EPISODE THREE - DOING THE BID

Moses Prison, Upstate New York 1997

Ticonderoga, NY (CPI)— After an arrogant courtroom display reminiscent of mythic crime bosses, Ronaldo Dominguez, reputed drug lord, turned business prodigy, has not uttered a word in the seven months he has served here at the Robert Moses Federal Detention Center, prison officials said.

His last words "look into Rafael Batista," refers to the Spanish businessman who has recently come under scrutiny for money laundering and racketeering activities. Federal prosecutors are using the RICO act as a foundation for building a case against Mr. Batista.

Meanwhile Mr. Dominguez, given the street moniker, "El Joven," is facing myriad Federal charges including conspiriacy, money laundering, and interstate and international drug trafficking. On a state level, the Nevada attorney general's office has requested that Dominguez be extradited to face multiple murder and conspiriacy to committ murder charges in aiding and abedding known hit men Ernesto "Chico" Sanchez and Cesear H. Ramos in the murders of several businessmen on the day of what is now being called the Reno Massacre.

Dominguez, Ramos and Sanchez have all been connnected to a New Year's shootout in Atlantic City, part of a 1995 drug war that spilled onto the streets of New York leaving 20 men dead by the end of that year.

Dominguez faces life on all charges state and federal.

Critics say the case will be hard to prove as there are no witnesses to cooberate any of the government's claims.

Anybody who has ever been involved with Dominguez has been killed, said prosecuting U.S. Attorney Dave Acheson, "It's going to be difficult to try but we have a few things up our sleeves."

Late Autumn sun rays reflect off the newly fallen snow outside Robert Moses Prison nestled deep in the Catskills in upstate New York. This ain't really a prison, Ronaldo thinks as he sits watching the white light that shines through his barless window.

It's an experimental big house called the Super-mini, the opposite of Super-Max -- minimum security for hardcore maximum offenders. Some pshchologists and enterprising businessmen are sick enough to figure, why not give these lowlifes a glimpse of paradise, make 'em crazier, treat 'em like actual humans so they can want to be better or as one political person put it, "live until they die with the steak dangling right in front of their noses."

So Ronaldo's looking at view of a lake and mountains out of what is actually more like a dorm room. That's fucked up. Abuelita, the old lady down on 135th street ain't got no window, he thinks to himself, but get a murder beef and you can look at swans all day.

The events leading up to his imprisonment in a place more like a desolate and obscure country club than a correctional facility, have nearly driven him to psychosis. Maybe those headshrinkers and talking heads are on to something. He never thought — not even in this slap- on-the-wrist-prison — he'd see the day where he would be locked up. He'd always envisioned himself as a martyr like the fictional Tony Montana or real-life figures such as Benjamin Siegel, Albert Anatasia even. He didn't even part his lips since he first checked in, not one spoken word of Spanish or English for seven months. Inmates josh with him about the circus he makes of court proceedings.

Like he did then, he now refers to any judge as a Chistoso or a joke. At his arraignments he turns to the prosecuting attorneys and clutches his testicles. Nothing matters to him anymore and in many ways he wants it all over with—to die. He even wrestles with the thought of giving everything up, telling the his whole story from start to finish, becoming immortal.

But who is he supposed to be snitching on? Everyone is dead. And while he hates Batista with a passion, he hates even more being put in the position to have to point a finger. Like Black Brown always says, "Real Niggas don't Snitch."

Sometimes, during restless nights, he recalls the Taino shaman in the dark and sinister cenote who once warns him that there would be "blood in his future." Each time he awakes screaming, still wondering if his original ecounter had been a dream itself. At the time it seemed so real. He remembers taking the "blood in future" prediction into consideration and also remembers underestimating the prophecy's validity because of its surreal overtones. He thinks that it's too simple, of course there is blood in my future, I'm livin' the life that I choose to live.

Maybe this is why his master plan to get the cash, kill and destroy is a failure.

Now he sit up nights when he gets no sleep at all looking through the darkness -- the small movements illluminated by the prison tower light -- at the deer galloping in the distance and the soaring eagles and hawks on a late night sojurn for prey.

As the seasons change he longs to be free spiritually—physically dead. He never allows the prison guards or cops to take the talisman from his neck, sometimes at his peril. He gets his ass whooped a lot. No one wants to put up with shit from a cat who can talk but doesn't. He hides, the medallion in his mouth and rectum when called for -- for the day when it was taken away he would surely die, he believes.

But even in this state of dimentia, he still secretly pays prison guards to bring him books and cigars. Some loyal soldiers still in the 'hood handle these transactions for him but they're stealing too, his power is diminished, money dwindling. Maybe ain't no such thing as loyalty after all..

He hardly leaves his domicile even when allowed to but sometimes he talks to the prison chaplin for 3 hours a day about the Bible, mostly in sporadic Spanish. His words are vague and incoherent as if they come from a raving mad man. He's easily angered when the chaplin makes faces that reflect confusion and bewilderment. For instance, the chaplin reads a verse and it's okay for a while. But in time, Joven goes on a tyraid about his love Juanita, Father Tony from the orphanage, Chico, carjacking and religious wars—things that have no relation or pertinence to any other thing he talks about.

Organized gibberish, like his memories.

Still the chaplin marvels at the young man's uncanny understanding of theology and wonders where the boy went wrong. In the end though, there is never any connection to anything, no insight to be gleaned from Ronaldo's rambling and even the chaplin can't convey to the psychiatrists, FBI, or prosecutors what Ronaldo Dominguez is actually thinking.

TO BE CONTINUED!