The Politician (10 page)

I considered what Edwards had said. There was merit to it. I had my own interests in mind as I turned the key to fire up the Suburban and realized that I was the one who had stayed up all night with the senator, watching and planning and scheming. If I stayed close to him, it was possible that I’d accompany him through national campaigns and, ultimately, find a job in the White House.

Sitting behind the wheel of the Chevy, I flicked on the wipers and let them clear the dew off the windshield. With sunrise still more than an hour away, I needed the headlights to get home, but as I drove my future seemed so bright that I could have used some sunglasses.

T
wo weeks after the election, more than twenty million Americans opened
People
magazine to find a glamour shot of John Edwards lounging on a sofa in a rust-colored Ralph Lauren sweater with a gilt-edged book in his hands. The magazine’s cover announced its annual Sexiest Man of the Year award—winner Brad Pitt—and the senator appeared as Sexiest Politician. (I thought back to the day of the
People
photo shoot, when the photographer had asked him to roll up his pants legs and stick his legs in the Edwardses’ backyard pool. Elizabeth had refused, saying it wasn’t “presidential.” The staff had just been glad they’d remembered to have the pool cleaned.) The brief article accompanying the photo quoted North Carolina secretary of state Elaine Marshall on his “clean-cut boyish charm” and noted that Mrs. Edwards said, “I feel very safe in his arms. He’s someone who’s there to protect you. That’s more enduring than someone who just looks good in a suit.”

For weeks, months, and even years to come, John Edwards would face some fairly merciless teasing about the
People
photo, and he would make a
concerted effort to look less youthful and more senatorial. (The right haircut would help enormously.) But in a business where name recognition is essential to survival, his cameo appearance in the “sexy man” issue was priceless. This is because
People
reaches a huge number of people who never read a serious newsmagazine or tune in to
Meet the Press.
Short of appearing on a reality TV show, there was no better way to reach these voters than
People
.

Beyond the direct contact with the public, an appearance in a mass-market weekly can also influence the men and women who control other, more serious media outlets. Suddenly, they decided that Edwards was a high-profile politician with a big grassroots following. As a consequence, he got calls for interviews and pundits recognized his potential. (A month after the
People
magazine appearance, William Safire of
The New York Times
wrote that Edwards was the front-runner in the undeclared race to run for president as a Democrat in 2004.) All this happened because he had a great smile and was willing to pose for the political equivalent of a cheesecake photograph.

B
rody Young took his time.

Cheri’s due date came and went, and when her obstetrician finally decided to induce labor, the little guy still waited a full day to make an appearance. When he finally arrived at 2:40
A.M.
on May 26, 2001, he had to torture us a bit—turning blue and refusing to breathe—until the medical team finally got him to take a big gulp of air and say hello to the world. At eight pounds nine ounces, he was a sturdy little guy, and Cheri, with her background in neonatal and pediatric nursing, seemed to me to be the most attentive mother in the world. She would need all of her strength and expertise, because in her first few months as a mother, life was going to challenge her in some extraordinary ways.

At the time Brody was born, our house was undergoing a major renovation. When we brought the baby home, we had access to the basement and the second floor, but the first floor, including the kitchen, was blocked off with plastic sheeting and the walls had been taken down to the studs. In the same period, my job was becoming even more demanding, and the senator and his family had come to rely on me—and reward me—in new ways. I was not just the senator’s aide. In his eyes, I was a friend, and we spent increasing amounts of time hanging out like a couple of buddies. I knew that
unlike Mrs. Edwards, the senator was not insatiably curious about policy and public affairs. She might read briefing books to relax. He liked to lie on the couch and watch stupid movies like
Tommy Boy
with Chris Farley or sports.

We went regularly to UNC basketball games together, usually taking our kids and giving Cheri and Elizabeth the night off. If we were traveling, I would call ahead and have the hotel staff tape the game and cue it up on a tape player in his room. If we happened to be at the senator’s beach house on the coast, we’d take a run, buy some ribs, and follow a bunch of superstitious rituals—changing seats or even moving to a different room—that we hoped would bring good luck to the team. In March, we went to Atlanta to watch the 2001 Atlantic Coast Conference tournament. When we checked into the Ritz, the staff thought I must have been with former United Nations ambassador and Atlanta mayor Andrew Young and put me in the presidential suite. The senator quickly suggested I take his regular room and give him the suite, which I did. Duke beat UNC in the finals (by sixteen points—ugh), and after the game, as we eased out of the VIP parking lot in my Suburban, I revved my engine as if I were going to run over Mike Krzyzewski, the Duke coach, as he walked in front of us toward the team bus. “Don’t do it, Andrew!” shouted the senator, and we got a big grin out of Krzyzewski.

For a couple of North Carolina boys, first-class treatment at the ACC tournament represented the ultimate male bonding experience, and I could feel, as we spent time together, that Edwards considered me a true friend. Occasionally, when he asked me to do something above and beyond the normal call of duty, he’d smile and say something like “You know how much I appreciate everything, Andrew. You aren’t staff, you are family. You know that, right?” He said it like a big brother and with so much casual sincerity that I believed him and would, naturally, do whatever task he might request.

I had worked hard to win the senator’s trust, to become invaluable. And the more I heard about his ambition and dealt with the staff in Washington, the more I began to believe that if I wanted to capitalize on my connection,
I would have to leave Raleigh. An opportunity arose days after Brody was born when Will Austin, the scheduler in the senator’s Capitol Hill office, gave notice of his resignation due to a family emergency.

A senator’s scheduler is far more than the keeper of the appointment book. He or she occupies the desk closest to the senator’s private office and is the one who controls who will see him and who will be left waiting. In a business where “face time” is the most valuable currency, the scheduler gets a daily, if not hourly, supply. The scheduler is trusted to know a senator’s whereabouts at all times and becomes the one person relied upon to settle conflicts or enforce a time-out when the demands get too great. Because of this power, the scheduler can be more important even than the chief of staff, legislative director, or press secretary. Will Austin was a great scheduler because he put the senator’s needs first, juggling appointments and events to accommodate his need for rest and exercise and his low tolerance for boredom. There were times when Edwards would come into the office, tell Will to hold all his calls and meetings, and just close the door. Will kept the hordes at bay.

On the evening after Will had announced he was leaving, I met the senator at the airport in Raleigh. He got into the car, skipped the pat on the shoulder and “Good to see you, Andrew,” and reached for the Chardonnay. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do about Will leaving,” he said. “I don’t have anyone I want to put in there.”

“How about me?” I said without thinking.

“Would you want to do it?”

In fact, I had been thinking about a change for several months. My work in Raleigh had become routine, and I felt I needed a new challenge. I had even started to talk to Cheri about working on Capitol Hill, if only to see if I could keep up with the high-powered people on the senator’s staff there and make myself available for further advancement. Will’s spot seemed like the perfect option.

The senator responded with an eager smile, saying I could have the job if I wanted it. But he urged me to make sure that Cheri and I both knew
what we were getting into. When I got home that night, she didn’t hesitate. She said I had to try out Washington and that she would support me. I then took a quick trip to consult with the staff there, learn what the job entailed, and make my decision.

My visit took place on a typical June day for Washington, which meant ninety-degree temperatures and high humidity. The Edwards office was in the Dirksen Building, a big slab that occupies half a block along Constitution Avenue between First and Second streets NE. Built in the 1950s, the place is covered in marble that is so white, at certain times of day you risk temporary blindness from the reflected sunlight when you step outside.

Will Austin, the man I would replace, and my old friend Julianna Smoot met me at the Edwards suite, which was on the second floor. They showed me around, introduced me to the people who would be my coworkers, and talked about the job. Based on what they said, my assignment would be demanding, but I thought I could handle it. However, Julianna and Will didn’t explain the real challenge involved until we had left the building for lunch and settled into an outdoor table at a little restaurant.

For several minutes, the two of them talked about the pressure they felt working on the Hill and the cutthroat nature of the competition both inside the Edwards office and with the staff who worked for other members of the Senate. A case in point was Josh Stein, who had done more to get John Edwards elected senator than anyone because he had run the Senate campaign. Josh had served as “acting” chief of staff or deputy chief of staff. But he never got the chief of staff job on a permanent basis because of Mrs. Edwards. She told me that she believed that Josh kept things from her, and that made her suspicious. (In fact, Senator Edwards often told key staffers to withhold things from his wife.) Eventually, her disapproval would drive him back to North Carolina, where he won election to the state senate.

Will and Julianna did their best to make me understand the environment inside the Edwards operation—they used the term
snakepit
and warned, “They’ll suck you dry”—but I didn’t really want to hear it. I was too busy thinking about how inspiring it would be to walk to work on Capitol Hill
every morning and take my daily run on the National Mall in the shadow of the Smithsonian Institution. I insisted that Cheri and I were ready for the move, that everything would be okay.

“But Andrew, you have everything you could want right now,” said Julianna. “You have a beautiful wife, a baby, a house, and the chance at a normal life. That’s what we
all
want and don’t have. Why would you want to come up here and give that all away? D.C. is miserable. The people here suck.”

It was almost impossible for me to understand what they were saying. Washington seemed beautiful, exciting, and full of opportunities. The job was a perfect fit for someone with my skills, and it would put me at the center of the action. Cheri and Brody were going to come north with me. The senator was even giving me a big raise to go with the new title, and he insisted we use their condominium in Alexandria—just across the Potomac from Washington—rent-free while we got settled. What could possibly go wrong?

Y
ou know how most babies are lulled to sleep when you put them in a car seat and start driving? Not Brody. He hated the car and cried for much of the four-hour trip up Interstates 85 and 95 and into the District of Columbia. Cheri did her best to quiet him, and from where I sit now, years later, I have to say she also did her best to bury her own anxieties about moving to Washington and leaving behind a house still undergoing renovation and a good, stable life. I had asked her to “just believe” in the move in the same way that I had asked her to “just believe” when we met and got married. Things had worked out so far, so she set aside concerns about money and the fact that she didn’t know a soul in Washington and came along.

When we got to the city, we went straight to the Embassy Row district and the Edwards mansion on Thirtieth Street NW, where the neighbors included the ambassadors from Italy, the United Kingdom, Brazil, and South Africa. A massive seven-bedroom house with marble walls and a sweeping central staircase, the place reeked of power and money, but when the Edwardses met us at the door, they seemed like the same people we
knew in North Carolina. If anything, they were even more down-home friendly, and they welcomed us as if we were good friends. They insisted we have dinner with them, and the senator grabbed his car keys and said, “C’mon, Andrew, let’s get some ribs.”

When we got in the car, I realized that this was the first time I had ever ridden while he drove. And when we took off in the direction of Connecticut Avenue and his favorite hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint, it struck me that I had no idea where we were going. It was a little unnerving to give up control, and the experience made it clear to me that I had left a certain comfort zone. The senator and Mrs. Edwards seemed to sense what Cheri and I were feeling, and they talked about how much time we would spend with them and how they would help us ease into our new life. When they gave us the key to their condo and directions to Alexandria, they told us not to worry about using it and to stay as long as we wanted. No rent. No worries.