Tuesday, October 22, 2002

 

EWE makes transition from public life to prison

Former governor begins 10-year federal sentence

By Teddy Allen The Times

FORT WORTH, Texas – Thirteen minutes.

For Edwin W. Edwards, that’s all the time it took between the beginning of something familiar and public – a news conference – and the beginning of something foreign and private – a 10-year prison term.

Far from the Governor’s Mansion or Mardi Gras or Tiger Stadium or Las Vegas – far from happier days – Edwards began a side-of-the-road news conference just outside the grounds of the prison here by thanking the authorities for allowing him to self-surrender. “I gave my word. That’s why I’m here.”

The former four-term governor of Louisiana woke in his Baton Rouge home Monday, walked his dog, ate breakfast, then flew with his son David to Fort Worth. He ate a hamburger and vanilla ice cream at Chili’s, then rode to the Federal Medical Center, a 33-acre prison surrounded by a 12-foot-high fence.

At 12:39 p.m., Edwards, in a green Taurus driven by his son, arrived at the prison’s front gate on a non-striped road of buckling gravel. More than 25 members of the media – six satellite trucks and more than a dozen cars hugged the road’s shoulders – waited.

For the next 10 minutes, 30 yards from the prison’s gate, Edwards answered questions with the same off-the-cuff yet polished and composed demeanor he has perfected in more than 30 years as the state’s most popular politician. He wore a warm-up outfit, a cotton sports shirt and New Balance shoes. He carried with him a folder of personal items, including a Bible and his personal journal.

Nothing about either his appearance or his delivery suggested fear of being moments away from beginning a decade-long sentence for his conviction on racketeering, extortion and fraud charges.

He said he didn’t know what to expect in prison, that he would be a “model prisoner as I’ve been a model citizen,” that he still respected a judicial system that he felt in this case “went awry.” He maintained his innocence and again disputed the testimonies of those he felt were once his friends.

“I’m saying I didn’t do anything to justify my being here,” he said. “I’m optimistic the Supreme Court will give me a hearing. … I just want everybody to know I did not do anything wrong as governor.”

Without a miracle decision from the U.S. Supreme Court or a presidential commutation, Edwards, 75, will have to serve a minimum of 8 1/2 years. When the governor mentioned Texas was his second favorite state, a reporter said, “And you get to spend 10 years here.”

Edwards smiled quickly: “I don’t think so.”

He was asked if it was a humbling experience. In front of him and behind the reporters was a mechanics business, its lot filled with old tires and pallets, rusted trailers and pipe and broken-down forklifts. A muddy dog was chained to a fence by a trailer. And behind the former governor cars rattled by, music blaring, their drivers oblivious to this day in Louisiana history.

Also behind the governor, the imposing prison on the hill, its landscape one of scrub oaks and bent elms. With the day’s low gray clouds, it was a place devoid of joy.

“I don’t know if it’s a humbling experience,” he said. “It’s reality.”

As usual, he was quick with wit. “If you give me credit for the time I’ve spent in court and in front of juries, I could walk out of here tomorrow.”

Would he change anything?

“My friends,” he said.

And then it was over. “I’ll see you sometime in the future,” he said. “When and where I don’t know.”

Followed by reporters, he began walking toward the prison gate when his son whispered to him that regulations demanded he not walk to turn himself in.

“You have to ride,” David said.

“Sorry,” Edwards said to those following. “I’ve got to ride into prison.”

And just before he closed the door, he said, “Don’t try to follow me in. They might not be as nice to you as I was.”

The car stopped at the gate where Alex Harrison, a big man in a blazer and tie and gray dress slacks and a badge, checked identification. The lieutenant told Edwards and his youngest son to proceed.

It was 12:52 p.m.

The car climbed a slight rise and then disappeared on its other side. On the hill 300 feet away, the road ended at the prison’s parking lot by the front door.

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