What Really Happened (21 page)

Johnny told Elizabeth that I had been photographed and that Andrew was the father of the baby. I suspect that because of her trust issues with Johnny, Elizabeth wanted to talk to Andrew directly. And here is what’s so crazy about that: Andrew never flat-out told Elizabeth that he was the father! He alluded to it, saying that he and Cheri were having problems and they were working things out. Elizabeth asked him when it happened, and Andrew told me he said, “The first time it happened was at the Dave Matthews concert.”

And that was it. Elizabeth just accepted it. It was what she wanted to believe. She thought I was a whore and Andrew was a piece of dirt, so it fit the storyline in her head perfectly. And now she felt really justified for blaming and heaving more of her anger on Andrew and me. We had, after all, nearly ruined her perfect public life.

Of course, Johnny was still trying to get the story killed. The
National Enquirer
wanted Johnny to sign an affidavit verifying paternity. Johnny tells me that he vividly remembers the look on his press guy Mark Kornblau’s face. Mark was saying, “Okay, so we need to sign this affidavit and it’s done.”

And Johnny said, “Yeah, I am not going to do that. I am not going to say that under oath.”

The justification, of course, was—signing an affidavit for a
tabloid
? Fuck them.

Johnny said he will never forget the look on Mark’s face. It was the moment when Mark knew the truth.

So now the statements. Andrew’s new lawyer helped write his, and they sent it to the
National Enquirer
. I had mine written up without the last add-on line after lots of pressure from the campaign.

“They won’t believe it unless it comes from you.”

“Oh, so now I have to say it?
No one is going to believe this
. What does it matter? I am
not
saying Andrew is the father of my child. I will say it’s nobody’s fucking business.”

And then there came the moment: “
Whatever you want
. I am tired, I hurt, and I want to have my baby in peace. Please—all of you—leave me alone.”

Here is my statement issued per my instruction
only
to the
National Enquirer
:

“The fact that I am expecting a child is my personal and private business. This has no relationship to nor does it involve John Edwards in any way. Andrew Young is the father of my unborn child.”

Of course, my statement doesn’t even make any sense. It’s no one’s business, but here, let me tell you who the father is anyway?

I still can’t believe anyone bought it but they did. The mainstream media did not pursue it. I was very surprised and very happy about it.

And the fact that I lied? I let it go. I was making a baby, and her emotional and physical well-being was of the utmost importance. She was my priority, and, honestly, it wasn’t that hard to let it go. My reasoning was, “Hey, I lied to the
National Enquirer
. I lied to liars. Do you really think they expect people to be honest with them?”

Here’s a newsflash: The
National Enquirer
is filled with lies, including my own.

SIXTEEN

Band on the Run

“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.”

—
E
RNEST
H
EMINGWAY

A
FTER ALL THE STATEMENTS had gone to the
Enquirer
, and Johnny did not sign any affidavit, Andrew got it in his head that we needed to get away, specifically to Bunny’s private island. That was all he was talking about. Clearly he wanted to be on an all-expenses-paid vacation via private plane, but at seven months pregnant, I did not want to be flying, traveling, or away from my doctor. Not to mention I had no desire to be in a bathing suit!
So once again, I was not happy about a new development. I didn’t want to leave my couch, much less North Carolina.

I told Johnny over the phone, “Andrew wants to go away when the story comes out.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” he replied.

Fabulous.

Andrew took care of all the logistics. I was told to pack clothes for warm weather and that I would not need my passport. I had no idea where we were going or how we were getting there. I was just told that we were leaving at five in the morning on Tuesday. The story was slated to come out on Wednesday.

I packed for a week, figuring it would be one, maybe two at the longest. I left everything in my house as it was. I felt like running away was stupid. So what if the press surrounded my house? They would get bored and leave in a few days. I would be just fine camping on my couch with the shades closed.

However, I had already decided that I was going to do what Johnny wanted, and if he thought it was a good idea for me to leave when the story broke, so be it. It wouldn’t be for long. He was going to be out of the race soon. The other thing about me is that once I decide something, I am no victim or complainer, though I do make lots of jokes about the situation. I am on board one hundred percent.

Normally it’s a path that I choose, and I take full responsibility for it. Whatever happens, I fully accept the consequences.

But this was a whole different ball of wax.

I have never been down a road that I knew, before walking down it, was the wrong way to go. So I felt right off the bat that the chances were high that things were not going to end well, especially given the idea sprang from the Youngs’ greed.

Andrew and Cheri picked me up at around 5
A.M
. They were alone because their children were staying with Cheri’s parents in St. Louis.

It was chilly outside. I was wearing jeans and the black cashmere sweater that Johnny had brought me when I was going to the mountains at Blowing Rock. The sweater was so big and bulky that I barely looked pregnant.

We met Tim Toben near his house and Tim drove us to the FBO at the airport, where we got on a plane that Fred had chartered for us. I do not know what Fred thought at this time given I hadn’t spoken to him. I really don’t think he actually knew that I was carrying Johnny’s child—not yet. I believe he was just helping us get away from the media because Andrew asked him to.

Once on the plane, I discovered we were going to the Westin Diplomat in Hollywood, Florida. Of course, I had been there before, more than once with Johnny. It would never have been my choice to stay in a huge hotel with minimal privacy.

Let the nightmare begin! Leaving North Carolina with the Youngs in the wee hours of the morning, December 2007.

When we arrived at the hotel, I sat on a couch in the lobby while Andrew and Cheri checked in. I have heard a lot about me being a demanding diva about hotels and suites and such. I will just say the size of the room never matters to me, but how a room feels does. Andrew and Cheri picked the room and got an ocean-view corner suite; I got the adjoining standard room. I suspect it would be used as the nanny’s room if there were kids in the suite. This would be the case throughout all of our travels: they always got the huge, expensive suite and I got a standard room. At the Four Seasons Resort in Santa Barbara, they had a suite that cost about three thousand dollars a night. I was in the standard room next door to their suite, which cost around seven hundred dollars a night. Don’t get me wrong—the Four Seasons is the Four Seasons, suite or no suite. I’m just saying, they got the suites, not me.

When I got to my room, I was feeling really sad and couldn’t pinpoint the sadness. It wasn’t related to this stupid drama; it was something else that I couldn’t quite fathom. I called my ex-husband, Kip. I wanted to tell him I was pregnant before he saw it in the
National Enquirer
. He picked up and said, “It’s so weird that you’re calling—I was just going to call you. Humphrey died.”

After we reminisced about Humphrey, my little Jack Russell terrier that I had when we were married, I told him my news. “Just wanted you to know, I am with child, a little girl, and is it okay, do you mind if she uses your name?”

He replied, “I would be honored to have your child have my name, for as long as she wants it. And the father?”

I was silent.

Kip said, “I take it you don’t want to talk about the father and I believe it is none of my business.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the
Enquirer
cover appeared on the Drudge Report, it said, “LOVE CHILD” with a picture of me, in pain, walking out of the doctor’s office without sunglasses. Lo and behold, the mainstream media bought it and left me alone. I was surprised to discover that some people are dumber than I thought.

Naturally, Jonathan Darman chimed in with an email:

Not sure if you’re still checking your e-mail, but I wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you. Hope everything’s OK and that, apart from all this madness, you’ve been happy. You don’t have to respond to this, understand why you wouldn’t, but it felt weird not to be in touch and let you know that you’re on my mind. A lot has happened in the past few months—I’ve been on leave in Washington, taking care of my father who has been in the ICU, gravely ill with acute leukemia. Lots to talk about . . . someday. Just know that you’re on my mind and would love to talk, whenever and if ever you can. XO J

Johnny called to tell me that some woman, a big fan of Elizabeth’s, a woman named Melinda who wrote for
Slate
, told Johnny that she was hearing everywhere that I was talking to everyone and that he should really shut me up. This really upset me, and I started crying. “Let’s see—I have gone against everything I am about and believe in, I have lied, I am in hiding, and now you are accusing me of talking to people?
I have not talked to anyone
.” It was very annoying, to say the least.

We hung up and Johnny called back to tell me that, during the whole conversation that we had just had, he had forgotten to turn his microphone off.

His camera guy assured him that he hadn’t listened in.

Fabulous.

Meanwhile, Cheri, shopper of the century, went on a spree and began filling the suite with supplies: food, a coffee maker, whatever, even a little tiny Christmas tree. She kept very busy, as did Andrew with his many massages.

No matter how much I would have loved to, I couldn’t get into the vacation mode. This was no vacation for me.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had amped up her campaign of bad-mouthing Andrew, and it was getting back to him. He started to lose it: “I have done all this, and she just keeps bad-mouthing me.” Emotions were running high in that corner ocean suite. I was privy to the first of many fights that Andrew and Cheri would have.

Nick Baldick called Andrew. Andrew had stopped working for the campaign in October or November; apparently the campaign was running out of money and staff had to be cut. Nick was Andrew’s new boss at Nick’s 527. (A 527 is a tax-exempt group that raises money in order to advocate issues.) Andrew’s only job appeared to involve getting money for the 527 from Bunny.

Andrew told me Nick called and said, “Dude, way to take a bullet. Can you get me more money?”

Andrew was clearly offended by this. After all, he was still taking the bullet. He was very emotional, he was being bad-mouthed by Elizabeth, his wife wasn’t being nice to him, he was very, very busy getting massages, and now he had to
work
?

Andrew didn’t want his vacation to end, and I believe he convinced Fred, that it wasn’t yet safe to go back to North Carolina because the
National Enquirer
was probably not going to let this go. (Gee, I wonder why?) So it was decided between them that we should go to Aspen and stay at Fred and Lisa’s house for Christmas.

My warmest clothes were what I left North Carolina wearing. I had packed as I was told to—for warm weather. As for cold weather gear, all I had was Johnny’s cashmere sweater and one pair of jeans. So Cheri and I went to the mall. I bought an extra-large goose down Juicy Couture coat on sale for two hundred dollars and a pair of UGG slippers. That was my entire pregnancy winter wardrobe.