JUST IN: Richard Moore Execution | Crime, Last Meal + Final words | US Death Row South Carolina –
To the family of Mr. James Mahoney, I am deeply sorry for the pain and sorrow I caused you all. To my children and granddaughters, I love you and I am so proud of you. Thank you for the joy you have brought to my life. These were the final words of Richard Bernard Moore, read by his attorney as he lay strapped to a gurney, eyes closed, head tilted toward the ceiling.
In just moments, lethal injection would begin flowing through his veins. But here’s what makes this case absolutely unprecedented. The judge who sentenced him to death begged for his life to be spared. Three jurors who condemned him wrote letters pleading for mercy. And the former prison director, a die-hard supporter of capital punishment, recommended clemency for the first time in his entire career.
Yet on November 1st, 2024, at exactly 6:01 p.m., Richard Moore’s execution began anyway. What you’re about to hear is the complete story of a case that divided a state, challenged the very foundation of our justice system, and ended with 21 minutes that changed everything. 23 years.
That’s how long Richard Moore spent on death row, 8,395 days waiting to die. He was executed by lethal injection at the Broad River Correctional Institution in Columbia, South Carolina, becoming the 45th person executed in the state since the death penalty was reinstated, and only the second since South Carolina resumed executions in September 2024 after a 13-year pause.
But to understand why this execution sparked nationwide controversy, why people who literally sent him to death row fought to save his life, we need to go back to where it all started. September 16th, 1999, 3:00 a.m., Spartanburg, South Carolina. Picture this. It’s the middle of the night.
A small convenience store called Nikki’s Speedy Mart. Inside, 42-year-old clerk James Mahoney is behind the counter watching hurricane news on a small TV. The only other person in the store is Terry Hadden mindlessly playing video poker in the corner. Then, Richard Bernard Moore walks in. He’s 34 years old. And critically, this detail will become the center of everything.
He’s unarmed when he enters that store. Moore grabs two cans of Icehouse beer and walks to the counter. What happens next is where the story fragments into competing versions, each one painting a completely different picture of what kind of man Richard Moore really was. According to eyewitness Terry Hadden, he heard Mahoney yell, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hadden turned around to see something shocking.
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Moore holding both of Mahoney’s hands with one hand while gripping a gun in the other. Moore pointed that gun at Hadden and told him not to move. Then he fired. The bullet missed. But Moore’s version, given years later during post-conviction hearings, tells a different story entirely. He claimed he was about 11 or 12 cents short for his purchase.
And according to Moore, Mahoney responded with words that ignited everything. “Get your black ass out of my store.” Moore said those words made him angry enough that he refused to leave. Now, here’s where it gets violent and complicated. During the struggle that followed, both men were shot. Mahoney pulled a second gun and shot Moore in the arm.
Moore shot Mahoney in the chest. James Mahoney died from that gunshot wound. Moore then went behind the counter and stole approximately $1,400 in cash before fleeing the scene. About a mile and a half from the convenience store, Deputy Bobby Rollins heard a loud bang pierce the night air. He investigated and found something bizarre.
A pickup truck that had backed directly into a telephone pole. Richard Moore was sitting in the back of that truck bleeding from a gunshot wound to his left arm. As Rollins ordered him to surrender, Moore immediately confessed. “I did it. I did it. I give up.” The stolen money was right there. $1,400 in a blood-covered bag in the front seat.
The murder weapon was found on a nearby highway shortly before dawn. Moore was treated at Spartanburg Hospital for his gunshot wound, then transported to jail where he was charged with armed robbery, assault and battery with intent to k!ll, and murder. The case seemed open and shut. A violent robbery, a dead store clerk, a confession at the scene, the murder weapon recovered, blood money in the truck.
But 2 years later, when Richard Moore went to trial, something happened that would haunt this case for over two decades. October 18th through 20th, 2001, Judge Gary Clary presiding. The prosecution was led by Trey Gowdy. Yes, that Trey Gowdy, who would later become a US Congressman and a household name in American politics.
He was assisted by Barry Barnett and Donnie Willingham. The prosecution had physical evidence. They had a confession. They had an eyewitness. But that eyewitness, Terry Hatton, started giving inconsistent accounts. In his original police statement, Hatton said Moore told Mahoney, “Jamie, get the hell back.” But at trial, Hatton claimed he didn’t remember saying that.
He testified that he saw Moore using one hand to hold down both of Mahoney’s hands while pointing a gun at him. A detail that wasn’t in his original police statement. These inconsistencies should have been a gift to the defense. But Richard Moore had a massive problem that had nothing to do with evidence. Here’s the controversy that makes this case unlike any other currently on death row in South Carolina.
Prosecutor struck every single eligible African-American from the jury pool. Every single one. The result, an all-white jury, 11 white jurors and one Hispanic juror deciding the fate of a black man accused of murdering a white store clerk. Richard Moore became the last person on South Carolina’s death row to be convicted by a jury with no black members whatsoever.
Moore himself did not testify at trial, but he was allowed to briefly address the jury. When he tried to mention that his life was at stake, Judge Gary Clary repeatedly stopped him, instructing him to limit himself to the evidence and not discuss punishment. The jury convicted Moore of murder, armed robbery, assault with intent to k!ll, and possession of a firearm during commission of a violent crime.
Then came the penalty phase. The jury found three statutory aggravating factors. Murder during armed robbery, creating great risk to others in a public place, and committing murder for monetary gain. On October 22nd, 2001, Richard Bernard Moore was sentenced to death. He was sent to death row expecting to die within months.
His first execution date was set for January 22nd, 2002, just 3 months away. But Richard Moore didn’t die in 2002, or 2003, or 2010, or 2020. Instead, something unexpected happened during those 23 years on death row. Something that would eventually turn the very people who sent him to death into the loudest voices fighting to save his life.
Death row changes people. Some become harder, more bitter, consumed by rage at a system they believe failed them. Richard Moore went in the opposite direction. On death row, Moore was baptized as a Christian. Every single Sunday, he called Pastor Rick Russ to do virtual communion together.
He took up painting and created an acrylic work depicting the nativity scene that he sent to Pastor Russ. But, spiritual transformation is easy to claim. Anyone can say they found God when facing execution. What’s harder to fake is behavior over 23 years. During more than two decades in one of the harshest environments in the American prison system, Moore had only two minor disciplinary infractions.
Two. In 23 years. The first was for using disrespectful language toward an officer. The second was for having Skittles outside his cell. Both incidents occurred in his first few years in custody. For the remaining two decades, nothing. No violence, no infractions, no incidents. Jon Osmond, the former director of the South Carolina Department of Corrections who ran the system from 2003 to 2011, watched Moore for years.
Osmond was and is a strong supporter of capital punishment. He believes in the death penalty. But, when it came to Richard Moore, Osmond did something he had never done in his entire career. He recommended clemency. He called Moore a reliable, consistent force for good on death row. Think about that.
The man whose job was literally to manage death row, a staunch death penalty supporter, looked at Richard Moore and said, “This man should not die.” But, here’s what really gets me about this story. It’s the small details that reveal who someone truly is. Every Sunday evening, Richard Moore called his children. Not just when he felt like it, not just on birthdays, every Sunday.
He sent them cards. He drew pictures of SpongeBob and Ren and Stimpy for them. He created homemade word puzzles and exchanged them with his daughter, Alexandria. His children said he remained engaged in their lives from behind bars, giving advice and letters, staying present even when he couldn’t physically be there.
Later, he got to see his grandchildren on video calls. This is a man who went into prison as a violent criminal and spent 23 years becoming a father, a grandfather, an artist, a Christian, and according to prison officials, a force for good. Moore’s execution was postponed over and over.
Originally scheduled for January 22nd, 2002. Then, December 4th, 2020, stayed because South Carolina lacked lethal injection drugs. Then, April 29th, 2022, when Moore chose the firing squad. But, the South Carolina Supreme Court issued a temporary stay on April 20th. On July 31st, 2024, the court finally ruled that South Carolina’s execution methods, firing squad and electrocution were constitutional.
A new execution date was set, November 1st, 2024. But, by this point, something unprecedented was happening. Remember Judge Gary Clary, the man who sentenced Richard Moore to death back in 2001? He wrote to the governor, “Moore’s case is unique, and after years of thought and reflection, I humbly ask that you grant executive clemency to Mr.
Moore as an act of grace and mercy.” The judge who sentenced him to death was now begging for his life to be spared. Three of the jurors who originally condemned Moore wrote letters asking for his sentence to be changed to life without parole. These weren’t bleeding-heart activists. These were the people who sat in that courtroom in 2001, heard the evidence, and decided Richard Moore deserved to die.
And 23 years later, they changed their minds. John Osmond, the former corrections director, joined them. Moore’s son, Lindell, and daughter, Alexandria, pleaded for their father’s life. Childhood friends wrote letters, pastors advocated, organizations rallied. An unprecedented coalition formed around one simple idea: Richard Moore had changed.
The man on death row in 2024 was not the same man who walked into the Nikki’s Speedy Mart in 1999. The question became, “Does our justice system have room for redemption?” Governor Henry McMaster faced a choice no South Carolina governor had made in nearly 50 years. No South Carolina governor has reduced a death sentence since the US Supreme Court allowed states to restart executions nearly half a century ago.
On November 1st, 2024, McMaster announced his decision. Clemency denied. He provided no specific reason. His statement said only that he had reviewed all materials and spoken to the victim’s family. The execution would proceed. November 1st, 2024. Richard Moore’s last day alive. For his final meal, Moore chose steak cooked medium, fried catfish and shrimp, scalloped potatoes, green peas, broccoli with cheese, sweet potato pie, German chocolate cake, and grape juice.
It’s the kind of meal that tells a story. Comfort food, southern staples, the tastes of home and childhood and better days. Moore had been given a choice between three execution methods. Lethal injection, firing squad, or electric chair. Interestingly, back in 2022 when his execution was Moore had chosen the firing squad.
But for 2024, he changed his decision. He chose lethal injection. Moore prepared his final statement. But he wouldn’t deliver it himself. His attorney, Lindsey Vann, would read it for him. To the family of Mr. James Mahoney, I am deeply sorry for the pain and sorrow I caused you all. To my children and granddaughters, I love you and I am so proud of you.
Thank you for the joy you have brought to my life. To all of my family and friends, new and old, thank you for your love and support. No proclamations of innocence. No rage at the system. Just remorse for the victim’s family and love for his own. At the Broad River Correctional Institution in Columbia, South Carolina, witnesses began gathering.
Present were two family members of James Mahoney, Moore’s lawyer Lindsey Vann, his spiritual advisor, three journalists, a South Carolina Department of Corrections official, a law enforcement agent, and Spartanburg solicitor Barry Barnett, one of the prosecutors who had helped convict Moore 23 years earlier. Outside, about 25 to 40 protesters held a vigil, reading the names of the 44 other South Carolinians executed since 1976.
Inside the death chamber, something unusual happened. Unlike previous executions, the curtain was already open when media witnesses arrived. Moore’s last words had already been read. Richard Moore lay strapped to a gurney, a blanket covering most of his body. His eyes were closed, his head pointed toward the ceiling.
At 6:01 p.m., a prison employee announced the execution could begin. Moore took several deep breaths that sounded like snores over the next minute. Then, his breathing became shallow. At approximately 6:04 p.m., his breathing stopped. But death doesn’t come instantly with lethal injection. The heart continues. The body processes.
Time stretches. Lindsey Vann, Moore’s attorney, clutched a prayer bracelet with a cross. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her client die. The seconds ticked by. 1 minute, 2 minutes, 5 minutes, 10 minutes. For 21 minutes, Richard Moore’s body lay on that gurney as the chemicals did their work. Witnesses reported he showed no obvious signs of discomfort during the execution.
At 6:24 p.m., 21 minutes after the lethal injection began, Richard Bernard Moore was pronounced dead. Richard Moore became the 45th person executed in South Carolina since the death penalty was reinstated, and the second person executed since the state resumed executions in September 2024. But, the questions his case raises echo far beyond South Carolina.
Can people truly change, or are we forever defined by our worst moments? When the judge who sentenced someone to death and jurors who condemned them all ask for mercy, should that matter? What does justice look like when it’s administered by an all-white jury judging a black defendant? Is 23 years of exemplary behavior on death row enough to earn a second chance at life? These aren’t easy questions.
They don’t have simple answers. James Mahoney’s family lost someone they loved in a violent robbery. That pain is real. That loss is permanent. Nothing can bring him back. The story of Richard Bernard Moore is ultimately about all of us. It’s about what we believe justice means. It’s about whether we think redemption is possible.
It’s about who deserves to live and who deserves to die and who gets to make those decisions. On November 1st, 2024, the state of South Carolina decided that despite everything, despite the judge’s plea, despite the jurors’ letters, despite the prison director’s recommendation, despite 23 years of transformation, Richard Moore’s crime in 1999 was unforgivable.
At 6:24 p.m., 21 minutes after the lethal injection began, that decision became final. Richard Bernard Moore was 57 years old. He had spent 23 years, nearly half his life, on death row. And in the end, the last words anyone heard from him were words of love for his family and sorrow for the family of the man he k!lled 25 years ago in a convenience store in Spartanburg.
What do you think? Does our justice system have room for redemption? Should the opinions of judges and jurors who changed their minds matter? Let me know in the comments below. If you found this story as compelling and troubling as I did, hit that like button and subscribe for more deep dives into cases that challenge how we think about crime, punishment, and justice in America. Thanks for watching.
I’ll see you in the next one.
