What would Jackie make of her, this nineteen-year-old intern whose husband had just—what? What had he done with her? Mimi hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t said yes either. When she thought about it, days and weeks and years later, well into her sixties, she still didn’t know how to define it. She had taken her dress off, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that consent? But the way the president moved, grabbing her so fast, pushing her down on the bed so forcefully—she could never have stopped him. Short of screaming, she’d later write, there was nothing she could have done to get him off of her.
