Brief Historical Context Rolando Florián Féliz is considered the first drug lord in the Dominican Republic, having gone from being a simple intermediary to becoming an influential Caribbean partner of Colombia’s Cali Cartel, moving tons of cocaine on a massive scale into the United States. He was born in the southern province of Barahona in 1966 and, unlike other drug lords who came from extreme poverty and marginalized neighborhoods, Florián Féliz came from a family with some financial means and demonstrated an analytical mind and tremendous business acumen from a young age. Florián began building his maritime smuggling networks in the late 1980s, but his large scale criminal operations became visible to international intelligence agencies such as the DEA in the early 1990s. During this period, he took advantage of the geography of the Dominican Republic’s southern coast to establish drop off points for speedboats and airdrops coming from South America. One of his first arrests came in 1991. The Dominican Republic’s National Drug Control Directorate (DNCD) dismantled an operation in which 32 packages containing one kilogram of cocaine each were seized. In September 1994, the Buque Fénix case unfolded, when the same agency intercepted the merchant ship. Inside, authorities discovered what was, at that point, the most notorious drug seizure in the country’s history: 953 kilograms of cocaine hidden inside cans of Linda brand tomato sauce, with Florián later identified as the owner of the shipment. After this incident, he spent two years as a fugitive before finally being captured on June 8, 1996. The following year, in March, he was found guilty and sentenced to the maximum penalty of 20 years in prison. He served nearly 13 years behind bars at Najayo Prison before being shot in the back by a prison colonel on May 16, 2009. He owned luxury residences in some of the most exclusive neighborhoods of the Dominican capital. He also owned enormous agricultural and cattle ranches in the provinces of Barahona and Azua. Although they served as retreats, they also functioned as storage facilities where he hid drug shipments arriving through the southern beaches before they were sent by boat to Puerto Rico. At the time of his death, at the age of 42, the capo left behind 15 children, most of them conceived while he was in prison, and an unfinished 51 chapter book in which he intended to reveal the names of every politician and military officer who had benefited from his empire. All of this context is necessary to discuss “Florián Félix,” a song by Dominican rapper The Real MPK from his 2021 self titled LP, produced entirely by Jotabit. Although the track does not cover everything described above, it does encapsulate Florián’s life in prison. MPK manages to convey the defiant, above the law attitude that characterized the capo throughout his trials in 1996. More Historical and Thematic Analysis of the Lyrics Throughout the period when the capo was actively sending speedboats from the island to the United States, the Drug Enforcement Administration was keeping a close eye on him. U.S. federal court records from the Southern District of Florida formally sought the extradition of his entire circle of trust. For a drug trafficker of that era, extradition was the worst possible sentence, because it meant the end of his empire and total isolation in the U.S. federal prison system, where he would never be able to use his influence to receive special treatment. That is why MPK, speaking through Florián, says: “Solicitud de extradición to the whole crew. Prefiero el tiempo en el patio, you know how we do” [“Extradition request for the whole crew. I’d rather do my time on the home turf, you know how we do”]. “El patio” refers to the Dominican Republic itself, a very common term here for contrasting the country with foreign territory. Doing his time in his own country meant living in a cell with every imaginable comfort. Meanwhile, his partners and workers who were still free continued running the operation outside. This was especially true of Juan Danilo Florián Féliz, Rolando’s biological brother, who served as his operational right hand (“Dejo my nigga Juan a cargo, el negocio no suelta” [“I leave my nigga Juan in charge, the business keeps moving”]). In 2005, perhaps the country’s most prominent investigative journalist, Nuria Piera, mentioned in one of her reports that Rolando had been digging a tunnel inside the prison, guided by satellite coordinates, in an attempt to escape the facility (“Tengo un túnel pa’ en la noche salir a hacer la vuelta” [“I’ve got a tunnel to get out at night and handle business”]). His brother was not the only major name connected to Florián’s empire. El Flaco, also identified as Edwin, was another figure who, along with the others, was also the subject of an extradition request from the United States. Speaking through Florián, MPK tells us that his “nigga Flaco tiene la ruta de Puerto Rico” [“my nigga Flaco has the Puerto Rico route”], the most dangerous and also the most profitable leg of the operation. The Colombians would air drop the drugs along the southern coast or bring them in fishing boats. At that point, the value of a kilogram was relatively low because it was still in a developing country. The real challenge was crossing the treacherous Mona Passage in modified speedboats equipped with multiple outboard engines to evade U.S. Coast Guard radar. That was El Flaco’s job. Florián’s legal proceedings in 1994 became a media circus because of the capo’s direct threats and mockery inside the courtroom. Florián was, as we say in the Dominican Republic, malcriado and respondón: insolent and openly defiant. One of the moments that has been immortalized in the collective memory of Dominicans familiar with the case was his confrontation with magistrate Darío Gómez Herrera. In courtrooms, defendants are strictly prohibited from wearing dark sunglasses because they are considered disrespectful to the court and can be seen as a tactic for concealing one’s eyes and avoiding direct eye contact with judges and prosecutors. Florián, fully aware of the media attention and the television cameras broadcasting the proceedings across the country, deliberately walked into hearings wearing expensive clothes and accessories, including a very costly pair of dark sunglasses. It was an act of contempt, meant to communicate that he considered himself above the rules of the courtroom. After seeing the capo openly mock the proceedings and refuse to remove his sunglasses, Gómez Herrera formally ordered him to comply with courtroom protocol. Florián then, displaying complete insolence and showing no respect for the authority of the court, confronted him directly and said: “Venga usted y quítemela” [“You come over here and take them off me”]. When courtroom security intervened to enforce the order, Magistrate Gómez Herrera firmly reminded him that the place was a courtroom, not a public park. The criminal’s anger escalated, leading to the explosive speech that is heard at the very end of the song: “Usted no tiene valor… esto es para gente que tenga cojones esta vaina. Si usted tiene miedo, renuncie y váyase de esta sala” [“You’ve got no guts… this is for people who have the balls for this shit. If you’re scared, resign and get the hell out of this courtroom”]. But before we hear it in the closing of the track, MPK references it in the first verse: “El juez no tiene bujía, cree que mete cabra. Mandó un mono pa que lo lente me lo quitara. No aguanta la presión, tengo el papel. Le dije al juez que baje y me la quite a él” [“The judge has no juice, he thinks he can intimidate me. He sent some cop to take my shades off. He can’t handle the pressure, I’ve got the paperwork. I told the judge to come down and take them off me himself”]. In Dominican urban slang, saying someone “no tiene bujía” means that they lack strength or authority, while “meter cabra” refers to intimidating or frightening someone. “Mono” is another slang term for police officers in general. Although Florián did not build Najayo, since it was inaugurated in the 1980s under the government of Jorge Blanco as an attempt at a modern correctional facility, he used his money and the fear he inspired to create an infrastructure that benefited him through bribery and coercion. That is why MPK says: “Dudo que por trancarme el negocio limite. Mi propia cárcel construí pa’ que no me extraditen” [“I doubt locking me up will stop the business. I built my own prison so they couldn’t extradite me”]. As established above, Florián knew that if he were extradited to the United States, he would be dead in every sense that mattered. So what was the strategy? Keep committing crimes and allow himself to be prosecuted in the Dominican Republic. As long as he had open cases or outstanding sentences in the country, the Dominican state was legally required to keep him there to serve his local sentences before turning him over to U.S. authorities. Perhaps the most important event of all during Florián’s time in prison was the kidnapping, torture, and subsequent murder of Víctor Augusto Féliz Matos, the son of former Reformist Party senator Augusto Féliz Matos, all ordered by the criminal from his cell (“Si no coge plata, nigga, la mordiste. Le damo piso hasta a políticos, no e un chiste” [“If he won’t take the money, nigga, you’re fucked. We’ll put even politicians in the ground, this is no joke”]). The following line is perhaps the most beautiful in the entire track because it summarizes not only Florián’s reality, but that of many white collar criminals and wealthy criminals like him: “En una jaula de oro solo sé contar” [“In a golden cage, all I know how to do is count”]. Florián is behind bars, but those bars are made of gold, so he does not suffer through his confinement because he is too busy counting the millions generated by his operation. Earlier, we discussed the Cali Cartel, led by the Rodríguez Orejuela brothers, and Florián’s direct connection to them, serving as an intermediary between the cartel and Puerto Rico to allow narcotics to reach the United States. But who came before Cali dominated this business in the Western Hemisphere? The infamous Pablo Escobar, captured in 1991 and killed in 1993. That means Florián’s golden years overlapped with the final years of the cocaine kingpin’s reign. So why does MPK say that Florián’s connection was Escobar (“I’m the boss, my conexión e’ Escobar” [“I’m the boss, my connection is Escobar”])? Perhaps it is due to a lack of historical knowledge, or perhaps because, in the early 1990s, Dominican routes were still connected to networks fed by the remnants of Medellín before the entire operation shifted to Cali. The interlude that follows, dividing the song into two verses, comes from a news report whose origin I do not know. However, what we can infer from the report is that, according to what it says, it takes place sometime between late 1995 and early 1996, just months before Florián was finally captured in San Pedro de Macorís. At this point in the story, the capo was the most wanted man in the country because of the Buque Fénix shipment and its 953 kilograms. Before Najayo became his official fiefdom, authorities moved him under strict security measures, temporarily holding him at the Monte Plata prison: “Florián Féliz fue trasladado desde la cárcel de Monte Plata, en donde se encontraba recluido, para comparecer ante el Palacio de Justicia de la Ciudad Nueva a las 9:45 de la mañana. Florián Féliz, considerado el narcotraficante de mayor calibre capturado en los últimos tiempos en el país, fue interrogado por el licenciado Luis Guillermo Bobadilla Valenzuela, en calidad de informante, en torno a su vinculación con [?].” [“Florián Féliz was transferred from the Monte Plata prison, where he was being held, to appear before the City of New Justice Palace at 9:45 in the morning. Florián Féliz, considered the highest caliber drug trafficker captured in the country in recent times, was questioned by attorney Luis Guillermo Bobadilla Valenzuela, acting in his capacity as an informant, regarding his connection to [?].”] The previously mentioned kidnapping of the senator’s son while Florián was in prison did not happen in a vacuum. It was orchestrated and directed by the criminal’s own head of operations and hit squad, Priscila Díaz Infante: “Jode con nosotro y ere un suicida. Solo una llamada, te frena Priscila” [“Fuck with us and you’re committing suicide. One phone call and Priscila will come for you”]. In Dominican slang, “frenarle” someone means going to wherever that person is. Florián’s power and impunity were so extensive that with a single call from one of his forbidden satellite phones, he could give Priscila her next assignment from inside the prison. She was responsible for deploying the gunmen and executing anyone who dared interfere with the operation. That was one of the many ways Florián mocked the prison system. He was supposedly locked up in a “maximum security prison since ’96,” as MPK puts it, but in reality, he was almost the de facto leader of the institution (“Fuck a CEO, nigga, aquí yo soy el rey” [“Fuck a CEO, nigga, I’m the king here”]). The final lines offer almost cinematic dialogue from the inmate’s last night alive: —“Comando, deme banda con esa mujere. Ustedes ya tán pago, así que mejor ruede. ‘¿Cuál e’ el bulto?’, le dije a lo’ guardia. Su jefe me mandó a decir: ‘Eto no e un motel’. En mi celda le di puñalada y despué salí pa’fuera a buscarlo a él.” [“Officer, give me some space with these women. You’ve already been paid, so you better get lost. ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked the guards. Their boss sent word: ‘This isn’t a motel.’ In my cell I stabbed him, then went outside looking for him.”] It is May 16, 2009, a Saturday night in the cell block where Rolando Florián Féliz was being held. He had been drinking expensive liquor since 4:00 p.m. with two female visitors in his cell, also referenced in MPK’s dialogue: Danerys Mejía de los Santos and Yury Lora, one of whom was identified as a minor. The person Florián addresses as the “comando,” a common Dominican term for a law enforcement officer, was later identified as Captain Lino de Oca Jiménez, a National Police officer on duty at the prison. Some news reports say inmates nicknamed him “Prebenda” because of his habit of receiving illegal payments from the capo. Besides Captain de Oca, the highest ranking officer responsible for security at the prison that night was Lieutenant Colonel José Antonio Pulinario Rodríguez, whom MPK, speaking through Florián, calls the “jefe.” He was the one who ordered the women to leave because it was almost 9:00 p.m. and the permitted visiting time had expired. When Florián was reminded that Najayo was a prison and not a motel, his enormous ego was wounded. He could not accept a uniformed officer raising his voice at him in his own prison, especially in front of his visitors. MPK narrates how Florián attacked the officer with a white branch, but after reading more about the case, it seems that, although this was the most widely known version at the time, it was not the version ultimately established by Judge Biurkis Milanés and the forensic investigations. This bar depicts Florián injuring the captain in the cell with a table knife and then stepping into the hallway to pursue Colonel Pulinario. However, the final case file established that, after the struggle and the cuts Florián inflicted on Captain Jiménez, slicing one of his fingers and cutting his mouth, the immediate danger had ended. The captain walked approximately 30 meters outside to retrieve his superior’s service weapon, returned to the hallway, and shot the capo six times in the back while he was already essentially unarmed. Because of this excessive use of force and because he acted after the inmate was no longer an immediate threat, the officer was ultimately sentenced to eight years in prison for voluntary homicide. Although the song ends here, we could continue it by adding the context surrounding what happened after the shooting. Florián did not die instantly after being shot. Rather, he was left critically wounded and lost a massive amount of blood. Amid the chaos among frightened guards and the prison alarm, the capo’s bloodied body was rushed into an official vehicle and taken to Juan Pablo Pina Regional Hospital in San Cristóbal. There, doctors attempted to stabilize him and control the internal bleeding caused by the 9mm pistol rounds. However, because of the severity of the wounds to his vital organs, Florián Féliz died a few hours later, sometime after midnight. While the capo’s body was in the morgue, an incident took place inside his cell that has fueled conspiracy theories to this day. Intelligence officers and high ranking officials took control of the space. Reports stated that his famous 47 diplomas were removed from the walls, his satellite phones were confiscated, and, most importantly, the 51 chapter manuscript of the biography Florián had been writing mysteriously disappeared. The suspicion is that political and military power brokers took advantage of the chaos to ransack the cell and destroy the manuscript before the names of the officials who had benefited from his favors could come to light. Brief Critique and Assessment of the Track MPK has managed to deliver one of the best accounts of a criminal figure in the country, combining factual information with a first person perspective focused exclusively on his time in prison. He has managed to encapsulate a historical document within a work of art, keeping Dominican history alive through hip hop. Its structure, although not highly symmetrical, does display a certain order and purpose. The first verse shows the character’s arrogance at the height of his power from inside Najayo. It then serves as a piece of journalistic archival material by introducing a news bulletin in the interlude about his transfer from Monte Plata to San Cristóbal. The second verse narrates the inmate’s final scene on the night of the shooting and the track closes with the actual audio of the capo humiliating Magistrate Darío Gómez during the trials that preceded his imprisonment. What I hold against the track is its lack of a critical perspective on the character it portrays. Whether intentional or not, the song comes dangerously close to the familiar glorification of Rolando’s image. By adopting the criminal’s first person perspective, the artist limits himself to projecting the capo’s arrogance without balancing the text with a reflective and critical perspective on the atrocities and bloodshed that his empire brought to the streets. That is why I feel the track deserves a 7/10, hovering close to an 8.