117 Dead

But for Ramos, life in many ways was more difficult in Miami than it had been in Cuba. He worked for a spell as a massage therapist and then as a delivery driver. In 1996 he was picked up for drunk driving, but those charges were later dropped. The following year he was convicted of larceny and served a few months in jail.

For a few years it seemed Ramos had gotten his act together. He would take his young niece Yeisleny to the movies and go to happy hour with friends. He began working at a Hialeah warehouse, again as a delivery truck driver. Although a doctor had diagnosed him with diabetes, Ramos had little problem controlling his blood sugar or weight, probably because of the exercise he got at work and his love of salsa dancing. At six feet one inch, Ramos weighed a respectable 190 pounds.

Then, in early 2006, Ramos got mixed up in something heavier. A man named Wilfredo Velunza said Ramos and two other men had kidnapped him, beaten him with a hammer, and stolen $12,000 in cash. The victim and the three alleged kidnappers had varying accounts of the February 2 incident. One said it was a drug deal gone bad, another claimed Ramos and his two co-conspirators were part of a "drug rip-off ring." And it got weirder. During a beating, the alleged kidnappers allowed Velunza to use the phone — and instead of contacting family or police, the victim phoned his lawyer.

Regardless, these weren't the misdemeanor charges of years past. If convicted, Ramos faced life in prison. He was taken into custody February 20, and after three months at TGK was transferred to Metro West. A judge denied Ramos bond owing to the severity of the charges, and he settled into life behind bars. Every Saturday his elderly father visited; at least every other day he'd call his niece.

Soon the family became concerned. Ramos began to use a cane. He also complained he needed special shoes and socks for diabetics but the jail staff had refused to provide them. And he said the medical staff didn't always provide insulin when it was needed. He was also diagnosed by jail doctors with sarcoidosis, a nonlethal chronic disease that produces tiny lumps of cells in various organs.

"Can you please call over here and tell them that I need my medicine?" he would ask Yeisleny. She'd phone, and he would usually receive the insulin. He also took some other pills, but she wasn't sure of the type.

Those troubling calls continued through January and February this year. Camagüey called one day to say Ramos's adult diaper was full.

Then Ramos was given a wheelchair, Yeisleny discovered, because he couldn't walk or move his extremities. He hallucinated and frequently talked of flying pigs.

A report written by a jail guard summed up the situation: "Anywhere between 2-5 times a day, select inmates have to wash and dry [Ramos's] linen, his uniform, and give him a shower. Inmate Ramos takes approximately 20 pills on the 7 to 3 shift alone, which makes him very weak. To make matters worse, inmate Ramos is becoming very defiant and argumentative. Other inmates in the unit make fun of the inmates that take care of him."

The officer, whose name is not on the report, continued, "I have made several attempts to medical staff to try and resolve this situation, but to no avail. Inmate Ramos ... needs to be in a medical housing unit. This situation needs to be addressed immediately in order to prevent a tragic unforeseen incident."

But Ramos wasn't transferred to a hospital. In early March he was placed in a cell in the solitary confinement wing. Camagüey called Yeisleny. "Your uncle is really bad," he told her. "They just moved him to a one-man cell. He's going to die in there."

On Saturday, March 25, Ramos's father traveled to the jail but was told his son "didn't feel like visiting." That night at 11:38, according to jail records, Ramos was found in his cell, unresponsive. He was covered in his own feces and had open sores all over his body. Paramedics showed up nearly 40 minutes later. No one from the jail staff called the family.