Jacksonville, Florida — The gavel slammed down, echoing a grim finality through the Duval County courtroom. For Hakeem Robinson, better known to the streets and the rap world as Ksoo, the words from Judge Tatiana Salvador were a death knell to his freedom: “mandatory life in prison without the eligibility for parole.” The sentence, delivered on October 1, 2025, marked the brutal end of a once-rising drill rapper’s career, sealing his fate and plunging the Jacksonville hip-hop scene into a somber reflection on loyalty, betrayal, and the devastating consequences of street beef. This wasn’t just a verdict; it was a testament to how quickly lyrical boasts can turn into damning evidence, and how family ties can fray under the relentless pressure of the law.

Ksoo’s story is a raw, unvarnished chapter from the hood, where the pen, or rather the judicial system, hit harder than any pistol. His journey began in the turbulent rap landscape of Jacksonville, a city where the music isn’t just about flows and flashy videos, but about survival, reputation, and tragically, who’s willing to pull the trigger first. Ksoo rose alongside ATK, a crew tied to Young Ace and Young Gene, transforming local feuds into drill anthems. But while their music garnered attention, their street beefs left a trail of bodies. By 2025, Ksoo’s name wasn’t just on playlists; it was increasingly found in court dockets. The same city that cheered his rise was now watching his dramatic fall.

The roots of this tragedy run deep into the ongoing war that has plagued Florida rap for years. On one side, ATK (Ace’s Top Killers) with Young Gene, Ace, and Ksoo; on the other, KTA (Six Block) with FBG Wooski and his camp. This wasn’t merely rap beef; it was street politics overlaid on beats, where diss tracks weren’t just music but open letters to rivals. The dead were named, mocked, and disrespected in songs, a grim reality starkly highlighted by Young Gene Ace’s viral track “Who I Smoke,” where the entire crew sang the names of murdered rivals on a golf course. To outsiders, it might have seemed shocking or even morbidly entertaining, but to Jacksonville, every lyric was a taunt, and every taunt carried deadly consequences. Ksoo, it seemed, was living the life he rapped about, caught in the middle of it all.

Things hit painfully close to home for Ksoo on January 15, 2019, when his stepbrother, Willie Addison, also known as Boss Goon, was tragically gunned down. The Robinson family was in the car that night, a moment Abdul Robinson Senior, Ksoo’s father, would later recount with enduring pain. This devastating loss left a deep scar on the family and ignited a retaliatory fire within ATK. Revenge became the only conversation on the streets.

A year later, Charles McCormack, known as Lil Buck and repping KTA, dropped a track titled “Young Showoff.” In it, he committed the unthinkable: he mocked Willie Addison’s death. This wasn’t just a diss; it was an act of extreme disrespect, spitting on a wound that hadn’t even begun to heal. Prosecutors later argued that this record was the flashpoint, the catalyst that pushed Ksoo over the edge, sparking the decision to hunt Lil Buck down.

On January 10, 2020, Charles McCormack left a staffing agency in Jacksonville’s Arlington neighborhood. As he walked toward his black Hyundai Sonata, a masked man dressed in all black confronted him. Witnesses described McCormack attempting to flee, but the shooter pursued him relentlessly, firing shot after shot until Lil Buck collapsed on the sidewalk. An off-duty police officer nearby, hearing five to seven rounds of gunfire, spotted a silver Nissan Altima speeding away. That car would later be traced directly back to Ksoo’s circle.

Initially, the identity of the shooter remained unknown, but Jacksonville police relentlessly pursued the case. They pulled surveillance footage, traced the getaway car, and leaned on witnesses. The major breakthrough came when Dominique “Butter” Barner, a cousin within the crew, began cooperating. He told police that he drove the Nissan, that Leroy “ATK Scotty” Whitaker was the backup armed with a gun, and that it was Ksoo who exited the vehicle and carried out the shooting.

The state’s evidence, however, went far beyond a single witness. Prosecutors presented camera footage, DNA evidence, and even social media “receipts.” The cameras captured the shooter chasing McCormack; though masked, prosecutors argued the body type matched Ksoo, who stands tall at 6’3”. DNA evidence also linked Ksoo to a shotgun discovered in a canal. Reports indicated that shells from that gun matched casings found at his stepbrother Willie Addison’s murder scene, strongly suggesting a revenge motive. Additionally, Ksoo’s social media activity became crucial. Just hours after the murder, he was reportedly seen clowning Lil Buck, posting McCormack’s picture with the caption “Bay,” and another IG story bragging, “Kill Anna then go get my toes done.” Such brazen public displays of gloating raised immediate red flags. “For the life of me, I don’t know why you would commit a murder and then go on the internet and brag about the murder,” one legal commentator remarked incredulously during the video.

By September 2020, Jacksonville sheriffs moved in, booking Ksoo and his father on murder charges. But nobody could have predicted the most devastating twist that emerged years later in court: Abdul Robinson Senior, Ksoo’s own father, took the witness stand and pointed to his son as the shooter. It was a shattering moment, family loyalty publicly collapsing. Robinson Senior, who himself faced charges of accessory after the fact to first-degree murder, testified against his son for a lighter sentence. The courtroom fell silent, a collective gasp at the unthinkable betrayal. He spoke of his health deteriorating and years lost with his younger children due to incarceration, framing his testimony as an agonizing choice, a means to mitigate his own fate. “To the best of your knowledge, was Charles McCormack involved in the shooting of Willie Addison or anyone else in that vehicle personally? No,” he responded to questioning. He further confirmed that McCormack’s song, mocking Willie Addison’s death, had personally upset him and his family.

By the time the case went to trial in July 2025, it had everything for media consumption: rival rappers, real shootings, snitching cousins, and a father testifying against his own son. The prosecution presented a “cut and dry” case, while the defense vehemently denied, claiming lies and setups. For the jury, the street soundtrack had been transformed into a cold, hard case file. The question was stark: Would Ksoo walk free, or would Jacksonville witness one of its most infamous rappers go down for life?

The courtroom drama intensified with witness testimonies. Dominique “Butter” Barner, once family in ATK, became a key state witness, detailing the murder plot: he drove the Nissan Altima, Leroy “ATK Scotty” Whitaker was armed as backup, and Ksoo was the one who jumped out to chase and shoot Lil Buck. Prosecutors hailed this as an “inside confession.” The defense, however, aggressively attacked Barner’s credibility, arguing he only began talking when faced with decades in prison himself, painting him as a “liar trying to save himself.” Yet, Barner’s story corroborated too many other pieces of evidence for the jury to dismiss.

The most emotionally charged testimony came from Charles McCormack’s mother, Yolanda Perkins. She wasn’t there to debate evidence; she was there to remind everyone of the human cost, of a son who didn’t make it home. Her voice heavy but steady, she spoke directly to the youth of Jacksonville, using her son’s death as a poignant warning. She reiterated how words and actions matter, adding that “music that glorifies death and destruction may dictate their future.” Her message resonated beyond the courtroom, targeting every young rapper chasing clout with diss tracks, every kid believing that “sliding on ops” was a path to respect. For her, justice wasn’t just about Ksoo’s conviction; it was about breaking the cycle of violence. She shared how losing her only son on a Wednesday, the same day her husband had died years prior, inflicted unbearable pain. Her voice cracked, but her message was clear and sharp: diss tracks, clout chasing, sliding on ops—she called it what it was: destruction.

Ksoo’s lawyers, led by Christopher Dass, mounted a vigorous defense, portraying the case as built on “deals with liars.” They argued Barner’s and Robinson Senior’s testimonies were motivated by self-preservation and lighter sentences, asserting, “You can’t build a case on desperate men trying to save themselves.” They also challenged witness descriptions of the shooter, who was initially described as 5’8″ or 5’9″ with a slim build, contrasting it with Ksoo’s 6’3″ and 200 lb frame. “The math don’t match,” they contended. Furthermore, they vigorously defended rap lyrics as art, questioning why Ksoo’s songs were treated as confessions while Lil Buck’s diss to Willie Addison’s death wasn’t considered evidence. For a moment, doubt seemed to hang in the air, but the state’s “pile of receipts” was too overwhelming. After two weeks of intense arguments, the jury deliberated for less than two hours before returning with a “Guilty of first-degree murder” verdict. As the news spread, Jacksonville was divided, some hailing it as justice, others decrying the system as biased. One thing, however, was undeniable: under Florida law, a guilty verdict for first-degree murder meant life without parole.

The sentencing on October 1, 2025, was highly anticipated. The courtroom was packed, the McCormack family bracing for closure, the Robinsons hollowed out by years of waiting. Ksoo, in a beige suit, sat at the center, staring forward. Judge Salvador allowed the victim’s family to speak again. Yolanda Perkins reiterated her powerful warning to the youth. When it was Ksoo’s turn to speak, instead of breaking down or begging for forgiveness, he reportedly stood tall, doubling down on his innocence, claiming his lyrics and lifestyle made him an easy target. Some expected an apology; others, an outburst. But Ksoo maintained his defiant demeanor, refusing to fold. As deputies moved to escort him out, eyewitnesses reported he walked out with a smirk on his face, chin up, as if to convey he wasn’t broken. For his supporters, it was strength; for McCormack’s family, it felt like disrespect.

Judge Salvador firmly stated the jury’s decision was clear and convincing. Then came the dreaded words: “mandatory life in prison without the eligibility for parole.” The gavel dropped, sealing Hakeem “Ksoo” Robinson’s fate. McCormick’s family shed tears of relief; his sisters embraced, and his mother whispered that her son could finally rest. For the Robinson family, it was devastation—a father’s testimony, a cousin’s flip, and a shattered family bond.

The story didn’t end with the courtroom silence. The internet exploded. Some celebrated justice for McCormack. ATK loyalists and Ksoo fans cried foul, claiming the trial was stacked, and arguing that rap lyrics were unfairly used as confessions. This case reignited a national conversation: should rap lyrics be used as evidence in court? Supporters of free speech argued prosecutors crossed a line, turning art into confessions, no different from violent movies or novels. The state, however, insisted his lyrics were “receipts,” aligning too closely with the timeline of McCormack’s murder.

This debate is not new. Rappers like Young Thug, TK, and Bobby Shmurda have faced legal battles for referencing names of deceased individuals in their music. While some argue it’s part of rap’s authentic expression, critics see it as disrespectful, exploitative, or even a celebration of violence, giving prosecutors ammunition. Young Thug faced criticism for referencing deceased figures, which added weight to his RICO case. TK’s songs, referencing violence and criminal activity, were used as evidence of his “criminal mindset.” Bobby Shmurda’s “Hot N***a” lyrics, mentioning real names tied to criminal activity, were used by the NYPD and prosecutors as proof of gang connections. For Ksoo, his posts and bars aligned too closely with the timeline of McCormack’s murder.

While the world debated lyrics, Jacksonville faced a starker truth: the cycle of violence in its rap scene continues to consume its own. Willie Addison was killed in 2019; Charles “Lil Buck” McCormack, in 2020; Adrien “Bby” Gainor, also tragically killed. And now, Ksoo has been sentenced to life behind bars. Every death has sparked another diss, another shooting, another grieving family. Ksoo’s story has become another chilling warning of how quickly the game can turn.

Hakeem “Ksoo” Robinson, once a name buzzing in Florida drill, is now a lifer in the Florida Department of Corrections. No parole, no second chance, no comeback tour. For McCormack’s family, it’s justice, but not necessarily healing. For the Robinson family, it’s heartbreak layered on betrayal. And for the streets, it’s a lesson written in blood and concrete: rap beef doesn’t just stay in the booth. In the judge’s eyes, the law had the final word. But in the culture, the debates rage on—about loyalty, snitching, art, and reality. At the end of the day, the verdict stands. Ksoo’s story, from rising drill rapper to life in prison, is now sealed. His fate is life in prison, and it’s goodbye forever.