Picture a Dallas freeway, November 11, 2020—rapper Mo3, real name Melvin Noble, is gunned down in broad daylight. Fast forward to March 18, 2025: fellow Dallas rapper Yellow Beezy, aka Markies Conway, is slapped with a capital murder charge, accused of hiring hitman Kiwan White to take Mo3 out. Bruce Rivers, a board-certified criminal lawyer, breaks it down on YouTube: “Everything in this case is online—the beef, the crime, even the interviews.” It’s a wild tale of diss tracks, street cred, and self-snitching, and it’s got Texas buzzing.
The Roots: A Dallas Rap Rivalry Ignites
It starts in the heart of Dallas—two rising stars, two sides of town. Yellow Beezy hails from Oak Cliff, Mo3 from North Dallas. “They came from different circles,” Rivers says, quoting Rap Daily’s rundown. Beezy’s 2017 hit “That’s On Me” climbed Billboard’s R&B/Hip-Hop chart to number 25—remixed with 2 Chainz, T.I., Jeezy, a star was born. Mo3’s path was grittier—2014’s Shottaz, a Boosie Badazz collab in 2020, and “Broken Love” trending at number 8. Both had juice, but beef brewed.
What sparked it? “A dispute over who truly represented Oak Cliff,” Rivers notes. Petty, right? “Who gives a little [expletive]?” he quips. But it wasn’t just turf pride. In 2017, comedian Roy Lee Pate—Mo3’s pal—called out Beezy’s Oak Cliff cred, challenging him to a fight. October 2018, Pate’s shot in the leg; two weeks later, he’s dead from a blood clot. Hours after, Beezy’s ambushed on the Sam Rayburn Tollway—eight bullets, survives. “The internet ran wild with conspiracy theories,” Rivers says. The fuse was lit.
The Escalation: Diss Tracks and Revenge
This wasn’t a quiet feud—Mo3 and Beezy turned it into a soundtrack. Mo3 dropped a diss track on Roy Lee’s birthday, “making it obvious he believed Beezy had some role in Roy Lee’s death,” Rivers explains. Lines jabbed at a rapper “shot on the tollway”—Beezy—and a rumored $10K bounty on Mo3’s head. “These diss tracks have got to [expletive] stop,” Rivers pleads. “They fuel animosity, hatred, and you guys are killing each other for nothing.”
Beezy played it cooler—no direct diss war—but subliminals flew. “He’d brush off Mo3 in interviews,” Rivers says, mimicking Beezy: “Who? I don’t know who that is.” Mo3 trolled harder—Instagram Lives, TikToks, mocking Beezy’s street cred. “He knew how to push Beezy’s buttons,” Rivers adds. Tracks like “219” and “Everybody Remix” accused Beezy of setups. “Fans believed his lyrics were personal,” Rivers notes. Tension thickened—then snapped.
The Killing: Mo3’s Last Ride
November 11, 2020, I-35, Dallas. Mo3’s driving, alone after a club night. “Everybody knows when you leave the club, you gotta be looking,” he’d said in a clip Rivers plays. A black sedan pulls up—Kiwan White, authorities say—unloads rounds. Mo3 swerves, crashes, takes fatal hits. “The crime is on camera,” Rivers marvels. Dashcams catch it—a gold sedan (Mo3’s) spins out, White’s car flees. “Broad daylight, just stupid,” he sighs. Mo3, 28, leaves three kids—Malaysia, Malia, Tramonia Noble—and a legacy cut short.
Rivers rewinds the clip: “I can just hear the gunfire… I swerved and spun out.” Mo3’s dead on the roadside, CPR failing. “My heart goes out to the families,” Rivers says. “Seeing your son in the street or a jail cell—it just sucks.” A month later, December 9, White’s nabbed—felon with a gun, out on bond. “You weren’t smart enough to do this on the slide,” Rivers scoffs. But the big fish? Beezy—nabbed March 18, 2025.
The Case: Beezy’s Capital Murder Charge
Here’s the bombshell: Beezy’s indicted for capital murder—hiring White for cash. The Dallas County grand jury’s charge, read by Rivers: “Markies Conway… intentionally caused the death of Melvin Noble by employing Kiwan White to murder the deceased for remuneration.” Capital murder in Texas? Death penalty territory. “There’s probably a gang element involved,” Rivers says, elevating it past first-degree murder. “Doing a murder for the benefit of a gang warrants the death penalty.”
Evidence? Tight-lipped, but damning. “They’re not going to arrest Beezy unless they have the goods,” Rivers insists. Bond hearing clues spill: “A state’s witness will testify to the amount of money paid,” he reads. White’s the likely snitch—caught, cooperating. “Unless that’s recorded, how are they getting that?” Rivers muses. Beezy’s bond drops from $2M to $750K—grandma testifies, he’s out on house arrest. “You need 75 grand cash,” Rivers explains, “and collateral for the rest.” But freedom’s fragile—trial looms.
Self-Snitching: The Social Media Trap
This case thrives online—Rivers can’t believe it. “Everything’s online—the beef, the crime, the interviews,” he says. Beezy’s post-murder Instagram Live: “New year, new blessings… put that [expletive] in the dirt.” Rivers flags it: “That’s coming into evidence, I guarantee you.” Trap Boy Freddy’s video, freeway blocked, ranting about Mo3’s death—more fuel. “One could argue that’s self-snitching,” Rivers warns. “They make everybody clearly understand what they’re talking about.”
White’s prison call seals it. “It’s over with,” he tells reporters, resigned. “I haven’t been to the counter,” he claims—no snitching. Rivers doubts it: “We all know who’s telling.” White’s facing life; Beezy’s death row odds spike. “They’re so stupid,” Rivers groans. “If it doesn’t happen online, it doesn’t happen at all.” Cameras, posts, tracks—it’s a prosecutor’s dream.
The Fallout: A Second Indictment
October 2024, a twist—Dallas County indicts Devin Brown, held in Limestone County Jail, for Mo3’s murder. “The first public mention he’s connected,” Rivers notes. Details? Scarce. “If he’s cooperating, he ain’t saying anything publicly,” Rivers guesses. Brown’s role—shooter, planner?—blurs, but Beezy’s the headliner. “Aiding, abetting, procuring somebody to commit a crime,” Rivers says, “you’re just as guilty.” Beezy might as well have pulled the trigger—if the state’s right.
White’s gun charge—a five-year mandatory minimum—pales next to capital murder. “They ain’t giving trigger men freedom,” Rivers corrects a commenter. “Maybe the death penalty’s off the table if you cooperate.” Brown’s quiet, White’s talking—Beezy’s the prize.
The Bigger Picture: A Culture in Crisis
Rivers gets real: “Young black men are dying—it’s an epidemic.” Gang beefs, diss tracks, street cred—“They’re killing each other for nothing.” Mo3’s obit glowed—touched lives, inspired kids. “Why did he die?” Rivers asks. Beezy’s career—Beyoncé tours, Chris Brown collabs—trashed for what? “There needs to be a transition program for rappers,” he agrees with a commenter. “Too many ruin their lives because they can’t let the streets go.”
Media’s mute. “Nobody’s covering this crisis,” Rivers laments. “Black men are part of my community—I hate to see them killed like this.” It’s not fame fueling the streets—it’s the streets choking fame. “Build something,” he urges. “Education, relationships—not gang [expletive].” Five years of small wins? A house, a degree—not a cell.
What’s at Stake: Your Rap Reality
This Mo3 murder lawsuit hits fans hard. Loved “That’s On Me”? Beezy’s vibe’s locked up. Mo3’s “Broken Love” still slaps—but he’s gone. “Think about what your mother would say,” Rivers pleads. Trial’s pending—Beezy’s on house arrest, facing death. “He ain’t getting out anytime soon,” Rivers predicts. White’s life sentence looms; Brown’s a wildcard. Your playlist’s a crime scene—will rap wake up?
Conclusion: Mo3’s Legacy, Beezy’s Fate
As of April 11, 2025, the Mo3 murder lawsuit grips Dallas—Yellow Beezy’s capital murder charge ties a 2020 freeway hit to a rap feud gone fatal. Bruce Rivers’ video cuts deep: “They’re so stupid—everything’s online.” From diss tracks to Kiwan White’s gun, this 1500+ word saga traces a tragedy—Mo3 dead, Beezy caged, a culture bleeding. Death penalty or life? Updates roll on CLR—your take? Drop it below. This beat’s too heavy to fade.
About the Author: CLR Bruce Rivers
CLR Bruce Rivers is your go-to board-certified criminal lawyer, breaking down murder, mayhem, and everything in between on YouTube. Since joining June 12, 2019, Bruce has racked up 1.34M subscribers with his “Criminal Lawyer Reacts” series, blending legal savvy with street-smart takes—often sporting pearl-handled pistol cufflinks. From self-snitching rappers to courtroom dramas, he’s your guide through the chaos. Check out more at CLR Bruce Rivers, snag merch at clrbrucerivers.com, or follow on Instagram and Twitter for unfiltered justice.
