Thursday, May 23

Bird, ‘The Wire,’ a life sentence paroled and a Colts game 40 years in the making

Bleary-eyed from 16 hours on a Greyhound bus, he strolled into the stadium running on fumes. He’d barely slept in two days. The ride he was supposed to hitch from Charlotte to Indianapolis canceled at the last minute, and for a few nervy hours, Antonio Barnes started to have his doubts. The trip he’d waited 40 years for looked like it wasn’t going to happen.

But as he moved through the concourse at Lucas Oil Stadium an hour before the Colts faced the Raiders, it started to sink in. His pace quickened. His eyes widened. His voice picked up.

“I got chills right now,” he said. “Chills.”

Barnes, 57, is a lifer, a Colts fan since the Baltimore days. He wore No. 25 on his pee wee football team because that’s the number Nesby Glasgow wore on Sundays. He was a talent in his own right, too: one of his old coaches nicknamed him “Bird” because of his speed with the ball.

Back then, he’d catch the city bus to Memorial Stadium, buy a bleacher ticket for $5 and watch Glasgow and Bert Jones, Curtis Dickey and Glenn Doughty. When he didn’t have any money, he’d find a hole in the fence and sneak in. After the game was over, he’d weasel his way onto the field and try to meet the players. “They were tall as trees,” he remembers.

He remembers the last game he went to: Sept. 25, 1983, an overtime win over the Bears. Six months later the Colts would ditch Baltimore in the middle of the night, a sucker-punch some in the city never got over. But Barnes couldn’t quit them. When his entire family became Ravens fans, he refused. “The Colts are all I know,” he says.

For years, when he couldn’t watch the games, he’d try the radio. And when that didn’t work, he’d follow the scroll at the bottom of a screen.

“There were so many nights I’d just sit there in my cell, picturing what it’d be like to go to another game,” he says. “But you’re left with that thought that keeps running through your mind: I’m never getting out.”

It’s hard to dream when you’re serving a life sentence for conspiracy to commit murder.


It started with a handoff, a low-level dealer named Mickey Poole telling him to tuck a Ziploc full of heroin into his pocket and hide behind the Murphy towers. This was how young drug runners were groomed in Baltimore in the late 1970s. This was Barnes’ way in.

He was 12.

Back then he idolized the Mickey Pooles of the world, the older kids who drove the shiny cars, wore the flashy jewelry, had the girls on their arms and made any working stiff punching a clock from 9 to 5 look like a fool. They owned the streets. Barnes wanted to own them, too.

“In our world,” says his nephew Demon Brown, “the only successful people we saw were selling drugs and carrying guns.”

So whenever Mickey would signal for a vial or two, Barnes would hurry over from his hiding spot with that Ziploc bag, out of breath because he’d been running so hard. They’d sell an entire package in a day. Barnes would walk home with $50. “I could buy anything I wanted,” he remembers.

Within a few years he was selling the dope himself — marijuana at first, then valium, eventually cocaine and heroin. Business was booming around the towers, which the locals referred to as the “murder homes.” Sometimes, he’d sell 30 bags in an afternoon. He was 14, pulling in $500 a day.

“A dealer of death,” he calls himself now.

He learned to push away guilt. The way he saw it, he was in too deep, “immune,” he says, “to what I was seeing every day.” The drugs. The decay. The murders. He was 9 when a friend fell out of a 10th-floor window, dying instantly. He was 11 when his older brother, Reggie, was locked up; 15 when his birth father died of an overdose.

But he had a loving mother, a hardworking stepfather, a family that didn’t want for anything when so many around them did. His stepfather drove a crane at a steel company and made a good wage. His mother cooked dinner every night.

“We had a black-and-white television, and nobody we knew had one of those,” Barnes says. “Us kids wanted bikes for Christmas? We got bikes. We wanted ice skates? We got ice skates.”

Mary Barnes was no fool. She heard the whispers. She noticed her son wasn’t home. Finally, she confronted him. “You were raised better than this,” she scolded. “There will be consequences to what you’re doing.”

Antonio denied all of it. “Lied right to her face,” he says now, still ashamed.

He was climbing the ranks, working with a high-up hustler named Butch Peacock. Anytime the plainclothes police — “Knockers” — would roll up, Butch would shout, “Bird, grab the bag and go!” and Barnes would listen, because he relished that feeling, of being needed, of being trusted, of being part of it.

One Saturday, while Barnes was playing shortstop in a little league game, the Knockers closed in. His teammates begged him to stay. He ignored them. He darted off the diamond in the middle of an inning, grabbed the duffel bag and disappeared into the towers while the cops chased. He climbed 10 flights of stairs and nearly passed out before a neighbor let him slip into an apartment.

Inside that duffel bag that day: a half-dozen guns, thousands in cash and 200 caps of cocaine. Later that night, Butch handed him a different bag. It had $4,000 in it. “This is all yours,” he told him.

Barnes rose from runner to dealer to mid-level player. He quit football. He dropped out of high school. He drove around the streets of west Baltimore with a .357 Colt Magnum resting on his lap. “Like it was a credit card,” he says. A few nights a week, he’d work the count, sorting through some $20,000 in cash, plenty of it in $1 and $5 bills, stacking the drug ring’s profits from a single day’s work.

He never killed anyone, he says, but he’s also not ignorant to all that he was caught up in. He was awash in a world of violence.

“That was our business,” he says. “On those streets, it was either you or them. They’re out to rob you. They’ll kill you. They’ll snatch you up, duct tape your mouth and torture you if you didn’t give them what they want. They’d put your mother on the phone to scare you more.”

They found Butch in the front seat of his car one morning, blood trickling down his neck, a bullet in the back of his head. He’d been executed at point-blank range outside a nightclub.

Barnes shrugged it off. He told himself he just had to be sharper. “That’s how backwards my thinking was,” he says. So instead of getting out, he plunged further in. He started running with a new crew, one headed by the city’s most notorious gangster at the time: Timmirror Stanfield.


They busted through his back door at 5:30 one morning. Barnes, cornered in bed, had his arm around his girlfriend, Tammie, who was nine months pregnant with their daughter.

“Bird, take your hands out from under those covers,” he remembers the officer telling him. “Do it real slow.”

He’d been arrested before on misdemeanor weapons charges, but this was different. Five members of Stanfield’s crew would be tried for killing a state’s witness before that witness could testify in a separate case, the boss for murder and four of his top lieutenants — including Barnes — for conspiracy.

According to prosecutors, the dispute started when a low-level dealer didn’t show Stanfield “appropriate respect” during an argument on the fourth floor of the Murphy towers. Police said Stanfield put one bullet in the dealer’s chest and five in his head. The trial lasted nine weeks, interrupted at one point when Marlow Bates, a co-defendant and Stanfield’s half-brother, warned one of the witnesses, “You’re going to die.”

Barnes barely paid attention, sleeping through most of it. He was 20 years old and arrogant, convinced he had nothing to worry about.

A witness who had originally placed him at the murder scene later recanted under oath. He refused to cooperate with police. He figured they had nothing on him. “I thought it was the easiest case in the world to beat,” Barnes says. “I wasn’t there when the shooting happened.”

After closing arguments, the jury deliberated for 90 minutes before landing on the verdicts. His attorney took it as a promising sign. “When it comes back this quick,” Barnes remembered hearing, “that usually means not guilty.”

It was a Wednesday. April 1, 1987. Barnes made plans for that evening. He was going out to celebrate.

They called his name first, and when he heard that word — GUILTY — he damn near fell over. His stomach tightened. His knees wobbled. He started to lose his breath. The first thought that ran through his mind was how embarrassed he’d be if the front page of the next day’s Baltimore Sun read, “BIRD FAINTS AFTER VERDICT.”

The rest was a blur. Guilty, all of them. Life sentences, all of them. Stanfield and Bates snickered after they heard the verdict, according to the Sun, laughing out loud in the courtroom.

Instead of passing out, Barnes remained as cocky as ever. He exited the courtroom, handcuffs clamped around his wrists, and eyed Ed Burns, the Baltimore city homicide detective whose eight-month investigation led to the arrests and dismantling of Stanfield’s gang.

“You happy now?” Barnes asked, flashing a smile. “See ya in a year or two.”

More than a decade later, Burns would co-write a television drama with a longtime Baltimore Sun cops reporter named David Simon. They called it “The Wire.” One of the most feared drug kingpins in the show went by the name Marlo Stanfield. And in the sixth episode of the second season, a vicious hitman stands trial for killing a state’s witness, defiant to the end.

They called him Bird.


Over 36 years, Barnes bounced among 14 prisons, including a stay in the late 1990s at Marion, a maximum-security facility in Illinois. Three cells down from him was famed New York City mobster John Gotti. The two talked baseball, Gotti never missing a chance to rub it in when his Yankees beat up on Barnes’ Orioles.

His dreams of getting out died slowly, one appeal after another swiftly denied by the state. It didn’t really hit him until two years into his sentence that he was going to grow old inside, wasn’t going to get to watch his newborn daughter grow up. That’s when the depression sunk in. The anger. The regret.

Panic attacks would come at night, startling him from sleep. He’d have visions of his past life — Eight months ago, I was here; three years ago, here … — and just lie there, mind racing, eyes open, until 3 in the morning.

Slowly, Barnes came to reckon with what he’d done, the choices he made and the harm he caused. He weighed the pain he brought his family and his community. He didn’t pull the trigger on the fourth floor of the Murphy towers that day — he wasn’t even there, he maintains — but he was part of the poison plaguing his city and choking its youth.

“I can never make up for what I did,” he says.

In prison, he learned to read and write, earned his G.E.D. and led counseling meetings for troubled inmates. He became a published author — “Prison is Not a Playground” is Barnes’ story in his own words, starting with that plastic bag Mickey Poole slipped him as a 12-year-old.

He tutored those with developmental disabilities, including a former cellmate. “Antonio is an amazing example of someone deciding that they’re going to grow and develop instead of being sucked into all the negativity that happens in there,” said Brian Teausant, that inmate’s father.

He worked as a suicide companion for 23 years, counseling the prisons’ most at-risk inmates. He founded three self-help programs that, according to one of his former wardens, led to a decline in inmate discipline issues. “Wardens don’t usually put their John Hancock on a letter of support for someone with a life sentence,” Barnes notes proudly. More than one did for him.

He was denied parole five times. At one hearing, Barnes was asked, “How can we put you back in a community that you helped rip apart?

He thought for a moment.

“Because Bird is dead,” he told them. “And you’re talking to Mr. Antonio Barnes.”

Still, the denials battered his belief and tested his patience.

“They were trying to see if I’d give up,” he says. “It was hard. But I told myself, ‘I will die before I give up.’”

Then one afternoon last spring, while he was reading in the prison law library, another inmate told him the parole officer was looking for him. He grew anxious. He hurried upstairs to her office. “Maryland is letting you go,” she told him.

He felt his knees start to wobble, same as 36 years prior, when he stood in that Baltimore City courtroom as a cocky 20-year-old. His stomach tightened. He could barely speak. Only this time, it was relief.

“I was shaking like a ’57 Chevy,” he says.

On July 20, he walked out of the Coleman Federal Correctional Complex in central Florida. An Uber driver picked him up and gave him a lift to the bus station, where he hopped on a Greyhound bound for Charlotte. Barnes sat in the backseat, staring out the window, and when the car pulled onto the highway, he closed his eyes and began to cry.


Now, instead of a pistol on his nightstand, he keeps his cell phone nearby. The calls come late, sometimes at 2:30 or 3 in the morning, and it’s his job to answer them.

Barnes currently works as a peer support specialist at ARJ, a mental health center in Charlotte co-owned by his nephew Demon Brown, who overcame his own troubled teenage years on the streets of Baltimore, plus three stays in a juvenile facility, to become a standout point guard for UNC Charlotte’s basketball team in the early 2000s.

Demon had a room ready for his uncle and a job waiting for him after Barnes was released in July. “As soon as he came home, he told me he wanted to help others any way he could,” Demon says. “How many guys getting out of prison think like that?

“I’m telling you, the only thing he ever talked about doing for himself was getting up to a Colts game.”

At ARJ, Barnes specializes in the center’s most at-risk patients, a lot like the ones he worked with in prison. He’s taken what he learned on the inside and now uses it to save lives.

“A lot of these patients are battling substance abuse issues,” Brown says. “Some are just out of prison. Some are in and out of shelters. Some are homeless. It’s incredibly challenging, and Antonio just has this talent, like this empathy for them, that helps him connect.”

One recent call came in the middle of the night. A woman was delirious, wanting to hurt herself. Barnes stayed on the phone with her for five hours.

“I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, I don’t do none of that,” he says. “But every time we have a successful story with one of our patients, that’s the biggest high in the world for me.”

His goal is to have “Prison is Not a Playground” passed out in juvenile detention centers across Charlotte. He wants to speak to classrooms. He wants to use his story to change lives. He goes back to what Detective Ed Burns told him 37 years ago while he sat in a jail cell awaiting processing after his conviction. “Barnes, you’re smart,” Burns said. “You can still make something of your life.”

He’s determined to.

He never watched “The Wire.” No need, he says. He lived it. (On Wednesday, Simon posted on X — formerly Twitter — that the Bird character was not based on Barnes or any one person, that the name was “a simple shout-out by Ed Burns and myself to a Baltimore street legend whose adventures date to the 1970s.”)

But Barnes says Burns “saved my life.” He calls the life sentence he was handed in April 1987 “the greatest reward a career criminal could receive.” Without it, he believes, he wouldn’t be alive.

Away from work, he’s still acclimating to his new life, and sometimes has trouble sleeping, startled awake by those little noises he never used to hear in prison. He takes long walks in the afternoons, still in disbelief that he’s a free man. He borrowed a car recently so he could practice parking, something he hadn’t done since the spring of 1987.

He started saving for a trip to Indianapolis as soon as he was released this summer, then burned through just about every dollar he had to make it happen. He was granted permission from his parole officer to make the trip, then slogged through 16 hours on a Greyhound, too excited to sleep. “That ride could’ve taken two days,” he says, “and it wouldn’t have bothered me.”

Around noon on New Year’s Eve, he slid into his seat in Section 126 at Lucas Oil Stadium, stunned by the scene in front of him. He’d never seen so much blue in his life. He snapped photos. He learned that everyone stands when it’s 3rd down. He sweated out a 23-20 win for the Colts that kept their playoff hopes alive.

“It still don’t seem like it’s real,” he texted his nephew.

After the game, he lingered inside the stadium for over an hour, until the place was almost empty.

“Still feels like a dream I’m going to wake up from.”

(Illustration: John Bradford / The Athletic; photos courtesy of Antonio Barnes, Bobby Ellis / Getty Images)


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