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Turns out no mere minimum security federal prison can contain the aura of Edwin Edwards.

His charm, steel-trap memory for names and faces and laser-vision for seeing the angles convinced voters to put him in the governor’s mansion four times, even as prosecutors made a career of indicting him. The ex-governor is in his sixth year of a 10-year sentence for racketeering, mail and wire fraud and extortion.

Edwards the inmate resides in Oakdale Federal Prison in a beige metal building that looks like a feed and seed store. He sleeps in a dormitory of bunk beds along with 40 others.

Edwards’ persona has long since floated beyond the prison, beguiling the town of Oakdale, population 8,137, much the same way the former politician swayed the state’s voters.

His fellow white-collar inmates, including Enron’s Andrew Fastow, WorldCom’s Bernie Ebbers, and ex-Alabama governor Don Siegelman, are jailed there as well. But outside they are either loathed by victims of their scams, or largely forgotten.

Not Edwards. His presence seems to loom large in the minds and hearts of the free people of Oakdale. Steadfast supporters complain about how unfair it all seems that he’s still behind bars at 80, and many hold out hope for a presidential pardon.

Oakdale is in Allen Parish, about 35 miles southwest of Alexandria. It’s a placid place, the landscape static. It boasts no outstanding architecture or distinctive flavor. Other than La. 165, no other local road has more than two lanes of traffic. Public education is the only option, with one elementary, middle and high school. The local paper, The Oakdale Journal, counts a circulation of 1,700.

Around town, you don’t hear much chatter about Fastow and Ebbers in barber chairs or over coffee. But they do talk about Edwin Edwards.

That doesn’t surprise Judge John P. Navarre, who has known Edwards since law school at LSU. The judge chuckles as he describes Edwards’ chronic charisma and suave social tactics. Edwards was the principal speaker at the dedication of the Oakdale City Hall when Navarre was city judge. Edwards delivered a speech, made jokes unfazed by the fact he was standing in a heavy downpour—a perfect example of Edwards taking a bad situation and making it not so bad, Navarre says.

Some elected officials wish to see Edwards released. Greg Strother, a business owner and at-large council member, hopes Edwards is pardoned.

“It’s a sin he’s 80 years old and still has another four years to serve.” --Oakdale mayor Bobby Abrusley

Strother spends his days buzzing between his flower shop and his funeral home. He’s a staunch Pentecostal, and his flamboyant personality is just as likely to charm people as put them off as he readily shares opinions, even with passersby.

Strother’s grandfather, T.J. Strother, served in the state House during Edwards’ tenure. The younger Strother believes Bobby Jindal will be the next governor, and he wants Jindal to pull strings and have Edwards pardoned. “He should just go to (President) Bush, fix the whole thing, and then watch his ratings for governor soar.”

Oakdale mayor and real estate agent, Bobby Abrusley, is a much mellower soul. His days are spent showing homes, prattling on his cell phone and manning City Council meetings before he heads to his home in downtown. But he, too, wants to see Edwards free.

“It’s a sin that he’s 80 years old and still has another four years to serve. He could be put on house arrest at this point,” Abrusley says. “I think that he would be a benefit to Louisiana if he was out of prison. He has amazing knowledge.”

Local attorney Judi Abrusley projects a hard façade and a dry perspective, sprinkled with measured, but fiery passion. Abrusley thinks the feds would have been better off giving Edwards probation. “I firmly believe that they fished for offenses until they caught him. He is doing too much for the crime, given his age and condition,” she says.

Not everyone in Oakdale sees things this way.

Barbara Doyle, editor of The Oakdale Journal, takes her granddaughter to work some days. She writes a weekly column mostly revolving around her family life. Privately, she feels Edwards gets too much ink in the paper.

While he may have accomplished much for Louisiana during his time in office, the man widely known as “Uncle Eddy” also did plenty for himself, she says. “If you do the crime, you do the time,” Doyle says.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Edwards would remain this popular, even as an inmate where he can’t mix and mingle with the public. It may be that he made enough profound and lasting impressions while he was still a free man.

At his trial, he even managed to make a strong, personal connection with the father of the witness largely responsible for putting him away.

Mark Bradley was a casino executive with Jazz Enterprises who became a key witness for the federal government. A group of federal agents showed up at his house one day and told him they expected Edwards would try and bribe him in return for ensuring Jazz received a casino license, Bradley recalled. So they asked him to wear a wire and record any dealings that might someone be connected to the casino license.

He did just that, for 18 months. The U.S. Justice Department got an indictment, and at the trial Bradley became a star witness. He spent five grueling days on the stand.

During a break on the third day, Edwards approached Bradley’s father, Delbert Bradley. A minister for the Church of Christ in Loop, Texas, he drove in to show support for his son as he testified against the state’s celebrity-status former governor.

The elder Bradley declined to be interviewed for this story, but Mark Bradley recounted this story.

“You’re Mark Bradley’s father, aren’t you,” Edwards said. “I want to speak to you father-to-father.”

Edwin Edwards’s charm has been evident since law school. --Judge John Navarre

The minister nodded and listened.

“You should be proud of your son,” Edwards said. “You see all these other people testifying? They all cut deals. But your son is doing this because he feels it’s the right thing to do. You should be proud of him.”

Mark Bradley says his father’s no sap, and he still maintains a hard view of Edwards. But that brief exchange is one he’ll never forget.

And why not? How rare is the man who compliments the stranger whose son is hammering the nails in the coffin of his career?

Probably about as rare as the man who, imprisoned, continues to win over hearts among the free.