Sitting behind the smudged glass of a stark visitors' room at the Dallas County jail and holding a phone that had been breathed on by countless murderers, Hardge says he's "100 percent sure" his bullet didn't kill Payne. "I'm sorry somebody got hurt. ... I feel for her family," he says, his lip turning up slightly as it tends to do when he's either gravely serious or on the verge of tears.
"I wasn't just out to kill nobody," he says of his plans that night. He believes that Payne either ran across the street after being shot while standing behind him or she was shot after he fled. He would have seen her running, he believes. She died only a couple hundred yards in front of where he was standing.
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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Hardge is convinced Payne was killed by the shooter on the other side of the median, the shooter whose existence Quirk found no evidence to support. Quirk calls both of Hardge's theories impossible based on witness testimony and crime-scene analysis. Though Hardge said in court that the darkness rendered the group with the gun unrecognizable, from jail he claims they were a rival gang and he recognized the shooter. He just didn't want to tell police.
"It's like when you're in the streets, you don't give that type of information," he says. "It's the code that I live by." Snitching couldn't help anyone now, he says. "I need to worry about myself and my daughter."
Certain ideals become deeply seated when you live the gang lifestyle for so long. But now, Hardge says, he's over gang life and no longer identifies with DFW Mafia or any other gang. He wants his tattoos lasered off. Resting his elbows on the counter behind the jail's glass barrier, he talks frankly and soberly as though he believes every word he says with absolute conviction. When he first landed in jail, his old crew made sure he had money and that he was all right. But the longer Hardge remained behind bars, the less he heard from the gang. His old lifestyle may have continued if they hadn't become disloyal, even though he says his gang banging had been slowing down since his daughter was born in March 2008.
In Hardge's circles, "slowing down" is a relative term. "There's a lot of stuff going on here in Dallas, Texas," he says, and drugs and weapons "ain't nothing." He says he stopped fighting and raising hell just to keep from getting bored, save for the crackhead episode his friend instigated outside his complex. He was young then, but he is a dad now.
Walking through that July day three years ago and tracing the course of his life since then, Hardge wipes his eyes only when he talks about his little girl. In all likelihood, he won't see her until she's about the same age Payne was when she was killed. "Selling dope, stuff like that, I wish I knew how to do something better," he says. With plans of earning his GED in prison and learning to be a truck mechanic or a barber, he's over his old life, for now. But if he couldn't get a job or if he had a barber business that tanked, there would always be the draw of the quick $800-$1,500 he could make in a few days of peddling drugs. "I can't lie to myself," he says, unable to deny that he would consider going back to dealing.
For now, he's periodically cutting hair in prison. His cousin is a barber, so he's familiar with the trade. Jail rules keep him from using the clippers, but he can get a razor for about a dollar, and that plus a comb has won him around 100 locked-up clients, he estimates.
Hardge talks openly about his life because he feels he's been made into an example by the prosecution and might as well make himself an example — he made a series of the worst decisions a teenager can make and thinks everyone should know his story did not work out well.
He's truly following in his father's footsteps now, and that sort of life has lost its appeal.
"This is for the birds. This is for animals," he says of his life behind bars, where he gets a change of clothes and two pairs of boxers every five days. He's due for transfer to state prison any day.
"I'm disappointed," Detective Quirk says. "I know he killed Juanita. The prosecution knows he killed Juanita. He knows he killed Juanita. But knowing it and proving it in Dallas County beyond a reasonable doubt under these circumstances is tough."
Weeks after Hardge's sentencing, Quirk tracked down Payne's father to update him, finding Thomas through his job at a commercial printing company where he works the presses. The Observer tagged along as Quirk paid his visit. Standing in the same haphazardly furnished garage where the family tries to keep cool in the summer heat, Quirk tells Thomas that Hardge had been sentenced to 16 years, not for murder, but for engagement in organized criminal activity.