By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
"I don't know what they're doing. You can assume so many things, but you can pretty much see them every time you turn around," Elizabeth says. "My kids are upset. They are afraid to walk to school."
The Calloways aren't the only ones who are afraid.
Tony Price stands outside his house on Spikes Street on this Tuesday morning. A squad car slowly cruises past the end of the block, which lies one block south of Sherman Street. Last week, Price says an officer parked in front of his door and did not get out of his car.
"He was looking at me crazy. I went in the house," says Price, who is joined by Hemphill and another man, who declines to give his name.
"I came out and said, 'you could speak,'" says the shivering man, who is clad in a T-shirt and jeans on this chilly morning.
"It's not random," Hemphill insists. "They're doing it to intimidate the witnesses. It's not going to work this time. They [the neighbors] are ready to burn this place down behind Joe Lee Calloway."
Grand Prairie Sergeant Doug Clancey says the residents must be confused.
"We certainly answer calls to the area," Clancey stated. When told that the alleged visits are not made in response to calls for police assistance, Clancey says, "I think someone's misinformed or putting out bad information."
Grand Prairie Police Chief Harry Crumb could not be reached for comment. Police say they have not received any complaints about the alleged harassment.
Charles Calloway concedes that it is difficult to ignore the elements of race associated with his father's death. He notes that if he were in Hubbard's shoes, he'd be "under the jail" by now. But he says his main desire is to see that justice is served.
"I am black. I have a Mexican wife. I have a white granddaughter. It's like a Rainbow Coalition going on in this house," he says, pointing his fingers at the carpet. "The problem is not that [Hubbard] is white. The problem is that he killed my dad."
Elizabeth Calloway says her father-in-law has been unfairly characterized by Hubbard and his supporters.
"As long as he's homeless, they can make it look like he has nobody and was capable of doing anything," she says.
In the event that Hubbard is acquitted of murder and successful in his promise to get his job back, the Calloways say they will move.
"Now you know it happened, but it's hard to believe it happened and how it happened. It still hasn't sunk in," says Ruby Calloway, who is interrupted by her daughter Chandra.
"Because he's never been affiliated with violence. This is the first time in 52 years he's been involved in something violent," Chandra says.
Like Charles, Chandra and Ruby Calloway have grown leery of the police. Nowadays, they are taking extra precautions to avoid being pulled over.
"When you see a police officer, your initial reaction is how is he going to react? How is he going to treat me?" Ruby says. "He might be the finest officer on the force, but your gut reaction is, 'it could happen to me.'"
Joe Lee Calloway's leather-bound King James Bible sits on his bedroom dresser inside Ed Hemphill's house. A pile of facial hairs is scattered around an electric razor, which is still plugged into the wall. The room is bathed in a pink hue created by the sunlight passing through the tattered, rose-colored blinds that hang in the windows.
An old pair of Nike running shoes sits in a corner, the initials "G.P." printed on their heels. Besides a mound of clothes and a cheap, all-in-one hi-fi, Calloway left few possessions behind.
Since Calloway died, Hemphill says he has avoided the room. In fact, he only comes home to sleep when he finishes his shift as a supervisor at Lone Star Park, the Grand Prairie racing facility that Hemphill hopes will create job opportunities for his neighbors when it is completed.
"I haven't sat in this living room for a long time. I guess I've been depressed," Hemphill says. "I miss him."
Hemphill recalls that Calloway, not one to watch much television, spent his time here reading his Bible or listening to the radio. Calloway would often make dinner; an avid cook, his specialty was red beans and rice.
"Depending on the weather, he would stay here two weeks out of the month. Then he would go back to the streets," Hemphill says. "He liked to lay down and look at the sky. He liked to look at the moon. He was just a free spirit."
When Calloway's body was taken away, his Dickies baseball cap was left behind. His dominoes buddies hung it from a battered chain link fence behind the table. "That's Joe's hat," the men say. Its crooked bill sways in the chilly wind tearing down Sherman Street.
Shortly after Calloway's ambulance turned off Sherman Street, Nose retreated to the picnic tables at Nance James Park.
"She went and got all his clothes and drug them out and laid on 'em," one of his buddies says. "Could nobody get her up.