WFSB Channel 3 investigative reporter Sam Smink opens his report with a question that sounds simple until you sit with it: what happens when a victim survives a crime, but can’t move, can’t communicate, and can’t live independently?
Smink lays out the reality facing one Connecticut family, where “survival” didn’t mean recovery. It meant a new kind of loss that never ends, and a criminal case that, in their eyes, can’t fully match what was taken.
The victim is Taneiysha “Tay” Rodriguez, described by her mother, Aneisha, as the kind of young person who handled life on her own and cared about others first. Aneisha tells Smink that her daughter was “very independent” and “knowledgeable,” and that she always looked out for people.
Then the story turns, hard.
Smink reports that doctors say Tay is now in a vegetative state, and Aneisha explains what that looks like in day-to-day terms. Tay is confined to a bed. She can’t stand, can’t sit up on her own, and is fed through a G-tube with artificial nutrition.
This isn’t a short-term hospital stay. It’s a permanent life-altering condition. And Smink’s reporting makes it clear that the family is not only grieving what happened in 2023, they are also confronting what the law does – and doesn’t – do when someone is left in this in-between state.
The Crash And The Decisions That Followed
Smink reports that just two days after Tay turned 18, on February 4, 2023, she was riding in a car with friends in East Windsor when the vehicle hit a pole.
Aneisha tells Smink about the injury in blunt medical terms: Tay hit her brain stem and suffered a deep brain bleed. Aneisha compares the severity to “the closest thing to shaken baby syndrome on an adult,” a comparison that shows how catastrophic the trauma was.
Smink explains that police were alerted because Tay’s phone sent an automated crash notification through the Life 360 app, indicating an accident had occurred.
That detail matters because it sets up the next part: the question of whether the people who were able to speak and move did what they were supposed to do in those first moments.
Smink describes what police body camera video shows when the first officer arrived. The officer immediately began speaking with the driver, Benjamin Bonilla, and another passenger who were standing outside the car.
In that video, one of the two men can be heard saying, “We got help on the way.” The officer asks what that means, and whether they called 911.
Smink then points to what the officer later wrote in his report: that the men never called 911, and that they made no comments about additional passengers still in the vehicle. According to the report Smink cites, nobody realized there were victims inside until a man could be heard crying for help.
That screaming man, Smink reports, had a broken leg and was in the backseat next to Tay. Tay was unconscious and made no noise.
Smink notes that police say Bonilla and the other man outside the car were not hurt. Smink also says the other man is not being identified in the report because he was never charged.
The underlying feeling from Smink’s reporting is that the crash itself was horrific, but what happened right after it is what inflamed the anger. The family isn’t just looking at speed and impact. They’re looking at what the driver did in the minutes when Tay had no voice and no ability to help herself.
What Police Say Happened On The Road
Smink reports that the police investigation concluded the car was traveling about 75 mph, roughly 40 miles over the speed limit, when the driver swerved to avoid a construction cone.
Smink explains that the cones were there because of a water main break the day before, meaning the road environment had already changed from normal conditions.
Smink also reports something that raises the stakes legally and morally: police say surveillance video from a nearby business shows Bonilla and the front seat passenger making several trips to the woods shortly after the crash.
Investigators, Smink says, believed they might have been tossing evidence into the woods. Police never found anything, but the suspicion itself becomes part of why the charges unfolded the way they did later.
Smink’s report doesn’t claim this is proven beyond dispute – it frames it as what police reported and what they believe the video suggested. But it’s still a major piece of the narrative because it supports the idea that the focus wasn’t fully on getting help as fast as possible.
Even if someone wants to argue it was panic, confusion, shock, whatever, Smink’s reporting paints a picture where the aftermath wasn’t clean, and where decisions were made that are hard for an ordinary person to excuse.
A “Gap” In The Law, And A Family That Can’t Accept It
Smink reports that because police say Bonilla didn’t call 911 and focused on “hiding potential evidence,” he was charged four months later, in June 2023, with assault in the first degree and three counts of reckless endangerment.
Bonilla’s attorney, Smink reports, characterizes it as “a tragic accident.” Smink later names that attorney as Ronald Johnson, who said he did not want to discuss the case with the I-Team because it is active.
But for Aneisha, Smink reports, the legal framing feels too small compared to the real-world result. She says Bonilla should face something more serious than assault because Tay survived in a way that still erased her life as she lived it.
Smink says the prosecutor told Aneisha he charged Bonilla with the strongest charges available because Tay survived.
That line is the key. Under current Connecticut criminal law, Smink’s report suggests the system treats the outcome in a way that can feel upside down: if a victim survives in a vegetative state, the charge structure doesn’t automatically escalate like it might if the victim died.
Smink brings in Chris Morano, a former Chief State’s Attorney, who calls it a gap in the law. Morano tells Smink that the law recognizes “serious physical injury,” and it recognizes death through manslaughter if someone passes away, but there is “nothing in between” for a vegetative state – a condition Morano describes as being “almost in limbo.”
Morano also tells Smink something that hits like a punch: that an argument could be made that having someone in that kind of limbo can be worse than death, because the suffering stretches across years, and the family lives inside the trauma every day.
That doesn’t mean anyone is saying death is “better.” It means the law’s categories don’t match the reality families live in.
Smink frames the debate as a real question: is assault in the first enough of a penalty, or should there be a greater one for cases like this?
The Sentencing Twist That Feels “Ironic”
Smink explains something most people don’t realize until they’re inside a case: the maximum punishment doesn’t always match the emotional weight of the harm.
Smink reports that if Bonilla were convicted of assault in the first degree, he would face a maximum of 20 years. But there is no mandatory minimum, meaning a judge has wide discretion and could even decide on probation if the judge believes it’s warranted.
Smink notes exceptions where minimums can apply – like intentional acts, use of a deadly or dangerous instrument, victims under 10, or certain witness situations. But in this context, Smink says, there’s no automatic mandatory minimum tied to a vegetative-state outcome.
Then Smink makes the comparison that makes this whole debate explode: if Tay had died and Bonilla were charged with manslaughter, the maximum would also be 20 years, and in most cases there would still be no mandatory minimum, unless a firearm is involved.
Smink says it plainly: the penalty is the exact same.
Aneisha tells Smink that’s unbelievable, and she calls it “not a victim friendly system.”
Morano tells Smink it’s “kind of ironic,” and it’s hard to argue with that. A system that gives the same maximum, and no minimum in either scenario, can leave families feeling like the state is shrugging at outcomes that are radically different.
Here’s the part that sits in my throat: if the law doesn’t have a special category for “living death” injuries, then the case becomes a math problem. And families don’t experience this as math. They experience it as waking up every day to a child who is there, but not there, needing full-time care forever.
A Possible Fix, And The Slow Grind Of Changing Statutes
Smink doesn’t present this as an easy fix, and Morano doesn’t either.
Morano suggests to Smink that one possible solution is to amend the assault statute to create a special circumstance for victims left in a vegetative state – something that could trigger a minimum mandatory sentence.
Morano tells Smink that for a change like that to happen, the state legislature would have to approve it. And he adds a reality check: it’s not easy to change a statute, even if the change is warranted.
Smink reports that Aneisha hopes lawmakers will at least be willing to discuss it. She tells Smink to imagine being in her shoes, and that’s not a rhetorical line – it’s a demand for empathy from a system that can feel numb.
While the law moves slowly, Smink shows what doesn’t slow down: caregiving.
Aneisha tells Smink that Tay is on 25 medications. She says they bathe her, clean her, and manage the constant medical needs. She’s not speaking as a policy advocate first. She’s speaking as a mother who is now also a nurse.
And Smink ends that section by letting Aneisha say what matters most: she will keep doing what she needs to do for her child.
The Court Case, The Civil Suit, And “TayStrong”
Smink reports that Bonilla’s criminal case has been in court since June 2023 and that he recently switched attorneys. Smink says Johnson described it as a tragic accident and declined an interview due to the active case.
Smink also reports a procedural detail that tells you how drawn out this has been: Bonilla is currently living in Florida, and a judge has allowed him to appear remotely. Smink says he is due back in court next week for a procedural hearing.
Meanwhile, Smink reports the family has filed a civil lawsuit against Bonilla and also against the water company tied to the water main break, seeking medical care costs. That case is on hold until the criminal case wraps up.
Smink adds one more piece that shows what families do when the system doesn’t feel like enough: Aneisha has started a foundation called #taystrong, meant to work with other families in similar situations.
That move says a lot. When the law doesn’t recognize your exact pain, you start building your own structure for support and pressure.
And honestly, this is one of those stories that forces a community to ask an uncomfortable question: if the law can’t see a vegetative state as its own category of harm, does it unintentionally encourage a “close enough” approach to accountability?
That may sound harsh, but the gap Smink reports isn’t theoretical. It’s playing out in a courtroom while a teenager lies in a bed, unable to speak for herself, while her mother speaks into the silence.
If Connecticut lawmakers want a clean example of why people stop trusting systems, Sam Smink just handed them one.
Ed spent his childhood in the backwoods of Maine, where harsh winters taught him the value of survival skills. With a background in bushcraft and off-grid living, Ed has honed his expertise in fire-making, hunting, and wild foraging. He writes from personal experience, sharing practical tips and hands-on techniques to thrive in any outdoor environment. Whether it’s primitive camping or full-scale survival, Ed’s advice is grounded in real-life challenges.
