The only vulnerability the folk hero has is an exposed betrayal of the folk. Trump fawns over his base, and they reciprocate.

Edwards once joked on the eve of one of his elections, “The only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with either a dead girl or a live boy.” He won, of course. This is not wholly unlike Trump joking — bragging? — that “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and wouldn’t lose any voters, O.K.?” He won, of course.

I think it is a mistake to believe that Trump’s supporters don’t see his lying or corruption. They do. But, to them, it is all part of the show and the lore. They have personal relationships and work relationships like the rest of us, and those relationships depend on honesty and virtue. They, like my mother did, are allowing in him something that they would not allow in themselves.

And, when you survey the constellation of folk heroes, you see that many have been criminals. Bonnie and Clyde. John Dillinger. The Sundance Kid.

I would also argue that some other recent troubled, corrupt or corrosive politicians came close to the definition without receiving the designation. The former Washington, D.C., mayor, Marion Barry. The former Toronto mayor, Rob Ford. The former Maine governor, Paul LePage.

And this elastic morality around the folk hero appears to be a global human inclination. El Chapo, who, as CNN pointed out, “Claimed in 2014 that he has killed 2,000-3,000 people,” was a folk hero in Mexico.

Like Edwards and Bonnie and Clyde and El Chapo, Trump’s Br’er Rabbit-like ability to avert the best attempt by authorities to hold him accountable, at least for a while, only increases the chorus of applause.