Chapter One
Dear Jimmy,
Thank you for your note. I have heard from the guys about your situation. From what they tell me, it doesn’t seem fair. Let me know when you’re out of that place. I’m sure we can find something for you to do around here at Fenway Park. I’ll find a job of some kind for you. Call my secretary as soon as you’re able to, and we’ll set something up. My wife and I wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Tom Yawkey
May 7, 1975
Chapter One
I’ve folded and unfolded this piece of stationery so many times, it’s a wonder any print remains at all. The edges are frayed from being handled repeatedly, but distinctively at the top is the name THOMAS R. YAWKEY. Not as clear, is his title: President and Owner, Boston Red Sox, with the logo underneath.
I have so few things to my name that mean anything to me. This I cherish. A job offer from the president of the Red Sox. The Boston Red Sox, for Pete’s sake. For me. A convicted felon. It’s almost like having a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’m ready, willing, and able to work at Fenway Park.
In five days.
And counting.
I’ve been in this hellhole for what seems like eternity, yet the calendar says it’s been four years.
Only four years.
A lifetime inside this cell.
I remember the first day the door slammed shut. The worst noise I’ve ever heard in my life.
Before that, I thought the worst noise was when the judge crashed his gavel on his colossal, oak desk, as I stood before him next to my lawyer, hoping against hope that he’d realize I was telling the truth and change his mind about what he planned to say.
Instead, with the stroke of wood on wood, he sent me to this god-forsaken place, this nightmare of noise, this complete torture chamber. If I hadn’t found ways to cope, I don’t think I’d still be alive. If I’d had a different cellmate, I might not be here today, counting down the days until I walk out the front door into the arms of my freedom.
Freedom. Even the word sounds like music. Only five days to go.
My name is Jimmy Bailey. Once I believed I’d be playing Major League baseball. Thought it’d be a piece of cake. After all, I had the best teacher in the world—my dad. He’d been in the big-league pipeline himself.
Because of how my dad coached me, nurtured my skills, passed on his experience, I was the best pitcher on my Little League team. In Babe Ruth ball. All-star high school champion. Scouted by Major League teams. Drafted in the fourth round by the Montreal Expos. Sent to play Single-A ball right after I graduated from high school. Even got a signing bonus.
Yep. I was flying high.
When I was in high school, I was a starting pitcher. In Jamestown, they put me in the bullpen as a reliever. Somehow, they realized that I didn’t have the confidence or composure to start games. I admit, when I first got to the team, I was anxious when I surveyed the talent.
Dad always said I had the talent, work ethic, and the drive to do it. He would know—he was on the cusp of being called up to The Show when my mother made him choose between baseball and her. Yes, that’s right. She made him give up baseball for her. And he did it. I’m not sure I know many men who would.
But he did. Instead, he decided to groom me, his son, to take his place. I didn’t realize that when it was happening. I didn’t appreciate the full extent of his sacrifice until I spent these last four years, sitting in a cell, with so much time to think—hoping against hope that I would survive the ordeal—four years in prison for a murder I didn’t commit. Involuntary manslaughter. Right. How about involuntary imprison-ment?
So much has rattled my brain over the past four years. In some ways, I’m fortunate, because I have a good cellmate. Keeshon and I became good friends. He’s going to be here longer than me. We’ve kept to ourselves mostly, so that we don’t have to deal with the general population much. We do our jobs in the kitchen, we go to the library, and I convinced him to take GED classes so he can get a high school diploma. It’s going to be hard enough to get a job when we’re outside of this joint with a high school education, let alone without one.
I’ve come to realize so many things since I’ve been in.
Institutional food—especially in prison—ain’t ma’s home cooking. I gagged for weeks when I saw what was on the plates. I lost weight, and then re-gained it, because whatever it is they feed us is so filled with salt and starch, that it’s fattening without even tasting good.
The human voice can make unrecognizable noises—guttural, ugly utterances that come from deep down inside, expressing anger, pain, emotions I don’t understand. Also, these guys—and the guards—know words I’ve never heard before, and I don’t know what they mean. I know when I get out, I never want to hear them again.
When men are angry simply because they’re no longer free, they can be cruel, outraged, unreasonable, and furious over simple things, such as not having a spoon at dinner, or not having enough detergent when working in the laundry.
Receiving a piece of mail in here is like getting a block of gold from Fort Knox. Even though mail is screened and pre-read before we see it, and everything we write and send out is also scrutinized, I’ve seen even the most indignant inmate melt into jelly when he gets an envelope. Sometimes, it’s hard for a man to hide tears when a card or letter comes through the prison mail system. I’d guess that’s when it’s from a wife, sweetheart, or a child.
We have little or no idea what’s happening in the outside world. Every now and then I see a newspaper, but it’s usually several weeks old. Same with magazines. Sometimes people bring old magazines to the prison library, but they’re usually so outdated, it’s a joke.
Music? What’s that? I have no idea what’s going on in the music world. Haven’t heard a radio for so long. Can’t have FM antennae here. Guess they think we’ll turn them into weapons. Some guys would, I suppose.
Five days.
In so many ways, I hate to leave Keeshon here by himself. Who knows who they’ll put in here with him? He’s small—not a bad bone in his body. I still can’t believe he was convicted the way he was. These Black guys… if they have no money, they don’t get good lawyers. Hell, I had a good lawyer, and I still got four years for a crime I didn’t commit. Keeshon, he got money from an old lady he was taking care of—she gave it to him—and her memory wasn’t too good. Her family accused him of stealing it, so here he is. No evidence. No way to prove one way or another that he did or didn’t take the money from the lady. He was assigned a public defender who was so overloaded with cases, the guy barely paid attention to him.
He told me the lady liked him, that she thought he was funny, that they watched “The Cosby Show” on TV all the time and laughed, laughed, laughed. He said she was nice to him, especially when he wheeled her out to the park on nice days. She liked to feed the pigeons, he said, so he’d take stale bread and chop it into tiny pieces for her to throw into the air. She liked the way the birds cooed as they hopped over each other to get to the bread. He said she smiled and laughed the whole time they were in the park.
Keeshon likes to make people happy. He’s kind and soft-spoken. I stepped in a couple of times when guys in here tried to take advantage of him. Guys thought we had a “thing” going, but the only thing we had in common was getting convicted for crimes we didn’t commit.
He never had anyone to talk to, the way he talks to me. He said he’d never known a White man who didn’t look down on him. Of course, I joked with him and said, ‘That’s ‘cause you’re so short, Key.’ And he is—only about 5’4,” and here I am, 6’3,” almost a full foot taller than him.
He frets every day about my leaving. He paces around the cell. Keeps saying, ‘Jim, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me when you gone. I mean… I mean… I mean, man, you saved my life in here.’ Pacing. ‘I mean, you got me to get that GED done, and maybe that means I can get a job when I git outta here.’
“Yeah, you gonna get a job when you’re outta here, Key,” I tell him. “We’ll both be fine. Once we get out, we’ll be able to breathe.”
“Breathin.’ Yeah. Looking forward to that, man.”
Five days.
