"We wanted to come by and let you know we made an arrest," Quirk told Payne's father, Melvin Thomas, who stood in the garage of his pale yellow South Oak Cliff home as video cameras caught the scene. The younger of his two little girls, a solid student who hoped to become a pediatrician, had been shot down just 20 days shy of her 16th birthday. It was the summer between her freshman and sophomore year at South Oak Cliff High School.
"That's justice. That's justice right there," Thomas said, nodding his head at the news of Hardge's arrest.
Brandon Thibodeaux
Don Hardge maintains that his bullet did not kill Juanita Payne.
Brandon Thibodeaux
This shopping plaza on East Red Bird Lane was the location of party venue JeRenee.
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The episode's ending disclaimer stating that suspects are "presumed innocent until proven guilty" seemed to be the only inkling of a chance that Hardge wouldn't be sent away for murder. As he listened to the episode from jail through his ex-girlfriend's phone, Hardge recalled recently that he felt like the "littlest person in the world."
As the case progressed, the notion of justice became less clear-cut. Hardge implausibly told authorities someone robbed the gun from him the day after the shooting, and the bullet that killed Payne was never recovered. The case against him was thinner than it first seemed. Time dragged on as Hardge awaited the outcome of a murder indictment.
He had been behind bars for nearly three years and anticipated many more when he entered a plea agreement filed on May 27. It dismisses the murder charge and states that he is guilty of engagement in organized criminal activity. The charge is a catch-all for several gang-related offenses, but in Hardge's case, it means he engaged in "deadly conduct" as a member of DFW Mafia. On the morning of his sentencing hearing at the end of this June, a jail guard led Hardge to the holding cell in the courthouse to face a sentence of up to 20 years. Cold and nervous, he sat on the bench of the windowless cinder-block room, hoping for probation and knowing it was unlikely.
When he was called into the courtroom in his gray striped prison jumpsuit and handcuffs, he was happy to see his mother, cousins, daughter and Henderson had showed up to support him. His cousin remarked that Hardge's appearance had changed. He gained significant weight and jailhouse tattoos marked his forehead and cheeks.
Hardge's little girl, now 3, played on the benches, and his mother babysat her in the hallway when she became too energetic for the courtroom.
The gang unit's Walls testified that Hardge's tattoos were a testament to ongoing gang affiliation. Photo after photo of his old and new tattoos flashed on the projector screen — a bold "DFW" across his left biceps, three tears falling from his right eye, "Triple D Texas" across his left cheek, MOB (for "money over bitches") on his right hand, and a Champagne bottle with "DFW" on the label on his right forearm.
Dr. Reed Quinton of the Dallas County Medical Examiner's Office testified that a bullet struck Payne, who had no alcohol or drugs in her blood, in the right side of her back and exited through her left side, traveling slightly upward and back to front, hitting vital organs in its path and causing her to bleed to death. But, he testified, an autopsy found no "lead snowstorm," a wake of debris in a bullet's path that's often associated with a rifle wound. "I don't think it's a very large caliber," he said.
There's no way to tell which gun did it? prosecutor Dewey Mitchell asked.
"That's correct," Quinton said.
Judge Carter Thompson sentenced Hardge to 16 years. While his family returned home, he went back to his cell. Prosecutor Mitchell felt it was important to send a message to other gang members that these cases are not taken lightly. "It's a messed-up world for those kids," he says.
Hardge's mother, Audry Kelley, feels like she lost her own child. "When somebody just snatches them away from you, you have no control," she says, sitting at the dining room table of her modest home in a neatly maintained DeSoto neighborhood. "It hurts to know that ... " she pauses, smacking her lips as tears form in her eyes. "What can I do? I can't do nothing. I can't make them let him go." She talks to Hardge often on the phone but rarely visits him in jail because that means leaving him behind.
"Guns don't have no name. Bullets don't have no name," she used to tell him years ago as a warning against random killings. When her son was initially arrested for murder, Kelley fell to her knees praying "not to let my child be the reason someone else's child died."
"We're burying kids left and right," she says. On the day of Hardge's arrest, she remembers him saying he felt a sense of relief that he could begin paying for a crime that she sensed weighed heavily on him. Her own heart felt like it was "suffocating."
"All I know is he does feel better knowing he don't kill nobody," she says, grasping at the medical examiner's non-conclusive testimony for reassurance. "He's still my baby. He's still a child — he's still my child. But in the eyes of the law, he's a grown man now."