Killer Show: The Station Nightclub Fire (35 page)

The Derderians were already in more than a little legal trouble. Days after the fire, it was determined that they had never purchased workers’ compensation insurance for the employees of The Station. (The brothers were
apparently aware of the concept of workers’ compensation coverage, because they did buy it for the few employees of their gas station.) Notwithstanding their earlier assurances to Paul Vanner, the Derderians had simply ignored the legal mandate to provide insurance for their workers — insurance that would have paid, among other things, $15,000 for burial expenses to each of the families of Tracy King, Steve Mancini, Andrea Mancini, and Dina DeMaio

“Comp” insurance at The Station was not only mandated by state law — it was required by contracts the Derderians signed with national acts appearing there. Their contract with Eddie Money, for example, required “a policy of Worker’s Compensation Insurance covering all of Purchaser’s employees who are involved in any manner in the installation, operation and/or maintenance of the equipment provided by Artist.” Not to worry, though. The Derderians evidently did not sweat the fine print.

The Derderians had bigger problems, in any case, than ignoring workers’ compensation laws. The felony indictments that issued from the grand jury proceedings threatened their (and Dan Biechele’s) very liberty. The factual bases for those criminal charges were that Biechele set off the illegal pyro, and that the Derderians allowed illegal pyro, overcrowding, and flammable foam wall covering at the club. It didn’t matter that Michael Derderian happened to be vacationing in Florida on the night of the fire. There was strong precedent for his criminal liability in absentia. That precedent was an even worse New England nightclub fire.

When Boston’s Cocoanut Grove nightclub burned in 1942, killing 492 patrons, its owner, Barnett Welansky, was in the hospital with an illness. Although the club employed about eighty persons, its business was completely dominated by Welansky, who owned all its corporate stock and took all its profits. Like the Derderians, Welansky often spent evenings at the club, overseeing his business. He was not, however, present on the night of the fire. That night, a combination of blocked exits, overcrowding, and flammable decorative furnishings resulted in tragedy. However, because the conditions on the night of the fire were no different from those he condoned when he was actually present, Welansky was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and sentenced to prison. The parallels to Michael Derderian’s case were striking. Welansky’s case was, as lawyers say, “on all fours” with Michael Derderian’s.

For his part, Dan Biechele had nowhere to go by way of defense. He had unquestionably committed a misdemeanor when he set off his unlicensed pyro, and that act proximately resulted in one hundred unintended deaths. Accordingly, in May 2006, Biechele agreed to change his plea from “not
guilty” to “guilty” on one hundred counts of involuntary (misdemeanor) manslaughter. In exchange, the prosecutor agreed to recommend a sentence of no more than ten years’ imprisonment, the actual sentence to be decided by a judge after a sentencing hearing.

A sentencing hearing consists of defense counsel’s argument urging leniency, the prosecutor’s argument for strong punishment, and the defendant’s own statement, should he wish to make one. In Rhode Island, it may also feature “victim impact statements,” an opportunity guaranteed by the Rhode Island Constitution, whereby crime victims may describe to the court the crime’s impact on their lives. Theoretically, the court may take such statements into consideration when meting out its sentence. Victim impact statements in the Station case would prove to be both heartrending and frustrating.

On May 8, 2006, the day of Dan Biechele’s sentencing hearing, a phalanx of
TV
network trucks poked their dozen broadcast antennae skyward from parking spots along the driveway of the new Kent County Courthouse. On the roof of the nearby parking garage, tents were erected from which reporters could do stand-ups with the steel-and-glass courthouse over their shoulders. In the building’s largest courtroom, and in overflow rooms fed by audio and video monitors, families of Station victims gathered, waiting to be heard. To say that every television in the state was tuned to the proceeding would not be an exaggeration. Rhode Island’s citizens were transfixed, reliving the anguish of the fire — but unable to turn away.

When Dan Biechele entered the courtroom, he looked nothing like the road manager for Great White of three years earlier. Gone were his shoulder-length bleached hair, goatee, and sunglasses; in their place, a suit, tie, and haircut suitable for a Rotary Club meeting.

Before hearing victims’ impact statements, the judge laid out the ground rules: One speaker per victim. Five minutes per speaker. Speakers would be permitted to discuss
only
the impact that the loss had on them —
not
the culpability of the defendant, the absence of a trial, or their opinion of the proper punishment to be meted out. A child’s life was to be summed up in five minutes; a parent’s love, the same five.

Then the victim statements began — and continued for two full days. Evelyn King, widow of club bouncer Tracy King, was stoic. “Once I realized the severity of the fire, I knew I would never see him alive. I knew that my husband would never leave the building if there were people inside.” She was right.

A burn-scarred Gina Russo spoke of her fiancé, Albert Crisostomi. They had been turned away from the band door by a bouncer, and only Gina
survived. “[My fiancé] was taken away by somebody without any common sense,” lamented Russo.

The father of Jimmy Gahan, the twenty-one-year old college
DJ
who had interviewed Jack Russell the evening of the fire, told the hushed courtroom that his son would have wanted “some measure of mercy” for the defendant.

Michael Hoogasian’s sister asked those assembled, “Do you know what it’s like to have two people you love so much die in such a horrific manner they can only be identified by dental records? Have you ever had to call your little brother’s and sister’s cell phones over and over again, until they were shut off, just so you could hear their voices [on the message recording]?”

Bridget Sanetti’s mother described how her own fifty-eight-year-old mother declined cancer treatment after Bridget’s death, choosing to join her granddaughter “in heaven.” “I lost my mother, too,” she said softly.

Despite the judge’s admonition, several speakers had to be cut off when they spoke about what kind of sentence they wanted, or about Biechele, personally. They choked back tears and stifled anger during the two wrenching days of testimony. At home, in schools, and at their jobs, Rhode Islanders watched and cried along with them. It was the fire, all over again.

The sentencing itself took place on day three. First, Assistant Attorney General Randall White spoke, urging the court to impose the maximum ten-year sentence because of the massive loss of life and to “send a message.” Next, Dan Biechele’s attorney, Thomas Briody, gave an impassioned hour-long speech, stressing that his client had “committed a misdemeanor that night without any way of knowing the stage had been set for what the Attorney General is calling the perfect storm.” In an apparent reference to Jack Russell, the lawyer contrasted Biechele’s contrition with “the big rock ’n’ roll singer, the man who abandoned my client.” Briody urged no incarceration for Biechele.

Next came Biechele’s turn to speak. He rose, and haltingly read from a prepared statement, pausing several times to choke back tears and regain his composure. His apology was heartfelt and devoid of any pretense that it could, or should, engender forgiveness on the part of fire victims. “I never wanted anyone to be hurt in any way. I never imagined that anyone ever would be. . . . I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself for what happened that night, so I can’t expect anybody else to. . . . I’m so sorry for what I have done, and I don’t want to cause anyone any more pain. I will never forget that night, and I will never forget the people that were hurt by it.
I . . . am . . . so . . . sorry
.”

And with that, Biechele sat down, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. No one thought he cried for himself.

Then, it was time for Judge Francis J. Darigan’s decision, the only speech
that really mattered. Judge Darigan reviewed the public policy goals of punishment, and the factors he considered in reaching his difficult decision. He noted Biechele’s exemplary school and work histories, as well as the defendant’s sincere remorse. The judge explained how Biechele had handwritten individual letters of condolence and apology to each victim’s family. He continued, “Over the last two days I have heard the virtual voice of Rhode Island lamenting the loss of 100 of its very talented, hard-working and fun-loving young men and women.”

Then, Judge Darigan dealt with the nut of the problem. At bottom, a relatively minor offense had resulted in an incomprehensible loss of life. And that was the rub. “This court must render a sentence taking into account the devastating outcome of this crime; however, the law requires that the sentence be predicated
on the nature of the offense
, and not solely on the basis of the outcome of it. . . . Finally, it is most important to note, and admittedly hard for some to understand or distinguish, that the commission of this crime was totally devoid of any criminal intent on the part of the defendant.”

Asking Biechele to rise and stand before him, the judge continued,

The greatest sentence that can be imposed upon you has been imposed upon you by yourself; that is, having to live a lifetime knowing that your actions were a proximate cause of the death of 100 innocent people. This Court can only fashion a sentence according to law and not according to the results of your actions. Any attempt by me or others to correlate any sentence imposed with the value of these lives . . . would be a dishonor to the memory of the victims of this tragedy.

Judge Darigan then sentenced Biechele to “4 years to serve . . . and 3 years of probation.” His words triggered gasps and shouts from some victims’ families. “You get your son back after four years!” cried one parent.

But in Rhode Island, “4 years to serve” is not really four years
to serve
. Dan Biechele would be eligible for parole in just sixteen months.

Many victims’ families were frustrated by both the length of Biechele’s sentence and the absence of a criminal trial. “We wanted answers,” was the frequently heard complaint. But this “wanting the truth to come out at a trial” was the product of a common misconception, created by
TV
courtroom dramas that furnish dispositive outcomes in sixty minutes.

Rhode Islanders embraced a naïve belief that a trial would have featured Biechele, the Derderians, and Jack Russell being grilled on the witness stand; that it would have definitively answered the question of whether the club gave permission to use pyro that night; and that, ideally, Denis Larocque, in
a “Perry Mason moment,” would have suddenly stood up in the back of the courtroom and blurted, “Yeah. I ignored the foam. And I didn’t care” (as he was led away in shackles).

But trials don’t work that way. Defendants (if they’re smart) don’t often take the stand to testify. Witnesses, who may themselves be culpable, exercise their Fifth Amendment right to remain silent. Others simply lie. And
never
does anyone rise in the gallery to admit guilt.

Trials are, as often as not, a muddle of contradictory evidence, unproductive of satisfying answers. As contrasted with their
TV
counterparts, real-world trials usually come up short. Unaware of how trials usually play out, many Rhode Islanders, however, still clung to the hope that the upcoming Derderian trials would answer all questions, and that at least the two brothers would get more prison time than Biechele.

Trying the Derderian brothers would be a Herculean task for the prosecutors and judiciary. Statements had been taken from over 600 witnesses, and it was anticipated that over 250 witnesses would have to be called at each trial (particularly if the defendants did not stipulate to the club’s overcrowding that night). The proceedings would take many months, with no guarantee of convictions. Attorney General Patrick Lynch had a lot riding on this case. If the Derderians took a plea deal, its fairness would be second-guessed by voters; if the case were tried and the Derderians got off, it would be politically disastrous.

The strongest feature of the prosecution’s case was prior pyro use at The Station. At least a dozen bands had used some type of sparklers, flame effects, or flashpots during the Derderians’ tenure, and there was videotape of several of them. Particularly damning was the anticipated testimony of Station employee Lewis Cook (he of the post-concert snow-shovel cleanup technique). Cook was shown a video of Human Clay’s New Year’s Eve pyro concert. On that tape a voice is heard making announcements over the club’s sound system. Cook “positively and without hesitation” identified that voice as belonging to Jeffrey Derderian.

But that didn’t mean that every death could necessarily be tied to the brothers’ actions. Moreover, the prosecution would have to establish every element of the crimes “beyond a reasonable doubt,” a heavy burden of proof.

In September 2006, Judge Darigan announced, in somewhat unorthodox fashion, that a plea agreement had been reached that was acceptable to the Derderians and to the court. Rather than reveal its terms to the general public at a sentencing hearing, as with Biechele, the judge first wrote a letter directly to each of the fire victims’ families, detailing the sentence that would
be imposed under the plea deal. The letter explained that, in accepting this resolution, the court sought to avoid a “lengthy, costly and heartrending trial whose outcome was uncertain.” The judge added, “prosecution and defense were unable to agree on the terms of a sentence satisfactory to each,” and “the Attorney General reserves the right to object to the disposition I have decided to impose.”

There would be no criminal trial. Of anyone. As far as the public was concerned, a plea deal had been struck over the objection of the prosecution. On reflection, though, the deal gave the attorney general the best of both worlds: he could not lose at trial, and he could still publicly object to the court’s sentencing decision.