Afraid to leave things as they were, I went back to the room. In the tense first moments, he told me not to threaten him again. I told him not to “fucking” talk to me like that again.

We then had a much calmer discussion. He promised to stay in contact with me and not delay returning my calls. He also renewed his promise to help me in the long term by establishing the antipoverty organization with funds from Bunny Mellon where I would have a good job with health insurance and he could have a solid political platform.

Within twenty-​four hours of our confrontation at the hotel in Georgetown, he went to see Bunny. During this visit he decided that he was setting his sights too low. Instead of $3 to $5 million, he now hoped to get as much as $50 million and her jet so he could circle the globe combating poverty. As a few more weeks passed, he had me contact her accountant, Kenneth Starr (not the same fellow who was involved in the Monica Lewinsky case), to see if the foundation was feasible. The senator and I discussed strategy in five different phone conversations. Following his plan, I created a nonprofit corporation for this project, which we called the New Heritage Education Foundation. I broached the topic with Starr, who thought a worldwide antipoverty effort headed by Bunny’s friend John Edwards would be an ideal way to honor her life.

Once he realized that this foundation could become a reality and provide him with a permanent role on the world stage, the senator pursued it with enthusiasm. After one meeting with Bunny, the senator told Bunny’s friend Bryan Huffman he could be on the board of the foundation and “do great things.” He then called me and left a voice mail saying, “Bunny loves me.” Another message he left me said:

Andrew, hey, it’s John. I had a wonderful conversation with…

This call, and another voice mail in which he told me he was going to see Bunny to finalize arrangements for the foundation, gave me hope that the senator was finding a way to fulfill his promise that I would be employed into the future. I was also happy to be talking about something other than a secret girlfriend and his unacknowledged child. I shouldn’t have been so happy. Without someone to monitor them and clean up after them, Rielle and the senator wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble for more than a few weeks.

Thirteen

With Rielle Hunter gone and John Edwards focused on the upcoming Democratic National Convention, Cheri and I thought we could take a few days to start putting our lives back in order. The Santa Barbara lease was ending in early August. In anticipation, we flew east and dropped the kids in Illinois to stay with family, then traveled on to Raleigh. We spent a couple of days moving our things into storage and cleaning up. On top of all the other frustrations we felt, we were dealing with a house that my boss told me I could never move in to.

As we moved through the rental house and sorted things into boxes and rubbish that could be discarded, I came upon a box of trash that Rielle had left behind after she stayed with us for a few weeks at the very start of her life on the run. A few things lying on top of the cardboard and papers caught my eye. One was a sheaf of pages ripped out of a notebook with “The Slut Club” written on the top line and a list of thirty-​four men’s names below.

I also noticed a number of videotapes, including one marked “Special,” which had the tape pulled out and seemed intentionally broken. Cheri said, “Must be the missing webisodes Elizabeth was looking for.”

I couldn’t resist. With scissors, a pen, and some Scotch tape, I fixed the cassette and put a TV on top of some boxes to watch the video. As soon as I pressed play, we saw an image of a man-John Edwards-and a naked pregnant woman, photographed from the navel down, engaged in a sexual encounter. The images were recorded with the somewhat steady assurance of a professional, and the senator’s performance was ironically narcissistic. The video was without sound, and the angle was such that the woman’s face was obscured. (She obviously held the camera.) But given where we found the tape and the fact that the woman on the tape wore a distinctive bracelet I had seen on Rielle many times, it was safe to assume it was Rielle, and that it was filmed just before the election began.

As compromising images of a former presidential candidate and current contender for vice president flashed on the screen, Cheri and I dropped to the floor and watched, speechless. When we were able to talk, we debated turning it off, but neither of us could actually press the button. It was like watching a traffic pileup occur in slow motion-it was repelling but also transfixing. We also knew immediately that we now possessed something powerful. We weren’t going to use it in any nefarious way, but I planned to deposit a copy in a safe-​deposit box and place at least one other with an attorney with instructions to make it public, if necessary, should anything suspicious befall us.

My fear may have been fueled by paranoia. However, it was justified. I had been uprooted and then isolated from friends, and I had read enough John Grisham novels to believe that superlawyers empowered with endless amounts of money could do terrible things. We were dealing with lots of rich and powerful people. The tape, I thought, might protect us.

We returned to California via Illinois, arriving on July 21. After seven months of being trapped with Rielle, we felt like celebrating. We used a cre›. Wdit left over from a hotel to stay overnight at Venice Beach, where the kids got to see Rollerbladers, fortune-​tellers, and a few “You’re going to hell” evangelists on the boardwalk. In the morning, we drove back to Santa Barbara so we could close up that house. I turned off my cell phone and rolled down the windows to enjoy our last drive up the coast. When I switched the phone on again at the house, it rang almost immediately.

Pam Marple, the attorney who had drafted the statement declaring I was the father of Rielle’s baby, was calling from her office in Washington. She said someone from the National Enquirer had just called her asking for a comment on pictures they had showing John Edwards visiting Rielle Hunter-less than twelve hours ago-at the Beverly Hilton. A story on Edwards going to the hotel and speculating about the nature of the visit was already posted on the Enquirer Web site. Pam was upset and hoped I could tell her something about what was really going on. In fact, I didn’t know that Edwards had been in Beverly Hills while we were a few miles away at Venice Beach. I couldn’t advise her, nor could I inform her.

At first I thought they had pictures from the senator’s first visit with Rielle and the baby. She had taken photos of him with Quinn, and I thought that she may have given them to the Enquirer. Knowing that the senator could be in deep trouble, I wanted to help him, even after all that had happened. I tried to call Rielle but got no answer. As I hung up, the phone rang in my hand. It was the senator. I answered to hear him fighting tears and struggling to talk.

“Andrew, they caught me. It’s all over.”

The emotion in his voice and traffic in the background made it hard for me to hear him. I let him cry and blubber for a minute, and as he did I thought I heard a man who was finally facing the truth. I felt I needed to help him pull himself together. I started by going to my computer and logging on to the Enquirer Web site while I asked him what had happened.

According to the tale he told me, the senator had come to Los Angeles to see supporters and had arranged to see Rielle and Frances Quinn afterward. Bob picked him up in his BMW and drove him to the Beverly Hilton, where Rielle and Bob were staying.