Three years ago, the Defense Department led an ambitious international effort to better protect civilians during combat, a movement built on the bloody lessons of Afghanistan and Iraq.

The Pentagon created a network with European partners, driving the creation of shared standards. Civilian harm experts described the moment as a “unique opportunity” for American leadership by example.

Today, those efforts continue — without the United States, after Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth dismantled the civilian protection mission.

And Thursday, no U.S. delegation will be in the room when the international forum the U.S. cofounded meets at NATO headquarters in Belgium.

The country’s absence from the International Contact Group on Civilian Harm Mitigation and Response summit reinforces the abandonment of a mission the Pentagon had encouraged partners to embrace, said current and former officials. Most spoke to ProPublica on condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation from President Donald Trump’s administration.

They called the step back “humiliating” and “dangerous,” pointing to reports of rising civilian casualties in Iran following strikes on schools and homes.

“There will be a day when people who care about mitigating civilian harm can come back and say, ‘OK, are we ready to solve this problem?’” said Jenny McAvoy, a former Defense Department official who helped shape the U.S. civilian protection program. “But there are already enormous consequences of abandoning this work.”

The Pentagon declined to comment about the lack of U.S. participation in the Brussels talks. A spokesperson previously told ProPublica that the Defense Department factors civilian protections into all phases of operational planning and “remains committed to fulfilling its civilian harm mitigation and response responsibilities.”

The Pentagon adopted the civilian harm mitigation and response mission in 2022 after years of bloodshed in the post-9/11 “forever wars.” Known as CHMR and pronounced “chimmer,” the framework called for a specialized center to collect strike data and for advisers embedded with regional commands to help mitigate the risk to noncombatants.

Not long after, the U.S. teamed up with the Netherlands to coordinate efforts internationally. The two countries had been frequent partners in recent military campaigns, including the fight against the Islamic State group, and were both coming to terms with high-profile civilian casualty incidents. For the United States, years of harm in Iraq and Afghanistan had drawn international outrage and pledges from commanders to better collect data and learn from deadly mistakes.

The Dutch were still addressing the fallout from a 2015 operation in Iraq in which air strikes targeting a car-bomb factory ignited a nearby munitions depot, setting off an enormous explosion that killed at least 70 civilians and wounded hundreds. Dutch responsibility wasn’t revealed until 2019, causing a national scandal and accusations of a cover-up.

In 2023, the U.S. and the Netherlands formed the loose coalition on CHMR. Participants described a small, informal group that has met half a dozen times since 2023 to share best practices and hear briefings on civilian casualty trends.

Advocacy groups said it had taken years to get the U.S. military to think of civilian casualties as more than “collateral damage,” showing commanders how the deaths of innocents were anathema to their morals and strategically harmful to their missions. The eventual adoption of CHMR guidelines by American defense officials helped their counterparts abroad make the case for programs in their own countries.

“By the U.S. putting itself out there and saying, ‘We learned, we can do better,’ it gives permission and makes it OK for other governments to similarly acknowledge, ‘Yeah, we can do better too,’” said McAvoy.

As participants gather this week in Brussels to discuss how to continue strengthening CHMR, however, the early momentum from the U.S. side has evaporated.

Hegseth, who derides rules of engagement as “woke,” gutted the CHMR program over the objections of the nation’s top commanders, ProPublica reported last month. Staff plunged from nearly 200 to about two dozen.

Days before the latest summit in Brussels, the United States wasn’t listed as a participant and there was no sign anyone from the Defense Department would attend. Current and former officials predicted either a no-show or, at most, a single delegate from one of the commands showing up.

To experts, the message was clear: The era of U.S. leadership on civilian protection was over.

“The U.S. stopped participating in this group last year and people assumed that meant the group would die,” said McAvoy. “But the group continued to exist and to meet — without the U.S. — under the leadership of the U.K. and the Netherlands.”

The two-day summit opens with a broad discussion of CHMR, such as how it applies in coalitions or in operations at sea, that includes advocacy groups and academics, a draft agenda reviewed by ProPublica shows. Day 2 is a closed-door session for more intimate talks among senior representatives of member states. The meeting wraps with a “looking ahead” panel.

Past attendees included Austria, Australia, Belgium, Denmark, Finland, Germany and Norway. The nations represent a wide variation in approaches and needs when it comes to CHMR, participants said.

The U.K., for example, doesn’t have a formal framework for civilian harm mitigation and response, and advocates have spent years pushing the British Ministry of Defense to adopt policies similar to those of the United States. Though humanitarian groups generally regarded the American CHMR enterprise as nascent and imperfect, the overall framework provided a worthy standard, said Mae Thompson of the Ceasefire Centre for Civilian Rights, a London-based advocacy group.

Advocates have framed the Pentagon’s rollback as an opportunity for the U.K. to step into a leadership role, Thompson said, and they’ve been encouraged by a recent internal report by the defense ministry that calls for formalization of a program in Britain, including systems to track civilian harm, investigate, and make amends and offer post-harm response.

NATO boasts a civilian protection policy that predates the American model, but the organization is now incorporating elements of the U.S. approach, said Andrew Hyde, who studies U.S.-European relations at the Stimson Center, a nonpartisan foreign policy think tank.

Hyde said international talks are important for sorting out how CHMR applies in joint operations when the United States, NATO and European nations all have different interpretations of harm mitigation. The diminished U.S. role, he said, means NATO and other partners must step up on coordination.

The shift in leadership could end up shielding civilian protection work from the whims of whichever U.S. administration is in power and leading to more enduring reforms, Hyde said.

“NATO has continued to push forward without U.S. support or participation, keeping up the momentum and ready for U.S. re-engagement,” Hyde said.

The post Empty Seat: U.S. Absent as Western Powers Meet on Wartime Protections for Civilians appeared first on ProPublica.

Within a few days of the terror attacks that killed nearly 3,000 people on Sept. 11, 2001, FBI agents identified an important possible suspect: a middle-aged Saudi graduate student who provided crucial help to two of the al-Qaida hijackers as they settled in San Diego early the year before.

The Saudi, Omar al-Bayoumi, had since moved to England, and he was arrested there at the FBI’s request. A police search of his home and office yielded a trove of evidence that quickly deepened investigators’ suspicions about Bayoumi and his dealings with the terrorists. But what happened to much of that evidence after it was delivered to the FBI remains a mystery.

Bayoumi was questioned and released by British police and later returned to Saudi Arabia. For years thereafter, the FBI would insist he wasn’t really a suspect at all — that Bayoumi had met the hijackers by chance, had helped them unwittingly and seemed nothing like a militant Islamist.

As the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks is marked Friday, questions about how the FBI handled Bayoumi’s case have only grown, driven in part by evidence that was seized from him in 2001 but not made public for years or even shared with field agents who sought to investigate his role.

That evidence and other FBI information, now filed in a federal lawsuit against the Saudi government by victims of the attacks, has undercut both Bayoumi’s claims of innocence and the FBI’s profile of him as a genial, pro-American civil servant. While he was living publicly as a student, it shows, Bayoumi worked closely with Saudi religious officials, operated as a Saudi intelligence asset and collaborated with several clerics who would later emerge as militant Islamists tied to al-Qaida.

This week, representatives of the 9/11 families are again demanding an end to what they have called the Justice Department’s silence about what happened to the Bayoumi evidence and why he and other Saudis were not more aggressively pursued. The families have also questioned whether the Trump administration — which has strengthened U.S. diplomatic and business ties to the Saudi royal family — is committed to pursuing the truth about the possible role of Saudi officials.

“We still have not been given the full picture of what happened,” said Kathleen Zapata, whose father, Joseph Coppo, was killed in the World Trade Center. “Why are we having to fight against our own government simply to get answers about the most horrible attack ever on American soil?”

A White House spokesperson said, “President Trump is leading the most transparent administration in history, and his team is working diligently on identifying records that are responsive to these families’ request.” A Justice Department spokesperson declined to comment, noting that many of the officials involved in the early 9/11 investigation no longer work for the government.

While former Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama and Joe Biden are expected to attend a ceremony at the 9/11 memorial in New York, President Donald Trump has said he will commemorate the anniversary separately at the Pentagon.

The Saudi government has long denied any role in the attacks, often citing FBI and CIA statements that the royal family was an enemy of al-Qaida and its Saudi-born leader, Osama bin Laden. A spokesperson for the Saudi Embassy in Washington did not return messages asking for comment, including a request to speak to Bayoumi.

From San Diego to Dulles International Airport

A ProPublica examination of how the FBI handled the Bayoumi evidence shows that questions surrounding the Saudi connections to the 9/11 plot date to Jan. 15, 2000, when the first two hijackers landed in Los Angeles on a flight from Bangkok.

The CIA had followed the two men, Nawaf al-Hazmi and Khalid al-Mihdhar, as they met with other Qaida operatives in Malaysia days before. But the agency said it lost track of them when they flew to Thailand and then entered the United States using their real names and Saudi passports. (The CIA did not inform the FBI of their presence in the United States until Aug. 24, 2001, according to the report of the 9/11 Commission.)

Unlike several Qaida operatives who led the hijacking teams, Mihdhar and Hazmi spoke no English and knew almost nothing of life in a Western society. The mastermind of the plot, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, told CIA interrogators he advised them to seek help from Muslim communities in California, according to the 9/11 Commission. But the commission and many U.S. terrorism experts expressed skepticism that he would deploy such ill-equipped operatives without providing them with any contacts in the United States.

Bayoumi claimed his meeting with the hijackers was happenstance. After driving from San Diego on Feb. 1, 2000, he said, he had a meeting at the Saudi Consulate in Los Angeles and then went to a nearby halal cafe. There, he later told the FBI, he overheard Hazmi and Mihdhar speaking Gulf-accented Arabic and introduced himself. Seeking to be hospitable, he said, he told them they might want to try San Diego.

Shortly after the men stepped off a bus there three days later, Bayoumi said, he happened to run into them again at a local mosque. The next day, he arranged for them to rent an apartment in the building where he lived with his family, co-signed their lease and set up a bank account for them, briefly loaning them about $1,500 for the deposit. He went on to introduce them to more than two dozen local men who helped them in various ways.

The FBI had already looked closely at Bayoumi, launching a preliminary investigation in 1998 after neighbors reported what they said were suspicious gatherings of young Arab men at his apartment. That inquiry determined that Bayoumi, who had worked for the Saudi civil aviation ministry, was still receiving a generous government stipend through an aviation company for which he did no work. The investigation found no criminal activity, however, and it was closed after six months, officials said.

Barely a week after the 9/11 attacks, the FBI asked the British authorities to arrest Bayoumi in Birmingham, England, where he had begun graduate business studies at Aston University.

David Campbell, then a young terrorism investigator, was dispatched from London by the Metropolitan Police Service, which is responsible for counterterrorism efforts across Britain. He recalled flying back down the highway in a special police vehicle with his handcuffed prisoner in the back seat, the sirens blaring. “They’d been told they had one of the 9/11 terrorists,” he said in an interview.

The FBI sent three agents from the United States to assist with Bayoumi’s interrogation at the Paddington Green police station in Central London. They were joined by a senior FBI attache, Joseph Hummell, who worked closely with the police service’s  Anti-Terrorist Branch, known as SO13.

But despite those close contacts and the FBI’s considerable information about Bayoumi, very little of it was shared with Campbell and the Birmingham detective who joined him in questioning the suspect.

“We were really in the dark,” Campbell recalled. “They never even mentioned that he had been under investigation by the FBI in San Diego in 1998.”

Nor, Campbell said, were the interrogators briefed about the materials that had just been taken from Bayoumi’s Birmingham home and office, which included boxes of papers, correspondence, photographs, computer disks, videotapes and an address book. Yet some of those items had been immediately flagged as important, records show.

Among them was a diagram in Bayoumi’s handwriting that appeared to calculate the trajectory of an airplane to a point on the horizon. Another was a video of Bayoumi touring and describing the U.S. Capitol, a building that had been identified by U.S. investigators as a prospective al-Qaida target.

After questioning Bayoumi for almost a week, Campbell said, he and the Birmingham detective joined two senior SO13 officers on a conference call with Justice Department attorneys in the United States. The two interrogators were given a brief opportunity to express their view that Bayoumi’s account seemed deeply suspicious and full of falsehoods, Campbell said.

It didn’t seem to matter. The U.S. officials, who included lawyers in Washington and federal prosecutors in New York, concluded quickly that they did not have sufficient evidence to seek Bayoumi’s extradition.

“When the call ended, we just looked at each other in complete disbelief,” Campbell recalled.

FBI documents declassified in response to a 2021 executive order by Biden give a partial answer to what happened to the Bayoumi evidence.

One memorandum on Oct. 11, 2001, notes that New Scotland Yard, as the Metropolitan Police Service was often called, had provided the FBI attache’s office with “copies of all recovered exhibits, including mirror images of all computers.” A complete copy of the trove was also sent via Federal Express to the FBI’s New York Field Office, the memo noted.

By then, however, the agency’s new director, Robert Mueller, had taken the unusual step of ordering that the 9/11 case be run out of its Washington headquarters. The Penttbomteam, as it became known in the FBI’s clunky acronym for Pentagon/Twin Towers Bombing, mobilized thousands of FBI agents and analysts around the world.

One group focused on the hijackers of American Airlines Flight 77, the plane that crashed into the Pentagon, tracing the path of Hazmi and Mihdhar from Southern California to Dulles International Airport in Virginia, where they abandoned a used Toyota Corolla registered to one of their former addresses in San Diego.

How the headquarters team translated and analyzed the materials obtained from Bayoumi in Britain is unclear. But the team did not appear to share the evidence widely. In another memo, dated May 15, 2002, the San Diego FBI office noted that it was asked to review only five of the more than 80 VHS tapes seized from Bayoumi in Birmingham. Two of those were duplicates and included footage of a paintball fight and a family trip to Sea World. “Nothing of significant investigative/evidential value has been discovered,” the memo stated.

Although Bayoumi’s friends and associates helped the hijackers with everything from part-time jobs to flying lessons (they flunked out because their English was so poor), FBI leaders dismissed the idea that any of the people who helped them knew they were Qaida operatives sent on a still-evolving terrorist mission.

“As far as we know, they contacted no known terrorist sympathizers in the United States,” Mueller told a joint panel of the Senate and House intelligence committees in September 2002. “To this day, we have found no one in the United States except the actual hijackers who knew of the plot.”

The FBI’s more conclusive account of its Penttbom findings came before the bipartisan 9/11 Commission. The young agent leading the Flight 77 investigation team, Jacqueline Maguire, echoed Mueller’s earlier testimony, saying in 2004 that Bayoumi’s meeting with the California hijackers had been “a random encounter” and that he had helped them without knowing their true aim. Maguire also said the FBI had no indication the hijackers had initially sought out another figure who raised suspicions, Fahad al-Thumairy, the imam of the Saudi-built King Fahd Mosque in Culver City, California.

Michael Jacobson, a former State Department counterterrorism official who was a key commission investigator, said he knew some FBI agents in California were convinced that Bayoumi and Thumairy had helped the hijackers deliberately. But Maguire and her boss, Mary Galligan, who oversaw the Penttbom team, “were both consistently pushing back hard on any narrative of a support network,” Jacobson said in an interview.

Maguire and Galligan declined to comment.

When investigators from the 9/11 Commission interviewed Bayoumi and Thumairy in Saudi Arabia in 2003, Maguire — who had already interviewed the two Saudis for the FBI months earlier — joined them as an official escort. The interviews, which were managed by Saudi intelligence officials, were notable for Bayoumi’s efforts to ingratiate himself and Thumairy’s seemingly brazen lies, former officials said. Thumairy said he had never met the hijackers and did not even know Bayoumi, despite telephone records showing numerous calls between them. The Saudi Embassy did not respond to a request to speak to Thumairy.

In its final report, the commission said it could not confirm that Thumairy helped the two terrorists but found it was “fairly certain that Hazmi and Mihdhar spent time at the King Fahd mosque and made some acquaintances there.”

Echoing the FBI’s assessment, the commission described Bayoumi as “a devout Muslim, obliging and gregarious,” and found no evidence he “believed in violent extremism or knowingly aided extremist groups.” It would take years before those conclusions were forcefully challenged.

Daniel Gonzalez, a San Diego FBI agent who had been looking at Hazmi and Mihdhar’s circle since the day after the attacks, became the case agent for Operation Encore, a “subfile” or follow-on inquiry to the original 9/11 case. But while he and other agents made significant breakthroughs, former officials said, they faced constant skepticism from FBI headquarters and were sometimes blocked outright in their efforts to pursue the case.

In 2007, in an interview with a key source in Jordan, Gonzalez learned of two other important witnesses in Los Angeles, young Muslim immigrants who had also helped the hijackers. The two later confirmed the hijackers had gone to the King Fahd Mosque after arriving in Los Angeles and met repeatedly with Thumairy. One of the men said Thumairy also arranged for the hijackers to be driven to their first meeting with Bayoumi at the halal cafe — undercutting Bayoumi’s claim that he met them by chance.

For years, Encore agents said, they continued to press for more of the materials seized from Bayoumi in Britain. At one point, Gonzalez got a phone call from Washington asking if he wanted some old Penttbom evidence that was about to be destroyed. The materials — copies of some of Bayoumi’s long-sought papers, including the suspicious flight diagram — stunned the Encore team, Gonzalez said.

In June 2012, a small group of Encore investigators and analysts flew to London to try to review the Bayoumi search evidence more thoroughly. According to three former officials familiar with the trip, they viewed dozens of hours of videotapes and took new copies of much of the Metropolitan Police material.

For reasons that remain unclear, however, the team either did not see or did not focus on a few videotapes that would later become evidence in the 9/11 families’ lawsuit, including the tape of Bayoumi at the U.S. Capitol. While some terrorism experts have interpreted the recording as Bayoumi’s effort to “case” the site for a possible attack, lawyers for the Saudi government described it as a tourist video.

The Bayoumi videos also included extensive footage of two Saudi religious officials who not long before had commanded attention from both the FBI and CIA. The two men, Adel al-Sadhan and Mutaeb al-Sudairy, were emissaries of the Saudi Ministry of Islamic Affairs who had traced what intelligence officials saw as a strikingly suspicious path around the United States. The Saudi Embassy did not respond to a request to speak to the men.

In addition to traveling to Washington, D.C., with Bayoumi, the two clerics visited Los Angeles and San Diego a year before the hijackers and stayed at one of the homes where Hazmi and Mihdhar later lived. Sudairy also spent several months living in Columbia, Missouri, with an American al-Qaida member, Ziyad Khaleel, who provided Osama bin Laden with the satellite phone that FBI officials said he used to orchestrate the 1998 bombings of U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania.

Just before and after the hijackers arrived in San Diego, telephone records show, Bayoumi also made a series of calls to Sudairy in Washington, Thumairy in Los Angeles and Anwar al-Aulaqi, a Yemeni American cleric. Aulaqi, who ran a San Diego mosque that Bayoumi had funded through Saudi donations, was described by FBI witnesses as a spiritual adviser to Hazmi and Mihdhar. Aulaqi later emerged as an important al-Qaida leader before he was killed in a U.S. drone strike in 2011.

Unanswered Questions

In 2014 and 2015, a panel of security experts was assembled to review the FBI’s implementation of reforms called for by the 9/11 Commission. The 9/11 Review Commission, as the second panel was called, was also tasked with looking again at questions about the 9/11 plot that remained unanswered.

Maguire, the FBI’s primary liaison to the review panel, again disputed suspicions about Bayoumi. “He came here for school and everything seems accidental with Bayoumi,” the commission was told in a 2014 briefing led by Maguire.

The review panel concluded there was not enough new information to revise the 9/11 Commission’s finding that there was no “witting assistance” to the hijackers. But Tim Roemer — a Democratic former congressman from Indiana who served on the 2002 joint intelligence inquiry, the 9/11 Commission and the Review Commission — made a point of pressing for further investigation into the Saudi question. He was struck that Maguire and other FBI officials were still pushing back.

“There was consistent feedback from some levels of the FBI that simply wanted to close the case and claim that what Bayoumi did was purely coincidence and somehow accidental,” Roemer said.

Roemer insisted that the Review Commission formally recommend that the FBI continue to examine the Saudi issue. But shortly after it did so, officials at FBI headquarters renewed their pressure to shut down Operation Encore. In 2016, the head of the agency’s Joint Terrorism Task Forces finally relented, reassigning the case and disbanding the team that had been investigating it for years.

The next year, a pair of memorandums sent by the FBI’s Washington field office confirmed something that the Encore agents had long suspected: Between the late 1990s and Sept. 11, 2001, Bayoumi was paid a monthly stipend as a co-optee, or part-time agent, of the Saudi intelligence services.

By then, Gonzalez had retired. The Encore investigators who remained were working new jobs. Along with other documents from the FBI investigation, the memos were initially withheld from the 9/11 families by the Justice Department, which classified them as state secrets during Trump’s first term. The Encore agents saw the memos for the first time when they were finally made public in 2022 under Biden’s executive order.

“Somebody needs to explain to the American people why we didn’t see this information before,” Gonzalez said in an interview.

The post 25 Years After 9/11, Questions About the FBI’s Pursuit of Saudi Suspects in the Case Have Only Grown appeared first on ProPublica.

Major League Baseball teams sign more players from the Dominican Republic each year than any nation besides the U.S. Almost every neighborhood is home to a baseball field where kids as young as 4 begin learning to play. In our months of reporting, we’ve rarely come across anyone in the Dominican who doesn’t have some connection to the sport: a sibling or uncle or son who aspires to be a professional player, or who once did.

As beloved and important as baseball is in the Dominican, industry practices can hurt young players and their families. Dozens of trainers and players have told us that adolescents are expected to perform at levels never asked of their peers from other countries and enter into agreements with teams at much earlier ages. (We just published a story about abusive moneylending practices that have sprouted from this system.) We’re planning more stories brought to our attention by this community.

We want this work to reach people whose lives are touched by the issues we’re investigating. If that’s you, we want you to be able to easily connect with our reporting team and share tips or experiences you think we should know about Dominican baseball. The more people we hear from, the more impactful our reporting on these complex issues can be. (Learn more about ProPublica and our mission.) 

For this series, we’re opening a WhatsApp line because it’s a popular way to keep in touch in the Dominican, and international calls and texts are free. All you have to do is text “baseball” to our WhatsApp number, 1-917-207-6447.

If you’re not a WhatsApp user, if you can still get in touch with our reporting team via email:

• Gus Garcia-Roberts: Gus.Garcia-Roberts@propublica.org
• Maryam Jameel: Maryam.Jameel@propublica.org

If you would prefer another way to get in touch, see our advice here.

What can you expect if you text our number? 

You’ll get a link to our latest stories about baseball. We’ll also ask about your connection to baseball and ask you to share anything that you think our reporters should look into as we continue investigating. 

If you give us permission, we’ll also send you quick updates from our series every now and then. 

What kind of tips and comments are helpful? 

We want to hear about baseball-related issues and experiences that are important to you, whether they’re connected to finances, health, education or something else. Below are a few of the topics we’re already reporting on; if you have related experiences to share, we would appreciate hearing about them.

• Illness and injury related to performance pressure 
• Wide availability of anabolic steroids and consequences of use
• Conditions at training academies (pensiones)

If you have a connection to baseball — whether you’re a current or former player, trainer, parent of a player, doctor who treats athletes, someone who works for an MLB team or you have some other link — we would love to hear from you.

If I don’t have a connection to baseball but want to follow along, should I sign up?

Yes, we’ll share updates from our investigations, along with links to our latest reporting.

What if I know someone who has a connection to baseball?

Please send them a link to our baseball series or have them text “baseball” to our WhatsApp number, 1-917-207-6447. And thank you — we need to reach as many people as we can.

What will you do with the information I share with you?

We will read everything you send and follow up with you if we have further questions or are interested in including something you’ve shared in our investigations. 

We take your privacy very seriously. Our reporters speak to people every day who want to share information but fear retribution. Our reputation is built on protecting sources, and we take that responsibility to heart. You can request to speak on background, which means you would not be named in our stories.

Will ProPublica sell my information to anyone?

No.

The post Got a Connection to Dominican Baseball? Text Us on WhatsApp. appeared first on ProPublica.

Around 4 a.m. on Sept. 21, 2020, Luis David Saba arrived at a desolate stretch of highway along the southern coast of the Dominican Republic. Police and paramedics had left by then, taking with them a Jeep Grand Cherokee with a crumpled hood and the tangled remains of the cheap motorcycle it had smashed into. Also gone were the motorcycle’s two critically injured passengers. The only signs that an accident had occurred a few hours earlier were the blood and debris smeared across the asphalt and a pile of neatly placed branches.

Saba knew what to expect underneath that pile. It was a Dominican custom to use anything on hand to shroud a body abandoned by paramedics. Pushing away the branches, Saba saw shredded clothes, torn skin and long, curly hair forming a halo over a battered face. He covered the body of his 20-year-old younger brother, Yohan Saba Mercado, with a sheet. In shock, he felt nothing but the need to get his brother out of the road. 

Saba sat and waited for forensic investigators he was told were on their way. Hours passed, the sun rose and traffic began to stream by them. Finally, he gave up. With the help of friends, he loaded his brother’s body into a van, and hours later it was at his mother’s house.

Later that morning, two other families were experiencing similar horrors. Deby Beato Charles, 20, and Daniela Perez Garcia, 19, had been riding on the back of Yohan’s motorcycle when the Jeep rear-ended them. When Deby’s older brother, Ruben, got to a nearby hospital, he was met by a doctor who handed him a wallet and bracelet. Deby had died of a severe head injury and blunt chest trauma. At another hospital, Daniela’s uncle was ushered into a room where his niece lay. Her face was so swollen he didn’t recognize her. According to her death certificate, she had suffered injuries to her head, chest and hip and went into hypovolemic shock, in which the loss of bodily fluids causes a person’s organs to shut down. 

The families of Daniela and Yohan held funerals in their homes that afternoon. During the proceedings, word spread about who had been driving the Grand Cherokee. It was Oneil Cruz, a “pelotero,” a ballplayer, with a fortune and a future, the 21-year-old scion of a local baseball family, a top prospect in the Pittsburgh Pirates organization. Seemingly everyone in the area knew how much he received from his major league signing bonus five years earlier: $950,000.

The families also knew what was going to happen next. 

Yohan’s mother told me that after all the mourners left the house, a driver showed up holding out a phone. On the line was Cruz’s mother offering condolences — and wanting to negotiate.

---

Less than 7 miles from the site of the accident is the striving farm town of Nizao. Even though it has a population of just 32,000, Nizao has produced dozens of professional ballplayers, including three-time All-Star Ketel Marte and, most famously, Hall of Famer Vladimir Guerrero Sr., one of the best hitters in modern baseball and father of Vladimir Jr., the star first baseman for the Toronto Blue Jays. Looming over the main road into town is the Guerreros’ mansion. Right below it, a giant 27 has been carved into the hill — the jersey number the two share.

By 2020, Oneil Cruz Ureña looked poised to be among the best of Nizao’s ballplayers. The Los Angeles Dodgers signed him when he was 16 and over 6 feet tall. They traded him to the Pittsburgh Pirates, who considered him their future shortstop. The statistics website FanGraphs ranked him as one of baseball’s top prospects, declaring that “there aren’t many who have a chance to be what this guy might.” 

But the accident on a darkened road threatened to destroy that chance before Cruz even made it to the major leagues. Police detained him at the scene. In a court filing the following day, prosecutors said that they had opened an investigation “en contra del imputado,” “against the accused.” They sought “coercive measures,” a mechanism in Dominican law by which a suspect can be forced to remain in custody while an investigation continues. In a press release, they alleged that Cruz “had consumed alcoholic beverages prior to the accident.” 

The scandal made headlines in the Dominican Republic and the United States, and then, in a matter of days, it evaporated from the public eye. How that happened has been unknown, until now.

I’d heard about the Cruz case last year when I began reporting on the booming industry of “prestamistas,” moneylenders, who exploit major league prospects in the Dominican Republic by getting their undereducated parents to give up sizable portions of their signing bonuses. The case’s disappearance, I was told, marked the origin story of the most dominant prestamista in the country’s chaotic baseball ecosystem: Santo Caraballo. At the time, Caraballo was an obscure businessman with political connections. He rose to prominence after forming a business partnership with national hero David Ortiz, the retired Boston Red Sox great who remains an influential figure in Major League Baseball. (In a statement, Ortiz said his business relationship with Caraballo “began to come to an end” more than 18 months ago.) I wrote about Caraballo’s practices in “The Dominican Baseball Factory.”

To find out how Caraballo made the case against Cruz go away, I interviewed more than 30 people in the Dominican Republic. Some were afraid to talk, but others, primarily family members of the victims, were eager to speak publicly for the first time. I also obtained hundreds of pages of previously unreported documents, including court records and bank receipts, as well as voice notes. I made numerous attempts to reach Caraballo about his role, including sending him a summary of my findings. He never responded. 

The Dominican court system gives victims or their families significant input on whether to pursue a prosecution. Caraballo oversaw a campaign to persuade the families of the three victims to accept cash in return for signing documents withdrawing all “penal, civil or judicial” claims against Cruz. 

The effort rescued Cruz’s baseball career — he is now the starting center fielder for the Pirates — and it launched Caraballo’s. He became a ubiquitous operator in the sport, feared for the sort of high-powered connections that could make a deadly crash disappear. But for some of the victims’ relatives, the money they received — roughly $66,000 in total for the three families — hasn’t lasted nearly as long as the hurt: six years of unresolved grief, resentment and regret that they allowed their forgiveness to be purchased.

Cruz declined a request for an interview. His lawyer, Amauris Vásquez Disla, called the accident “a profound tragedy for all parties involved, especially the victims’ families.” He went on to say that the court “issued an order of dismissal based on the findings, a legally binding decision that was a lawful resolution of this matter.”

A spokesperson for the Pittsburgh Pirates said the team and Cruz “addressed this matter more than six years ago based on the information available and the outcome of the legal proceedings.”

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Yohan and Deby lived in and around a barrio of Sabana Grande de Palenque, known as “Sal Si Puedes,” Get Out If You Can. Five miles from Nizao, it is marked by ruddy dirt roads and half-built homes and is separated from the rest of the town by a deep canal. Some residents have to cross makeshift footbridges to reach their front doors. Daniela grew up in the nearby village of Juan Baron.

As was the case with Deby and Daniela, Yohan’s parents separated when he was young. His early childhood was spent in a small wooden home where his paternal grandmother took care of him while his mother worked in Santo Domingo as a housekeeper. A teenager when his father suffered a stroke, Yohan would bring him blood pressure medicine and take him to the beach to exercise in the ocean. Yohan worked as an air conditioning mechanic, telling his dad his goal was to pay for a new roof for his mom’s house so that it wouldn’t flood every time it rained. He commuted to Santo Domingo on a X1000 motorcycle he had bought secondhand. In a country where it’s common to see three or more people on a “moto,” the noisy rig was also how his friends got around.

The best of those friends was Deby. The third of four boys, all right-handed pitchers growing up, he lived in his mother’s immaculate home. After she moved to Chile six years earlier to find work, Deby spoke with her every day, updating her on his love life. He had her name tattooed within an infinity symbol on his arm. When he failed to make a top-level baseball academy, the most common route to be signed by a major league team, Deby returned to high school. At the time of the crash, he was days away from graduating, bagging groceries and taking care of his younger brother.

Deby and Daniela had known each other since they were kids and, according to their families, had an off-and-on relationship. Videos and photos of Daniela often show her dancing and singing. “She never wanted the party to end,” a friend said. The youngest of four, she lived with her mother, who considered Daniela her best friend. She was her “chiquita,” or “little girl,” Daniela would remind her mother when she insisted on sitting on her lap. Many nights, they slept in the same bed together. She had graduated high school and was taking English classes in Santo Domingo.

Deby, Yohan and Daniela were in that hopeful, stressful, liberating period between adolescence and adulthood. They had no intention to be out late that September night, but they were also not going to turn down an impromptu plan to party. 

Daniela told her mom she was going to meet girlfriends at the Nizao River and would be back by early evening. It was still daylight when she recorded herself at an outdoor bar, wearing a red dress and singing along to a salsa song. Nobody was in a rush to return to the stagnant indoors. As for the country’s 5 p.m. COVID-19 curfew, few young people took it seriously. In Baní, the nearest sizable city, there was a bar referred to as Escondido, or Hidden, because it served drinks past curfew. Daniela and a friend recruited Yohan and Deby, who were home but easy to persuade to join. 

At around 11 p.m., according to court records, they were riding on the four-lane highway heading home. Late at night, the road is desolate and poorly lit. Trucks and cars howl by at high speeds, and accidents are frequent. A security guard who works at a snack stand across from the site of the accident told me that his boss was killed when a car smashed into his business. 

Yohan was at the handlebars, with Daniela and Deby seated behind him. None wore a helmet. A friend on his own motorcycle was riding alongside them. They had just passed the shuttered snack stand when Cruz rear-ended Yohan’s motorcycle, smashing its rear tire and throwing the three friends onto the pavement. 

Cruz called 911, according to his lawyers. A lieutenant from the national police responded to the scene, but his subsequent report, which he filed in court, offers little detail about the accident site or investigation that followed. If there was any forensic analysis, prosecutors never produced it. There is no mention of whether police believed either Yohan or Cruz was driving recklessly or speeding. The report does not indicate whether the victims were tested for their alcohol levels. It makes no reference to the second motorcyclist. When I reached him, he said that the authorities never questioned him. He declined to be interviewed further.

According to the report, Cruz told the lieutenant that “en ningun momento,” “at no time,” did he see the motorcycle before colliding with it in the passing lane. He said it didn’t have lights — an assertion that would later become a point of contention in court. Cruz’s legal team filed a photo of the motorcycle that showed missing lights, but it was taken after the accident, when the bike was barely intact. Luis David, Yohan’s brother, told me that the motorcycle had working lights in the front but not in the rear. 

The day after the accident, stories were posted on Facebook that included photos of Yohan, Deby and Daniela lying mangled on the highway as emergency responders attempted to save them. On Dominican gossip and news sites, opinions poured forth. Some were convinced that Cruz would get preferential treatment. Others predicted that the families of the victims would be seeking a payday. Many asserted that the deceased were as much at fault as Cruz since they were all out past curfew.

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The families of Yohan, Deby and Daniela all knew of the Cruzes. Oneil’s father, Rafael, played pro ball, first in Japan and then in the Atlanta Braves organization until 2009, when he was suspended after testing positive for steroids. He returned to Nizao, where he opened a baseball academy. His most promising pupils included Oneil and his brothers, Rafael Jr. and Homer, who played pro ball in the United States. Oneil was named after Rafael’s favorite ballplayer, New York Yankees outfielder Paul O’Neill. 

Among the Cruzes’ inner circle was Osvaldo Tamarez, a trainer known as Cabezon, Big Head. He told me that in the hours following the accident, when Oneil was still in custody, he went to see the Cruzes and advised them to handle the aftermath of the accident carefully. “Cuidado, tu hijo va a ser una figura pública,” Tamarez said he told them. “Your son is going to be a public figure.” According to Tamarez, the Cruzes assigned him to speak with Daniela’s and Deby’s family members, some of whom he knew from baseball. He told me that from the beginning, their focus was on how to pay off the victims’ families so they wouldn’t sue and wouldn’t demand that prosecutors pursue the case. A person close to the Cruzes confirmed Tamarez’s account. 

Tamarez said that another trainer recommended that Cruzes bring in Santo Caraballo, a businessman he knew from the baseball industry. Among Caraballo’s many companies was a legal services firm, even though he wasn’t a lawyer. More relevant, Caraballo had political connections. He was an ambassador in the ministry of foreign affairs, a patronage position awarded him four years earlier by President Danilo Medina.

Tamarez said that Caraballo immediately got to work on multiple fronts, including organizing a legal team. But that wasn’t his most important role. Caraballo’s most important job was simple, Tamarez told me: Fix the problem. 

At Cruz’s initial court appearance, which came a little more than two days after the accident, one of his attorneys asked to delay the case so his representatives could “in a humane way, seek solutions” for the families and their “material hardships.” The judge postponed the hearing for two days. Family members told me that Caraballo, or those working with him, had already begun reaching out to them.

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The last time Mercedes Garcia saw her daughter, she had helped Daniela pull the price tags off her red dress before she went to the river with her girlfriends. In the days after the accident, Garcia was haunted by a vision of her daughter plastered to the road in the torn dress, yelling, “Ayúdame Mamá, ayúdame!” “Help me, Mama, help me!”

I found Garcia where she spends much of her day: seated alone in her tiny living room, rocking back and forth on a couch, her hair neatly pulled back, digging under her fingernails with a bobby pin. I could hear the shouts of a woman preaching at the church next door.

Garcia, who is 65, says she was clear from the beginning that she didn’t want money from the Cruzes. “Rich people, especially baseball players, like to pay for dead people with money,” she told me. “I am poor, but I have honor.” All she wanted, she said, was for Cruz to answer for what happened and apologize. Instead, she said, her family — most prominently, her son — tricked her into agreeing to a deal. 

Garcia told me that in the aftermath of her daughter’s death, she entrusted her son Porfirio with handling all the paperwork. Porfirio was a traffic cop in Santo Domingo who moonlighted as an Uber driver. What Garcia didn’t know, but what Tamarez later confirmed, was that Porfirio was already working with Caraballo.

According to Garcia, Porfirio brought her a document to sign that he partially obscured with his hand. Shortly afterward, Porfirio drove her and another of her sons, Juan Manuel, to Caraballo’s office in Santo Domingo. Porfirio went in by himself and brought out another document for his mother to sign. She was in a fog of grief, she told me, and didn’t read it. Juan Manuel confirmed his mother’s account that she didn’t understand what she was signing and that Porfirio didn’t explain what it was. 

Daniela’s father, Porfirio Perez, co-signed the documents. Perez, who can barely read, parks cars at a bank for tips. He told me that Garcia’s brother brought him the papers but didn’t tell him that they exonerated Cruz. “Because they saw that I’m a simple person, they took advantage of me,” he said. Garcia’s brother declined to comment. 

I reviewed the two documents, which were dated the same day as Cruz’s court appearance. One was filed in court by Cruz’s attorney; the other was not. The document filed in court states that the family sought to “withdraw” all legal claims against Cruz. It also says that the family had not received any “pecuniary interest” in return for withdrawing the claims. They were doing so out of an awareness that the accident was not caused by Cruz, the document says, “but rather by circumstances of life.” 

The contract not filed in court is signed by Daniela’s parents and Oneil’s mother. It’s a “discharge and legal settlement” stating that the parents were paid 900,000 pesos, about $15,000, for Daniela’s “funeral expenses.” That amount is more than twice the average annual income in the Dominican Republic. The document says that the money represented a settlement for “damages caused” by Cruz to Daniela’s family. But Garcia and Juan Manuel said that Porfirio controlled the payout and that he gave them around 300,000 pesos, or less than $5,000. Daniela’s father told me he received nothing.

Garcia said that she didn’t talk to much of her family for years after she realized what had happened. Once they decided to take that money, they lost her, too, she told me. “I was buried along with Daniela.” 

I left multiple voice and text messages for Porfirio, who declined to be interviewed.

Cruz’s mother, however, did agree to hear my questions. I met her at the Cruzes’ gated home on a busy street in Nizao. With wary politeness, she indicated that we sit on the front porch. Batting cages were in the back. 

I asked her about Caraballo’s role in persuading the victims’ families not to sue, but she denied that she knew him, contradicting several witnesses. When I showed her a photograph of Caraballo, she told me she didn’t recognize him. Before I could ask my next question, she stood up, making it clear the interview was over. No more than five minutes had passed. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. “I can’t really answer because I don’t know anything.”

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When Deby’s mother, Elena Charles, left for Chile to find restaurant work, it fell to Ruben, the eldest of her four sons, to take “las riendas de la casa,” the reins of the house. So it was Ruben, who turned 27 the night his brother died, whom Tamarez visited shortly after Cruz’s court appearance. Ruben told me that Tamarez encouraged him to strike a deal, arguing that the ballplayer was never going to be punished and that Daniela’s family had already received a million pesos for agreeing not to sue. He should meet with a man named Caraballo and hear what he had to say.

Ruben spoke with his father, who told him the same thing: Deby was not coming back. Take the money, even if you just keep it in an account. (Deby’s father did not agree to an interview.)

When Ruben got to Caraballo’s office, he said Cruz’s mother was there. All he wanted, Ruben told me, was justice — he didn’t care if the courts administered it or if he did. But he was also aware that Tamarez and his father were probably right: He and his family were powerless. 

Ruben yelled at Caraballo that he wasn’t there to negotiate over his brother’s death like it was a car for sale. Caraballo, he said, responded like a man used to people exploding with rage in his office. He pointed out all of his surveillance cameras. According to Ruben, he then made his offer. Because both of Deby’s parents lived outside the country — his father had been in Spain for years — additional legal work would be required if Ruben’s family made an agreement. Therefore, he was willing to go as high as 2 million pesos, roughly $34,000. 

Deby’s mother returned home a couple of weeks after the accident. I recently met with her and her three surviving sons in their comfortable and tidy living room. Fifty-two years old, dressed in a patterned jumpsuit and a necklace bearing her nickname — Ramonita — she frequently wiped away tears as she discussed Deby. On the wall were portraits of each of the boys. Deby’s brothers are wearing their high school graduation robes. Deby is pictured shirtless, sporting sunglasses, ripped jeans and a knowing grin. 

As we discussed the negotiation with Caraballo, Ruben and his mother revisited an argument that seemed as fresh as those they had during hourslong phone calls six years ago. She was absolutely clear about what she wanted: Cruz should be in prison for 120 years.

“Te dije no lo hagas,” she said to him, her voice rising. “I told you not to do it.” 

“And what did I tell you?” Ruben responded. “That they were going to release him anyway!” 

Ruben signed a document on behalf of his family called an “act of withdrawal,” which Cruz’s attorneys later filed in court. Similar to the document signed by Daniela’s parents, it attested that Cruz “had not the slightest intention of causing the accident” and that Deby’s family had agreed to withdraw all legal claims against him, including criminal and civil, without “any type of pressure [or] pecuniary interest.” 

Caraballo, though, wasn’t done. Ruben told me that Caraballo then pitched him on turning his brother’s death into an income opportunity: Rather than give the family the 2 million pesos in a lump sum, Caraballo would invest the money for them and pay 15,000 pesos, just over $265, a month indefinitely. 

Ruben, though, was done with Caraballo. “I don’t want to do business with you,” he said he told him, “and I don’t want to hear from you ever again.”

The family put the money in a bank account. Except for the interest, roughly $65 a month, which the family has used to help pay for the youngest’s tuition, the money is still there, they told me. Charles explained that there’s been plenty of times that they could’ve dipped into the principal, but the money repels her. “It doesn’t have an end,” she said of the anguish she feels about having made a deal with the Cruzes. “For the rest of my life, it’s going to be a conflict.”

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Genny Mercado, after turning away the driver with Cruz’s mother on the line, faced a similar gantlet of pressure from her family. Word spread that the other families were accepting a deal. Genny earned about 16,000 pesos, about $275, a month as a housekeeper, so a settlement would likely exceed several years of income. Rejecting the money, Yohan’s half brothers told her, would accomplish nothing. 

Mercado, who is 48, was also the de facto decision-maker. Yohan’s father, Pedro Saba, had suffered a second stroke the day he learned of his son’s death. She hired the only lawyer she knew, who negotiated a deal on the parents’ behalf. The document was a withdrawal like those signed by the other families, exonerating Cruz. Mercado said that she couldn’t think clearly about any of this at the time: “My mind was set on my son.” 

Minus the lawyer’s cut, Mercado and Saba received approximately 800,000 pesos, or $14,000. Yohan’s father spent 300,000 pesos on a refrigerator, a television and a bed. Mercado used the money to buy rebar and 75 bags of cement to build the roof that Yohan had promised. She stopped working for seven months and rarely left her home except to put flowers on his grave.

When I showed up, two of her sons arranged plastic chairs in the living room so I could speak with her and her husband, José Enrique. She had never been interviewed, and it had been years since anyone outside the family even pretended to care about what happened to Yohan. “Any family that goes through something like this just wants justice,” Mercado told me. “Everyone who kills has to go to jail.” But in Cruz’s case, “No one wanted to hurt the future del muchacho.”

There were no second thoughts about having accepted the money, only resignation that there was never going to be a fair outcome for Yohan. “Around here, the police let a lot of things slide, especially when it involves people who have money or connections or whatever else,” said José Enrique, tossing shucked pea shells on the cement floor. “We’re not going to try to dance around that fact anymore.”

Later I visited Yohan’s father, who spends his days in a spartan home with three of his elderly brothers, two of whom are blind. “Terminator” blared on the television. Saba doesn’t have any photos of Yohan on his walls because, he said, it would make him too sad. In a voice slurred by his two strokes, Saba told me how Yohan would put him on his motorcycle and take him to the ocean. “Wherever I wanted to go,” he said, “he would take me there.” He hasn’t been back to the beach since Yohan was killed.

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Cruz’s second court date occurred on the Friday following the accident. Prosecutors were seeking to keep him in custody for three months. The victims’ families weren’t present. The court didn’t know how to reach two of them, a clerk explained to the judge. Prosecutors didn’t even get the names of the victims right, referring to Yohan Saba as “Jons Sabab” and Deby as “Baby.” The charges they sought against Cruz included reckless driving and causing an accident that resulted in death. If convicted, he could face one to three years in prison. 

Most striking was what was not said. In their press release after the crash, prosecutors had referred to evidence that Cruz had been drinking before the accident. But they never made that claim in court. I reached out to the lead prosecutor as well as the prosecutor’s office to ask why they had decided not to charge Cruz with driving while intoxicated. Both declined to comment. A Pittsburgh Post-Gazette journalist asked the same question the week of the court date. He reported that a spokesperson for the prosecutors explained that Cruz had “smelled of alcohol” after the accident but that police hadn’t performed a sobriety test because of a “procedural error.” 

While Cruz remained in police custody, his legal team submitted the withdrawals that had been signed by the victims’ families. In addition to offering his condolences, an attorney explained that Cruz was providing “material support” to the families for their “basic needs of being human: education, food, clothing, among other matters.” He also submitted numerous testimonials praising Cruz’s good character, including from his pastor, who attested that Cruz had demonstrated “loyalty and absolute fidelity to the gospel,” and from a local marble and granite contractor who said that Cruz was a responsible client “deserving of an open line of credit.” The attorney emphasized that Cruz was one of baseball’s “five highest-rated prospects internationally.”

The accident, he told the judge, “hurts the whole town, Oneil above all, who for this will have to go to professional therapy so that he can cope with the trauma … For God’s sake, let’s try to ensure that Oneil Cruz Ureña’s mental health is now a priority.” 

The judge released Cruz on a bond of 2 million pesos, or $34,000. A couple of weeks later, Cruz posted a photo of himself with Caraballo, grinning while seated on a golf cart at the Miami airport. 

The following March, Cruz was at the Pirates’ spring training facility in Florida. An article at the time mentioned the accident in passing, buried under the news that the team was moving him into the outfield. It’s the only time I know of in which Cruz has been quoted discussing the accident.

“In the beginning, I was very fearful of not being able to continue to play the game that I love and to reach the dream I’ve always had, which is to reach the big leagues,” Cruz said through an interpreter. “However, when things became clear later and everything was solved, I was able to … hope again that I’ll be able to play. Now, I have peace.”

The press, both in the United States and the Dominican Republic, stopped covering the accident after that. 

The man who helped deliver him that peace used the incident to become one of the most powerful figures operating in the shadows of Dominican baseball.

Cruz’s next court appearance was Aug. 30, 2021. Almost a year had passed since the accident, and he was in the States playing for the Altoona Curve, a Pirates minor league team. He attended virtually. Despite the families’ withdrawals, prosecutors still had the power to pursue charges against him, but their case was flimsy. The only evidence they submitted were death certificates and a police report that offered little more than the date and time of the accident and the names of Cruz and the three people he killed: Yohan Saba Mercado, Deby Beato Charles and Daniela Perez Garcia. The judge dismissed the case, ordering the return of the 2 million pesos bond. 

Just over a month later, Cruz made his major league debut against the Cincinnati Reds, scorching a single that was the hardest recorded hit by a Pirate, a mark he has broken many times since. He is now a fixture of the team and will earn $3.3 million this year. He is projected to make far more once he becomes a free agent in a few seasons.

The post The Rising Baseball Star, a Fatal Car Crash and the Fixer appeared first on ProPublica.

Chapter 1

On an evening in late 2021, in a pristine baseball complex in central Santo Domingo, a baby-faced 14-year-old outfielder in athletic gear named Belfi Rivera huddled in front of a computer screen. Next to him was John Carmona, who had been Belfi’s trainer and de facto caretaker since he was 11 years old. In a nearby office, Belfi’s parents stared anxiously at a separate computer. On the screen, calling into the Dominican Republic, were representatives of the Arizona Diamondbacks, there for a conversation that promised to shift forever the fortunes of Belfi and his parents.

The team, they would soon learn, had agreed to pay Belfi $1.8 million after his 16th birthday. It was a deal Carmona had negotiated without consulting Belfi or his parents. It was also a handshake agreement that skirted Major League Baseball’s rules that bar teams from signing players younger than 16. Every year, all 30 major league teams reach preacuerdos, or early deals, with hundreds of Dominican prospects — a practice they make little attempt to hide. (The Diamondbacks did not respond to a request for comment.)

The baseball men said Belfi was now part of “la familia.” They asked him about his favorite player and how he learned to swing his bat so fast and whether he understood the importance of discipline. The conversation washed over Belfi, who, on the rare occasions when he spoke, did so in a tumbling, nervous cadence. He had spent his childhood in a shanty outside of the capital. Meals often consisted of sugary cornmeal or a piece of bread. But he had a talent “gifted by God,” as an early trainer put it, with the skills — speed, arm, glove, contact hitting — treasured by scouts. The size of this bonus, once made official, would establish him as one of the highest-paid prospects outside of the United States.

If he fulfilled his promise, he might join an ever-expanding list of Dominican legends: San Francisco Giant Juan Marichal, the winningest pitcher of the 1960s; Tony Fernandez and George Bell, Toronto Blue Jays teammates who hailed from the same baseball-mad town of San Pedro de Macoris; Pedro Martinez, Manny Ramirez, and David Ortiz, the pitcher and sluggers who in the early 2000s turned the Caribbean nation into an unlikely bastion of Boston Red Sox fandom; and swaggering, bat-flipping modern superstars like Toronto’s Vladimir Guerrero Jr., the New York Mets’ Juan Soto, and the San Diego Padres’ Fernando Tatis Jr. — with playing contracts totaling more than $1.6 billion — who have helped to revitalize baseball’s popularity.

For the past four decades, no country outside the United States has sent more players to the majors than the Dominican Republic. With a population under 12 million, it is roughly the size of Ohio, a state that last year claimed two dozen major league players. The Dominican Republic had 144, roughly 10% of the league. The country is a baseball factory. Talented players are sent to practice full time at one of hundreds of academies when they are as young as 10 years old.

That’s how old Belfi was when he went off in tears to live in the home of a stranger who trained boys on a shaggy ball field in the capital. The best players are then sold to increasingly more prominent trainers until they wind up at an elite academy run by men like Carmona, who have close relations with major league teams and receive a sizable percentage of a player’s signing bonus. 

As a child, Belfi never cared for baseball. He started playing at 7, he told me, because a local coach would drag him from his house and cuff him on the head if he tried to escape to a nearby river to be with his friends. But even as a young boy, he understood the sport likely represented his family’s one shot out of grinding poverty. During that video call in 2021, it seemed that he had clinched it. 

But in two and a half years, the $1.8 million Belfi was promised would be almost all gone. Carmona received $630,000, which represented his 35% commission. But more than $950,000 went to someone who had no hand in teaching Belfi how to play baseball. His name is Santo Caraballo, one of the most notorious moneylenders profiting from Dominican baseball. His business partner is a national hero and, 10 years after his retirement, still a commanding figure within Major League Baseball: David Ortiz, known universally as “Big Papi.”

In a brief conversation with Caraballo, he told me his business was not the biggest or “that lucrative.” I made multiple attempts to reach Caraballo again, including sending him a summary of my findings. He never responded.

Thanks to early agreements, prestamistas, or moneylenders, like Caraballo now wield singular power within Dominican baseball, amassing millions of dollars by persuading undereducated parents to sign away portions of their sons’ future bonuses in exchange for loans with exorbitant interest rates. Major League Baseball has known for years about early agreements and the predatory industry that has grown around them. Even though it has a formidable economic and political presence in the Dominican Republic, it has done little about either. It has never publicly warned or penalized a team for making an early deal, and its attempts to educate families about moneylenders have been ineffectual. (A spokesperson for Major League Baseball declined to comment and referred to past statements by league officials calling for an overhaul of the Dominican system.) 

It is not just Major League Baseball that has allowed this corrosive system to continue. When the league proposed changes that would have eliminated early deals and made it more difficult for moneylenders to prey on baseball families, David Ortiz used his influence within the powerful players union to help block the reform. At the time it was unknown outside of Dominican baseball that he had a financial interest in preserving the system. (In a statement sent through his lawyer, Ortiz said that his opposition to the league’s proposal “was never motivated by personal interests.”)

Chapter 2

I’d long been told that the Dominican Republic’s wildly successful baseball industry was plagued with abuse and exploitation — that for decades Major League Baseball has presided over a massive unregulated system that treats tens of thousands of Dominican boys like commodities. But when I began making calls last year, I expected those most involved to defend it. Instead, trainers — the men integral to the industry as instructors, surrogate parents and agents — virtually all told me they felt forced to participate in a system that is broken and costly. 

I also spoke with team executives, agents, scouts and parents. Between the exorbitant commissions that go to trainers, the pressure to evaluate prepubescent players on how skilled they will be in four or five years, and all the education lost while those players are pulled out of school, nobody would purposefully design a system this way, they said.

“This is a system that is allowing corruption at all levels,” said one longtime trainer, Eddy Fontana.

Major League Baseball, too, doesn’t deny this, declaring recently that it was “long past time to reform” Dominican baseball. The players union also acknowledges that the industry is troubled but says it’s “a people issue, not a system issue.” 

What I found most surprising was the common opinion that, despite widespread acknowledgment that Dominican baseball needed to be overhauled, the industry has gotten even more exploitative. Arturo J. Marcano, who has spent most of his career as a sports attorney, published a book in 2002 comparing the Dominican baseball pipeline to human trafficking. He didn’t hesitate when I asked how today’s industry compares. “A hundred times worse,” he said.

I set out to learn why the league and the players have done little to fix these problems. I crisscrossed the Dominican Republic and met people in shabby dugouts and gleaming stadiums, under a palm tree on a rocky beach coated in shattered beer bottles and at a café on a touristy plaza where a gold-covered street performer posed as a batter atop a trophy. I reviewed hundreds of pages of unreported court records, contracts, bank statements and WhatsApp messages, among other documents. 

Wherever you go, there are reminders of el pelotero who achieved the Dominican dream of playing American baseball. Virtually every village has el play, a ball field, lovingly painted and filled with boys of all ages even during a downpour. Watchful men fine-tune the swings of adolescents hammering balls toward scampering elementary-age outfielders not yet deemed ready to take cuts themselves. Road signs announce not just the name of the town you are entering but its native sons who cracked a major league roster. Hall of Famers are depicted in grandiose murals throughout the capital. All 30 major league teams have training academies, and they rise up from the countryside like castles.

Every team participates in the Dominican Summer League, where 1,500 prospects from Latin America compete to get promoted to the lowest minor league teams in the United States. Hundreds more professional players, including established stars, draw sellout crowds in the offseason in what’s known as the winter league. Steven Puig, the president of BHD, the Dominican bank that is a corporate partner of Major League Baseball, told me that the sport generates as much as $400 million annually.

American baseball executives began scouting, signing and developing Dominican teenagers in earnest in the 1980s. A handful of teams, recognizing the island as a source of cheap talent, built bare-bones training academies on former sugar plantations. They relied on buscones, finders, to bring them the best players. But the buscones soon realized they could make more money by opening their own academies. There are now, according to a national trade association, more than 6,000 trainers, ranging from the off-duty car mechanic to the millionaire former big leaguer. In return for providing room, board, equipment, coaching and — they claim — education, these men typically receive between 35% and 50% of a player’s signing bonus, which they negotiate. 

In their search for the next Dominican star, major league teams pursue what one general manager called a “boatload mentality.” Every year, teams sign about 450 Dominican prospects, most for bonuses around $30,000. Fewer than two-thirds will make it to the lowest minor leagues, and less than 10% will play a day in the majors, according to MLB data. (Teams treat Venezuelan prospects, many of whom train in the Dominican Republic, in much the same way, signing them in bulk.) It’s a Darwinian system paid for by players like Belfi — the hundreds of thousands of dollars his trainers took out of his bonus subsidized dozens of prospects who sacrificed their childhoods only to come up short.

In the United States, no professional sport operates this way, including baseball. Every year, major league teams select players from the U.S. and Canada in a draft. Signing bonuses are mostly dictated by the order in which the players are chosen. Last year, the top pick was worth $11.1 million, while the final slots were worth $187,000. Sports agents typically receive a 5% commission.

In the Dominican Republic, it’s a free-for-all. Teams vie for talent, outbidding one another for the best prospects. Major League Baseball does limit how much a team can spend on new players each year. But the other guardrail that the league put in place — that players can be signed only if they will be 17 by the following September — is widely circumvented.

“Everybody makes early agreements,” a major league scout told me. “You got to do it. If not, the system will eat you.”

During the past offseason, trainers touted on social media the early deals they negotiated with major league teams for their players. There was the 11-year-old said to be under agreement with the Philadelphia Phillies for $1.8 million, the 12-year-old said to have a deal for $2.8 million with the Cincinnati Reds and the 13-year-old said to have an agreement with the Milwaukee Brewers for $2 million. (The Phillies, Reds and Brewers did not respond to requests for comment.) 

In 2022, the parents of a 14-year-old prospect, Willy Fañas, sued the Los Angeles Angels for reneging on an early agreement for $1.8 million. A scout for the Angels testified that the team’s general manager had authorized the deal. The case was dismissed; Fañas’ parents have appealed the decision. 

No data exists on how many Dominican players have been offered early deals because the agreements are verbal — by design there are no records. But Sandy Alderson, who has been a top executive for several teams and in 2010 served as  Major League Baseball’s emissary to the Dominican Republic, told me that the vast majority of players who get signed were offered deals before they hit 16.

In the absence of any enforcement, Major League Baseball has created the perfect market conditions for las prestamistas like Caraballo, who has become a ubiquitous figure in Dominican baseball in the past six years. The loans he offers come with interest rates that would be illegal in the United States and many other countries. The Dominican Republic repealed its usury laws 24 years ago. High-interest lenders are now as ingrained in Dominican baseball as trainers, and they advertise online. One banner circulating on WhatsApp offered “préstamo para jugadores de beisbol que tenga acuerdos,” “loan for baseball players who have agreements.”  

Yaniris Paula, an attorney who has represented teenage ballplayers in disputes with trainers and lenders, estimated that 80% of all major league bonuses paid to Dominican prospects have a loan attached. 

From 2012 through the beginning of 2026, major league teams paid Dominican prospects $1.042 billion in bonuses, according to a ProPublica review of signing data. But much, if not most, of that money — up to half a billion — is almost immediately siphoned off by trainers and lenders, according to experts familiar with the industry. 

“Major League Baseball knows how dirty the business is here,” Piñao Ortiz, who was the Dominican commissioner of baseball from 1996 to 2000, told me, “but it’s not doing anything to stop it.”

Chapter 3

The night that Belfi’s parents — Eduardo Rivera and Rita Muñoz — learned of the Diamondbacks’ promise, they had to sleep at a nearby baseball academy. Their ride home didn’t have working headlights. When they made it back to Pedro Brand, a town outside the capital, their tiny home looked different to them. Eduardo had built it out of wood planks and tin. Buckets caught rain from the leaky roof. Musty beds lay strewn on the concrete floors. A climbing wall, salvaged from a children’s park, served as a room divider. Facing the same poverty while an unimaginably huge windfall awaited them in just over two years was a new sort of mental challenge.

Eduardo worked as a farmhand during the day and as a sereno, a watchman, for a school at night — jobs that were increasingly difficult because of a foot ailment he couldn’t afford to get checked out. He made as little as $150 a month. Rita had mostly stayed home, raising 11 kids. But now they were — almost — millionaires and already felt pressure to pay back those who had helped them. One of those was Belfi’s first trainer, who had made only a few hundred dollars trading Belfi to another trainer. He now wanted a “thank you” and arranged for them to speak with a man who told them that his boss, Santo Caraballo, could help them bridge their old existence with their future one. 

What Belfi’s parents didn’t know is that Caraballo had a network of informants — many of them trainers — who let him know when a player had reached an early deal with a major league team and for how much. When Caraballo got a name, he would send one of his finders to speak to the parents.

Eduardo and Rita traveled to Caraballo’s small office in a strip mall in Santo Domingo. The figure who greeted them had perfect hair and white teeth and was dressed like a deportista, or sportsman, in athletic leggings and a T-shirt, they told me. Diplomas and certificates covered a wall. Familiar and charming, he spoke of having been a consul for the Dominican government, and he repeatedly mentioned that he was “la mano derecha,” “the right hand,” of David Ortiz, they said. That made them trust him more. 

Eduardo and Rita told me that they were looking to sell just 5% of Belfi’s future bonus — roughly $90,000 — for upfront money, enough to pay off some debts, give Belfi’s first trainer a little cash and waterproof their home. But Caraballo, they said, advised them that they would need more and that they should sell him 10%.

The parents emerged from the office with a paper bag full of pesos, their thumbs wiped clean of the ink they had used to stamp a contract. They hadn’t been given a copy, but if they had, they wouldn’t have been able to understand it. Eduardo is illiterate. Rita struggles to read. They said they received 1.6 million pesos, roughly $25,000. 

Miguel Hidalgo, a former employee of Caraballo’s who had a falling out with him over money, told me that the lender tries not to give his clients a copy of the contract. “That’s the trick,” he said. If they don’t have a copy, it makes it harder for them to understand what they owe, he explained. 

Rita and Eduardo shared what they remembered of the loan terms with one of their sons, who called Jhonatan Jimenez, a former trainer of Belfi’s. Jimenez did the math. In return for the $25,000, Eduardo and Rita had agreed to give the lender $180,000 when Belfi received his bonus. 

“¿Tú estás loco?” he asked. 

That was the first deal Belfi’s parents made with Santo Caraballo.

Soon after, the lender sent men to check out their home, and his prognosis was that it could not be repaired. They needed a new place fit for the family of a ballplayer. There was a building available next door. On the second floor was space for a three-bedroom apartment, which the Riveras would need to fix up and furnish. On the first floor was a storefront appealing to one of Belfi’s brothers, who envisioned a barbershop where customers could drink alcohol.

Caraballo would show up at their new apartment, usually in a different car — a Range Rover, a Porsche, a Lamborghini. He was, Eduardo told me, like a member of the family. He reached his spoon into their pot of simmering beans. He drank Presidente beers. He gave Belfi advice about girls. He urged Rita and Eduardo to further fix up the place. “You’re already rich,” they said he told them. “You can’t live this way.” 

Caraballo said he’d loan them an additional $70,000 at 7% monthly interest, a rate he had assured them was “mejor que banco,” “better than the bank.” Throughout 2023 and the first half of 2024, bank records show, Caraballo doled out the money to the family in dozens of payments ranging from $88 to $8,350. According to Rita, Caraballo said he was not giving them the money all at once because they would fritter it away.

Rita also told me that roughly $7,000 of the loan came in the form of certificates redeemable at a supermarket Caraballo owned near his office. She said she used them to buy rice, beans, oil, diapers and other staples but that the certificates didn’t last long because Caraballo’s prices were “carisimo,” “extremely expensive.” The only customers she saw at the market were the families of young ballplayers.

Chapter 4

The origins of Caraballo’s wealth and power remain murky — striking for someone with tentacles throughout the sport. Some within the industry described him as a savvy hustler, exploiting a corrupt system that Major League Baseball had created. Or as an opportunist using little more than a fortunate link to one of the country’s most beloved peloteros. Or as a man with almost magical reach who was not to be crossed. Many demanded to know whether I was a spy for him. 

“I already have problems, and you’re asking me about a boss,” said a former minor league pitcher whom Caraballo represented during a brief stint as an agent. 

A longtime trainer spat in the ground and called him a ladrón, a thief. He refused to discuss Caraballo further. “What if I get killed?” he asked.

A major league agent who represents Dominican players told me that every year Caraballo has a stake in dozens of prospects’ bonuses. Two former employees corroborated that figure, telling me that they helped Caraballo reach loan agreements with the parents of 60 to 70 players a year. The agent said that every signing day, when prospects consummate their preacuerdos, Caraballo shows up to remind families that they will soon have to pay what they owe him. 

I spoke with the parents, trainers or lawyers for six prospects whose families took high-interest loans from Caraballo. The father of Ricki Moneys told me he borrowed 1.7 million pesos, roughly $27,000, from Caraballo, after the Brewers offered his son a $1.15 million early agreement. Thirteen months later, after Moneys officially signed with the team earlier this year, his father said that Caraballo collected 4.5 million pesos — an effective annual interest rate of nearly 150%. The father of another Brewers prospect, Kenny Fenelon, said that his son was offered a $1.3 million early agreement and that he used it as a guarantee to borrow $50,000 from Caraballo at 5% monthly interest. When his son received his signing bonus less than three years later, in 2025, the father told me that Caraballo claimed he was owed $400,000. They eventually settled on a $75,000 interest payment, he said. (In our brief conversation, Caraballo said that the risk in loaning money to families is that “you never know if it will succeed or not because if the player doesn’t get signed, you don’t get paid.”)

Caraballo has a second business loaning money to trainers at similarly high interest rates. In many of those deals, the guarantee is a percentage of a player’s bonus money that is owed to the trainer. 

He has also entered the training business himself. Records and interviews show that he has signed players as young as 10 years old to contracts in which parents agree to give him half, or sometimes more, of their sons’ potential signing bonuses. Caraballo himself doesn’t do the training. “He doesn’t even know how to hold the bat, bro,” Edgar Mercedes, a trainer who has taken loans from Caraballo, told me. Instead, he sends the boys to trainers with whom he has made separate financial arrangements. 

A birth certificate states that Caraballo was born in 1986 in the mountain city of Constanza, the son of a farmer and a housewife. According to a childhood friend, he departed for the capital as a teenager with just $16. In Santo Domingo, he pumped gas before opening a series of small businesses. He co-founded a company that turned fruits into pulp and juice. He financed new and used vehicles. He established a legal services business, Caraballo Lora & Asociados, though he was not an attorney. 

But mostly, according to interviews with those who have worked for him, he lent money. A Facebook banner for one of his companies consists of stock art depicting a man turning an empty pants pocket inside out. Another hand offers a full wallet, with the text, “Podemos Ayudarte,” “We can help you.” 

In 2016, he returned to Constanza to run for mayor. “I’m from the hills and it’s in my blood/ By the grace of God, I’ll be your mayor,” declared a ballad he commissioned. Despite President Danilo Medina campaigning for him, he lost the four-person race. He was a “joven muy inquieto,” “a restless young man” seeking glory in his hometown, Ambiorix Sanchez, who won the election, told me. 

After his defeat Medina offered Caraballo a consolation prize. He appointed him as an ambassador attached to the minister for foreign affairs, a common arrangement for an incoming president to reward a losing allied candidate. The position came with a diplomatic passport, a $600 monthly salary and few responsibilities. Caraballo left the ambassadorship in 2021, a few months after Medina’s term ended.

The beginning of Caraballo’s ascent in Dominican baseball can be traced to his shadowy role in salvaging the career of Oneil Cruz, a rising star in the Pittsburgh Pirates’ organization. In late 2020, Cruz crashed his Jeep Grand Cherokee into the back of a motorcycle, killing three people. Prosecutors initially said the ballplayer had been drinking, and he faced the possibility of three years in prison. According to numerous interviews and court records, Caraballo was brought in by Cruz’s parents and negotiated payments to the victims’ families. In exchange, they withdrew all “penal, civil or judicial” claims against Cruz. Prosecutors never presented evidence that he was drinking, and a judge dismissed the case. Cruz denied any wrongdoing. I wrote about the incident in “The Rising Baseball Star, a Fatal Car Crash and the Fixer.”

Cruz declined a request for an interview. His lawyer, Amauris Vásquez Disla, called the accident “a profound tragedy for all parties involved, especially the victims’ families.” He went on to say that the court “issued an order of dismissal based on the findings, a legally binding decision that was a lawful resolution of this matter.”

By 2021, corporate records show, Caraballo had found a partner that would instantly boost his credibility — David Ortiz. By helping the Boston Red Sox win three world championships, the first one ending an 86-year drought, Ortiz secured his legacy as one of the most revered players in all of baseball. He retired in 2016 and became a popular analyst for Fox Sports. In the Dominican Republic, he is un muchacho de abajo, someone who rose from a Santo Domingo slum and is not afraid to return.

How an obscure moneylender from Constanza became partners with a famous ballplayer is a mystery to mutual acquaintances I spoke with. Ortiz has said that he first met Caraballo when he was managing a gas station. The two were close enough that when Ortiz announced his divorce in 2021, he did so with a post of himself posing with Caraballo and a caption that read, “My compadre, the show must go on.” Ortiz sat Caraballo with his family at his 2022 induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame, and they appeared in videos together at the presidential palace. 

The financial side of their relationship is more shrouded. In 2021, both were listed on corporation records of a company in Florida called Big Papi Sports Group. What, if anything, the company did is not clear. It was dissolved the following year. 

It is, though, the earliest record I could find of a partnership that Caraballo trumpeted frequently. Parents, trainers and lawyers who have done business with him told me that Caraballo claimed that Ortiz, whose signed jersey hangs in his office, bankrolled him. “Every time he did business with [my client], Caraballo would mention it,” a lawyer named Jose Eduardo Martinez said. 

My reporting eventually got back to Ortiz. He called me last year to find out what I was working on and seemed surprised to be asked questions about Caraballo. He acknowledged that he had invested millions of dollars into Caraballo’s baseball business. Although he wouldn’t tell me the name of the company, they’ve posted to social media photos of themselves wearing matching ballcaps with the logo “CS,” for Caraballo Sports Enterprise. Caraballo has founded companies by that name in both the Dominican Republic and the United States, though Ortiz is not on those documents. Dominican records say the company’s goal is to “promote education and sports as a mechanism for the social development of underprivileged youth throughout the country.”

Ortiz said that his business with Caraballo is limited to making loans to trainers. Among those who have struck deals with Ortiz and Caraballo is retired star infielder Carlos Guillén, who trains players in Venezuela and the Dominican Republic and said that he has borrowed significant sums from them.

Ortiz told me that he doesn’t work with the parents of players, because it’s too difficult to be repaid. However, court records show that, in at least one case, Ortiz’s name is on a contract with a player’s parents. According to its terms, Ortiz and Caraballo agreed to provide their 13-year-old son with “economic support, food, studies, housing, training, clothing for practice and games, supply of protein and vitamins” and scouting opportunities in return for 35% of the boy’s potential signing bonus. The boy was never signed, leading to the lawsuit, which was eventually dismissed on procedural grounds.

The contract, similar to many others I reviewed between Caraballo and parents of young baseball prospects, gave him and Ortiz extraordinary control over the boy’s life. It contains a clause not allowing him to “leave or abandon” the academy where they assigned him without their “prior permission” and granting them power of attorney so that they could receive “all kinds of information,” including a bonus payment schedule, from Major League Baseball and any team that signs him. 

It also made explicit that the boy would be unable to get out of the deal. Even if he were to become emancipated from his parents, the contract states he would still owe a portion of his potential signing bonus. The contract allows Caraballo and Ortiz to terminate their responsibilities toward the boy due to “poor performance,” but he would still owe the same percentage if he were signed. 

In our conversation, Ortiz distanced himself from Caraballo’s many enterprises. “Caraballo, my compadre, he has a whole bunch of different businesses that I don’t know,” he said. “I know the one that I know. But I’m not his guard. Hopefully, he’s not doing anything illegal — not that I know.”  

Later, after I sent him a detailed list of questions, Ortiz sent an additional response through his lawyer. The statement said he had “never authorized Santo Caraballo to use my name or reputation to gain the trust of young baseball players or their families, to promote loans or investments, or to represent financial transactions as being personally backed or endorsed by me. I have always sought to make a positive contribution to Dominican baseball. I would never knowingly participate in any operation intended to take advantage of a young player or his family.”

Ortiz said that he ended his personal relationship with Caraballo “a year and a half to two years ago” after “noticing conduct by Mr. Caraballo that I considered inappropriate. I started distancing myself from him personally and placed the relevant matters in the hands of my legal advisors.”  

However, last September, Ortiz and Caraballo filmed themselves heading for Puerto Rico on a private jet, drinking and dancing on their way to a Bad Bunny concert. 

Chapter 5

Around 4 a.m., Jan. 15, 2024, Belfi Rivera got out of his bunk bed at John Carmona’s academy. The complex was nearly empty, with most of the other boys home for the winter holidays. Belfi put on a white dress shirt, a navy blue business suit — his first — Alexander McQueen shoes and a gold necklace, all of which Caraballo had purchased. Years earlier, Belfi had promised himself that if he made it as a pelotero, he’d have a chain that would glitter over his dirt-stained jersey, just like the pros. 

It was signing day.  

Belfi’s parents arrived, and they drove to Baseball City, headquarters for the Diamondbacks and several other major league teams. Teenage boys and their parents, all dressed up, filled the place. 

Belfi leaned over a desk and put his signature on the contract he had been promised two years earlier. He and another Dominican outfielder were the only Diamondbacks prospects whose bonuses exceeded $550,000. Many more prospects, if they were lucky enough to be noticed by a major league team at all, fared more like Belfi’s older brother Bernardo, a right-handed pitcher who a few months earlier had signed with the Texas Rangers for $10,000. 

For Rita, the moment was a miracle. “When you have absolutely nothing,” she told me, “when you’re starting from zero, enduring great hardship, and your children are going hungry. And then, suddenly, we would finally be able to resolve so many of the problems we were facing — paying off our debts, taking the children to the doctor, getting them enrolled in school.”

Belfi posed for photos in front of a banner filled with Diamondbacks logos. In one, he is flanked by Carmona and Caraballo. Carmona said that he was not aware that the lender had made deals with Belfi’s family until he showed up at the signing, strutting around as if he had played a key role in Belfi’s success. “The team asked me, ‘What’s going on? What is this man doing here?’” Carmona said.

Less than a month later, the first installment of Belfi’s bonus came in — $900,000.  He and his parents drove to the Boca Chica branch of the BHD bank, a sleek glass building adorned with the Major League Baseball logo and ringed by the flags of all 30 teams. The branch is where almost every prospect collects his bonus payments, and it regularly plays host to one of the most unsightly scenes in Dominican baseball, as trainers and lenders show up to demand their cut. 

Caraballo, Carmona and Belfi’s early trainer, Jhonatan Jimenez, were waiting. By BHD and major league policy, only a player and his parents can receive the bonus. But Belfi’s parents told me that Caraballo took the lead, collecting IDs and handing them to a clerk. Neither Rita nor Eduardo had ever held a bank account. Now a banker helped Belfi open one, and the convoluted divvying up of his payday began. 

By the terms of their contract with Rita and Eduardo, Carmona was due $630,000 and Jimenez $90,000. However, Jimenez had earlier sold his stake to Caraballo, one of at least two deals the lender had made with Belfi’s former trainers. 

That left $180,000, which Caraballo was owed as repayment of the $25,000 loan.  Carmona described the vibe as one of “mucha duda, mucha desconfianza,” “much doubt, much distrust.” The exception, he said, was Belfi, who seemed oblivious, confident that everything would work out. Belfi told me that other players had warned him that he would see little of his first bonus installment. He left the bank with nothing. 

At a meeting at Caraballo’s office, Eduardo and Rita said that he ripped up a contract. They understood this to mean the debt was paid. As the day approached when Belfi was set to receive the second half of his bonus, Rita and Eduardo said that Caraballo began to sell them on an idea — they could become partners with him and David Ortiz. They would be out of their depth managing the hundreds of thousands of dollars the Diamondbacks still owed Belfi. Instead, they could invest the money, which would produce a steady income and keep them from  squandering their fortune. 

Eduardo told me that he couldn’t follow all the details but said he was sold from the moment Caraballo described going into business with Ortiz. “I was happy because now my boy was going to have people to give him advice,” he said. 

Eduardo did have a brief moment of doubt. After a call with Caraballo, he said to Rita, “Maybe he’s lying to us.” But they both agreed he was too kind for that.

Chapter 6

Throughout my reporting, the great mystery was if the problems with baseball in the Dominican Republic were so well-known, why hadn’t the league or the union fixed them?

I posed this question to Lou Melendez, who worked for Major League Baseball from 1983 to 2016, including as vice president of international operations, and now consults for the players union. He told me he was baffled by the inaction of the league, which has in the past penalized teams and executives for violating international rules. “If they wanted to, they could have just said, ‘Look, memo to clubs from the commissioner’s office. If we find that you have any pre-agreements with any players, we’re going to discipline you.’” 

Instead, Major League Baseball officials have vacillated between indifference and helplessness. Testifying in court in 2023, Yerik Perez, the league’s director in the Dominican Republic at the time, downplayed the significance of early agreements. They were, he said, “conversations that take place between players, their families and the teams, where estimates and projections are made.”

When Major League Baseball commissioner Rob Manfred was asked last year about preacuerdos during a visit to the Dominican Republic, he acknowledged that they were “problematic” but said the “best solution to early deals is a draft.”

This has been his position since he took office in 2015, arguing that the league needs to institute a draft for Latin American prospects that functions similarly to the draft for American and Canadian players. The change would make early agreements impossible since a team would not know which player they would be able to sign until draft day.

This single-mindedness has led some observers to wonder whether the league’s  neglect of the issue is intentional. “If they wanted to enforce it, they would,” said Rafa Nieves, one of the top agents for Dominican players. “They want to make it worse and worse so the only solution is an international draft.” 

The chief obstacle to establishing an international draft has been the players union. Its reasons are straightforward: A draft would restrict a prospect’s ability to choose his employer and eliminate bidding wars that drive up bonuses. While the union acknowledges the Dominican system is troubled, it, too, blames the league for not enforcing its existing rules. 

The league and the union have been haggling over the issue for decades. Before the 2017 baseball season, both sides agreed to impose a “hard cap” — a limit to how much money a team can spend on signing international players. The amount changes each year and by team. In 2026, the total a team can spend ranges from $5.4 million to $8 million. The hard cap, though, had an unintended consequence: It led to a surge in early agreements. If teams could not beat their competitors with money, they could by making commitments to younger and younger players.

In early 2022, the league and the union came close to establishing an international draft when negotiating a new collective bargaining agreement. Talks broke down, and the owners locked the players out of spring training. The international draft, it was widely reported, had become a major sticking point, and the union was close to accepting it. 

This was when David Ortiz intervened. Although he is retired, players listen to what he has to say. Ortiz circulated a voice message to Dominican players and trainers, declaring a “red alert” that the union was on the verge of agreeing to the international draft. He shared the phone number for Tony Clark, the union’s executive director, and urged everybody to express their strong opposition. 

“If we allow the draft to happen here in the Dominican Republic, even your great-great-grandchildren, and everyone else’s, will be affected by it,” Ortiz said, according to an audio copy of the message, which I obtained. “So we have to start this strong ‘No to the draft’ campaign. Take my word for it. I don’t play baseball anymore, but I know what I’m talking about. If we let them push that thing through here, we’ll be in deep trouble. You know that in this nation, in one way or another, more than 40% of the population depends on baseball, to put it mildly.”

That percentage was an exaggeration, but lots of retired players, including Ortiz, own training academies. Amaurys Nina, a highly regarded trainer, told me that many of them have long used their clout to block any changes to the industry. “These players want the business to stay the way it is,” he said. 

Active Dominican players also spoke out, including Fernando Tatis Jr., the shortstop for the Padres, whose father, a retired major league ballplayer, owned an academy. With an international draft, teams would likely sign fewer Dominican players, especially marginal prospects. Tatis appeared to be alluding to this when he told a reporter that an international draft would “kill baseball in the Dominican Republic.” Tatis did not respond to a request for comment sent to his agent.

The day after Ortiz sent his voice message, the league ended the lockout, and both sides agreed to shelve the idea of an international draft and settled the contract. The draft is once again a point of contention as the two sides have begun negotiating a new contract. (The union declined to comment on Ortiz’s voice note.) 

When I spoke to Ortiz last year, I asked him if he opposed an international draft because of his and Caraballo’s business interests. He did not answer and hung up shortly afterward.

In his statement, Ortiz said his position regarding the international draft “was based on my views regarding the development of Dominican players and the impact I believed such a system would have on baseball in our country.”

Chapter 7

Belfi’s second bonus day arrived on June 13, 2024. When his parents and a brother came to pick him up at the Diamondbacks’ training academy, Caraballo was waiting in the parking lot. He invited the family to jump into his tricked-out Mercedes SUV so they could head to the BHD branch together. 

As he drove, Caraballo hardened his pitch. He said he would pay them a dividend of several hundred thousand pesos, as much as  $10,000, a month, according to Rita and Eduardo. In describing their understanding of the proposal, they told me that the lender promised once again to put the money in a fund or a business involving Ortiz but that they had no idea what kind. Caraballo, they said, assured them they would work out the details the following day at his office. 

This car ride was the first time that Belfi learned that he would leave the bank with little or nothing. But he told me he trusted his parents, Caraballo and any plan that involved Ortiz. 

Already at the bank was Jimenez, Belfi’s former trainer. He told me he was there as a family friend to keep an eye on how things went. But he allowed that he was also there with the hope that Rita and Eduardo would give him another cut for his years training Belfi. 

Belfi’s family was ushered into a room to go over paperwork with a banker. According to Rita and Eduardo, Caraballo came in and out to make sure the family repaid their debt and signed over the rest of the money for him to invest. Unlike Belfi, his brother was alarmed by what was happening. He texted Jimenez that Caraballo was stealing the bonus. Jimenez said he started chasing Caraballo around the bank, calling him un ladrón. Eduardo recalled Jimenez yelling, “Caraballo, no engañes a esos pobres infelices,” “Caraballo, do not deceive these miserable people.” The lender, in turn, accused Jimenez of attempting to fleece the family himself. 

Amid the shouting, Belfi told the banker that he wanted to keep some of the money so he’d have it when he got promoted to the minors in the United States. With the banker’s guidance, he kept $196,000. According to Rita, Caraballo was upset he wasn’t getting the whole amount and angry the family didn’t trust him. After receiving a cashier’s check for $703,900, he left the bank, flanked by two bodyguards. The check’s memo line read “pago entrenador,” “trainer payment.” 

In his statement, Ortiz said he was never aware that Caraballo “operated an investment fund through which money belonging to players was allegedly taken or used for investment purposes.” 

BHD did not respond to detailed questions concerning Belfi’s experiences at the Boca Chica branch. The bank said in a statement that it is committed to “the protection of all our clients, including young baseball prospects. Decisions regarding the use of our clients’ funds rest exclusively with the account holders or those legally authorized to act on their behalf.”

Eduardo told me he often replays that day in his mind, realizing that it was the culmination of his being played for a fool. He hung on every word of Caraballo’s advice, all of it leading to “el gancho,” “the hook” — handing over the money in the bank “without paperwork, documents or anything else.”

Rita said that she called Caraballo about meeting the following day, but he told her he had flown to Miami. In the weeks afterward, they tried calling him numerous times, she said, but that he would either not pick up or the calls would drop. Bank statements show that he did send them three payments totaling less than $10,000. 

Finally, Rita said, Caraballo made clear that the investments with Ortiz hadn’t panned out and that he wouldn’t be paying the family a monthly dividend as he had promised. But, according to Rita, he assured her that he was “always going to be there” to support the family. 

By then Rita and Eduardo had learned of other parents who had accused Caraballo of stealing their sons’ bonuses. The family, she realized, needed to get a lawyer. She knew of only one, a local commercial attorney who agreed to take on the case and who brought on a criminal specialist from Santo Domingo.

In the lawyers’ view, the interest Caraballo charged Belfi’s family was legal under Dominican law. However, in a complaint to prosecutors that they filed in November 2024, they described Caraballo’s promise to invest the family’s money and pay them dividends as fraud preying on Belfi’s “vulnerability as a minor.”

“It is obvious that the accused never intended to invest in any stock market, but rather took advantage of his apparent friendship with David Ortiz [and] the admiration the public has for the former baseball player,” they wrote. 

Soon after, Rita’s mother died, and Caraballo called, offering his condolences as well as 100,000 pesos, a little less than $1,600, to cover the funeral and other expenses. Rita said she told him to have his attorney call hers.

Belfi, too, had lost trust in Caraballo. The necklace the lender had given him on signing day, the one that made Belfi feel like he had made it as a ballplayer, had started to turn black. The chain, Belfi realized, was iron, and he threw it away. 

Caraballo continued to message him, Belfi told me, attempting to get him to persuade his parents to drop the legal claim. On the lawyers’ advice, Belfi blocked him. Just before his 18th birthday in December 2024, Belfi was in Pedro Brand, walking back from a local ball field when, he said, a white Volvo truck pulled up next to him. The driver, a man Belfi had never met, told him to get in. Belfi said the man had a gun holstered on his hip. 

Once in the car, Belfi said, the driver informed him that he was taking him to see Caraballo in Santo Domingo. Belfi was sure that the lender had dispatched “una maldad,” “something evil.” The man drove Belfi to a jewelry store, where Caraballo was waiting. He was in an expansive mood, Belfi told me. He greeted  him warmly and after consulting with the jeweler, he picked out a necklace and told Belfi it was a gift.

They then headed to Caraballo’s office, where the lender revealed the purpose of the meeting. According to Belfi, Caraballo told him that the Diamondbacks wouldn’t want a prospect involved in something as ugly as a lawsuit. Belfi also said that Caraballo warned him that if he had an open legal case, he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country to play in the minors. The last claim is not true, but Belfi didn’t know that. 

The day after Belfi legally became an adult, he said the driver picked him up and took him to the capital to get his Dominican national ID. Afterward, they went to Caraballo’s office, where the lender and a lawyer were waiting, and Belfi signed the papers they put in front of him. “Y ya, el miedo habló,” Belfi told me. Fear talked. 

The significance of those documents became clear the following month. With his signature, Belfi had fired his lawyers, hired Caraballo’s attorneys as his own and withdrawn the complaint. The criminal action against Caraballo, the prosecutor wrote in a final decision, “has been extinguished.”

Chapter 8

Almost immediately Belfi regretted signing the documents that harpooned the case against Caraballo. He tearfully apologized to his lawyers. When I spoke to one of the attorneys, Omar Chapman, he said he thought the lender had taken advantage of Belfi. “Caraballo told him, ‘Look, this document will solve all your problems, don’t worry,’” said Chapman, who added that Belfi might have been legally an adult but “only made it to about third grade.”

Belfi told me that by last Christmas he had gone through the $196,000. He paid off his family’s numerous debts, covered foot surgery for his father, sunk money into his brother’s struggling barbershop and, by his own admission, spent money on dumb stuff — loans to friends he won’t get back and jewelry for himself and girlfriends. 

As the holiday approached, Caraballo sent a messenger to Rita with 20,000 pesos, just over $300, for food and clothes for the children. Rita told me she knew what Caraballo was up to. “He’s basically trying to buy us again so he can keep our money,” she said. But this time, she didn’t reject the handout.

When I visited Rita and Eduardo this summer, they appeared to be worse off than the first time I saw them. With four kids still in the house, Rita had recently opened a food stand across the street, selling salami, plantains, eggs and coffee to commuters. It’s a miserable, fly-infested venture that requires her to rise at 4 a.m. and earns her as little as $5 a day. Eduardo continues to work as a night watchman at a local school.

Belfi told me that the Diamondbacks pay him $100 a week only during the two and a half months he plays in the Dominican Summer League and that the team provides its players with baseball equipment when they sign, but after that they’re on their own. Before the latest season, Belfi borrowed roughly $2,500 from a local lender, part of which he spent on cleats, a glove, bats and medicine for his father. The loan came with 30% biweekly interest. The ballooning debt has caused Belfi to stay away from Pedro Brand. 

I went to the Diamondbacks’ academy, an immaculate new facility, hoping to watch Belfi play. The summer league, which has so many players that most organizations fill multiple teams, is a study in Major League Baseball’s volume approach to Latin talent. Few players last beyond three seasons  — they’re either promoted or cut.

Belfi is now in his third year. In his first two seasons, he struggled, hitting a meager .202 with one home run. He no longer appears in the international prospect rankings. Friends who signed the same year as he did have been promoted. So has his brother Bernardo, who is now on a Rangers minor league team in the U.S.

When Belfi and I spoke, he admitted it’s been hard playing baseball with everything that’s been going on in his head. “I mean, why keep working, if everything I earn, I lose?” he asked.

Trainers and scouts who have watched Belfi for years told me it’s obvious that what he’s gone through has affected his game. One said, “These guys took everything he had and stole his motivation.” 

On a muggy, overcast June day, Belfi’s team was hosting the Seattle Mariners’ squad. It was a sloppy contest full of errors and batters getting plunked by fastballs the pitchers hadn’t yet learned to corral. The only people in the stands, besides a few family members, were scouts and officials recording every data point. But the players cheered and chanted and shook the dugout’s chain-link fence. Belfi wasn’t in the lineup. 

When I found him afterward, he explained that his coaches had him doing batting practice for most of the game. They wanted him to work on “a little bit of everything,” he said. Despite the Diamondbacks frequently benching him, Belfi still appeared hopeful. I asked him what his immediate goal was, and he said with a smile, “Get out of here as soon as possible.” 

A month later, in a tied game in extra innings against a Cubs team, the Diamondbacks called on Belfi to pinch hit with two outs and two men on. He stroked a game-winning single into center field. His teammates mobbed him, and a grinning Belfi jumped up and down, holding his arms aloft in joy.

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