Inquirer
, he “strove mightily to keep our standard of living up to that of my mother’s family.” The family’s apartment at Eighty-first Street and Riverside Drive had thick walls and a wonderful view of the Hudson River and was eventually sold to actors Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson. From the fourth grade on, Rendell and his brother, Robert, went to private schools. For high school, Rendell attended the prestigious Riverdale Country School. He was asked not to return at the end of his sophomore year for what he described in the
Inquirer
profile as “just little stuff. You know, disrupting classes, things like that. The worst thing I did, I dumped tuna fish on a teacher at lunch, somewhat accidentally, somewhat deliberately.” He was readmitted to Riverdale for his senior year, in time for the editors of the 1961 yearbook to prophesy, “Eddie has a good chance for success in politics, his chosen profession.” Then he went on to Penn and law school at Villanova.
After graduation from law school, in 1968, Rendell went to work for the district attorney’s office in Philadelphia. If the legend grew around David Cohen for his ability to negotiate hour after hour, day after day, without ever personalizing and letting his emotions go, the legend grew around EdRendell for exactly the opposite reasons. He once impulsively picked up the phone and screamed at the governor himself for releasing a convict in a prison-furlough program, according to the
Inquirer
profile. To make a point during a trial, he once dug his heel into a defense attorney’s instep. When he got angry, he put his foot through the door of his office and tossed furniture and punched holes in walls.
He quickly worked his way up the hierarchy, becoming chief of the homicide unit. But then he left the office, and in December 1976 he decided to oppose the Democratic incumbent, District Attorney F. Emmett Fitzpatrick, in a primary race. It seemed a laughable campaign, filled with chutzpah and hubris, and no one gave Rendell much of a chance. “Ed who?” chortled Fitzpatrick when asked about his opponent. But Rendell refused to give in, sweeping the city away with his ability to talk to anyone for five minutes and make the person think a friendship had existed for years. Momentum built, and he coasted to easy victory in both the Democratic primary and the general election.
He became enormously popular. He wasn’t afraid to take on judges for perceived ineptitude and handing out light sentences. Reporters adored him, not simply because of his warmth but because he was immensely helpful when they sought his assistance on stories exposing the ineptitude and the corruptness of the city’s judicial system.
He had the swagger and the hard-jawed look of a hard-assed prosecutor, but behind the bluster was also a certain hesitation and weakness, particularly when it came to his own political career. He ran for reelection in 1981 and won in a landslide. The following year he had a clear opportunity to win the Democratic nomination for governor. But he backed off, only to watch a little-known Democratic challenger nearly topple the Republican incumbent. The decision gnawed at him. He was still the district attorney, but those who worked for him said it became increasingly clear that he had little interest in the job anymore. The esprit de corps with which he ran the office, his ability to hire the best talent away from the public defender’s office, the personality that engendered such loyalty that you didn’t really mind when he made you a promise you knew he couldn’t possibly keep—all of it began to ebb. Those who worked for him could tell he was preoccupied with what he was going to do next to further his career. He finished his term as district attorney and ran for governor in 1986 in the Democratic primary, and he got trounced. The qualities that had made him so appealing in Philadelphia—the frat-house twinkle in the eye, the five o’clock shadow that
, he “strove mightily to keep our standard of living up to that of my mother’s family.” The family’s apartment at Eighty-first Street and Riverside Drive had thick walls and a wonderful view of the Hudson River and was eventually sold to actors Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson. From the fourth grade on, Rendell and his brother, Robert, went to private schools. For high school, Rendell attended the prestigious Riverdale Country School. He was asked not to return at the end of his sophomore year for what he described in the
Inquirer
profile as “just little stuff. You know, disrupting classes, things like that. The worst thing I did, I dumped tuna fish on a teacher at lunch, somewhat accidentally, somewhat deliberately.” He was readmitted to Riverdale for his senior year, in time for the editors of the 1961 yearbook to prophesy, “Eddie has a good chance for success in politics, his chosen profession.” Then he went on to Penn and law school at Villanova.
After graduation from law school, in 1968, Rendell went to work for the district attorney’s office in Philadelphia. If the legend grew around David Cohen for his ability to negotiate hour after hour, day after day, without ever personalizing and letting his emotions go, the legend grew around EdRendell for exactly the opposite reasons. He once impulsively picked up the phone and screamed at the governor himself for releasing a convict in a prison-furlough program, according to the
Inquirer
profile. To make a point during a trial, he once dug his heel into a defense attorney’s instep. When he got angry, he put his foot through the door of his office and tossed furniture and punched holes in walls.
He quickly worked his way up the hierarchy, becoming chief of the homicide unit. But then he left the office, and in December 1976 he decided to oppose the Democratic incumbent, District Attorney F. Emmett Fitzpatrick, in a primary race. It seemed a laughable campaign, filled with chutzpah and hubris, and no one gave Rendell much of a chance. “Ed who?” chortled Fitzpatrick when asked about his opponent. But Rendell refused to give in, sweeping the city away with his ability to talk to anyone for five minutes and make the person think a friendship had existed for years. Momentum built, and he coasted to easy victory in both the Democratic primary and the general election.
He became enormously popular. He wasn’t afraid to take on judges for perceived ineptitude and handing out light sentences. Reporters adored him, not simply because of his warmth but because he was immensely helpful when they sought his assistance on stories exposing the ineptitude and the corruptness of the city’s judicial system.
He had the swagger and the hard-jawed look of a hard-assed prosecutor, but behind the bluster was also a certain hesitation and weakness, particularly when it came to his own political career. He ran for reelection in 1981 and won in a landslide. The following year he had a clear opportunity to win the Democratic nomination for governor. But he backed off, only to watch a little-known Democratic challenger nearly topple the Republican incumbent. The decision gnawed at him. He was still the district attorney, but those who worked for him said it became increasingly clear that he had little interest in the job anymore. The esprit de corps with which he ran the office, his ability to hire the best talent away from the public defender’s office, the personality that engendered such loyalty that you didn’t really mind when he made you a promise you knew he couldn’t possibly keep—all of it began to ebb. Those who worked for him could tell he was preoccupied with what he was going to do next to further his career. He finished his term as district attorney and ran for governor in 1986 in the Democratic primary, and he got trounced. The qualities that had made him so appealing in Philadelphia—the frat-house twinkle in the eye, the five o’clock shadow that
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