James Jones was one of the first people in the state to be sentenced to life without parole under the Habitual Felony Offender Act. He is also a music lover, a story teller, and a beloved mentor to dozens of incarcerated people. Finally released after 43 years, now he just wants to live. And maybe record a little music.
By Eddie Burkhalter, Appleseed Researcher
James Jones walked into the nearly empty waiting room at his Birmingham oncologist’s office on April 1 and saw a man seated by himself. “How are you?” Mr. Jones asked the man, who responded politely. Talking to strangers in quiet rooms changes the atmosphere for the better, Mr. Jones explained, especially in places where people feel frightened and alone.
Mr. Jones was diagnosed with cancer just before he was released from St. Clair Correctional Facility last December. The disease that threatens his life also sped up his release. One of the first people in the state to be sentenced to a mandatory sentence of life without parole under the Habitual Felony Offender Act in 1981, Mr. Jones spent 43 years in prison following a robbery at a North Birmingham shoe store.
Appleseed was investigating his case when we learned of his sudden cancer diagnosis. We developed a post-conviction petition seeking his release then quickly gained support from Jefferson County District Attorney Danny Carr. Within a week, Mr. Jones was home.
At 77-years old with a multiple myeloma diagnosis, James Jones is brightening the atmosphere in dim places around the city and quietly showing everyone who comes into his orbit that it should not have taken cancer to set him free.
Appleseed Researcher Eddie Burkhalter and James Jones visit during a picnic at Railroad Park.
Three tumors and no spare parts
On that April day in his doctor’s office, Mr. Jones would learn the extent of the spread of the cancer and how his doctor planned to treat it.
“Multiple myeloma is a malignancy of the plasma cells. Those are the blood cells in your body that form antibodies, and your bone marrow has no idea when to stop. When that happens, your bones start being eaten away by the plasma cells and in places you can form actual masses, which are called plasmacytomas, meaning a tumor plasma cell,” his doctor told him.
The doctor explained that Mr. Jones has three tumors: Two on his spine that are an inch-and-a-half and an inch in size, and a third on his seventh rib of almost two inches. Radiation can shrink specific tumors and relieve pain, but overdoing radiation treatments can do more damage than good, she explained, so his treatment would include chemotherapy and three medications. To start, he’ll have weekly injections at the doctor’s office.
His doctor pulled down the bedroll made of smooth paper and began to write down the medications she planned to prescribe him and how those drugs might affect his body, side effects that can range from nausea, vomiting, diarrhea or constipation to immunosuppression, tingling in his limbs and fatigue.
“It’s quite a bit, doc,” Mr. Jones told his doctor.
“I know. I’m sorry. It will be a little bit disconcerting at the beginning, but once you are on cruise control it will be like coming in for a tune up,” the doctor said.
“I can’t get any spare parts so I’ve got to deal with the ones I’ve got,” Mr. Jones responded.
The doctor explained the timeline to begin his treatments and asked if he had any questions.
“Got anything for a broken heart?,” Mr. Jones asked her.
“I got nothing, but if you find something let me know,” she said.
Before his release 4 months ago, Mr. Jones was among the growing number of older incarcerated people in Alabama’s prisons. In 2005, there were 2,879 prisoners ages 51 and older, comprising 11% of all people in ADOC custody. By 2025, the number had grown to 7,675. People 50 and older are the costliest to imprison due to the cost of medical care and the least likely to reoffend once released. Mr. Jones is one of three older formerly incarcerated men Appleseed freed from life without the possibility of parole sentences who are being treated for cancer.
James Jones and his longtime friend Norman Askew, who has worked in the Jefferson County courts for years mentoring individuals and assisting with community corrections services.
After the doctor’s visit, on the ride back to his brother’s home in Powderly where he’s lived since leaving prison, Mr. Jones talked about life inside Alabama’s deadly prisons, where access to medical care is sparse and the threats to one’s life are myriad. He explained the importance of not owing anyone anything in prison and of staying away from the drugs that drive much of the violence and death inside. He talked about what it’s like to live free after so many decades locked away, of coming to terms with the loss of those many years. “I tell people that once I got out it didn’t feel like I was gone all that long,” he shared. It’s only when he sees someone who he knew as a child before he was incarcerated and who’s now grown and with children of their own that the enormity of those years locked away becomes apparent.
Mr. Jones knows another man who is facing a cancer diagnosis, and says the disease has changed the man, and turned him angry and bitter. Mr. Jones doesn’t hold those same feelings about his diagnosis, but the weight of the disease is taking its toll.
“My sister-in-law thought I was beginning to be hopeless,” Mr. Jones said. “I told her, I think I’m dying.” She encouraged him not to give up hope. “To be chronically ill is something to deal with. I can empathize with others, but when it’s me…,” Mr. Jones said. “Sometimes I say to myself, could this really be it?”
“Being incarcerated for so long, there are things I wanted to do but most of my productive years were in prison, then when I get out now I’ve got this in my back,” Mr. Jones said. He doesn’t tell many people that he has cancer and said it is his faith in God that sustains him.
Making music, finding hope
There are still things he wants to do. He’s never ridden in an airplane, and pondered what it would be like to go skydiving. He’d also like to record his own songs, pages of lyrics he penned while incarcerated and seeking a creative outlet. With the help of Appleseed reentry case manager Kathleen Henderson and her son, Alabama musician Ritch Henderson, Mr. Jones has begun the process of doing just that. A Montgomery music studio, The Alabama Sound Company, and owner Brett Robison are graciously allowing the use of the studio and offering recording services at no cost to help make Mr. Jones’s dream come true.
“We’re still working on it. Those guys are good,” Mr. Jones said of the musicians working to help get his songs recorded. He’s enjoying moments of collaboration as a singer and a writer, not just an ex-con fighting cancer.
Mr. Jones loves music from across genres. Chris Stapleton, Elton John, and Ray Charles are favorites. “Every time you hear a clip by Elton John you’re really listening to Bernie Taupin,” Mr Jones said of Elton John’s longtime collaborator, Taupin, who co-wrote most of the British singer’s hits.
Mr. Jones traveled to a recording studio in Montgomery with Mr. Henderson and his crew, and on another trip the group sang in Pine Torch Church, built in 1850, in the Bankhead National Forest near Decatur. “Once you go in and close the doors the acoustics are so good. We just did one song that we’re really working on. I tell people, once I get real big I might act like I don’t know you,” Mr. Jones said with a laugh.
It would be easy to spend his days angry over his cancer diagnosis, but It’s not in his nature to wake up each day and let his plight get him down. “Even if I’ve just got tomorrow, I’ll be OK,” Mr. Jones said. “I like people, and I’m always optimistic. Sometimes I ask, Lord, why me? Why not you, James? You’re not the only one. There will be some more behind you.”
Sometimes pain and hardships make you take a better view of life, he said. Then he found a metaphor in nature because he’s a storyteller and that’s how he communicates.
Musician Ritch Henderson and James Jones following a recording session at the Bankhead National Forest.
“The funny thing about a cocoon. When a butterfly is in there there’s a very tiny hole that appears at the end of it, and he can just barely get his head out, and then he’s struggling with that little hole and if you sit down and watch him and you begin to empathize with him and you go over and crack that thing and let him out, he’ll never fly,” Mr. Jones said. “Because that struggle strengthens his wings.”
Mr. Jones said that before he left prison one man whom he knew for many years told him “there’s a lot of guys in here that are happier than even you are that you’re going home.” Mr. Jones worries about those close friends he left behind. “Some of them I took under my wings. They’re my sons,” he said. In prison, everyone knew him as “Honkytonk” for reasons that still aren’t entirely clear to those of us on the outside.
“I hope … I leave a legacy, not just of being an ex-con who spent so many years in prison, but of how I look at life and how I’ve treated people.”
Before checking out of his oncologist’s office that April day he listened as an older woman standing in front of him told the person behind the desk that she’d just had cataract surgery and couldn’t see very well. Moments later, standing in front of the elevator to leave, Mr. Jones approached the stranger and offered his support. He had the same surgery years ago.
“Once your eyes heal you’ll start to see better,” Mr. Jones told her, and the two talked about her surgery and her concerns. He listened carefully and weighed in with thoughtful words. A man who spent 43 years of a life without the possibility of parole sentence stood in the hallway of the doctor’s office and tried to make a stranger feel a little better on what was a bad day for her.
“People need to vent like that…she probably won’t forget that encounter either,” Mr. Jones said. “I hope that my life has been impactful for some. That I leave a legacy, not just of being an ex-con who spent so many years in prison, but of how I look at life and how I’ve treated people.”
