The Politician (12 page)

As the senator explained, we were not there to help him decide on a run for president in 2004. He was already assuming that he would run and that we would be on the team. “Each of you will make big sacrifices for me, sacrifices that Elizabeth and I can never repay,” he predicted. “But you can be certain that I will work as hard as I can on the things I am responsible for.” Edwards added that his immediate goals included “raising a ton of money, learning more about issues, getting to know opinion leaders and political leaders nationally, figuring out better ways to talk about these issues, to explain my views, and maintaining a good public image that will help whether I run for reelection or run for president.”

The discussion that followed consumed the entire day. Everyone was concerned about a possible Gore candidacy and the repercussions of running against the Democrat who was “robbed” in 2000. The only other candidates even being discussed within the party were Joe Lieberman, Dick Gephardt, Massachusetts senator John Kerry, and Senate majority leader Tom Daschle of South Dakota. This was hardly an intimidating lineup to Edwards, and as we considered Edwards’s national connections, his charisma, and his fund-raising potential, he looked more and more like a winner.

When Shrum got his chance to speak at length, he opened a notebook and ran through a series of points, touching on everything from the key elements of organizing a campaign to media strategy and policy priorities. I was blown away by the breadth of his expertise, and during a coffee break I told Hickman I was very impressed. Hickman, turning competitive, said, “Don’t be impressed, Andrew. That’s the same exact shit he’s been saying since 1980. The same recurgitated stuff.”

As lunch was served, the group worked on a long list of items that would have to be accomplished before Edwards could announce he was running. He had created a political action committee (PAC), which could
be staffed to raise money, research issues, and support candidates in key states who could be helpful later. We talked about setting priorities for the senator’s time in Washington, North Carolina, and around the country, and we reviewed a series of conferences where we could bring together experts in areas such as economics, foreign policy, and health care so the senator could become better informed. As a member of Senate committees that dealt with intelligence, health care, science, and commerce, he was already positioned to speak out on most of the important issues, but he needed to make himself more visible. As part of this effort, he would have to go on some fact-finding missions abroad, where he could beef up his image as a world leader. Of course, the issues didn’t matter if we couldn’t use them to connect with the public. Here the senator stressed “getting exposure with the people who matter.” This meant national media and TV and print in places like Iowa and New Hampshire.

For me, the fellow with such a profound fear of public speaking that he remained silent all day, the meeting was a crash course in presidential politics taught by people who understood the process. For example, amateurs who think the first important races take place in Iowa and New Hampshire don’t understand that the candidates fight one another first in a contest over money. Months before any votes are cast, pundits scan campaign finance reports to see who is raising the most dough. The leader in that race can pay for more staff, ads, and travel and is anointed the front-runner. At the same time, candidates take positions on issues with fund-raising in mind. If you want to get donations from oil executives, for example, it helps to be a supporter of drilling in the Alaska wilderness. Money is so important that even if you are the most brilliant candidate, political commentators will relegate you to second-class status if you are not among the top three in fund-raising. Below this level, you simply cannot compete in a national campaign.

I also learned that day that geography is not necessarily destiny when it comes to party politics. A lot of people were worried that Iowa governor Tom Vilsack might jump into the mix. If he did, he could expect to win the
first voting of the season at the Iowa caucuses. Some might see this turn of events as a negative, but you could also conclude that Vilsack would take Iowa out of play for everyone, which meant that a candidate like Edwards could concentrate all his time and money on the New Hampshire primary. If he did that and won in the Granite State, he’d become the overall leader.

In nine hours, not one person said anything to discourage the senator from running. In fact, everyone who spoke had supported the idea, and they all seemed to assume they would have positions in the future campaign. I would include myself in this group, and as the senator stood up to end the day’s work, I thought about being part of the team, accompanying him on campaign trips, waiting out election night returns, and celebrating victory.

Few things in adult life can match the passion and excitement of being a key player in a political campaign. During the days, weeks, and months of hard work devoted to a shared goal, people start to feel like soldiers in a battle or members of a football team driving toward a championship. You come to believe that your side stands for all that is good and the other side represents ignorance and evil. Fueled with adrenaline, ego, and hope, you work harder than you ever dreamed you could, accomplish things you never thought you could, and form bonds stronger than those of family. In the end, you get a score—the election results—that tells you whether you have won or lost. The verdict can test your nerves, but no matter how it works out, you know you were in the game—in this case, the ultimate game—and that can be deeply satisfying. Visions of the campaign danced in all our heads as the meeting at the senator’s home ended, and then, as everyone stood, Erskine Bowles spoke:

“Senator, what would you tell someone who asked you, ‘Why should I vote for you to be president? What makes you the most qualified candidate?’ ”

The room fell silent. The senator looked at Bowles with a mixture of surprise and anger, and then he struggled to answer. He said something about how his upbringing and career fighting for ordinary people against giant corporations had prepared him to lead. When this didn’t come out
right, he added some thoughts about health care and education and making things better for the middle class. But he offered no grand vision of America or big policy ideas, and as he struggled, I realized that in all the hours of talk, no one had said anything about what an Edwards presidency would mean for America. There had been no discussion of what he stood for. Edwards was caught off guard, but in a way Bowles had helped him by exposing how unprepared he was. The senator later told me that Bowles had made him very angry. The two men would never become close.

I drove Bowles to his hotel that night, and because traffic was bad, we wound up spending an hour in the car together. He said the senator was indeed an appealing political figure, but he had serious doubts about the timing. A 2004 bid, if it went badly, might end his chances forever. For this reason, he would advise Edwards to get more seasoning in the Senate—“actually do some good work with the opportunity he has there”—and run in 2008. He would make a better candidate then and, if he won, a better president (Bowles’s experience as Clinton’s chief of staff had taught him that presidential politics and the office itself were brutally demanding.) I understood his point but heard Edwards’s counterargument in my head: He had a tenuous hold on his seat and might not win reelection in 2004. If North Carolina rejected him then, he wouldn’t have a chance at higher office later.

By the time I dropped him off, I was convinced that Bowles had given Senator Edwards what he had asked for—his best straightforward advice. I admired his intelligence and honesty and the fact that he refused to let me help him bring his luggage and golf clubs inside. This little kindness made it easier for me to get home to see Cheri, who had once again spent the day alone and made me a well-balanced dinner that went cold on the stove.

R
eal estate never cured anything, but Cheri and I hoped that the tiny Watergate apartment we had bought (at a bargain price, because it was gutted) might make life a little easier. The McLean commute was adding about two hours to my workday. If we lived at the Watergate, I could spend most of that time at home with Cheri and Brody. I still had to drive, because I
needed my Suburban to ferry the senator around, so mass transit was out; but it was much closer to the office. Cheri would be able to walk to shopping or even visit me for lunch. We both had these benefits in mind on the morning of September 11, 2001, the date we were supposed to close on the purchase. As usual, I needed to be at work early and spend the entire day stuck behind my desk. For this reason, we arranged to sign all the papers separately. I went to the office, did some work, and then drove to the bank so I would be there when it opened at nine
A.M.
Cheri would come later in the morning with Brody and drive herself home.

Shock jocks were one of my guilty pleasures back then, and I had my radio tuned to one of the local morning madness shows when the person who read the news interrupted the raunchy jokes to report that a plane had crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. The men on the program brushed her off with a little banter about a wayward pilot in a Cessna, but she didn’t join in. She seemed to have a hunch that something more serious was going on.

In the lobby of the bank, I noticed the security guard there was watching the news—including live pictures of the World Trade Center—on a little portable TV. I went inside, found the office handling the closing, and quickly signed a stack of papers. As I walked back through the lobby, I saw that the guard’s TV was still tuned to the news, only now a second plane had hit the south tower. Witnesses had begun to report that both strikes had been made by jet airliners, not prop planes, and it was starting to seem that a coordinated attack, using hijacked planes, was under way.

My schedule that day called for me to meet the senator at the Capitol building. In those times before the 9/11 attacks, a staffer with a senator’s license plate could park right beside the Capitol steps, as I did that morning. As police ran mirrors under the car (for security purposes), tourists gawked into the blackened-out glass to try to see who was inside. People pulled out their cameras and asked me to roll down the window. I got out and stood on the steps beside my car, Diet Coke on ice, motor running, when the city just got quiet. Suddenly, officers were running around and
people were streaming out of the building. Sirens began to wail in the distance, and someone in the crowd said the Pentagon had been bombed. (In fact, it too had been hit by a plane, and 125 people had been killed.)

The events of 9/11 have become a shared national story, and it’s not necessary for me to outline here all that happened to the country that day. Like millions of Americans, I first tried to call home but discovered that the cell phone system would not work. (I heard that security officials shut down Service so the terrorists could not use their phones.) I then went to the Dirksen Building, where I ran into the senator coming out of the building. I called the Capitol police and asked where I should take him. They were overwhelmed and offered to take him to a secure location, but not any of his family members. Only senators in the direct line of succession to the White House get Secret Service protection, not rookie senators. They were polite but busy. Angered, Edwards drove home alone to be with his family.

Since big symbolic buildings were obviously targets, the po1ice evacuated the Capitol and all the congressional office buildings. The radio was already reporting that many streets and highways were being shut down, so I knew I couldn’t get home. With no alternative, I jogged over to the office we used for campaign fund-raising, which was in a nondescript building that would never attract an attacker. Staffers welcomed me, and we watched the day unfold on several small TVs. We tried to make sense of what we were seeing and compare it with rumors everyone had heard about helicopters being shot down on the Mall and other possible incidents. Each of us took turns using the landlines to try to call loved ones. I quickly discovered that phone service to Greater Washington, including McLean, was still blacked out, but I was able to call family out of state. With their help, Cheri and I were able to pass messages to each other.

The cell phones never did work that day, and by late afternoon the police had yet to reopen all the roads. I walked/hitchhiked to one of the Potomac bridges, crossed to the other side, and then managed to flag down a cab that brought me home to McLean. The sun had already set, and Cheri was way past overwrought. After months of isolation, single parenting, living out of
homes in two states, dinners for one, and now an attack on the Pentagon—which was close to the Watergate—she had reached a decision. She didn’t want the life of the stay-at-home wife and mother supported by a Capitol Hill staffer who worked up to eighteen hours a day and weekends, too.

“Brody and I are going back to North Carolina,” she told me. “You can come with us if you want to.”

The expression on Cheri’s face made it clear that her mind was made up. Within a few days, her car was packed and she drove back to Raleigh. We agreed that I would try to follow as soon as possible. For a few months, she  lived primarily in Raleigh but occassionally visited me in Virginia. I tried to stick it out but I had to recognize that living apart so much caused too many problems. At one point, in the middle of an argument she turned to me and said, “Andrew, you’re stuck with me, so you might as well get used to it.” To someone whose parents had divorced, sweeter words had never been spoken.

By Thanksgiving, I knew I didn’t fit in Washington—I was not cut out for that kind of politics—and needed to find a way to return to North Carolina. This is not to say there weren’t some extraordinary moments for me during my Washington duty. Cheri and I got to use the senator’s tickets to see a symphony at the Kennedy Center, and he insisted I use Elizabeth’s ticket to sit in the visitors’ gallery at President Bush’s first State of the Union address following the 9/11 attack. (She was worried about a terrorist attack, and as parents the Edwardses always avoided being in the same place when they had any fear of a dangerous incident.) But the occasional symphony or special event cannot restore balance to your life. We were determined to reclaim our life in North Carolina, so we sold the place at the Watergate, and to save money I moved out of McLean and into a tiny basement apartment in the city. (It had just one little window, and that was in the bathroom.) I didn’t tell anyone at work that I was fixing to leave, but I started planning and looking for the right moment to give my notice. In the meantime, I marveled at the cutthroat competition for advancement that dominates life on Capitol Hill.