The Politician (9 page)

At the school, we were met by the principal and given the usual tour. Somewhere along the way, Gore and Lieberman called and I took the senator into an empty room to congratulate them and agree that he would contribute to the campaign in any way he could. When he came back, it seemed as if nothing had happened. He sat down with a small group of educators and listened carefully to their concerns about the funding and technology needs of rural schools. No trace of disappointment showed on his face, and he was completely attentive. Looking back on that day ten years later, I can say he was never more presidential.

(Eventually, the senator told me what had happened with the Gore pick. According to Edwards, he
had
been anointed on the Saturday prior to the announcement, but the choice did not go over well among Democratic
Party insiders and with various pundits. The next day, the Gore family met behind closed doors, and when the session ended Lieberman was in.)

R
ealistically, the nomination for vice president was too much to expect for a guy who had run for office only once and had served a grand total of nineteen months in the Senate. Knowing this, I found it easier to focus on the chores Cheri and I had to finish at our new house and enjoy what the summer had to offer. We went to a Jimmy Buffett concert at an outdoor venue called Walnut Creek and attended a good friend’s wedding at a country club down in Charlotte. Cheri wasn’t feeling quite like herself, but I figured she was just a little run-down. Besides, we managed to have a great time at both events.

I was free to relax because the boss was in great demand out of state. In the middle of the month, he attended the Democratic National Convention at the massive Staples Center arena in Los Angeles. He had a minor speaking role: five minutes and not in prime time. But he also got to visit state delegations, where he met dozens of people who could help him in the future, and he socialized with the glittery Hollywood wing of the party, which was out in force. No matter what you might think of the Democrats at any given moment, you cannot deny that it is by far the entertainment industry’s favorite party. Cher, John Travolta, Martin Sheen, Christie Brinkley, and many others turned out for the Democrats. Before he even left Los Angeles, the national media were describing John Edwards as a rising star and “the future” of the Democratic Party.

I heard all about the Hollywood scene when the senator finally returned and we resumed our routine, crisscrossing the state to meet constituents and officials. The senator was practically giddy with excitement about the convention and wide-eyed over the people he had met and the things he had learned. Always eager to tweak his technique, he was especially proud of learning how to address a vast but distracted audience like the crowd at the Staples Center. The party’s media consultants had coached him on how to stop for applause lines and pretend that he had looked into the crowd and
caught someone’s eye. This bit of acting is essential for anyone who wants to look good while addressing weary delegates in midafternoon, and John Edwards was delighted to report that he had mastered it.

Others agreed with the senator’s self-assessment. A little more than a week after the convention, Senator Edwards was the subject of a column in
The Wall Street Journal
by the paper’s Capitol Hill veteran Al Hunt. The piece cited glowing assessments by big-name Democrats, but the comment that stuck out came from Alex Castellanos, a Republican consultant who had tried to help Lauch Faircloth fend off the Edwards challenge in 1998: “Edwards is the Robert Redford of politics, a ‘natural.’ ” Of course, Castellanos was actually referring to the character Roy Hobbs, whom Redford played in a movie called
The Natural,
but his point was clear. John Edwards looked, walked, talked, and acted like a great leader, and he made it look effortless. And in a thirty-second sound bite age, these traits could be more valuable to a politician than decades of experience in public service.

I agreed with Castellanos, but I also knew the senator was sensitive about his natural gifts. He wanted people to remember that he came from a very small town and was raised in a lower-middle-class household where he got lots of love—his mom thought he could do no wrong—but no luxuries. “I’ve worked hard all my life,” he would say. “This isn’t easy.”

As the senator and I went back on the road, he continued to hone his political skills. He was at his best when he encountered resistance in a crowd, like the time we went to an American Legion hall in a small town and someone asked why he opposed a constitutional amendment that would ban flag burning. The room was full of war veterans who had risked their lives and seen their friends die in defense of the flag, and they felt deeply insulted by the thought of anyone desecrating it. The senator opposed the amendment because he considered it a free-speech issue and he believed the Constitution was so sacred that amendments should be rarely enacted. Somehow in that hall he managed to listen respectfully, offer a differing point of view, and reach an understanding with a group that met him with real hostility.

The legion appearance left the senator feeling energized and engaged. He had a much more easygoing experience at a gathering called the Fatherhood Summit. At this meeting, he spoke a bit about the importance of fathers, and because I had spent so much time in his home, I knew he spoke sincerely. I had seen how he related to his children, making them feel nurtured, protected, and secure. Whenever he was home, he watched movies with the kids and took charge of bedtime, making sure stories were read, pillows were fluffed, and blankets were tucked in. And on many occasions when Mrs. Edwards had reached her limit with the kids, he would take over and restore harmony almost instantly.

The routine at the Edwards home was familiar to me because with every passing day I was getting more deeply involved in the family’s life, even as I fulfilled my official duties. When they were in Washington, I took care of their houses in Raleigh and at Figure Eight Island near Wilmington. Home to about four hundred houses and no businesses, Figure Eight is a private gated community where seabirds outnumber people and security is so tight that it’s a favorite for celebrities such as Tom Cruise, Andy Griffith, and Tom Hanks. A typical maintenance-related e-mail from Mrs. Edwards to me about this house included dozens of items, for example:

•  Shower door in MBR replaced with something stronger.

•  Painting the white exterior trim around windows, over the walkway.

•  Have the kitchen stools sanded and primed. Base color can be white.

•  Hot tub removed. Deck replaced. Poles for hammock added.

•  Replace microwave (shelf where cabinet is presently is okay, so you can just enlarge existing space, and we don’t have to buy built-in kit).

•  Check all lightbulbs, replace those that need replacement (have 6-year bulbs for light fixtures in difficult locations), maybe label the switches as this is done.

•  Have the crawl spaces on the top floor cleaned (presently too dusty etc. to use).

The Edwardses had similar expectations for their aides in Washington, who would often call me as they waited on the cable man, the repairman, or a delivery from eBay. (Strange as this may seem, many senators treat aides this way, as if they are personal assistants and not federally paid workers.) In North Carolina the list of chores was practically endless. I made sure the Edwardses were registered to vote and that their cars were properly inspected and maintained. More than once, I lent them Cheri’s car to use while theirs was in the shop. At other times, I gave the senator my Suburban to use for errands.

These little favors generally went off without a hitch, but one incident stood out as an indicator of things to come. I loaned the senator my new Suburban, which I had just bought to replace the one worn out during the hundred-county odyssey. He drove it to the Village Draft House in Raleigh, where a blogger, who later reported what she saw, observed him shaking a few hands, signing some autographs, and waiting at the bar for a take-out order of salmon and vegetables. She watched as he departed, got behind the wheel, and backed my new Suburban into a parked car. He got out, looked around to see if anyone had seen him, and drove away quickly. The right rear bumper on my brand-new car suffered a dent the size of a dinner plate. The senator never said a word to me about it. I couldn’t bring myself to confront him about the damage and ask him to pay for a repair. Cheri wasn’t about to pay for it to be fixed or file a claim and watch our insurance rates go up. In this stalemate, the dent remained, and every time we went out to the driveway, we got a reminder of John Edwards’s sense of entitlement.

In general, Cheri had trouble understanding why I worked long hours performing my regular duties for the senator and then serving as butler, personal shopper, and all-around handyman for the entire family. She thought the extra roles were demeaning for a man of thirty-four with a law degree. I saw her point, but I had reasons for my devotion. First, I was
doing the job the only way I knew, saying yes to every request and doing my best all the time. Second, I truly believed that John Edwards was going to be president of the United States one day, and I thought that this would be good for the country and for our family.

Finally, I knew that I had become indispensable. I felt this because from time to time the senator would call from New York or California and ask me to perform some special duty, saying, “Anyone else would fuck it up, Andrew, but if I ask you to do something, I never have to worry about it again.” (He had complete confidence in me.) I believed that by staying close to John Edwards, I might rise along with him and earn a secure, comfortable future for myself and my family. I say “family” because in the late summer of 2000, Cheri discovered that the physical discomfort she had felt at the Jimmy Buffett concert and at my friend’s wedding was an early sign of pregnancy. We were going to have a baby come February, and I hoped it would be the first of many. Now that I had a family to support, I was especially concerned about being a good provider.

In the early months of the pregnancy, I was able to give Cheri a little extra attention because the senator was involved in the presidential campaign, speaking for the Gore-Lieberman ticket at different events around the country. Whenever I saw him during this time, Edwards complained about how lackluster the ticket seemed and said that by sidelining Bill Clinton, Gore was taking a star player out of the lineup. More critically, he was not using Clinton to attract every black vote he could get. It would cost him, he said. The way he saw it, people who liked Clinton might respond to him and go to the polls for Gore. Those who hated Clinton would never pull the lever for Gore anyway.

On election night, the senator asked me to watch the returns at his house in Raleigh with him, Mrs. Edwards, and their Country Club Hills friends. We all celebrated a little when some of the networks called Florida for the Democrats, because it was a key battleground state. Then, as more returns came in, the Florida count tightened, and by ten
P.M.
it seemed to belong to
George W. Bush. The senator and I were intrigued by the reports coming from the networks, but as time passed I noticed that we were the only ones talking about it. The party at the Edwards house started to thin out before midnight. The senator’s former law partner and closest friend, David Kirby, departed before one o’clock, and then Mrs. Edwards went to bed. The senator and I were the last holdouts, and Cheri called a few times to ask when I was coming home. Every time I got up, he asked me to stay longer.

All night long, the senator had only hinted at the idea that he wouldn’t mind too much if Gore actually lost. Now that we were alone, two teammates dissecting the game, he spoke openly about how the Democrats were so short on future presidential contenders that he ranked near the top, despite his lack of experience. A Gore victory would mean he would have to wait eight years before taking his shot. If Bush won, Edwards could make a run at the 2004 nomination.

I had assumed that Edwards would spend at least six or more years in the Senate and I would glide along with him. This greater ambition, stated so boldly, surprised me a little. I asked, “Do you think you are really ready?” I had in mind his lack of experience and what I thought was his reluctance to grapple with difficult new issues. (He still didn’t like to read the staff-prepared briefing books.)

He answered by confessing that he knew he was pushing things a little too quickly, but he added that “there are only so many times when that door cracks open. When it does, you’ve got to take the opportunity and push your way through, whether you think you’re completely ready or not. If you don’t, the chance may not come again.” He also spoke in a team mode, about “us” being in the White House. About “us” creating change. It was intoxicating.

At some point in our conversation, the senator noted, with the hint of a smile, that he was going to get serious about reading his briefing books and other materials on national and foreign affairs. In this moment, he reminded me of a bright but smart-alecky schoolboy who, upon hearing he’s about to fail, promises his teacher that he’s finally going to buckle down and do his homework.

That night, the topsy-turvy returns made it difficult to tell just who was going to wind up president, but the way Gore handled himself—conceding to Bush and then calling back to unconcede—did not bode well. As I left, in the predawn darkness, we both had a hunch that the Democrats would somehow be outfoxed and lose.