In the middle of these two small crises, Mrs. Edwards, greatly relieved that her interviews were over, walked over to smile and ask me how things were going. Under great duress, with a BlackBerry at one ear and a cell phone at the other ear, listening to elevator music on both, I considered the consequences of telling the truth. I answered her with, “Great, Mrs. Edwards, just great.”

The caterer finally appeared in a U-​Haul truck about thirty minutes before the guests were scheduled to arrive. As they raced to get food and drinks set up, I noticed that the beer was warm and the finger food was cold. I prayed that nobody would get sick. Then my phone rang. It was one of the Edwardses’ neighbors. He had come home from work to find that his lawn had been torn up by one of the TV trucks. I told him we would pay for repairs and dashed off a note, to be copied and placed in all the mailboxes for blocks around, telling folks to call me if their lawns had been damaged so that I could arrange [co for landscapers to make things right. We made good on this promise, but eventually one of the senator’s neighbors made a public stink about how Edwards had shown himself to be a bad citizen by tearing up lawns.

Except for the grumpy neighbors, the response to the launch of the campaign was remarkably positive. We saw a surge in donations and received a flood of résumés and calls from people who wanted to work with us. I was most impressed by a young woman named Kayla Burman, who walked through the door of the office about a week after the announcement and asked how she could help. We were receiving hundreds of applications, including from people with two or three Ivy League degrees, and I was busy trying to figure out why a fax machine wouldn’t work. I thanked her, then told her to leave her résumé and wait for us to get back to her. She promptly burst into tears.

The crying got my attention, and as she calmed down, Kayla explained that she had driven to North Carolina from California, alone and eighteen years old, in a beat-​up old car, because she believed in John Edwards and just had to do something to get him elected. Our top campaign consultant, Nick Baldick, was in charge of the payroll, so I didn’t have a paying job for her, but I asked her to volunteer in the office. She found a free couch to crash on for three months until we were able to pay her. By then, she had real skills and was a valuable part of the team. And no one had more enthusiasm.

The senator had repeatedly promised me that I could have any campaign job I wanted, but Mrs. Edwards told Cheri she was thinking about her, Brody, and Lauren Grace when she pushed to make sure I was named operations manager in Raleigh and didn’t go on the road minding the senator as his body man or setting up events as an advance man. She also told Cheri that she wanted me to be in North Carolina to help with her family while the senator was traveling. In the role of operations manager, I would be responsible for supporting the people in the field, as well as setting up and maintaining a national network of offices in key states. For the offices, I found the cheapest space possible-in old gas stations, warehouses, even an abandoned firehouse-and arranged for phones, Internet service, computers, and furnishings. The advance men and other traveling staff needed cell phones, laptops, BlackBerrys, hotels, rental cars, airline tickets, and other support, which I was supposed to supply at the lowest possible cost. With over 150 full-​time employees, scores of office locations across the country, thousands of volunteers, and over $30 million in expenditures in one year, it was like setting up a small company on short notice.

Once things got going, the people who required the most support and attention were on the advance staff, which numbered about fifteen at any one time. Advance men-and they are almost all men-are a cross between community organizers and rock-​and-​roll roadies who trash hotel rooms and run up big room service tabs. They can turn a parking lot into a rally site and arrange for a candidate to meet key people and speak to important audiences all day long. High-​energy types, they tend to have extreme personalities. Typical was a mustached former advance man for President Clinton named Sam Myers, whom we called “Senior [ &#” because he asked that we hire his son, “Junior,” too. Beloved by the senator, Senior could manage an event with the creativity of the director of a feature film, and I can’t think of a time when anything went wrong with an event he handled.

Another of our stars was a wild man named Marc Adelman, who spent several hundred dollars a month on cell phone calls. I liked Marc and Senior and most of the other people we sent out across the country because they worked hard, performed their duties well, and always had entertaining stories to tell when they called in. But they were also high-​maintenance people who wanted to crash in the best hotels, loved room service, and tended to violate the no-​smoking rules so that we had to pay expensive cleaning charges. One of our guys even hit a moose while driving a van rented by the campaign in an isolated corner of some northern state. The accident was bad enough. The fact that he had failed to check off the box requesting insurance coverage on the car rental form made it a minor disaster.

As the person responsible for both the arrangements for our people in the field and the budget to pay for everything, in a good cop/bad cop routine, I played with Nick and Sam. I was supposed to impose some discipline on these folks, which wasn’t easy considering that we often changed plans on the fly and had to book travel on short notice, when the airlines and hotels charge their highest prices. The complexity of the job was mind-​boggling. I mean, how do you get a handle on the cell phone budget when an organization has four hundred phones and people keep losing them?

Fortunately, in the early days of the campaign, we raced to the head of the pack in the competition for contributions, which gave us more cash to spend than anyone else. In just the first three months of 2003, the organization posted nearly $7.5 million in donations, a record that left people in the camp of the second-​place candidate, John Kerry, saying, “We’re impressed.” The writers for the ABC News political report The Note went a little further with an article titled “Shock and Awe: John Edwards Sets a Blazing Pace.” Senator Tom Daschle, once a viable contender, promptly dropped out of the race.

The war chest was filled by a new fund-​raising team who had replaced Mudcat Saunders and Steve Jarding after the senator found out they had promised we would make sizable donations to politicians and organizations in key states. (We couldn’t afford them.) The new group also employed some unorthodox techniques-according to gossip, one of them actually slept with a number of big donors-but they were obviously effective. They got a lot of help from trial lawyers like Fred M. Baron of Texas, who had become super-​rich suing asbestos manufacturers and other companies on behalf of people injured by their products. A former high-​school football player, Fred was extremely fit and young looking for his age, which was fifty-​six. He had silver hair and a million-​dollar smile, and he wore wire-​rimmed glasses that made him look sort of professorial. The law firm he founded, Baron & Budd, was so big and successful that it pursued cases nationwide.

Although Fred provided invaluable connections to wealthy and powerful people, he made an even more important contribution to the campaign when he agreed to give the senator regular use of his jet. In the post-9/11 era, it’s hard to ove [;s rstate how important flying private is for a presidential candidate. With a private jet, you can visit four key states in one day and make it home for the night. If you fly commercial, you can only do half as many events and you won’t be home at the end of the day.