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  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 a
sked, “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.

  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.

  Three

  I’M “FAMILY”

  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 dema
nds 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.