Backstory: 19 years wrongly behind bars - a 'gift'?

A less resilient man may have simmered for 19 years; Doswell used the time in prison to build on his accomplishments. "I knew that sooner or later I was going to get out, and that it was just a matter of time," he says again and again, revealing a mantra of prayer, patience, and positive thinking that sustained him. It's the only way he can explain his calm.

In jail, he immediately made for the music room, ultimately taught himself six instruments, worked as music minister and choir director, and studied the Bible and four languages. "I did the best I could do so I could position myself well coming up for parole," he recalls with a wry smile. The prison choir has a special place in his heart: "I loved to be able to see men from different walks of life ... some hardened, some kind, [come] together to serve the Lord. To see that ... was awesome."

Mr. Starger, whose Innocence Project has been directly involved in more than half the 163 post- conviction DNA exonerations since 1986, expects Doswell to fare better than most exonerees. After all, he has "shown that he can thrive in prison despite the fact that he had no business being there," Starger says.

But what about the morale- breaking indignities of prison? What of his son, Raymond, now a senior in college, raised without him? And the countless now-grown nieces and nephews born while he was away? Doswell sees his incarceration as a period of transformation: "It was the time it took for Him to work on me so I would no longer be the type of person putting firecrackers on cats," he says. He recalls no dramatic conversion: "... just a sense of peace that 'You didn't do it. Wait on me.' "

Today, Doswell refuses to discuss the wrong done him and cuts short probing of what might have been. Of lost time with his son, he says, "At least I see him now, every day. At least I'm out. It could be worse - I could still be in there."

* * *

Nobody speaks of Doswell without speaking of his family. His countless siblings, cousins, and foster-kin cycle through 80-year-old matriarch Olivia Doswell's little yard seemingly stocked with enough grills and white plastic chairs to handle all of them. As Doswell drinks in the sun here, passersby shout and honk. He has become a poster child for the cause of poor, black residents who believe the kind of legal niceties that uncover true guilt or innocence are beyond their means.

When her son was arrested, Mrs. Doswell asked God for a sign to confirm her belief that he was innocent: "When I saw the [assailant's] description didn't match him ... I had my answer."

The family kept a relentless 20-year vigil of contact with their prisoner. Lawyers say this ensured he didn't disappear into the anonymity and neglect that can swallow inmates. Even the new generation of Doswells born during his imprisonment knew all about him and came by the carload to his release Aug. 1 to lead him home.

Today, Doswell considers himself a "youthful" 46, and that each moment is a chance to unearth new evidence of "God's mercies." Strangers write. Some send cash. The University of Pittsburgh is giving him a free education. Folks are trying to get him his old job back, and legislators are seeking compensation for him despite the fact that Pennsylvania has no compensation law. B.B. King even invited him to be the opener when the singer comes to town in December.

In Tommy Doswell's world, anything is possible. Yet, from time to time, he sneaks a glance at his watch - a recently acquired habit of tracking his whereabouts should the unthinkable happen again.

Perhaps he is not yet an entirely free man.

Page: 1 | 2