Around 4 a.m. on September 21, 2020, Luis David Saba arrived at a quiet stretch of highway on the southern coast of the Dominican Republic. Police and paramedics had already left, taking with them a crumpled Jeep Grand Cherokee and the remains of a cheap motorcycle it had collided with. The motorcycle's two critically injured passengers had also been taken away. The only signs of the earlier accident were blood and debris on the road, and a pile of neatly arranged branches. Saba knew what lay beneath the branches. It was a local custom to cover a body left behind by paramedics with whatever was available. Removing the branches, he found the remains of his 20-year-old younger brother, Yohan Saba Mercado. He covered the body with a sheet and, in shock, focused only on getting his brother out of the road. He waited for forensic investigators, but as the sun rose and traffic passed, he finally gave up. With help from friends, he placed his brother’s body in a van and brought it to his mother’s house. That morning, two other families were also dealing with tragedy. Deby Beato Charles, 20, and Daniela Perez Garcia, 19, had been riding on Yohan’s motorcycle when the Jeep rear-ended them. Deby’s older brother, Ruben, was told by a doctor at the hospital that his sister had died from severe head and chest injuries. At another hospital, Daniela’s uncle was shown her swollen, unrecognizable face. Her death certificate listed injuries to her head, chest, and hip, and hypovolemic shock, a condition where loss of bodily fluids causes organs to shut down. The families of Daniela and Yohan held funerals that afternoon. As the ceremonies continued, word spread about who had been driving the Jeep: Oneil Cruz, a 21-year-old baseball prospect with a bright future in the Pittsburgh Pirates organization. Cruz, the son of a local baseball family, had signed a $950,000 major league contract five years earlier. The families knew what would come next — a plea for forgiveness, and possibly money. Yohan’s mother later told me that after the mourners left, a driver arrived with a phone. On the line was Cruz’s mother, offering condolences and trying to negotiate. Just seven miles from the accident site is Nizao, a small town known for producing professional baseball players, including Vladimir Guerrero Sr., a Hall of Famer. Cruz had been seen as one of the most promising young players from Nizao, signed by the Los Angeles Dodgers at 16 and considered a top prospect by the Pirates. The accident threatened to end his career before it began. Police detained him at the scene. Prosecutors opened an investigation and sought "coercive measures" to keep him in custody. They alleged Cruz had consumed alcohol before the accident. The case made headlines in the Dominican Republic and the U.S., but it quickly faded from public view — until now. I learned about the case while reporting on the growing influence of "prestamistas," or moneylenders, in the Dominican Republic, who often take a cut of major league prospects’ signing bonuses. The disappearance of the case led me to Santo Caraballo, a businessman with political connections who became a key player in the country’s baseball ecosystem. Caraballo, who partnered with David Ortiz, a retired MLB star, allegedly orchestrated a campaign to convince the families of the victims to accept money in exchange for legal documents that would drop all claims against Cruz. Caraballo’s efforts helped save Cruz’s baseball career — he now plays for the Pirates — while launching his own. But for the families, the money they received — about $66,000 in total — has not lasted. They are left with unresolved grief and regret over the years of pain they endured. Cruz declined an interview, and his lawyer said the case was legally dismissed based on court findings. The Pirates said they addressed the matter more than six years ago based on legal proceedings. Yohan and Deby lived in a neighborhood called "Sal Si Puedes," or "Get Out If You Can," a poor area five miles from Nizao. Yohan had a difficult childhood, growing up in a small wooden house with his paternal grandmother while his mother worked in Santo Domingo. He had a goal of paying for a new roof for his mother’s house. Deby, the third of four boys, lived with his mother in a clean home and had a tattoo of his mother’s name inside an infinity symbol. He was close to Daniela, who loved to dance and sing and was known as her mother’s "chiquita" or "little girl." The three friends were in their late teens, caught between adolescence and adulthood, eager for freedom but not expecting to be out so late. They had no intention of being out that night, but they were drawn to a spontaneous plan to party. They had just passed a shuttered snack stand when Cruz rear-ended their motorcycle, sending them all to the pavement. Cruz called 911, but the police report gave little detail about the accident or the investigation that followed. No forensic evidence was presented, and the victims’ alcohol levels were never tested. The second motorcyclist was never questioned. The day after the accident, photos of the three friends lying on the road were posted on Facebook, sparking debate. Some believed Cruz would get special treatment, others thought the victims were partly to blame for being out past curfew. The families knew the Cruz family well — Oneil’s father had once played professional baseball before being suspended for steroid use. A trainer close to the family, Osvaldo Tamarez, advised them to handle the situation carefully, warning that Oneil would become a public figure. He recommended bringing in Santo Caraballo, a businessman with political ties, to manage the aftermath. Caraballo, who had connections in the government and ran a legal services firm, was tasked with resolving the issue. He organized a legal team and reached out to the families. At Cruz’s court appearance, his attorney asked for time to find "solutions" for the families. The judge agreed to delay the case. Caraballo or his associates began contacting the families, offering money in exchange for dropping legal claims. For Mercedes Garcia, Daniela’s mother, the accident was a nightmare. She remembered helping her daughter take off the tags of her red dress before she left for the river with her friends. After the accident, she imagined her daughter screaming for help on the road. Today, she spends her days in a small living room, rocking and digging under her fingernails with a bobby pin. The pain has not gone away, even as the world moved on.