John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study. He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt. He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top. Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business. Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.