Russell Brand is a rapist. We haven’t been allowed to say that for three years, as investigations began into his crimes against women, and we certainly haven’t been allowed to say that for the past four weeks, as he sat, straight-backed in the dock at Southwark Crown Court, while six women with no connection to each other and nothing to gain, accused him of three counts of rape and four counts of sexual assault, relived profound historic trauma and were torn to shreds by his defence.

But now, after a jury of eight men and four women deliberated for eight hours to reach their unanimous verdict, he has been found guilty of one rape and three sexual assaults. Of all the reactions I imagined having to this news – relief, satisfaction, elation – I could not have anticipated such an overwhelming sense of disbelief. That is the kind of power a predator like Russell Brand wields.

You can hear every gruesome detail of the charges, see that he could not convince even one witness to speak in his defence, believe, deeply, that these women were telling the truth, and still feel astonished that someone as famous as him can really be brought to justice.

I attended Russell Brand’s trial in person, and watched it remotely from home – there was such great media demand to get in that it was live-streamed to accommodate all journalists. It was not remotely a thrilling spectacle full of high drama, but bleak, repetitive, and confronting.

Sitting in that suffocating room, feet away from Brand, who stared straight ahead and remained almost entirely emotionless throughout, was to be immersed in the grimiest showbiz world possible: radio offices, backrooms at TV channels, flashy parties, taxis, public toilets and backstage meet-and-greets.

It was to hear the story of the decade in which a fringe comedian became a Hollywood A-lister, and of a celebrity culture that indulged his every lecherous prank and told him, and everyone else watching, that it was funny. It was to hear the textbook story of a man who exploited his fame to sexually abuse women and was then shielded by that fame because it kept them silent. That textbook story does not usually end with a conviction.

It was impossible to follow the Russell Brand trial closely as a woman without reconsidering your own vulnerability. You could not listen to the ways he ensnared women, with playful, boyish flamboyance, with eloquent, cheeky flattery, and not wonder whether you’d have gone back to his flat against your better judgement, too.

You could not hear about the complainants’ guilt, the feeling, over and over, that they should have known better and only had themselves to blame, nor their fear about how speaking out might harm their careers, without wondering if you’d have kept quiet for decades, too.

Being immersed in testimony about Brand’s insidious tactics forces you to challenge your assumptions about your own autonomy, especially in the face of fame and power. Many women could have been coerced into giving Brand a massage, as his production team allegedly watched on and laughed, because they felt helpless to say no. Many could have been plucked from a crowd of fans and schmoozed into bed with a celebrity. Brand could be charming, and his sexual appetite was indiscriminate – that was his whole USP. But no woman could have imagined she’d be left violated and devastated when he took the condom off, anally raped her and left her a packet of wet wipes to “clean up the mess you’ve made”.

Compounding Brand’s sinister deception is how gentle he could be. He was not the kind of crime-drama villain who committed violence against strangers in back alleys but someone who masked his violations as worship of women. He was allowed to carve an identity out of his sexual appetite, because it was “ironic” and taboo.

He was accepted by the establishment. He was not just a star of Channel 4, which has always been “risqué”, but had a show on BBC Radio 2, a Guardian column, was invited to speak on Newsnight. He was ubiquitous, not just within youth culture but applauded by an intelligentsia who lapped up his florid obscenities.

Unsurprisingly, it was the articulate and self-aware husband and father of three and not the boyish caricature who appeared in court. Brand was polite, he was serene, he spoke calmly to reporters outside about wanting justice for everyone involved and held the door open to the reporters inside as they shuffled out for lunch breaks. He was not a threatening figure. When he spoke at the stand, he – now one of the internet’s premier Christian YouTubers – expressed contrition for his promiscuous past.

The sombre 51-year-old speaking last Wednesday acknowledged he had “dedicated much of my life to what now seems reckless philandering”, stressed that consent was perhaps even more important than sex, said he felt embarrassed as he listed the types of things he’d say to a woman during sex, and the ways he used to use sex to feel “important”, “sufficient”, “adored” and “attractive”.

His defence rested in sufficiently convincing the jury that he was so rational and regretful of his reputation that he could not possibly have been the monster the prosecution described. It was an impressive performance and a glimpse of the kind of manipulation which Brand used to abuse women. It was not enough.

I had hoped for this verdict. I did not expect to be so moved when it came. This comedian built his entire brand around the pursuit of sex and his success and popularity spread the message to men across the world that sex with women was their right.

The most disturbing parts of this trial ought to have been the horrifying and intimate details of the accusations themselves. Instead, what shocked me most were the vile, graphic, bodily proclamations Brand made on stage, for years, as the British public laughed along. We now know the truth about what he did in private, and it should chill every one of us.