Edwards' downward spiral fueled by ambition, narcissism

CHARLOTTE, N.C. -- In 2001, when I was a political/metro columnist for The Charlotte Observer, I had lunch with Sen. John Edwards at a Southern soul food restaurant on Tryon Street -- i.e. Wall Street South -- between the headquarters buildings of the twin banking colossi that defined this city. Back then, Bank of America and Wachovia were on a feeding frenzy, consuming every bank in sight, and the Observer was flush with cash, so much so that the senator and I split an appetizer before the entrees.

The crab dip was OK. Nothing special.

What I remember most about the meal, other than what a quick study Edwards was on the ways of Washington, was how the two of us went at that crab dip. Both of us. Like we didn't know where the next meal was coming from. Granted, I'd not had breakfast, and the senator was in a hurry, but it was funny and scary in hindsight, especially considering Edwards was worth some $40 million while I was barely socking away $40 a week in Knight-Ridder's 401(k) plan.

At the same time, that incident made me think Johnny Reid Edwards knew something of the two Americas of which he so often spoke. Both of us had come from families who struggled to make it, whose fathers worked in North Carolina textile mills. Edwards' dad worked for a mill in Robbins; my dad worked second shift at the Osage Mill in Gastonia while going to college on the G.I. bill during the day with a wife and two babies at home.

The verdict in Edwards' trial over alleged campaign finance violations has now been left to Greensboro jury. Today, I don't think of him as an anti-hero who will get much sympathy from his former constituents in the Tar Heel state. In four years, Edwards has gone from presidential contender to living a life that looks straight out of "Mad Men," with sidekick Andrew Young in the role of the slippery Pete Campbell to Edwards' Don Draper. Most everyone in this Edwards drama -- the Edwards, the Youngs, Reille Hunter, Bunny Mellon -- come off as spoiled and selfish and craven, all stricken by Potomac fever -- the need to make a name in politics.

No one had it worse than Edwards.

In October 2003, I spent Jefferson-Jackson weekend in Iowa covering Edwards during his first presidential run. There was a two-hour campaign bus ride with the Edwards family set up by Jennifer Palmieri, the press handler turned Elizabeth Edwards friend turned White House operative whose searing testimony represented one of the most poignant moments in the trial. I'd never met Elizabeth before that weekend, and got on the bus half complaining to her about a speeding ticket I'd just received.

Elizabeth responded apropos.

"Me, me, me," she said. "John always reminds me that the media begins with M-E me."

I liked her immediately, her sassy spunk, her earth-girl ease, and how she joked about being married to a man who looked 20 years younger than her. On the bus, Elizabeth talked about their decision to have two more children instead of one because they did not want one child burdened with "replacement child syndrome" to make up for the son, Wade, they lost in a car accident in 1996.

"We asked, 'What brought joy into our lives?' " she said. "We agreed it was children."

Back then, Edwards was the new "it" boy in the Democratic Party. With his Southern charm, telegenic looks and small-town story, he was the one Democrat Bush and Cheney feared in 2004. On that bus tour, Edwards downed enough Diet Cokes to kill a pack of lab rats, then he would stop and run five miles and go back to campaigning. He was an absolute robot, a megalomaniac with stamina and drive, as perfect a candidate as you could find.

Until there was nothing to campaign for. Then it all fell apart.

Last weekend marked the second Mother's Day since Elizabeth died in December 2010, and now Elizabeth's three children are being raised by a father who allegedly used campaign funds to hide his mistress and baby mama, Rielle Hunter. Edwards has three children younger than 14 -- Emma Claire, Jack and Frances Quinn Hunter, the love child Edwards convinced Young to claim as his own. Hunter now lives in Charlotte, two miles from the site of this summer's 2012 Democratic National Convention and four doors down from my parents.

I always figured a fling would be Edwards' undoing. He had all the ingredients, the nascent narcissism, the vanity, the constant need for ego approval that politicians feed on like oxygen. After the 2004 campaign was over, Edwards was in no man's land, with no political office, hustling contributors for money while trying to draw attention to his charity about two Americas. There no adoring throngs and no kids and no Elizabeth with him.

In that weak moment, in 2006, Edwards met Rielle Hunter.

Perhaps the most precise and exacting evidence of Edwards' character is captured on the videos his mistress made. (Talk about feminine justice.) On the introductory video, Edwards is shown climbing aboard the private plane, telling her camera, "I have come to the personal conclusion that I want the country to see who I am. Who I really am. ... For me personally, I'd rather be successful or unsuccessful, based on who I really am, not based on some plastic Ken Doll that you put up in front of audiences." At one point, he instructs a crowd of Iowa teachers. "I want to see our party lead on the great moral issues. Yes, me, a Democrat, using that word." Talk about chutzpah. And cajones. Big brass ones.

Later, he's like a giggly school boy showing off the cursory notes to his stump speech, blushing and gushing and flirting with Hunter's camera. He's clearly in love. With whom? Credit Hunter this much: If Edwards wanted a videographer to capture his essence, he hired the right one.

It's all right there on tape, a cautionary tale for anyone who assumes Icarus wings. If I could ask him one thing, I would say, "Dude, Rielle, a sex tape?"

In Edwards defense, politicians are often among the most needy and narcissistic people you'll ever meet. They seem to think if they can tell one more little white lie, or one more whopper, or create one more attack ad, they can buy enough time to survive. Bill Clinton pulled it off; Edwards did not. Not that he didn't try. In his "confessional" to ABC's Bob Woodruff, once again Edwards denied the love child.

Somewhere along the way, Edwards forgot the two Americas I'm convinced he knew so well. What I remember most about our lunch on Tryon Street as much as his intellect was the hunger, the ambition that ultimately consumed him. If I know Edwards, if there is a way to remake his life after the trial, if there is an angle for redemption of his ego, a Don Draper move, Edwards will figure it out. But maybe what he should do is what he promised to do after Elizabeth died: simply become the best father he can be.

His children need him. Especially the little one here in Charlotte he for so long denied.

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