Michael Austin is free from his prison cell, but he still prefers the dark solace of his cramped basement music studio to almost anywhere else.

Who can blame him? The world outside bars and barbed wire has plenty of troubles of its own.

Austin has walked the streets of his old neighborhood, where dealers have asked him to hustle drugs. The politicians are calling, eyeing him as a powerful campaign weapon against the city's top prosecutor. And then there is the anger he struggles to push away - anger about the life he was cheated of when he was locked up for 27 years for a murder he didn't commit.

Nearly six months after his release from prison, Austin is still finding his footing, figuring out how to lead a free life. He holds onto the things that kept him sane during his time in prison - his unflagging patience, his positive outlook, his passion for music - but has found that his new life has a different set of risks and dangers from those he left behind.

"I'm just taking it one day at a time and enjoying life," says Austin, who was a rebellious 26-year-old when he began serving a life sentence for murder in 1975. He is now a serene and bespectacled 53-year-old.

It is a challenge to stay focused.

An energetic and cheerful presence bursting with ideas about how he can "give back" to his community now that he is free, Austin keeps a schedule filled with speaking engagements and appearances before church congregations, community groups and troubled young people.

His dark eyes sparkle as he talks about the new part-time job he will begin training for next month. He will work at the Community Conferencing Center, helping young men who are leaving prison adjust to the outside world as he has had to do. He hopes it will become a full-time job, complete with the benefits he so desperately needs after spending the bulk of his adult life behind bars.

He spends most of his time at home, where he lives with Yvonne Rahman, whom he met in prison when she was working in an education program for state inmates.

"My biggest thing right now is I want to be able to provide for us," says Austin, who still drives with a learner's permit and has no Social Security or unemployment benefits. "It will happen."

Constantly writing, revising or practicing a new song, Austin is most in his element in his makeshift basement sound studio where - since he stands about 6 feet 4 inches - his head grazes the ceiling.

"This is my sanctuary," he says.

And Austin has needed one.

"I've seen him go through struggles in adjusting. ... He's been disappointed a lot," Rahman says. "You have all these dreams and visions in your head for when you are free, and that's just not reality."

Austin delights in his newly acquired freedom, savoring modern comforts he never knew - such as buying gas with the swipe of a credit card. He cherishes the mundane aspects of everyday life - he was moved to tears recently while buying mouthwash at a RiteAid, stirred by the notion that he could enter a store, money in his pocket, and buy whatever he wanted.

But he has to work to avoid dwelling on his past and letting bitterness and regret take over.

There was the day he succumbed to the tug of the rough streets where he grew up, venturing down Pennsylvania Avenue to see his old neighborhood despite a sure sense it would be painful.

"I know I wasn't supposed to be on the Avenue, but something kept pulling me there because I needed to know what it looked like," Austin said. "It was just sad."

He saw three old friends - all high. And then there were those he didn't see, the ones who were killed on the street the way Austin says he would have been if he hadn't gone to prison. Worst was the kids on the corners, who have it so much tougher than he ever did, Austin says.

"I said, 'That used to be me, right there.' It's more difficult for kids growing up right now - there's no community involvement, no family structure - they have nothing."

Although he is certain he will never return to that life, Austin knows that it is always just over his shoulder.

"Guys will be hustling, they'll ask me do I want to get in on something - things that I already know don't work," Austin says of invitations to return to his old ways. "I just say no."

There are other, more subtle traps he is just as determined to avoid. The story of Austin's struggle to be released from prison once the case against him began to crumble has become an appealing theme for Baltimore politicians seeking to unseat State's Attorney Patricia C. Jessamy. The two-term prosecutor opposed his release until the end and has taken public swipes at him since he was freed.

Austin's case is "one more in a very long, unfortunate line of mistakes during the tenure of Ms. Jessamy," said City Councilwoman Lisa J. Stancil, a candidate for Jessamy's post.

"This might be the Willie Horton of the state's attorney's race," said lawyer Warren A. Brown, who dropped out of the race against Jessamy but is considering re-entering.

Although Austin says he has been invited to speak and work for various officials - he will not name names - he refuses to enter the fray.

Those he trusts have told him, "Mike, all you're going to do is get used, and then they'll throw you away."

As for his efforts to obtain compensation from the state for his wrongful imprisonment, Austin is leaving that to his lawyers. They will begin a push during the next legislative session to win him a substantial sum, attorney Larry Nathans said.

"We'll be asking for significantly over $1 million," Nathans said. "Twenty-seven years is a nice life."

Austin is more focused on speaking to and working with young, troubled men who he believes can benefit from his insights. "I try to scare them in one sense, but I also try to give them an understanding of how difficult things can be, and they really have to want it," Austin says. "I tell them, 'If you think what I've been through is a joke, just keep doing what you're doing right now.' "

Those who know him well marvel at Austin's quick adaptation to freedom.

"It's like you're parachuting back down to earth, and it can take a long time," says James C. McCloskey, president of Centurion Ministries, a New Jersey-based group that investigates innocence claims by prisoners and took up Austin's case. "I'm amazed at his ability to adjust and to integrate back into society and get on his feet."

In his studio, paging through a fat planner filled with appointments, practicing chords for gigs with his band, True Spirit, and dreaming up new "projects," Austin says he has little time for bitterness or anger about his imprisonment.

Even though Austin says he has forgiven Joseph Wase, the prosecutor in the murder case, he still finds it difficult to spend time with him. "He has so much guilt. He wants me to help him through his guilt," Austin says. "I explained to him, ' "That's your responsibility.' "

Talking to Wase - hearing the retired prosecutor reflect on his life and family - brings to the surface bitterness Austin would rather avoid. "I want to say, 'You took all that away from me,' " Austin says.

Rahman wants him to take a break from saving the world to relax and enjoy his freedom. Soon, she will take him to Chicago or New York - a big city close enough to travel to by train because Austin has never been on an airplane and won't consider boarding one - so he can "get away."

"He needs to stop thinking about every day is a day when you have to make some money or accomplish something," she says. "He always feels like he needs to be making something happen. I just want him to put it all aside."

Austin says he is eager to make the journey but afraid, too. Will he get lost? Panic in a crowd? Miss the dark comfort of the basement and the peaceful sounds of his keyboard and trumpet?

"I ask myself: 'Is that a good thing? Am I afraid to be out?' In my mind, I don't need a lot of space. ... I just need a little, small area," Austin says. "But each day and each week, it's expanding."