Tempest Spent

Well, America, it looks like our long national nightmare is finally over. The John Edwards jury reached a verdict. Sort of. They found the former Presidential candidate Not Guilty on one charge of campaign finance fraud and they deadlocked on the rest. It was a fitting end to a seriously weird ordeal. For me though, the John Edwards trial was less about the legal wranglings that went on inside the courthouse and more about the shenanigans that played out on the sun-baked steps. For that's where I spent the better part of seven weeks: waiting, laughing, occasionally losing consciousness.

It would have been singularly miserable were it not for the misfits that joined me there, a ragtag group of journalists who traveled a lot farther than I did to watch what passes for justice dribble out of that courthouse door. It was an experience I will never forget, no matter how much I pay for therapy in the coming years. Few hurricanes I've covered have left me as exhausted, sore or uncomfortably numb. You might say I'm glad it's over. And while I won't particularly miss taking Market Street by force every morning, I will miss the friendships I formed there.

Funny how the world works. A philandering millionaire bangs a videographer and a hundred other camera nerds make new friends as a result. I don't know if that's quite what you call 'the butterfly effect', but it's exactly what happened here. And while this probably wasn't the snark you dropped by for, right now, it's all I got. If you really want to know what's in my head, just take a look at my new pal Chuck Liddy, who found a way to express how every journalist who covered the John Edwards trial is now feeling...

 (Top photo by Jerry Wolford. Bottom photo by ...Chuck Liddy?)

Rarefied Stare

I can no longer tell you how many times I've shot John Edwards as he left and entered court, just that  I fully expect him to be shuffling his elderly parents through the back-alleys of my brain for... oh, the next thirty years. That's how it works, see. Squint through the glint of current events and you're gonna get few shards of history in your mind's eye. If you're not careful, it can get infected and the next thing you know you're lying awake one night soaked in sweat as the last two decades of defendants, damsels and dogs in funny hats dance across your darkened ceiling. It's enough to make one request a roofie. But enough about my night-sweats, let's meet the players!
 
It's ... the same gang of drifters and layabouts I been smellin' for six weeks now. Ya know, it's pictures like this that do my breed a disservice, for it tends to convince our station-bound bosses that we lenslingers are locked in some sort of mortal lounge-off in which the photog with the most bloated expense report wins dinner for six at the high-end bistro of his liking. No charge. (Don't ask), just know that for every time you see of us sitting down, a homeless guy takes a dump behind our live trucks. I won't say it's happened, but if you see a guy who with 'Flawless' tattooed on his lip eyeing a patch of pavement anywhere near your mobile newsroom, know your little weather garden is about to get fertilized. And if you catch him in the act, wait 'til he's done. Otherwise he gets all pissy about the tip. Forget I mentioned it. In fact, let go off all that unwanted knowledge: things like your computer password at work or what level of the parking deck you left your news car double-parked in. You won't need any of that once you summit your own personal step-ladder and peer into the abyss. Just don't look for too long...

Or something like this could happen to you. We'll call him 'Richard'. Rumor has it he's some kind of hot-shot from out of town. He seems to have a lot of toys and they say has just as many trophies at home, but from what I can tell he's a nervous shell of the fellow who first appeared here a month and a half back. Dude used to have opinions about EVERYthing, but lately he just fixates on the middle distance and tries to call in airstrikes with an iPhone that hasn't seen the business end of a charger in nine days. I figure when it's all said and done, we'll pick his pockets and point him towards Capital City before abandoning him altogether. Someday he'll thank us, provided he regains the ability to speak in anything other than satellite coordinates. Until then, your better off avoiding this once coherent cameraman altogether. That, or hit him with a lawn dart and be done with it. Now this: 

Show of Hands

Most people think of 'The Media' as a bunch of heartless bastards and quite often I'm inclined to agree. But an incident outside the John Edwards trial today reminded me of just how compassionate the Fourth Estate can be. It happened just after lunch. Inside the federal courthouse, jury members were busy trading digits, er, deliberating while a sweaty collection of photogs, scribblers and recordists simmered outside. Suddenly, families of varying ethnicity began showing up. At first, they seemed confused at the rows of cameras flanking the courthouse door but after some encouragement they made their way inside and upstairs. There, out of reach of our many lenses, a naturalization ceremony was taking place. You know - that final part of the immigration process where said newcomers raise their right hands and swear allegiance to this wonderful country of ours? It's a wonderful thing to witness and I've put several such ceremonies on the news. But cameras are banned from federal courthouses, so the many news crews perched outside could only continue their marathon of tall tales and dick jokes while inside, Democracy itself unfurled.

A little while later, our nation's newest citizens began dribbling out, many clutching flags and wearing grins. That's when the damnedest thing happened: members of the press, camped out in lawn chairs and awaiting John Edwards, began to clap. The first time it was spontaneous. By the third time a new American family bounded down those steps, it was tradition. I myself was busy on the periphery, but even my crusty, shriveled heart swelled with pride if not good cheer as a much maligned sector of American society welcomed our newest neighbors into citizenship. Will we dive through a dumpster to see if you're swindling old ladies? With pleasure. Will we crawl up a fresh widow's porch and ask for a better picture of the departed? In a skinny minute. Will we sleep in our cars if it means snagging a shot of a Senator's mistress with a baby in her hip? With pleasure and considerable flair. But we'll also champion the underdog, comfort the afflicted and celebrate all the good our country represents - when we're not shining a much-needed light on the bad and the ugly.

Just don't tell anyone, would ya? People will start to think we're Human.

Trudge to Justice

It's been four days since jurors began deliberating John Edwards' fate and the former Presidential candidate ain't the only one getting antsy. Outside, a growing gaggle of local, regional and network news crews are locked in mid-fidget as hour after hour passes without an awful lot of anything to report. Why, it's enough to make you interview each other, a scurrilous practice I try to avoid unless it's the only thing that will satisfy my bosses that day. That proved to be the case on Friday, a twelve hour shift that now seems so distant all I can remember is the hamburger I had for lunch. Oh wait, I had that same hamburger three days in a row. Or was it four? Whatever the case, know that I haven't forgotten you, dear reader. In fact, the only thing I want to do besides never climb another stepladder is to one day tell you all about it. At the moment though, I'm too sunburned, numb and sleep-deprived to do it justice so I leave you with friend of the blog Chuck Liddy's time-lapse of Edwards and his lawyers morning arrival. That's me - fifth from the left - dressed in light clothing and wishing I'd listened to my dear old Mom when she said I'd better put down that ratty paperback and focus on my studies. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go sleep six hours and get up to do it all over again...

Snide Goeth Before the Fall

When John Edwards' federal trial kicked off a month or so back, I was more than prepared to loathe him. After all, the former Senator hastened his wife's demise with an unseemly affair, a surprise love child and more lies and alibis than his staff could categorize. He played a doddering old widow for every dollar he could get, financing his fling with ill-gotten dollars while hectoring America about its conscience and poverty. Did I mention the sex tape he made with a self-avowed videographer? Yes, there are many reasons to hate on this tarnished golden boy. Not that I have much malice on tap. That takes energy I ain't got, not after perching atop a step-ladder as the planet's most vilified widower shuffles to and from his date with justice. All I could really work up is a case of distaste and even that was rooted more in my aching back than any sense of chivalry misspent. But a funny thing happened on the way to the whipping post. I started feeling sorry for the dude. Not full-on pity mind you, just a gnawing feeling in the back of my brain that the philandering candidate is taking it on his telegenic chin.

It's a feeling I first got Friday afternoon. By then the jury had deliberated for only an hour, but to the throbbing mosh pit of photographers stationed outside, the verdict loomed barely out of reach. The pieces were certainly in place. A podium stood at the top of the steps, ready to prop up any displays of grace. With cables splayed this way and that, the fleet of sat trucks idled in anticipation. Public stoning or tearful atonement, whatever was about to go down would soar to the heavens in righteous hi-def. You can imagine our surprise when the Marshall charged out of the building, insinuating to many they might want to man their fancycams. Seconds later, the reasons became clear when who else but Johnny Edwards rounded the corner of the federal courthouse, jaw firmly set, eyes scouring the middle distance. Seems he'd tired of waiting for the jury inside, so he'd stepped out of the back door and found the feds in charge wouldn't let him back in. He had to walk around to the front, where a living, breathing gauntlet hardened in the midday sun. When suddenly he did appear, those walls of glass began to crack.

Though most of us stayed atop our stools, several shooters broke away and rushed the once viable Vee-Pee pick. Edwards didn't make sound as the lenses moved in, his jaw remained set as the rude questions rained down. I myself was among the throng, though mostly to prevent my chief from backpedaling into traffic. Before I broke away though, I got a good look in John Edwards and to my consternation, his gaze remained hollow. What must be going on in that carefully coiffed head, I thought. Dude did wrong, no doubt about that. But this plunge from grace is picking up speed and I can't help but wonder how that loss in altitude feels to a man so staggered by his own swagger. Will I set down my camera and try to hug it out? Not unless I want to taste pavement. But I can no longer pretend the man is pure evil, for the last time I checked, we all fall short of the glory. Should John Edwards do time for his distasteful behavior? I'll wait for the jury foreman to clear his throat. Meanwhile, let he who is without sin cast the first update. Me, I got my hands full.

(Photo Courtesy of Jake Barlow)

Barbarians at the Gate

'Groundhog Day', 'Cool Hand Luke', 'Pee-Wee's Big Adventure' ... there are LOTS of movie you could compare the John Edwards trial to and most of us hanging around outside would agree. That's because we're numb. Fourteen hour workdays will do that to a crew. I'm lucky. This tawdry opera debuted five miles from my home. The rest of these jokers gotta drive in from out of town every morning, or worse yet, stay at the Marriott. Whatever their routine, they show up around dawn, less than fresh from a fitful night sleep and ready to seize the day. Or at least the stepladder. Seriously, I haven't spent so much time perched on an aluminum stool since I scraped the popcorn ceiling off my playroom. Okay, so I would never scrape the popcorn ceiling off my playroom. I'd call The Man, overpay and whine about it on-line. But that's not important right now. What is important is that I get some sleep, for in eight short hours I'm due back down there, lest the good people of the Piedmont be deprived of their daily shot of the former Senator ignoring my lens...   

It wasn't always that way. There was a time when Senator John Edwards met my camera with his customary twinkle. He smelled of snake-oil even then, but what was a lowly photog to do? Call him out for being Bill Clinton, Jr.? And if I may be so bold, can I ask a simple question? 'What is it with powerful men and ugly women?' If I had that kind of scratch and was the cheatin' kind, I do believe I'd finance a few exotic dancers' cosmetology studies - instead of reaching out to the nearest skank I could find so I could trade success and stability for a walk of shame and the inevitable case of genital warts. But that's just me. No, on second thought, that's most of us here. We've discussed the matter at length and can only surmise that power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely and after enough fawning press junkets, the average politician will tag and bag anything that stumbles into range.  But just because we've dissected the amorous urges of the ruling class, don't think for a moment we care what the jury decides.

Sure, we have our opinions. But they hardly matter in this arena. We're far more concerned with the logistics of all this justice, rather than the lascivious nature of our elected officials. They're all crooks anyway, we've decided - an opinion formed after years of close contact to candidates, incumbents and other power-mad miscreants. No, what worries us is the gang-bang that's gonna go down on the courthouse steps once the jury convicts John Edwards or decides to release him back into the wild. That day's coming quick, but whenever I think about it I get dizzy and have to climb down my stepladder long enough to breathe into a paper bag. That usually tickles the hell out of my thirty closest competitors and before I can ascend to my eighteen inch perch, new life is breathed back into our once feckless scrum and the movie comparisons continue unabated. We still haven't pinpointed an exact film to describe what's about to come, but it definitely needs to be one of those new zombie flicks where the undead swarm the tawdry and innocent alike until nothing is left but blood, entrails and one perfectly preserved hair-do...

That, or one of those stupid new musicals where a shirtless Tom Cruise sings reheated radio schlock.

Driven to Jeers

 Top Ten Signs You've Covered TOO MUCH of the John Edwards Trial

10.)  You've stopped looking for Rielle Hunter to pop out of a bush, but you still hold out hope of seeing Anderson Cooper in spats and a pith helmet.

9.)  A group of homeless men signed a petition urging you and "the rest of the undesirables to just move along".

8.)  One more shot of you picking your nose on CNN and that dealer you bailed on in college is gonna wake you up one morning with a cattle prod to the fruit basket.

7.)  You've heard every one of the sound guy's jokes and they ALL center around the size of his boom pole.

6.)  Some of the fellas were heard pining for the good ole days when Andrew Young would undress everybody with his eyes as he stomped into the courthouse. 
 
5.)  NBC's Lisa Myers won't so much as return your morning fist-bump anymore.
 
4.)  You've scored stinky green chalk off that same sketch artist hippie SIX times. 
 
3.)  You're on a first name basis with the parking cop, the Jimmy-John's delivery guy and that weirdo on the corner who hands out sporks in the name of Beelzebub.

2.)  Edwards no longer responds to your "Two Americas > One Crazy Slut" trucker hat..

And the Number One Sign You've Covered TOO MUCH of the John Edwards Trial...

 1.)  You're STILL blogging about it.