Davontae Sanford, MDOC photo

It's almost like the 23-year-old was born again.

Davontae Sanford of Detroit smiled as he walked out of prison into a sunny afternoon in Ionia Wednesday, his little brother, 22-year-old Deshon, and two attorneys at his side.

It's the first time since 2007, when Sanford at 14 confessed to a quadruple murder at a drug house in Detroit, that he'd been able to see at the sky as a free man.

It was a light blue, specked with white clouds and fading jet streams.

Investigators no longer believe Sanford committed the crime, and the razor wire and uniformed guards that surrounded him for eight years are behind him.

Sanford faced at least 37 years in prison. He would have been 53 on his earliest release date in 2046, most of his life behind him by that time.

His future changed entirely Tuesday, when Wayne County Circuit Judge Brian Sullivan ruled that Sanford was wrongfully convicted.

Sullivan vacated the 2008 murder convictions and Wayne County Prosecutor Kym Worthy said she wouldn't re-try the case. She was in the process of asking for his case to be dismissed when the ruling came.

A new investigation conducted by state police and requested by Worthy in 2015 raised serious concerns regarding Sanford's conviction, his confession and evidence presented against him by the Detroit Police Department.

Additionally, soon after Sanford confessed and was sent to prison, a self-proclaimed hitman, Vincent Smothers, who has over a dozen other murder convictions, said he committed the quadruple murder for which Sanford was serving time.

Smothers has stood by the claim over the years, but it took nearly a decade for the justice system to correct its error.

While Worthy spoke infrequently about Sanford's case when questioned about it in the past, she said the 2015 state police investigation convinced her there were issues with Sanford's conviction.

"Included in that report is a recorded interview in which former Deputy Chief James Tolbert contradicts his sworn testimony that Davontae Sanford drew the entire diagram of the crime scene, including the location of the victims' bodies, while being questioned by the police," Worthy said. "This called into question Tolbert's credibility in the case.

"Recognizing the importance of that testimony, attorneys from the Wayne County Prosecutor's Office worked with Davontae Sanford's attorneys from Dykema Gossett to move to dismiss his case."

The prosecutor hasn't, however, proclaimed Sanford's innocence, and scheduled a press conference Thursday morning to further explain her decision.

Worthy's office is currently reviewing the investigation to determine whether Tolbert, a longtime Detroit police officer and deputy chief who later worked as the chief of police in Flint from 2013 to February 2016, will be charged with perjury.

The Michigan Department of Corrections anticipated the judge's Tuesday decision and began preemptively making preparations for his release, said MDOC spokesman Chris Gautz.

Guards moved Sanford from Marquette to Chippewa Correctional Facility in Kincheloe, and finally to the Bellamy Correctional Facility in Ionia.

No longer a convict, Sanford spent his final night and day in protective custody, separated from the criminals.

His final prison meal was "chili-mac," said Gautz.

Behind Sanford as he walked out of the prison administration building with his brother and two attorneys, Valerie Newman and Heidi Naasko, both instrumental in gaining his freedom, was Sanford's old life.

Men in the recreation yard wore orange pants and T-shirts, some holding shovels and tending the prison garden. Others played basketball or jogged around the track lined with guard towers and surrounded by imposing, pointed and electrified fences.

"He's not going to make a statement," Newman said as they walked toward the parking lot, followed by nearly 20 members of the media.

Deshon carried his brother's belongings in a single translucent trash bag filled mostly with clothes. Some paperwork was visible at the bottom.

As Sanford got in the rear, passenger seat of the royal blue Ford Fusion, he and his brother could be seen still smiling in the backseat and talking.

His brother handed him a cell phone, and Sanford began speaking to someone on the other end as Naasko drove away through the crowd of reporters in the silent hybrid.