Meanwhile, back outside the John Edwards trial, an unforgiving sun is melting brains along tripod row. Or maybe it’s just me. All I know is that some time this afternoon delirium took over and for a second TV News felt like a viable career choice. Then suddenly I snapped out of it and realized I was A.) perched on a step stool, B.) dressed like a third grader and C.) perspiring at an alarming rate. About that time someone shouted “Lawyers UP!” and, like Pavlov’s sweatiest dog, I swiveled at the hips as three sharply-dressed strangers filled my lens. As they passed my position, I zoomed in after them until they disappeared inside the federal courthouse. Rinse and repeat. For more days than I can count, I’ve weathered the elements on the stoops of justice, only my fellow castaways there to mock, er comfort me. Okay, so there ain’t a lot of comfort available when you’re clocking some philanderer’s shame at three thousand feet.

Me, I’m just trying to pace myself. Prosecutors have yet to rest their case and the temperatures are already in the 80’s. By the time John Edwards gives us the collective finger and runs back to Rielle, it’ll damn near be a hundred. I’ll be passed out on the pavement by then, but don’t be surprised if my inert form is sporting a grin, for I have (almost) enjoyed my time at Camp Edwards. Can’t explain why, really. The hours are long and the work is tedious, but the company can’t be beat. Sure, there’s an ass-hat (or three) in every crowd, but as whole, the motley collection of freelancers, locals and network news crews have been delightful. That’s high praise coming a from a guy who doesn’t particularly like people. It helps of course that we’re all tasked with the same silly mission: Document Edwards’ every step between his chauffeured Suburban and this hall of justice. Oh yeah, get everyone else who walks in or out, too. We’ll figure out something to say about them later…

Got it? Good. Just show up here around seven with your favorite fancycam. Pack some snacks, too. Court breaks for lunch, but you’ll probably spend that time hunched over an steaming laptop editor while your reporter checks her tweets from the front seat of your smelly live truck. Afterwards you’ll wanna boot-scoot back over to the courthouse steps – just in case Edwards face-plants, confesses or breaks into song. Scoff if you will: the ONE time you bail on a federal defendant’s walk-down is the day North Carolina’s sexiest lawyer goes all Jim Bakker and you’re the only news crew without fresh footage of a quivering millionaire being frog-marched in front of the judge. Okay, I’m projecting a bit but can you blame me? Watching our once celebrated Senator waltz in and out of court, one gets the feelings he like his odds. That’s cool by me, I guess, but I didn’t give up six weeks of profiling dogs in funny hats just to watch Edwards melt back into his wealth. I want drama! Intrigue! Indemnity, even!

And some lemonade. Some really COLD lemonade. Perhaps with a little vodka in it. You know, for the medicinal value…