Caliber .45 pulled up a wooden box and sat on it as he screened everyone in the room. He wanted to make out any rival gang member who had come from the streets or another “pen.” 
His gang was in charge of everything. They approved what was brought in and how things got distributed. Drugs, cellular phones, food, alcohol, gambling, even prostitution was controlled and monitored by these ruthless bullies. Caliber .45 went as far as appointing which cell you got based on “the purchase price.” But he didn’t act alone. The warden was in on the dirty schemes as well. He made sure that the gang was allowed to harass, violate, and threaten prisoners so that they would succumb to their antics. This was common practice in that place, and it made the warden a very rich man at their expense.
Coronel Martinez was his name. He was nothing short of rude and corrupt. In his mind, there was only space for violence and money. If he discovered that the gang was cheating him, he would put another one in place helping them rise to power while dismantling the one who betrayed him.
If an inmate possessed a cellular phone, every weekend “collectors” from the gang would go around, right after visitation, collecting 300 pesos (around $15.00 dollars) just for having it. If someone wanted to manage some type of business like a restaurant or a grocery store, they would set the conditions and collect a percentage from their sales. Alcohol such as whiskey or rum, was by far the most profit producing endeavor, selling four times higher than the average cost out on the streets.
The penitentiary La Victoria was a town of 5,500 inmates. Most of them ranged from ages 16 to 30 and came from the worst ghettos of Santo Domingo.
The economy “inside,” was maintained by families that would provide their loved ones with cash to purchase whatever they needed. But more than often, the money was spent on drugs or on gambling vices that were found across the compound in strategic places.
Police-men would gradually cross the roof-top to ensure that everyone was kept in order. From the center point which looked more like an airport control tower, they manipulated everything: who came in, who went out, what activities went down.
When riots broke-out, mainly because one newly formed gang wanted to take over the established one, police would arm themselves with Israeli Fal rifles and force their authority around.
Caliber .45 ordered his crew to appropriate themselves with the goods of the newly arrived batch of prisoners that included me. I wasn’t having it.
“Hey you! Come here!”
I looked at him seriously. I felt like grabbing him by the neck and choking him to death. But I knew that if I did this, I too would die.
Instead, I walked up to him, carrying myself hard, like a man, like a bull ready to charge, and showed my “front.”
If they were going to waste me, at least I’d go fighting with dignity.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 