For nearly a decade, former Governor Edwin Edwards has been incarcerated on 17 accounts of, among other things, racketeering, money laundering and mail fraud. He served much of that time inside the Federal Correction Institution in Oakdale, La. He might as well have been on the moon. The public has not seen or heard firsthand from the infamously outspoken governor in years.
In January, the 83-year-old began serving the remainder of his sentence in a halfway house in Denham Springs. 225 began wondering how the polarizing and convicted icon would spend his sunset years in freedom. Edwards will see his official release next month. We took the liberty of supplying the Guv with a driver—we’ll call him Jack—to help him get around and to report back on what Edwards’ future looks like.
Former Governor’s Summit
The Old State Capitol • Baton Rouge
The din echoes louder as more heels clack across the tiled floor. A large crowd is gathered around the spiral staircase now as I hustle back with the governor’s ChapStick. Forgot it in the car. I hand it to him quietly, trying not to disrupt the flow he has going with the other ex-governors. This needs to go well. For him and for me. Buddy Roemer, Mike Foster and Kathleen Blanco huddle together while photographers and friends with cell phones snap pictures like long-suffering fans.
“Where’s the kid?” Edwards asks them. That’s what he calls Gov. Jindal when he’s ranting to me about policy. In public he calls him “Bobby.” Edwards must be showing off.
He looks tan today. It’s a flippin’ bronzer. Anyways, he looks much better than he did when I picked him up for the first time four years ago from you-know-where. He’s in his element, I think.
“Bobby promised me he was coming,” Foster says.
“Well, what’s he like?” Edwards asks. “He won’t return my calls.”
“You’ve read all about him, I’m sure,” Blanco says. “He’s young. Brown grad. Rhodes Scholar. You know Mike discovered him.”
“I mean, what does the guy do for fun? What’s his vice?” Edwards asks.
“No one seems to know, really,” Blanco offers. “He goes home to the mansion and reads to his kids.”
“He is a big reader,” Roemer says. “We swap book reviews all the time. He travels a lot, too. Maybe too much.”
“But,” Foster cuts in, “he always gets a lot of money when he does.”
“Oh, Bobby goes to Vegas, too?” Edwards asks.
The governors chuckle and shake their heads at my wisecracking boss. The Silver Coot.
“I knew there was a reason Obama pardoned your ass,” Foster says. “You must have cracked him up pretty good.”
“I don’t agree with the president on much, and frankly, the way he talked about me in that campaign was wrong,” Roemer says, turning to Edwards. “But pardoning you was the right thing to do.”
Edwards runs his ChapStick across a sly grin.
“Buddy, I knew there was a reason I contributed so much to your campaign,” he says, slapping Roemer on the shoulder. “You did get my $100, right?”
La Nouvelle Orleans Ballroom
Hotel Monteleone • New Orleans
Long after the crowds have gone, vacuums howl through the ballroom as hotel staff move in on the wine-stained tablecloths, half-eaten plates of food and dry glasses. His girlfriend is in the hall on her cell phone, and the governor sits alone with a feather boa and a cone-shaped birthday hat hanging around his neck by one of those itchy elastic strings. He picks at his fingernails. They’re always clean, but he picks anyways-—just to be sure, I guess. He must have heard me, because he looks up, and our eyes meet for a second before he looks off at the remains of this strange, star-studded roast. I don’t want to disturb him. He looks oddly peaceful, like some repentant statue, a flippin’ monument to what, no one can recall. Least of all me.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Edwards,” I say.
“Not yet, Jack,” he says. “Not yet.”
75th Crowley Rice Festival
Crowley
The first thing I notice is the eyes. Their eyes are wide open. Like Nancy Pelosi after a Red Bull. Anyways, they’re happy to see him. Big, broad smiles and blur after blur of fast-waving hands.
“Governor! We love you!” I hear over and over.
“You da man, Edwin!”
“We need you back in BR!”
He looks 10 years younger. Perched in the back seat of the red Corvette, the governor leans forward and taps me on the shoulder.
“Tell Maurice to stop the car, Jack. I’m getting out.”
“Wait. What?” I ask, worried that he’s bailing altogether.
“I want to walk this parade,” the governor says. “Shake some hands. Kiss some babies.”
In no time, his feet are on Parkerson Street and headed for the throng. Hands and arms thrust lustily after him. His political career began right here in this tiny town.
Women, young and old, beckon so they can bless him with a kiss. Young mothers hand over their babies like birthday presents. He kisses both—a true politician.
After another block, he pauses in the middle of the flippin’ road and stands there, just straddling the white line. He pauses, closes his eyes and savors the verbal bouquets.
Driving the governor back to Baton Rouge in his black Lexus SUV, he dozes off about five minutes into the ride. This is typical. The man can sleep anywhere.
I shove a CD into the radio and turn up one of his favorites, Kenny Chesney. “Trust me, friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think. So don’t blink.”
Suddenly, he’s up. “He’s right, you know,” he says, thumbing the CD case. “Time goes by fast. Eight-plus years. Gone. In a blink.”
I don’t know how to respond. The governor never gets introspective on me. Not like this.
“And what do I have to show for it? A number and a mug shot?”
“That’s not how those people at the parade see you, Mr. Edwards,” I offer.
“Did you hear the hope in their voices?” he asks. “See the desperation in their faces? They’re dying for a leader. They’re dying for it.”
The governor stares blankly out of the window into the fading light of day. He watches the gnarled cypress trees of Henderson Swamp fly by.
Celtic Media Centre
Baton Rouge
The trailer is cramped with stuff. Clothes, bags, newspapers, a pile of unread scripts, Cane’s boxes—just stuff. The governor stands before a full-length mirror in a pinstriped seersucker suit. He smiles, curling a thin fake mustache up to his nose. He holds his iPhone next to his face and clicks a picture. “Here,” he says, handing me the phone. “Put that one on my Facebook.” This is what he always says to me, ever since his lady set up a profile for him and he was bombarded with hundreds of friend requests overnight.
“When am I gonna play a family man? A wise old grandpa?” he asks me. He’s been complaining for weeks now about typecasting. This is his fourth film, and each role has been for a crooked politician or underhanded businessman of some kind.
“Maybe if you auditioned for once—”
“I’m 84 years old, Jack. I don’t have time for any of this pick-me-pick-me business. If they want me, they know where to find me.”
The governor doesn’t have an agent—bloodsuckers, he calls them—and he never bothered taking headshots. He just passes out business cards with his name on them and my number. The calls I get, you wouldn’t believe. Donald Trump wants him for Celebrity Apprentice. We’re negotiating.
“Of course,” he continues, “playing the Godfather would be a hell of a lot of fun, too.”
There’s a knock at the door, and a young P.A. with an earpiece and clipboard sticks his head in. “It’s time, Mr. Edwards,” the kid says.
My cell phone rings—set to Randy Newman’s “Kingfish.” Of all the smart phone gizmos these days, the governor thinks ringtones are a riot. He likes to sing along. “Who looks after shit-kickers like you?” he croons in a throaty rasp. He snaps as he steps down out of the trailer and onto the vast, sunlit movie lot. “The Kingfish do!”
ABC Studios
New York City
I can’t believe I’m standing next to Barbara Walters. I can’t believe the governor passed up interviews with Anderson Cooper and Piers Morgan for a six-minute segment on The View.
Ha, there’s Joy Behar. And Whoopi flippin’ Goldberg.
Now, where’s the governor?
“Young man,” Walters says to me in that funny accent of hers. She looks worried. “Where is Governor Edwards?”
At some point I became the responsible one.
“Miss Walters,” I say, trying not to sound too smart-ass, “I’m not really sure. But if you can find Mrs. Hasselbeck, my boss won’t be too far away.”
“Are you serious?” she asks. He’s in his 80s!”
“Tell him that.”
Then, I hear it. “You might be the cutest Republican I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll tell my husband you said so.”
The old man is laying every bit of his Cajun charm on Hasselbeck. I’m sure he’s tossing her lines he’s been using since the ’60s, but they must be new to her. She’s blushing like a schoolgirl. The Silver Coot still has it, I guess. Did he just call her Lizzy? This is insane.
On set, Walters gets things rolling.
“Were there ever times you didn’t think you’d make it in prison?” she asks.
The governor pauses long to form an answer.
“I wasn’t always sure I’d live to see the outside, honestly,” he says at last. “It wasn’t easy, especially in the beginning. I was away from my family and friends. Sure they visited, but I still felt isolated. Forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” Walters asks.
“Sure,” he says. “People in prison lose touch with those on the outside. I thought the same would happen to me—eventually.”
This is getting deep. Anderson Cooper, eat your heart out.
“Okay, what everyone wants to know is, did you have a prison nickname?” Whoopi asks.
“I did.”
“You gonna tell us what it was?”
The old man pauses, squints oddly, then says: “Scooter.”
What! He never would tell me his nickname. Scooter? That’s what you call a kid on a playground, not a disgraced politician behind bars. Weird.
Joy Behar taps him on the knee. “So, now you’re acting. How’d that happen?”
“Well, Louisiana is the Hollywood of the South. I started with bit parts, you know, but so did Paul Newman. I’m working my way up, just getting started.”
“What’s your dream role?” Behar asks.
“A romantic lead maybe.”
“But how old are you?”
“Old enough to know what to do in a love scene,” he says, setting off a round of laughter.
“But you’ve never done it for a camera,” she retorts.
“Sweetheart, everything I did in public for 50 years was for the cameras.”
“So what was the worst part about being in prison?” Hasselbeck asks.
Edwin doesn’t miss a beat. “Going without Candy.”
“You don’t get candy in prison?” she asks.
“Elisabeth, dear,” Barbara says softly, “Candy was the governor’s wife.”
Edwards Residence
Denham Springs
The routine is the same every night. Sweep up, collect the sections of the newspaper he’s left in the kitchen, in the den and in the bathroom, and straighten up the fridge. The fridge is the key. It’s covered with dozens of greeting cards the governor wants at right angles and swapped in and out so he can see new ones every day. One card stays. A note from Candy with a photo of her son Harrison clipped to it.
Any time I might want for my own life has to be after the governor has gone to sleep, which is usually around nine o’clock these days. So when the governor bursts into the room at half past 10, it’s a little alarming. When he tells me the president is on the phone, it’s even more so.
“It’s go time, boy,” the governor says, snapping his fingers. “Switch that thing on.”
Edwards has been having me record each of his phone calls for weeks. He had me sit with a running tape recorder under the flippin’ table at Ruth’s Chris while he and John Alario talked about LSU football. Football! I think Roemer outdistancing most of his Republican challengers is really affecting the Silver Coot. A strange paranoia is setting in.
I press record and put my headphones on. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July and I’m spying on the Commander-in-Chief.
“Governor Edwards, thank you for holding and taking my call,” Obama says.
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“I know it’s late, but I wanted to touch base with you about Roemer. Now, let me be clear, I’m not asking for dirt on him. It’s just the polls are a little close for comfort.”
“Well, I know Buddy better than most.”
“How far back do you go?” Obama asks.
“He did some pollin’ for me back in the ’80s. Budgie, his dad, was my commissioner of administration.”
“Budgie?”
“Strange name, but loyal man,” the governor says. “Went to prison rather than talk to the Feds about me.”
“That is loyalty—not something you see much in D.C. these days.”
“Ironically, you do find it in prison,” Edwards says.
Obama laughs. ”Honor among thieves?”
“More like loyalty among the oppressed.”
“I see,” Obama says, as if trying to get his inquiry back on track. “So, where’s Roemer weak? I’d love to get him on gambling, but that was your thing.”
“Hold on, now. Roemer signed the bills for riverboat casinos and video poker,” Edwards says. “The only gambling that’s mine is Harrah’s in New Orleans. The rest was Buddy.”
“No kidding, huh?” Obama says.
“You could say something like, ‘Governor, 20 years ago, you made gambling Louisiana’s future. How’d that work out? Now you have a risky economic plan, and you want to gamble with the country’s future.’”
“That’s good stuff. I like it,” the President says. “Listen, I want to get more from you soon. I’ll have an aide call you before the first debate, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Anything you need.”
“Is there anything you need, Governor?” Obama asks.
“Well, there is this one little thing—” Edwards says meekly.
“I can’t discuss that right now, but make no mistake, your help will not go unnoticed.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Good night, Governor.”
“It’s a great night, Mr. President,” Edwards corrects. “Goodbye.”
Before I can remove the headphones, Edwards is at my side again, a smile a mile wide spread across his face. “You heard that? Yes, sir!”
“Every word,” I say.
“We’re back, Jack,” Edwards says, pacing the floor now. “It’s going to happen. I’ll clear my name, son. I’ll be able to—” He trails off quickly, as if his mind was staring out over a cliff he’d rather not step off. Not yet anyway.
“I’ll be able to vote again,” he continues with a chuckle. “And hunt, too. Call Stephen. I’ll need you to find my rifles.”
Roemer residence
Baton Rouge
Ben Skillman’s out. S.J. Saia, too. Shut down. Done. It’s Roemer and Edwards left now, and the pot is huge. The Silver Coot is tired, I can tell. It’s late, and jawing can only get him so far. At some point his cards have to do the talking.
Roemer squeezed in this long-delayed rematch during a quick break from the campaign, and he’s brought his A game. Anyways, the other guys are sipping beers. Edwards signals me over for another bottled water and more ChapStick. I never go anywhere without ChapStick. You’d think I was working for Shaun flippin’ White.
“You wouldn’t be bluffing, would you?” Roemer taunts.
“No, but you would!” Edwards cracks, drying his sweaty hands with an antibacterial wipe from his back pocket. “You’ve been bluffin’ since ’96, Buddy, sayin’ you’re not ever running again. What happened?”
“The economy happened,” Roemer retorts. “Obama happened. Now this is happening.”
Roemer rakes the last of his chips to the center of the table. I don’t know much about poker, but I’m starting to catch on. I think it’s time to lay ’em down.
Edwards draws the ChapStick nervously to his lips.
Roemer shows a full house. Aces over eights.
Edwards caps the ChapStick and sighs. The last man holding his cards. Usually, I can see them, but tonight they are too close to his chest.
“Keep that poker face on for the debates, Buddy,” Edwards says, before laying down all four sevens. “And do say ‘hello’ to Obama for me.”
Back at the Former Governor’s Summit
The Old State Capitol • Baton Rouge
Roemer checks his watch as a young woman gives the governors a quick rundown of the program. This is his first major appearance after election night more than two months ago. He looks relaxed, though, almost peaceful with what turned into a cutthroat campaign from the president, his Republican challengers, even Edwards, though I don’t think anyone ever heard about those flippin’ phone calls.
“We’re going to move everyone to the Senate Chamber in just a few minutes, all right?” the woman says.
“Sure, you tell us,” Blanco replies.
The doors open wide, and the clamor rises in pitch.
Gov. Jindal arrives.
“There he is,” Foster says. But Edwards’ attention is squarely on someone else.
She’s in her early 40s. Brunette. Not unattractive. And she’s walking our way.
“Mr. Edwards,” she says. “Could I have a quick word?”
“Of course, cher,” the governor replies, turning around just as Roemer approaches Jindal’s entourage. “What’s on your mind?”
“I wanted to speak to you privately if I could.”
Edwards glances at Roemer and Jindal and throws a knowing nod at me. “I think we have a minute,” he says.
“Thank you, governor,” she says. “See, it’s about Denham Springs. You are still living there, right?”
“Sure,” the governor says. “It’s quiet. Growin’ on me.”
“Good, well, I’m part of a group that would like to discuss the mayor’s race next year with you.”
A short laugh and a wild, youthful grin storms the Normandy of his aged face. He takes her by the hand.
