she is instead deemed an independent contractor, then several employment law claims, including retaliation, could fall away entirely.

That question remains a jump ball. Nevertheless, my eyebrows went up when Liman strongly implied that he didn’t view Lively’s unsigned, longform loan-out agreement—which her team has leaned on heavily to establish employee status—as enforceable. On the employment question, which has barely merited media attention amid the tabloid-ready details the case has otherwise served up, Baldoni’s lawyers have pointed out that harassment and discrimination laws are “designed to address a power differential”—and Lively is hardly powerless.

On the contrary, she’s a marquee star who exercised significant control over her working conditions, including extracting a 17-point list of demands early in the shoot. She also has a roster of influential allies (yes, this is where Taylor Swift reenters the story) and a powerful spouse, Ryan Reynolds, who was actively lobbying Colleen Hoover and executives at WME on her behalf (see my partner Kim Masters’s sharp-eyed coverage here). All of which is to say that it’s possible Liman seizes on this line of reasoning, disposing of claims on grounds that few outside the courtroom have been paying much attention to at all.

Notably absent from the lectern during the hearing was Bryan Freedman. He was certainly present, and even brought his son to observe, but besides introducing himself, he remained silent and seated as his colleagues on Team Baldoni sent up three lawyers, including the formidable Alexandra Shapiro, whose recent client list includes Sam Bankman-Fried and Sean “Diddy” Combs. It was a savvy decision, both because Liman has shown an awkward aversion to Freedman in past proceedings that I’ve witnessed, and because Baldoni’s camp faces defamation claims arising from Freedman’s own media comments made around the time this case was filed.

Those statements went beyond the usual lawyerly boilerplate that the opposing claims “lack merit.” Freedman told talk show host—and former client—Megyn Kelly that Lively had weaponized sexual harassment allegations to become the de facto director of It Ends With Us. He told others that Lively had lied outright. The question for Liman is whether those remarks are actionable.

Shapiro urged Liman to tread carefully, warning that a ruling against Baldoni on the Freedman matter could chill constitutionally protected lawyering. “The consequences of not treating these statements from an advocate as opinions are severe,” she argued, cautioning against a precedent that effectively muzzles defendants accused of serious wrongdoing.

It didn’t look to me like Liman was persuaded. In this case, he’s drawn a sharp distinction between advocacy in court and advocacy in the press, adding: “He had full license to say these allegations are wrong. But when he goes beyond that to attack reputation and motive, knowing that is false, there are limits.” So where does that leave things? Liman could dismiss much of Lively’s underlying harassment case while allowing the claims about what happened after she filed suit to proceed. If that’s the outcome, the fallout may force Hollywood to recalibrate the rules of reputational warfare going forward.

Thanks, Eriq. What a case. Julia Alexander is here tomorrow, and I’ll be back on Thursday.

Matt