Because the professionals had their own games to play-like the one between J. Rob and me-and their long-​term careers to consider, they tended to get distracted and preferred a conservative campaign style. (Later I would realize that some of these guys wouldn’t attack an opponent in the primaries because they were worried about getting jobs with whoever won in the end. Unfortunately, Senator Edwards listened to these consultants and followed their advice too closely, almost becoming robotic.)

Despite their flaws, they were very good at their jobs, a fact that became obvious to me when it came time for us to shift from “exploratory” status to a genuine presidential campaign. First they arranged for an informal “announcement” on Jon Stewart’s program, The Daily Show, which would appeal to younger voters. Then they put together an event for the big formal announcement. The main event would be held in Robbins in front of the old textile mill, which had been shut down and stood as a massive brick emblem of the troubles in small-​town America.

The plan called for the Edwardses to spend the night before the event at his parents’ home. Wallace, his father, and Bobbi, his mother, were salt-​of-​the-​earth types who were so kind [o w that they sent us baby gifts, food when Gracie had surgery, and cakes for our kids’ birthdays. Mrs. Edwards did not enjoy spending time with them. When I arrived at their house in Raleigh to drive them to Robbins, it was six P.M., but she was far from ready, and she was arguing with the senator. (They didn’t seem to care if I stood there while they shouted.) We didn’t get out of the city until around eight o’clock, and on the way she said she wanted some strong cold medicine to take so she would be sleepy and ready for bed as soon as we arrived. I had to stop at three different stores but finally got what she wanted. As we pulled up to the house in Robbins, she was so out of it that the senator walked her to a bedroom, where she escaped for the night.

The next morning, the senator and I went for a run at four-​thirty so his head would be clear enough to handle a string of live morning show interviews. Along the way, we passed his old high school and the mural of astronaut Charles Brady. As a youth, John Edwards had been the “golden boy” in his family and in his town. Sometimes I wondered if he had been loved too much back then and somehow got the idea that the rules might not apply to him the way they did to everyone else. I knew for certain that he was his mother’s favorite and that she had almost never disciplined him. “Johnny just never made any trouble,” she would say, and in her mind this was true.

Bobbi had breakfast for us when we returned, and as we ate he called her “Mama” and referred to his father as “Daddy,” sounding very much like the fine Southern boy he was. After we ate and showered, he said, “Hey, Andrew, let’s go check things out.” We got in the Suburban and, after getting lost, which was hard to do in such a small town, found our way to the factory. As we drove, the senator asked me what I imagined his old classmates might think of him. It astonished me to hear that at a moment like this, when he was about to announce a run for president of the United States, he was thinking back to the kids he knew in school. But I hid my surprise and said, “They’re proud of you. I’m sure of it.”

The big abandoned mill had been draped in red, white, and blue to serve as a backdrop for a metal platform that faced a parking lot, where a crowd of several hundred people had already staked out their places. Music blared from the sound system, and TV crews were busy setting up their cameras. Clearly, our campaign crew would deliver the excitement they had promised.

Back at the house, the senator, his parents, and Mrs. Edwards sat for TV interviews, and then we all left for the mill site. When we got there, two thousand people, including busloads from hundreds of miles away, cheered the senator as if he were Elvis. His big applause lines addressed the failures of the Bush administration and his promise to halt government’s neglect of working-​class people. The biggest cheers came when he talked of growing up in Robbins and said, “I promise to fight for you.” At the end, his campaign theme song, “ Small Town ” by John Mellencamp, poured from the loudspeakers.

The song matched the candidate’s biography, which was at the center of his message. Edwards insisted that he was not, as his opponents might say, a rich, inexperienced guy with over [gusize ambition. Instead, he was a son of small-​town America with the strength and independence, thanks to his self-​made wealth, to stand against the entrenched political power brokers. For audiences who might hear him only once or twice, the way the candidate harped on small-​town America in his appearances probably rang true, but for the staff of the campaign, who heard the words small town hundreds of times a day, the phrase and the song became more than a little irritating. When staff people gathered to watch him in a televised debate or speech, they often played a drinking game that required every player to drink a shot of something strong whenever the words “small town” or “I’m the son of a millworker” came out of his mouth. On a typical night, people would be howling drunk after half an hour.

Although this theme struck a chord with some voters and amused his aides and advisers, it was no substitute for a well-​defined platform of ideas, and Edwards was criticized for a lack of substance. By November, polls showed him running a distant third or fourth, and both the press and political experts were saying he had a “gravitas” problem, meaning he seemed too young and inexperienced. When I caught him on television in this period, I detected little of the energy and passion I had seen at the Ocean Creek Inn and throughout his Senate campaign. That man was gone, replaced by a robot that looked like John Edwards but spoke like a man reading a briefing paper.

On many nights, my phone would ring and I would hear the senator on the other end. Sometimes he sounded petty and irritated by ordinary events. He especially hated making appearances at state fairs, where “fat rednecks try to shove food down my face. I know I’m the people’s senator, but do I have to hang out with them?” He sometimes called in the middle of a televised event. He’d say, “Hey, Andrew, I’m on TV talking to you. Turn it on.” He would then put on a serious face, pretending to talk about something important, and we would chat about basketball. When he asked, I also gave him some Ambien tablets from my own prescription, so that he could get to sleep on nights when he was just too wound up. These little conspiracies, which reminded him of the times we had spent together on the road, brought us closer together. And when, in these unguarded moments, he asked for my evaluation of the campaign, I didn’t hold back. I told him that friends, family, and longtime supporters were telling me that the John Edwards they knew had disappeared. They wanted him to speak more forcefully about the needs of working people and issues like health care and how the insurance companies were running amok. I was very critical of the “inside the Washington Beltway” people and told him they were overthinking things. “Go with your gut instincts,” I said.

With Christmas approaching, I was more involved with the preparations at the Edwards home than I was with my own family. While Cheri did the shopping and decorating at our house, many of the toys that needed my attention sat in boxes, but I put together an electric-​powered toy Jeep for Jack, which I adorned with campaign stickers. I am sure that Cheri resented the time I gave to the Edwards family, but I was fully committed to the “never say no” work ethic. Cheri tried to understand.

When I picked Senator Edwards up at the Raleigh airport around this time, he was happy to be back in North Carolina but miserable about the state of his campaign. “Andrew, I am really sick of this shit,” he said wearily. “I’m not going to go down like this. I’m going to start being me. What the fuck do I have to lose?” As the third or fourth man in a race that had boiled down to six contenders, the senator had nothing to lose and everything to gain by a change in approach. I told him to start loosening up. He looked out the window at that familiar landscape and nodded in agreement.