Edwards is late for our afternoon appointment, so I'm grilling George, his cook, a liberally tattooed ex-con. As George sings the Guv'nah's hosannas while stabbing a strawberry pie crust with a fork, a haggard Edwards walks in, tossing his keys on the counter. Back from a third day of jury deliberations, he looks unhappy to have a visitor. I don't wait for an introduction before presumptuously making chummy. I inform Edwards that George, here, has allowed me to rifle through Edwards' underwear drawers. Edwards does not offer a courtesy smile, and instead fixes me with a stare through those possum-like orbs that served him so well during governor's-mansion poker games. "It don't both-ahhh me none," he shrugs. "Everybody else does."

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