In Part Two of my Edwin Edwards comments, I stated, “Let him go.”  In this final installment of my screed, I must note that his release will not be based on humility. The first 346 pages of  a recently released “authorized” biography written by my friend, Leo Honeycutt, reads like a nomination for the former Governor’s sainthood. I remember him differently.

During Edwards four terms as Louisiana’s chief executive—two that I have  hands-on knowledge—he whines about being persecuted by political enemies, prosecutors and the news media, me included. The final 200 pages of the biography provides details  of events leading to his imprisonment in a federally sponsored time-share facility. Indeed, Edwards has grounds  to complain in this instance. In my opinion, he was a victim of ambitious prosecutors, a pill-popping hanging  judge, FBI agents with selective hearing, and a jury under pressure to convict regardless of the evidence. The miscarriage of justice that he and many others perceive is apparently the rationale used by Edwards to justify every ethical violation—moral and otherwise—and borderline criminal act he committed prior to the trial. For the most part, he refuses to concede past mistakes.  Even so, he is now a harmless old man and the good he did as Governor outweighs his sins. The prison gates should have swung open for him long ago.

In contrast to his self-justification, I encountered someone a couple of days ago who could give Edwards lessons in partaking of humble pie. It was one of those encounters when my muckraking past collided with the present, which has often happened since my 2004 return to Louisiana. I was signing copies of Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger that were being restocked at Cottonwood Books in Baton Rouge when a guy I recognized  walked into the store. I couldn’t put a name with the face until store owner Danny Plaisance  greeted him as, “Naaman.”  How could I forget? It was Naaman Eicher.

In 1989, my investigative stories were a major factor in putting him and his daddy, John, in a federal prison for four years. Naaman’s wife, step-mother and two sisters served lesser terms. I had never met Naaman or other members of the family—mainly because of their refusal to grant interviews prior to my exposé, a one-hour report that earned me a fourth Peabody medallion.  The main target of my story was Insurance Commissioner Douglas Green. I revealed that Eicher-owned Champion Insurance Company laundered $2-million dollars into Green’s election campaign in order to keep their insolvent $100-million a year automobile insurance firm in business. After Champion’s collapse, Green was convicted of multiple counts of malfeasance  and sentenced to 25 years in prison.

While introducing myself to Naaman at the bookstore, I braced to have him take a swing at me. Surprisingly, he smiled and shook hands. In effect, he said, “No hard feelings.” Instead of anger and justification, Naaman suggested he got what he deserved—that it had been a wake-up call teaching him life lessons he needed to learn. As I wrote in my gonzo memoir, I’ve had to digest large portions of humble pie. But each slice was important in changing the course of my life. Following our conversation, Naaman asked me to inscribe my book, a chapter of which gives details of the Champion debacle. I wrote, “To Naaman Eicher, who helped me win a Peabody award.”

I should have added that unlike Edwin Edwards, Naaman was willing to take responsibility for past mistakes. For all of us, it is difficult to do .