The Politician

by Andrew Young

  Initially, Rielle was foursquare against it. “There’s no damn way I’m doing this,” she said. “I’m not going to live a lie.” But as we talked, she said she could “handle” the prospect of having both a wealthy presidential candidate and a billionaire benefactor devoted to her care and support. “Not too bad, considering I was sleeping in my car a few years ago,” she said. She could keep up contact with Senator Edwards and, in the meantime, live in luxury until events played out. With these thoughts in mind, her nay vote quickly turned to yea.

  ‹yea

  My wife was not so receptive. She pointed out that the senator had offered no definitive end point for the scheme, other than a vague assurance that it would be over in a few weeks and then he would take responsibility for Rielle’s baby. She also didn’t trust the senator’s promise that if I continued to be a good team player, I would have a job for life with either him or Fred.

  Cheri reminded me of promises the senator had made and broken, including his offers to give me more prominent roles in his campaigns. With her words in mind, I called Fred, who assured me that my salary-including a recent 130 percent raise-would be continued along with my health insurance until my new career was established. “You can do anything,” said Fred. “We will make it happen.”

  Exhausted and under intense pressure to make a decision, we finally agreed that even if we followed through on the senator’s plan, no one who knew us would actually believe the story he wanted everyone to tell, so we took the plunge. I would work with a lawyer named Pam Marple, who was recommended by Fred Baron, to craft a statement to release to the media. Once that was done, we would fly off in Fred’s plane to a place where no one could find us.

  As he listened to me accept his scheme, a prospect that anyone outside the situation would say was ridiculous, the senator breathed a huge sigh of relief. Over and over again he said that he loved me, he loved Cheri, and he was going to support us in every way he could for many years to come. When we discussed the details, he said, “It’s going to be a one-​day story, Andrew. No offense, but the press doesn’t give a shit about you. They want me. But if we give them a story they can understand, a story about two staffers, they’ll go away.”

  While Pam Marple and I worked on the statement that would be issued to the press, the senator and his allies failed to persuade the editors at the Enquirer to hold the story. No one knew what they planned to say exactly, but we assumed that as soon as a photo of Rielle with child went into circulation, Elizabeth Edwards would go on a furious emotional rampage. The senator was as concerned about this as he was about the prospect of his candidacy being destroyed. On many levels, he still loved Elizabeth and didn’t want to hurt her. We all knew that in her fury Elizabeth could do a lot of damage to innocent people.

  To get ahead of the situation, the senator said, he would have to tell his wife a version of the story-the version in which I was the baby’s father. (In fact, he had done this already.) He said he expected that she would make him call to confirm the tale while she listened. With this in mind, he left a message on my cell phone. It said, among other things, “I’m gonna leave you this message just in case you get a call from me where I ask you what’s going on… the reason we are calling is because Elizabeth is standing there… so, be aware of that. If I am calling saying, ‘What happened? How did this happen?’‹ ha or ‘What’s going on?’ then that’s because Elizabeth is standing there with me… I’ve gotta tell her about this because it’s moving.”

  For once, I didn’t give John Edwards what he wanted. I refused to be on any call involving the two of them. In five days, he left half a dozen messages, asking me to return his call. Mrs. Edwards, who officially loathed me, even left one asking me to call back on a “hard line” instead of a cell phone, presumably for security purposes. I continued to ignore her, but I did stay true to my word, approving the following statement, drafted by Pam Marple, on December 15, 2007:

  As confirmed by Ms. Hunter, Andrew Young is the father of her unborn child. Senator Edwards knew nothing about the relationship between these former co-​workers, which began when they worked together in 2006. As a private citizen who no longer works for the campaign, Mr. Young asks that the media respect his privacy while he works to make amends with his family.

  This single paragraph was to be offered to the National Enquirer or any other media person who called the Edwards campaign about Rielle Hunter. The senator and the advisers who worked closely with him on this issue-Jonathan Prince and Mark Kornblau-expected the onslaught to begin on Wednesday, December 19, when the new edition of the Enquirer would be posted online. Accordingly, Cheri flew with our kids to Illinois, where they would stay for a while with her parents. She couldn’t tell them exactly why we needed their help, where she was going, or when she might come back. This frightened her mom and dad, but they were supportive. I offered a similar nonexplanation to my family, telling them we were going away, that we were safe, but that I couldn’t tell them anything more.

  The Enquirer story, posted online on a Wednesday and distributed to the nation’s newsstands on a Thursday, was as damaging as it could be. The front-​page headline screamed john edwards love child scandal! and Rielle’s picture was included. The most important part of the text came in the first two paragraphs:

  Presidential candidate John Edwards is caught up in a love child scandal, a blockbuster Enquirer investigation has discovered.

  The Enquirer has learned exclusively that Rielle Hunter, a woman linked to Edwards in a cheating scandal earlier this year, is more than six months pregnant and she’s told a close confidante that Edwards is the father of her baby!

  Besides these most pertinent paragraphs, I was struck, of course, by a reference to “Andrew‹o & Young, who’s been extremely close to Edwards for years.” The paper added:

  And in a bizarre twist, Young-a 41-year-​old married man with young children-now claims HE is the father of Rielle’s baby! But others are skeptical, wondering if Young’s paternity claim is a cover-​up to protect Edwards.

  The Enquirer was right: From any outsider’s perspective, the explanation we had offered to the questions about Rielle was bizarre. But to our relief, no serious newspaper or TV network picked up the story because they couldn’t find a source to confirm it. Our phones and those of our friends and relatives rang constantly with calls from reporters and producers, but we ignored them all. Rielle and the campaign followed the same strategy, and since they still play by the multi-​source rule, the big print and broadcast news organizations were stymied.

  The reaction was different in the online world, which exploded with speculation. Two prominent bloggers-Mickey Kaus and Matt Drudge-simply ignored the claim that I was the baby’s father and announced that Edwards had a girlfriend who was six months pregnant. A few radio talkers, most notably Don Imus, also made snarky remarks, but since these comments were all based on unconfirmed facts, the news didn’t seem to affect the candidate or the campaign. As I talked to the senator and Fred Baron, we began to think that perhaps our strategy had worked. All that remained was for us to disappear until the more persistent reporters and photo graphers got frustrated enough to give up the hunt.

  While Cheri had been in Illinois, Mr. Turtle ended up in a lake, and Meebo went to stay with her brother along with Granny, the cat. Rielle took charge of the decisions about where we might hide out and chose the same resort-the Westin Diplomat Resort & Spa in South Florida-where she had been caught in the senator’s room by the campaign staff and hotel security. The destination dictated a light wardrobe, so I packed summer-​style clothes for Cheri and me. I also grabbed a small number of the Christmas presents Cheri had bought, because I couldn’t be sure where we might spend the holidays, but I knew I would demand that we be together with the kids.

  At four A.M., Cheri and I left the Montross house in my car and went to pick up Rielle, who traveled light-just a few clothes and a bag of makeup-and wore a black bandanna over her hair and her signature br
ight pink scarf around her neck. Although Cheri and I were both exhausted, Rielle was wide awake and excited. We drove around aimlessly for a bit, making sure no one was following us, and then went to the acres in the woods where our new house was going up. My friend Tim Toben met us there so I could hide the car and he could drop us at the airport. He didn’t ask a single question about why we were dashing out of‹ da town or where we were going. (Later, Tim explained that he had supported Edwards’s campaign because of his interest in energy policy. He wasn’t much interested in the nuts and bolts of electioneering, like who was flying where and when.)

  At the FBO, we drove into the hangar and parked next to the jet so no one could see Rielle get out of the car. We were met by a pilot and copilot who ushered us aboard. I noticed that the cabin had been stocked with food, coffee, and liquor. We were the first flight out when the airport opened for the day. The takeoff was smooth, and the plane climbed sharply until it reached an altitude where we could see the sun breaking over the eastern horizon. Rielle grabbed a copy of The New York Times and pored over it for political news. She and I talked quietly about politics while Cheri fell asleep.

  A hired car and driver met us at our destination airport and took us to the hotel, where Rielle went into full diva mode. Unwilling to accept just any room, she left the luggage in the lobby while we all traipsed upstairs to inspect the accommodations. The first room had “bad energy,” the second exuded the wrong “ambience,” and the third simply “didn’t feel right.” Since, as she said, “Fred was paying and wouldn’t care,” she kept harassing the desk clerks until we wound up in expensive adjoining suites overlooking the ocean from the top floor. While I booted up my laptop and began nervously checking for news about us, Rielle took off her traveling clothes, put on the thick robe she found hanging in the closet, and called room service.

  While Rielle kept the resort staff busy by returning half the food she ordered from the kitchen-including toast-Cheri and I found it difficult to relax at the Westin. I kept checking the Internet for news stories about me and my philandering, and although I got lots of hits on gossipy Web sites, I saw nothing in the mainstream media. My phone rang constantly with calls from reporters, whom I ignored. I also heard from Heather North, who said, “You’ve been nothing but good to every person you have ever encountered, especially to the Edwards family.” And Tim Toben offered a joking observation about a USA Today article on rising fertility rates and said, “Way to be a trendsetter!” (I would later learn that Tim didn’t believe I would ever betray Cheri, and he suspected the senator was the father of Rielle’s child.)

  Of all the people who tried to contact me during this first stage of our life on the run, the most persistent was John Edwards, who, despite being on the road as a presidential candidate, managed to leave a message every few hours:

  12:51 A.M.: “Uh, Andrew, it’s John. If you could call me back at 402-998-3400, room 8030.

  6:47 P.M.: “Andrew, it’s John. Call me back on this number. Thanks.”

  6:49 P.M.: “Andrew, if you get this message, too, you can call back on this number. Thanks.”

  7:13 P.M.: “Uh… Andrew, call me back as soon as you can on this phone. It’s now-” (Cuts off.)

  7:26 P.M.: “Andrew, I keep trying to reach you. I have called you a bunch of times. I have talked to Elizabeth and I think it’s under control, so I just wanted to talk to you about it, but I have to go into an event now. I will try to call you guys later. Thanks. Bye.”

  9:09 P.M.: “Andrew, it’s John. It’s nine-​ten P.M. East Coast time. I just got out of my last event. I’m on my way to the airport to get on a plane. I’ve got about ten or fifteen minutes if you can call me back. If not, I will talk to you from Des Moines. Thanks.”

  When we did actually speak, the senator talked anxiously about the scandal-​related press calls coming into the campaign but also kept telling me how grateful he was for my help. He went out of his way to make me feel important, as if I were saving him and therefore the country from a catastrophe. He said he was worried about calls the campaign had had from a reporter for The New York Times who said he had evidence that I had undergone a vasectomy after our last child was born with heart problems. He claimed that Rielle’s child couldn’t be mine. This wasn’t true, of course. I hadn’t had a vasectomy

  In this conversation, the senator told me his wife was now calling supporters and saying derogatory things about me but that he would try to get her to stop. He acted as if we were partners now more than ever, and he reinforced this connection by sharing inside information. When Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in Pakistan, he told me about how Pervez Musharraf had called him directly to consult. Strangely, he made these observations on world and national affairs with less urgency than he brought to his comments about keeping Rielle happy and quiet. He was careful, though, to avoid using her actual name. Typical was this message:

  I’m in Nashua, New Hampshire, about to get on a plane to go to Iowa… I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you, but we’re just, you know, I’ve got four CBS reporters on the plane with me so I’m standing out in eighteen degree temperatures to call you. And please tell her I said hello and I will call later tonight. Thanks.

  Rielle required the senator’s constant attention, because now that she was playing “fugitive on an expense account,” she was even more demanding and, at times, less careful. Although her picture was displayed on the front page of the National Enquirer, which was on the rack in the lobby newsstand, she traipsed around the resort as if she owned the place. With Rielle indulging in this risky behavior, and Cheri and me anxious to reunite with our kids for the holiday, Fred Baron arranged for us to get out of Florida on Christmas Eve aboard another private jet. At checkout, I noticed that we had racked up a bill totaling more than eight thousand dollars in seven nights. The clerk also gave me a FedEx envelope from Fred. It held one thousand dollars’ cash and a note that said, “Old Chinese proverb: Use cash, not credit cards.”

  The plan called for us to travel to southern Illinois to pick up the kids and then to Aspen, Colorado, where we would stay in Fred Baron’s vacation home. Aspen was going to be our temporary haven until we found a place where we could live together in seclusion until Rielle gave birth. The only hitch in the plan, other than the fact that we were giving up our normal lives, involved a friend-a trial lawyer from Georgia-whom Fred had invited to use the house from December 27 to January 2. During this time, we would have to hide ourselves at a hotel in San Diego which Rielle chose. Complicated as these arrangements may sound, I was used to juggling campaign travel for the senator, who might take half a dozen flights in a single day, so this itinerary seemed easy to me.

  As we left Florida, we phoned Cheri’s dad to ask him to bring the kids to the MidAmerica Airport, a little-​used facility outside St. Louis where we would be unlikely to attract any attention. We asked him to come alone, because her mom wasn’t too crazy about me. (She had good reason to feel this way.) To his credit, he didn’t say anything even after he saw Rielle and her swollen belly and realized she was with us. Like everyone in my family, Cheri’s folks were aware of what was on the front page of the Enquirer and must have guessed what was going on, but her dad said nothing as he said good-​bye to his grandchildren and they climbed aboard a private jet for some mysterious adventure.

  Because we knew the kids would miss their regular Christmas celebration, Cheri and I had bought a tiny artificial tree with lights and installed it inside the plane, so as they climbed aboard it looked as if they were getting a ride on Santa’s private jet. We had never been separated from all three of them for so long, and they hugged us as though we had been lost in the jungle for a year. Rielle, whom they called “Jaya,” did her best to smile and be friendly during the flight, although she must have felt like an outsider at a family picnic. The kids ate candy, visited the pilots in the c‹pilockpit (where they helped “fly” the jet), and screamed with roller-​coaster delight when we landed and the plane wobbled from sid
e to side as the crew applied the brakes to bring us to a halt on the icy runway.

  At the FBO, which is a stone-​and-​timber building that looks like a ski chalet, the crew shut down the engines, opened the door, and lowered the steps. The kids ran outside and immediately grabbed some of the fresh snow to throw at one another. Two SUVs waited for us, and the driver of the one that carried our family narrated the journey through a development started by the singer John Denver: “That hundred-​and-​fifty-​million-​dollar house belongs to Prince Bandar bin Sultan, the former Saudi ambassador to the United States; this one belongs to Robert Wagner, the actor…” When we drove up Fred Baron’s driveway, we discovered a stone-​and-​wood mansion secluded by evergreens and staffed by a house manager, a chef, and a masseuse, who were all on call.

  Fred’s sprawling house was lavishly furnished. Pictures of his frequent guests Bill and Hillary Clinton were placed in conspicuous places, and the coffeepot in the kitchen was, we were told, the property of Lance Armstrong, who had lived in the place during training. I was impressed by the home gym, which was filled with equipment. The kids loved the racquet-​ball court, which they called “the ballroom,” and the indoor pool/Jacuzzi/sauna complex, which was enclosed by a ceiling painted to look like the night sky, with twinkling lights to represent the stars.

  Within an hour of our arrival, the kids were splashing and floating in the pool as Cheri, Rielle, and I watched them. For a moment, we forgot the craziness that had brought us to the place and allowed ourselves to enjoy it. Rielle got so relaxed that she again started talking about her sexual escapades with the senator, including specifics about where, when, and how they performed certain acts. We interrupted her with cries of, “Whoa! TMI!”-too much information-and she retreated from this subject. But the details about their affair would come up again and again in our time on the road.