Unable to defend myself without the risk of blowing the entire cover-​up, I thought the fact that I was sitting there with my wife showed the story was false. I said, “I would hope people would see what’s been printed and look at us together and know what is true.”

Although he obviously couldn’t “see” us, I know that Richard Salem could hear the strength of Cheri’s support for me when we had talked about the job and moving our family to Florida. Nevertheless, after recruiting me quite aggressively, he told me I could not have the job. We went home feeling ashamed and angry. When we got back to Santa Barbara, nothing had changed with Rielle. She was still extremely needy and so focused on her baby that she hardly ever left her alone to sleep. I never actually held Frances Quinn, and Rielle let Cheri, who had years of neonatal intensive care experience, handle her only a few times. She was happy to let us do chores for her, however, and would call us on the telephone when we were just two or three rooms away to help her with a task.

When we resisted her, Rielle became petulant but also tried to handle a few things on her own. On one morning she actually put coffee in the coffeemaker, filled it with water, and switched it on to brew. When she returned, she found that she had missed something in the setup and both coffee and grounds had flowed out of the machine, over the counter, and onto the floor. She saw the mess, made a fresh pot of coffee so she would have something to drink, but decided against cleaning up. A little later in the morning, Cheri wandered into the kitchen, where the countertop and floor (both made of limestone, which was easily stained) were still wet with Rielle’s mess. She came back to our side of the house, where I was on the treadmill.

“I’ve had it,” she said, flushing with anger. “I’ve really had it.”

After Cheri told me what happened, I went with her to Rielle’s side of the house. We found her in her bedroom, where several candles were lit and she was chanting some incantations to the baby. Cheri said, “Are you going to clean up the mess in the kitchen?”

No answer from Rielle.

“Do you expect me to clean it up?”

No answer from Rielle.

I thought Cheri was going to explode as she told Rielle that she was a capable adult and responsible for cleaning up her own messes. Rielle then held up her hand, like a cop stopping traffic, and said, “I’m not talking to you.” Then she added, “You know, Cheri, you’re not very smart, but you are perceptive.”

I got Cheri out of there before things deteriorated even further, but there was nothing I could do to change her mind about what was going to happen next. She said that either Fred Baron was going to move Rielle out of the house “or I’ll move her out.” That day, Fred invited us to visit him in Dallas to talk things over.

Leaving Rielle alone in the great big house in Montecito, we took the kids to Illinois to be with Cheri’s parents. After telling them only that we were trying to get our lives back to normal and needed their help with the kids, we flew to see Fred in Dallas. We landed at Love Field and got to his house in a town car he had sent to deliver us.

Fred lived in a compound carved out of about a dozen acres, including an artificial lake, within minutes of the airport. The house he built just for his domestic staff would have been one of the most impressive mansions in Chapel Hill. His own home resembled a grand château in France. (It was where he hosted his famous Christmas parties, where as many as one thousand guests would take in entertainment from the likes of the Doobie Brothers and Three Dog Night.) Determined to give us a tour, he showed us the enormous reception area by the front door, big first-​floor rooms for public events, and a private library where he kept a valuable oil portrait of George Washington.

Someone else would have shown us around the house with the sense that he was flexing his muscles a bit, impressing us with his wealth and power. Fred just seemed thrilled by life, amazed that he was as rich as he was, and excited to show us how he lived (you couldn’t help but like Fred). When we finally sat down to talk, we were joined by his wife, Lisa Blue, who was a lawyer and held a doctorate in psychology. Cheri kicked off her shoes and put her feet on the coffee table to show that she was not at all intimidated. Together, we then made three demands:

1. We wanted to know why John Edwards hadn’t yet told the truth.

2. We wanted to separate from Rielle and her child.

3. We wanted a long-​term plan for our future and a commitment to see it through. Specifically, we wanted to know if Edwards was going to establish the antipoverty foundation that was supposed to supply me with a long-​term job and health insurance.

Fred said he understood our worries but that we should have confidence in him and the senator. Although I had tried to tell him the truth, he still believed I was the father of Rielle’s baby, and he expected that Edwards would be a big player in the next administration. “Hold on until August,” he said, referring to the Democratic National Convention. Lisa and Fred both said they felt (and Lisa is a trained psychologist) that Elizabeth was a threat to us, our kids, and herself. Repeating an argument he had begun to make with me several weeks before, Fred also said we had no special ties to Chapel Hill and could settle anywhere in the country. He said we should finish the house, sell it, and start a new life far from the prying eyes of the press. Fred soon wired several hundred thousand dollars to our builder to help with all our expenses. He offered this as a gift.

Talk as they might, Lisa and Fred couldn’t persuade us that we should stick it out with Rielle in Santa Barbara until August, when somehow everything would be resolved. We knew John and Elizabeth Edwards better than they did. We also knew the truth. Empowered by what we knew, I insisted that John Edwards call me and that we meet, face-​to-​face, as soon as possible.

Uh, hey, stranger! It’s John. I hope you are doing well… Just calling ’cause I miss you. I haven’t talked to you in a while. I wanted to see how you are doing. Umm, you can call me back on this phone… Anyway, hope you are doing well. I miss talking to you, Andrew. We’ll see you, pal.

The message was recorded on my cell phone account on May 21, 2008. The tone was contrite, and it came as a signal that Edwards was ready at last to deal with me. For months the senator had neglected not just me, but others, and he’d used as an excuse the claim that he was carefully deliberating over whom to endorse for the party’s nomination. It was a ridiculous claim, but still he used it to manipulate people who had been very good to him, including Bunny Mellon, who had sent word that she wanted to visit with him. Bunny needed his support, because her bedridden daughter, Eliza, was deteriorating rapidly. When she died in mid-​May, the senator skipped the funeral, saying he was still considering his endorsement. As far as I knew, the only thing Bunny had ever asked of him-in return for more than $6 million-was that he sit on one side of her at that funeral while Caroline Kennedy sat on the other. Caroline fulfilled her wish. John Edwards did not.

Truer to his promises and responsibilities, Fred Baron located a house for Rielle and arranged to have her moved into it in early June. Cheri went out to run errands on the day she left. The kids and I actually helped her pack and took pictures wi“ookth her as she said good-​bye. Although no one said it, I knew that I would never see Rielle again or speak to her on the phone. She did not say thank you.

Fred also kept hounding the senator until he at last agreed to meet me face-​to-​face, so that I could tell him how I felt and press him to make things right. I was furious about how my family and I were being treated. Cheri and I sensed that the senator was telling Mrs. Edwards tales about me and that she was getting more upset. On Father’s Day, June 15, Cheri got an e-​mail that appeared to come from Heather North, the nanny at the Edwards house. It read: