Jimmy Bailey smelled freedom on the day he left prison in 1976. He knew he had an uphill battle, finding a job, getting settled, moving back to his motherâs house. He also knew heâd been in prison for a crime he hadnât committed, and that his former life as a minor-league baseball player was probably over. His sister Debbie, with many connections in Massachusetts government and a Harvard graduate degree, thought she knew where her life was leading. Little did either of them know they faced intrigue, murder, being stalked, and maybe even romance in as they tried to figure out who created the chaosâand how it all started with an incident involving Debbie and Jimmy on the day he left prison.
Jimmy Bailey smelled freedom on the day he left prison in 1976. He knew he had an uphill battle, finding a job, getting settled, moving back to his motherâs house. He also knew heâd been in prison for a crime he hadnât committed, and that his former life as a minor-league baseball player was probably over. His sister Debbie, with many connections in Massachusetts government and a Harvard graduate degree, thought she knew where her life was leading. Little did either of them know they faced intrigue, murder, being stalked, and maybe even romance in as they tried to figure out who created the chaosâand how it all started with an incident involving Debbie and Jimmy on the day he left prison.
Dear Jimmy,
Thank you for your note. I have heard from the guys about your situation. From what they tell me, it doesnât seem fair. Let me know when youâre out of that place. Iâm sure we can find something for you to do around here at Fenway Park. Iâll find a job of some kind for you. Call my secretary as soon as youâre able to, and weâll set something up. My wife and I wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Tom Yawkey
May 7, 1975
Chapter One
Iâve folded and unfolded this piece of stationery so many times, itâs 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.Â
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 Peteâs sake. For me. A convicted felon. Itâs almost like having a get-out-of-jail-free card. Iâm ready, willing, and able to work at Fenway Park.Â
In five days.
And counting.
Iâve been in this hellhole for what seems like eternity, yet the calendar says itâs been four years.Â
Only four years.
A lifetime inside this cell.Â
I remember the first day the door slammed shut. The worst noise Iâve ever heard in my life.Â
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 heâd realize I was telling the truth and change his mind about what he planned to say.Â
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 hadnât found ways to cope, I donât think Iâd still be alive. If Iâd 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 Iâd be playing Major League baseball. Thought itâd be a piece of cake. After all, I had the best teacher in the worldâmy dad. Heâd 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.Â
Yep. I was flying high.Â
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 didnât 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.Â
Dad always said I had the talent, work ethic, and the drive to do it. He would knowâhe was on the cusp of being called up to The Show when my mother made him choose between baseball and her. Yes, thatâs right. She made him give up baseball for her. And he did it. Iâm not sure I know many men who would.Â
But he did. Instead, he decided to groom me, his son, to take his place. I didnât realize that when it was happening. I didnât appreciate the full extent of his sacrifice until I spent these last four years, sitting in a cell, with so much time to thinkâhoping against hope that I would survive the ordealâfour years in prison for a murder I didnât commit. Involuntary manslaughter. Right. How about involuntary imprison-ment?
So much has rattled my brain over the past four years. In some ways, Iâm fortunate, because I have a good cellmate. Keeshon and I became good friends. Heâs going to be here longer than me. Weâve kept to ourselves mostly, so that we donât 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. Itâs going to be hard enough to get a job when weâre outside of this joint with a high school education, let alone without one.
Iâve come to realize so many things since Iâve been in.Â
Institutional foodâespecially in prisonâainât maâs 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 itâs fattening without even tasting good.
The human voice can make unrecognizable noisesâguttural, ugly utterances that come from deep down inside, expressing anger, pain, emotions I donât understand. Also, these guysâand the guardsâknow words Iâve never heard before, and I donât know what they mean. I know when I get out, I never want to hear them again.
When men are angry simply because theyâre 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.Â
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, Iâve seen even the most indignant inmate melt into jelly when he gets an envelope. Sometimes, itâs hard for a man to hide tears when a card or letter comes through the prison mail system. Iâd guess thatâs when itâs from a wife, sweetheart, or a child.Â
We have little or no idea whatâs happening in the outside world. Every now and then I see a newspaper, but itâs usually several weeks old. Same with magazines. Sometimes people bring old magazines to the prison library, but theyâre usually so outdated, itâs a joke.
Music? Whatâs that? I have no idea whatâs going on in the music world. Havenât heard a radio for so long. Canât have FM antennae here. Guess they think weâll turn them into weapons. Some guys would, I suppose.Â
Five days.Â
In so many ways, I hate to leave Keeshon here by himself. Who knows who theyâll put in here with him? Heâs smallânot a bad bone in his body. I still canât believe he was convicted the way he was. These Black guys⌠if they have no money, they donât get good lawyers. Hell, I had a good lawyer, and I still got four years for a crime I didnât commit. Keeshon, he got money from an old lady he was taking care ofâshe gave it to himâand her memory wasnât 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 didnât 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.Â
He told me the lady liked him, that she thought he was funny, that they watched âThe Cosby Showâ 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 heâd 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. Heâs 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 âthingâ going, but the only thing we had in common was getting convicted for crimes we didnât commit.Â
He never had anyone to talk to, the way he talks to me. He said heâd never known a White man who didnât look down on him. Of course, I joked with him and said, âThatâs âcause youâre so short, Key.â And he isâonly about 5â4,â and here I am, 6â3,â almost a full foot taller than him.Â
He frets every day about my leaving. He paces around the cell. Keeps saying, âJim, I donât know whatâs gonna happen to me when you gone. I mean⌠I mean⌠I mean, man, you saved my life in here.â Pacing. âI mean, you got me to get that GED done, and maybe that means I can get a job when I git outta here.â
âYeah, you gonna get a job when youâre outta here, Key,â I tell him. âWeâll both be fine. Once we get out, weâll be able to breathe.â
âBreathin.â Yeah. Looking forward to that, man.â
Five days.
Jimmy Bailey once was a minor league pitcher with a promising career in front of him â that is, until a drunken evening ended with the unexpected death of an acquaintance. Jimmy plead guilty even though he knew he didnât kill the man, but he had no proof of his innocence. As Still Doing Time begins, Jimmy is counting down the days until his release from Walpole and hoping for a new start. When his sister Debbie comes to pick him up, a seemingly little incident at the prison triggers off a dramatic series of events that puts Jimmy and all those he loves in danger.
Jimmy is a gentle giant, and prison didnât toughen him. Heâs naĂŻve and not very deep, but lovable and easy to root for. In fact, most of the characters Wanda Adams Fischer created in the book are likable. Thank goodness, because thereâs a lot of them! Jimmyâs family, his friends, his x-ray technician, his cellmate Keeshon, the nurses at the hospital, his old teammates â the list goes on. Not only does Fischer include a grocery list of characters, but many of them lack depth. Unfortunately, the extensive cast can leave the reader confused â especially when similar names are used. Eileen is Jimmyâs romantic interest, while later in the book weâre introduced to Debbieâs roommate Elaine.
While much of the book is told from Jimmyâs point of view, many chapters give us the perspective of other characters. Fischer pulls this off rather well most of the time, but a few chapters were focused on relatively minor characters. While this choice conveniently explained where the story was going, the trick seemed a little clunky.
Still Doing Time is not a prison novel, or a sports novel (although baseball is featured), but rather more like a cozy mystery in which you have to suspend your disbelief and just relax into the story. If youâre looking for a light, PG-rated story, this might be the book for you.