Yella Beezy Misses Mo3 Murder Hearing Following Mother’s Death

June 4, 2026 by HH2408

Dallas rapper Yella Beezy missed his scheduled pretrial hearing for the Mo3 murder case after the passing of his mother. His attorneys confirmed the news and are working with the court to establish a new trial date. The rapper, 33, has been under house arrest since March 2025 after his bond was reduced from $2 million to $750,000.

Yella Beezy faces capital murder charges for allegedly orchestrating the 2020 killing of fellow Dallas rapper Mo3. Prosecutors claim he hired Kewon White to shoot Mo3 on Interstate 35E near the Dallas Zoo, resulting in Mo3’s death at the hospital after sustaining multiple gunshot wounds. White is currently serving nearly nine years in federal prison for gun-related charges. Another individual, Devin Maurice Brown, remains in Dallas County Jail facing federal charges tied to the same case.

Dallas rapper Yella Beezy misses hearing in Mo3 murder case after mother's death, has trial delayed until August | wfaa.com The legal proceedings have moved slowly, with Yella Beezy recently criticizing prosecutors for overloading him with evidence and paperwork in advance of his trial. His legal team stated, “We can confirm his mother’s passing. We are having another hearing next week to go over some of the pre-trial motions. We will also be discussing a new trial date.”

Even under house arrest, Yella Beezy is allowed to record music one day per week, between 5 P.M. and 10 P.M., with prior notification to the court. He cannot have contact with protected persons or possess firearms. He continues to release music, including the September single Blame It On Me, while maintaining nearly 620,000 monthly Spotify listeners.

Yella Beezy Wants His Trial Delayed After His Mother's Death If convicted of capital murder, Yella Beezy could face life in prison without parole or the death penalty. Both sides are expected to reconvene next week to address pretrial motions and procedural matters.

6/4/2026

The state of Texas executed Johnny Frank Garrett on February 11, 1992, a man who entered death row as a 17-year-old boy with the mental capacity of a child, and whose case now stands as one of the most haunting examples of a potential wrongful execution in American history. The lethal injection was administered at the Huntsville Unit, and with it, a life was extinguished that experts, advocates, and even some former prosecutors now believe may have been completely innocent of the brutal crime for which he was condemned. The horror began on Halloween night, 1981, in Amarillo, Texas, a night meant for costumes and laughter, but which instead descended into unspeakable violence. Inside the quiet St. Francis Convent, Sister Tadia Benz, a 76-year-old nun known for her kindness and devotion, prepared for bed. She had lived a life of faith and charity, seemingly untouchable by the world’s horrors. But sometime after midnight, an intruder slipped inside, and a brief, brutal struggle followed. By dawn, Sister Benz was dead, raped, assaulted, and strangled. The community was stunned, and pressure on police was immediate and overwhelming. Media stormed the streets, politicians demanded answers, and citizens demanded a suspect. Within days, Amarillo police delivered one: Johnny Frank Garrett, age 17, poor, learning disabled, terrified of authority, and completely unprepared for what came next. Police claimed they had a fingerprint and a confession, but what they really had was a teenager they could break. Johnny was interrogated for hours alone, exhausted and confused. He was threatened, manipulated, and fed details. Every psychological pressure available was used against him. When investigators realized he was not giving them what they wanted, they made him sign a confession written for him, filled with words he did not understand, describing acts he had no knowledge of. The next morning, the headline hit: Teenager confesses to nun’s murder. It did not matter that he immediately recanted. It did not matter that his IQ tested in the borderline impaired range, that he had no history of violence, that the timeline did not fit, or that there was another suspect, a man with a violent record whose fingerprint was found at the scene. The narrative was written, and the town wanted blood. Johnny, scared, poor, and without a real defense, became the perfect offering. His trial was fast, his defense was weak, the evidence was thin, and the science was flawed. The confession was coerced, but none of that stopped Texas. On February 11, 1992, at just 28 years old, Johnny Frank Garrett was strapped to a gurney and prepared for lethal injection. A boy who had spent his teenage years on death row, a child turned into a condemned man, spoke his last words through tears and rage: I would like to thank my family for loving me and taking care of me, and the rest of the world can kiss my ass. The needle entered his arm, the chemicals flowed, and Texas declared the case closed. But years later, as new evidence emerged, as DNA revealed contradictions, and as the alternate suspect’s violent history resurfaced, a horrifying truth began to spread: they may have executed the wrong person. Johnny Frank Garrett was simply a boy trying to survive in a world that seemed determined to break him long before the courts ever did. Born on Christmas Day in 1963, Johnny entered a life marked not by joy but by trauma, poverty, and abandonment. From as early as age six, he endured relentless abuse, physical, emotional, and sexual, inflicted by people who were supposed to protect him. These experiences shaped the way he thought, understood consequences, and interacted with the world. Psychologists later concluded that Johnny had the mental and emotional maturity of a child far younger than his real age. School was no refuge. Johnny struggled to read, struggled to understand instructions, and struggled to fit in. His IQ tested in the borderline impaired range, and teachers often described him as lost, confused, or easily manipulated. He had learning disabilities that went untreated, emotional wounds that went unaddressed, and a desperate need for safety that never came. Instead of help, he received punishment, and instead of therapy, he received discipline. By adolescence, Johnny drifted around Amarillo with no real structure in his life. He sometimes stayed with relatives, sometimes with neighbors, sometimes in foster placements that treated him more as a burden than a child in need. He developed coping mechanisms common among abused children: dissociation, compliance under pressure, and a willingness to please adults even when it hurt him. These traits would later make him devastatingly vulnerable in the interrogation room. Despite the chaos, those who knew Johnny described him as gentle, shy, goofy, and kind. He loved drawing characters from comic books, played with neighborhood kids even into his late teens, talked to animals, and apologized excessively when he thought he upset someone. He had a softness that made it clear he had never grown into the hardness the world demanded of him. He also struggled with seizures and head injuries caused by childhood abuse, conditions that further impaired his understanding of right and wrong. Doctors later said Johnny exhibited clear signs of trauma-induced developmental damage. Yet none of this was ever presented at trial. At age 17, still legally a minor, Johnny’s life took the turn that would kill him. When the murder of Sister Tadia Benz shocked Amarillo, police bent under pressure to find someone to blame. They picked Johnny not because he fit the evidence, but because he fit their expectations: young, poor, mentally delayed, and defenseless.…

The final breaths of Timothy Shaun Stemple came with a shudder and a gasp, his eyes briefly fluttering open before his face turned pale and still. At 6:11 p. m. on Thursday, March 15, 2012, the 46-year-old was pronounced dead inside the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, ending a 16-year legal battle over one of the most brutal and calculated murders in the state’s history. The execution, carried out by lethal injection, marked the culmination of a case that prosecutors described as a chilling blueprint of greed, betrayal, and cold-blooded premeditation. Stemple, who had maintained his innocence to the very end, declined to offer any last words, shaking his head silently as the warden asked if he had a final statement. His family, seated behind the glass partition, watched in tearful silence as the drugs took effect, his 21-year-old daughter sobbing quietly into her aunt’s shoulder as her father took his final, labored breaths. The crime that sent Stemple to death row began on a seemingly ordinary October evening in 1996, when his wife, Trisha Stemple, a 30-year-old mother and beloved member of the Tulsa community, left their home expecting a casual drive. Instead, she walked into a meticulously planned ambush that would leave her body broken beyond recognition. According to court testimony, Stemple had feigned car trouble along a desolate stretch of U. S. Highway 75 between 81st and 91st Streets, a pre-selected location where his teenage accomplice, Terry Hunt, lay waiting in the woods. What followed was a savage attack that investigators would later describe as almost unimaginable in its brutality. Stemple, armed with a cellophane-wrapped baseball bat, struck his wife in the back of the head between 20 and 30 times, according to Hunt’s testimony, while the young accomplice delivered additional blows. The attack was so ferocious that Trisha’s skull, neck bone, and pelvis were crushed, with 17 ribs broken and over 170 separate injuries cataloged in the autopsy report. The horror did not end with the beating. As Trisha lay bleeding and barely conscious on the roadside, her husband and his accomplice drove a pickup truck over her body multiple times, attempting to crush her completely. Hunt testified that Stemple tried to drive the truck’s tires directly over his wife’s head, and when she miraculously managed to drag herself onto the grass along the highway, they returned and struck her again at approximately 60 miles per hour. In a moment of unspeakable cruelty, court records indicate that after the initial attack, Stemple got out of the truck, walked over to his dying wife, and told her, "Don't worry, Trish. The ambulance is on its way." He then picked up the bat once more and struck her in the back of the head an additional 8 to 12 times, ensuring she would never survive to testify against him. The medical examiner’s report painted a picture of prolonged, conscious suffering, with Trisha alive and aware during much of the assault. The motive for this heinous crime was as simple as it was sinister: money. Specifically, a $950,000 life insurance policy that Stemple had taken out on his wife, a payout he hoped to collect to fund a new life with his teenage mistress, Danny Wood. At the time of the murder, Stemple, a married youth soccer coach and father, was living a double life, carrying on an affair with Wood while presenting himself as a devoted family man to the community. The plan, prosecutors argued, was hatched with chilling precision. Stemple drilled a hole into one of Trisha’s car tires to make it appear she had suffered car trouble, staging the scene to look like a random hit-and-run or carjacking. After the murder, he reported his wife missing, playing the role of the grieving husband while investigators initially treated the case as a tragic auto-pedestrian collision. But the facade began to crumble when forensic examiners noted the absence of the typical primary point of impact below the knees that is characteristic of a standard pedestrian accident, raising suspicions that this was no ordinary hit-and-run. The investigation soon turned toward Stemple, and the case cracked wide open when his accomplice, Terry Hunt, agreed to testify against him in exchange for a life sentence. Hunt, who was the 16-year-old cousin of Stemple’s mistress, provided a harrowing account of the murder that left even seasoned prosecutors shaken. Hunt testified that Trisha was conscious during much of the attack, describing how she begged for her life as her husband rained down blows with the bat. He detailed how Stemple tried to drive over her head and how they returned to finish the job when she showed signs of life. The testimony was so damning that it helped prosecutors secure the death penalty for Stemple, who was convicted of first-degree murder in 1997. Hunt, who is serving a life sentence in prison in Hominy, Oklahoma, expressed disappointment that Stemple never confessed, telling the Associated Press in a prison interview just days before the execution, "I'm not innocent and Shawn is not innocent." Throughout the years of appeals and legal proceedings, Stemple and his family mounted a vigorous campaign to prove his innocence, hiring forensic experts who argued that Trisha’s injuries were consistent with being hit by a vehicle and run over, with no evidence of a beating. The New York-based Innocence Project also became involved, urging Governor Mary Fallin to stay the execution and calling for additional DNA testing on blood found on the plastic wrapping of the bat. However, prosecutors noted that the blood was too deteriorated to determine whose it was, and the Oklahoma Pardon and Parole Board denied Stemple’s plea for clemency. At a clemency hearing last month, Stemple declined to address the board, stating that it was not the appropriate forum to discuss his case. His family, including his mother Leah, his daughter Lauren, and his sisters, held a desperate last-minute campaign to halt the execution, but Governor Fallin denied the request, and the legal avenues were exhausted. The execution itself was carried out with clinical efficiency, though not without moments of visible distress. After the lethal injection began at 6:05 p. m. , Stemple gasped for approximately 20 seconds, his eyes opened, and he groaned before lying still with closed eyes. His family, seated on one side of the glass, held each other tightly, with one sister cradling the crying face of his daughter. On the other side, members of Trisha Stemple’s family watched, including her youngest sister, Deborah Ruddick Bird, who had waited 16 years for this moment. After the execution, Ruddick Bird addressed reporters with a mixture of relief and sorrow, stating, "Today is not about Shawn. It's about justice, finality, and closure for my gorgeous sister Trisha and my family. Today we put a period at the end of the chapter that held us captive for far too long. Today we breathe again. Today we move forward and move on." Her words echoed the sentiments of a family that had endured more than a decade and a half of legal battles, appeals, and the painful reliving of their loved one’s horrific final moments. Stemple’s final meal, a request for a large stuffed crust pizza with extra cheese, half pepperoni and half Canadian bacon, along with a 2-liter bottle of orange soda with ice, was a stark contrast to the gravity of the occasion. He was the second Oklahoma inmate to be executed that year, and his execution was the first of three scheduled over the following two months in the state. The case also highlighted a growing controversy over the use of the lethal injection drug pentobarbital, an anesthetic that manufacturers had objected to selling for use in executions. The Department of Corrections had noted that the state had only four doses of the drug left, raising questions about the future of capital punishment in Oklahoma. Attorney General Scott Pruitt issued a statement before the execution, reiterating that a jury of Stemple’s peers had examined the evidence and sentenced him to death 14 years ago, and that his thoughts were with Trisha Stemple’s family and what they had endured.…

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