08/10/2026
Excerpt from a book titled (If Walls could Talk) is a book of essays, short stories, and poems...published later this year. This is from the perspective of an old courthouse. Where, as a 19 year old kid, I was sentenced to 15 years at hard labor inside Florida's oldest, most violent, supermax prison that has ever existed. A real life living hell.
I have stood here longer than most who enter my doors have even been alive. My foundation was poured long before automobiles crowded the streets outside. My ceiling and walls hold the echoes of whispered prayers, angry accusations, triumphant verdicts, broken promises and ruined lives. I watched generations walk by my columns believing they actually controlled their own destinies, and yet, discover all too quickly that an unexpected fate often lurked inside me.
I’ve seen polished shoes, muddy boots, military uniforms, preacher's collars, prostitute’s gowns, and cold prison shackles, all have walked my floors. And every step left behind the dregs of Sorrow. Regret. Anger. Frustration. Resentment. Bewilderment. And once in a while, a little Hope, Joy and Happiness.
I do remember. All the people. The verdicts. The shame. The tears. The victories. And the defeats. Some days stand out more than others. One of which, was a nineteen-year-old boy who walked through my doors carrying a few personal belongings and a heart overflowing with fear, regret, and sorrow. His name was Ricky. I recognized the look in the boy’s eyes immediately. It is that age old expression worn by those who still believe beyond hope that somehow, someone, or something, can still save them. Yes, I saw that look, and I soon would see it fade.
The courtroom filled quickly that morning. His family gathered along my wooden benches. Lawyers on both sides shuffled their papers with noisy anticipation. A half dozen Bailiffs (double the normal number) and ready for trouble, stood stiffly against my walls. Conversations dropped to whispers. Voices hushed. I noticed an unusual heaviness in the air. It felt like some bad thing had been stacked atop another bad thing, and the air itself threatened to crack open under the weight of the boy’s unseen burdens.
The older white haired circuit judge climbed onto his bench. His robes, blind and black, like the shadows of justice hung loosely on him. Then, a troubling silence settled over everyone. I know that silence well, I’ve known it for decades. It’s justice! And it waits no man. It is a strange moment, and to the accused it is infinite. It comes just before lives are interrupted. It divides reality, by splitting it into "before" and "after." This young man stood with his lawyer when instructed. He tried to stand tall. Tried to look brave and unafraid, but I knew he was neither, he was terrified, under attack by primordial fear, a demon who often lurked within my corridors.
I have watched many men stand where he stood, and I certainly know fear when I see it. His shaking hands betrayed him. His fast, irregular breathing betrayed him. I watched his eyes intently searching the room, not for escape—for he knew there was none—perhaps he was looking for something familiar to grasp onto before his life and everything he had ever known forever changed.
The white haired judge began speaking. The words drifted into my rafters, piled on top of countless other speeches delivered over the years. I heard every word, every syllable, but this young man did not. Fear drowns out words, language, and their meaning, or what real consequences await.
I heard his pounding heart grow louder than the judge's voice. Then it came, the pause. It lasted only seconds, but to Ricky, it was an eternity. Even I seemed to hold my breath. And when it came, the sentence fell like a massive landslide. "Fifteen years" at hard labor, to be served inside the oldest, largest, most violent super max prison in the state. The dreaded "Rock" at Raiford. FSP… Florida State Prison.
I felt the words strike the room like cannon fire as a collective "gasp" rose from the rows of people and that gasp climbed my ancient walls in a tide of emotion that had no threshold. Time froze, the judge and people frozen in time, but the boy wasn’t. I watched him scan the frozen faces, looking for help that would never come. And then with a loud groan, time shifted back into gear, and realty returned to a stunned courtroom.
Everyone seemed dazed, I don’t think any believed their ears. But the boy did. Because I felt the life go out of him, shoulders drooped, head went limp on his chest, silent pain flowing from his eyes in streams. Even prosecutors, the very ones who sought conviction and punishment seemed stunned by what had just been spoken. I have witnessed death sentences and I have witnessed acquittals. I have watched murderers laugh and innocent men cry.
Yet there was something uniquely heartbreaking about watching youth receive what surely felt like a lifetime of misery. Nineteen years old and sentenced to spend nearly as many years behind prison walls as he had spent living outside them. Time itself paused, then stopped. No one moved. No one knew what to do. The boy's family rushed toward him; all were in disbelief.
Mothers know there are moments when they are helpless. Fathers reach for sons they cannot save. Brothers and sisters cling to hope that will quickly slip away. Hands touched his shoulders. Faces pressed close. A torrent of tears wept onto my wooden floors, landing and joining countless others I was forced to absorb over the years.
Words were spoken. "I love you." "We'll be here." "Be strong." Perhaps those were the words. Perhaps not. It hardly mattered because the young man heard none of them. Grief speaks a language beyond hearing. And then, tragically, I watched him retreat and disappear into himself. His face remained still, but something inside him broke. I heard the snap. He was no longer like he was observing someone else's tragedy. He was its center. The room filled with sorrow and despair so heavy even my old beams were burdened by it.
Then duty returned, as it always does. Everyone remained helpless as deputies quickly stepped forward and clanking steel appeared. Chains fastened around ankles, wrists secured. Belly chain cinched around his waist, between his legs, and all of it hooked together as one piece. It's called being shackled. I have seen and heard shackles many times, the sound is unmistakable. This kind of cold steel has its own language. It speaks of defeat and surrender. Of finality. It tells of one’s life no longer belonging to them. They and everything they know and do, is put under the control of others.
The young man took his first shackled steps. They were tentative at first. Small shuffling steps. The beginning of learning what prisoners called the Raiford shuffle. He nearly stumbled. Not from the chains, but from the weight of knowing where they would lead. I knew that destination well. Over the years I had sent countless men to Florida State Prison. Some deserved every day they served. Others carried more foolishness than evil. Many entered boys and returned old men. Far too many never returned at all.
The Rock. Even its name carried dread. Its reputation had entered my courtroom long before many of the judges who served beneath my roof understood what kind of place it was. And for some, it didn’t matter. Violence. Blood. Steel. Concrete. Fear. Death. R**e. Robbery. Murder. These words lingered behind every sentence that ended with its name, “The Rock.”
As deputies led him shuffling along toward my entrance, Ricky glanced back only once. Families waved goodbye through tears. Some collapsed onto my benches. Others simply stared out of disbelieving eyes. No one knew what to say. There was nothing to say. And for the boy, another chapter began. I only hoped it would not be his last chapter. Occasionally I overheard reports about him, but it was never anything good.
There are moments when language fails completely. The great doors opened. Morning light poured inside. For one brief instant the sunlight touched the young man's face. Then he disappeared. The doors closed. Their echo rolled through my halls, then silence returned once more. Eventually the courtroom emptied. The judge removed his robe. The lawyers gathered their files. The deputies left. The janitor swept the floor. Life continued, as it always had. But I remembered. Old Courthouses remember. We remember every oath sworn beneath our ceilings. Every innocent child. Every guilty man. Every mother who cried. Every father who stood motionless because tears would not come.
Justice lives within walls like mine. So does mercy. So does regret. I have watched all three wrestle with one another for generations. And though I cannot judge those who judge, I sometimes wonder how different lives might unfold if justice remembered that fear could live inside a nineteen-year-old boy just as surely as hope.
Long after everyone from that day is gone, I will still stand here.
Weathered. Silent. Holding one more story inside old brick and aging timber. For buildings like me never forget the footsteps of those who believed they were walking toward the end of life.....but instead, it would be another chapter.
Richard Moseley
