Station Nightclub Fire | Lives Lost | 3
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It's a little after 1 a.m. on Friday, February 21st, 2003, in West Warwick, Rhode Island. Firefighter Roger St. Jean stands in front of a canteen truck, waiting for his turn to order a cup of coffee. He shuffles forward with the other first responders in line, still dazed by what he's just experienced.

Only two hours ago, St. Jean and his team were called out to help put out the station nightclub fire, but they quickly realized there was no controlling it. The fire burned so hot and so fast that even with hundreds of firefighters on site to help, the fight was over before it ever really began. Now the fire has officially been called and the flames are no longer burning, and all that's left of the nightclub is rubble, broken bottles, and bodies. St. Jean glances back at the smoldering wreckage.

Even though the firefighters from his department have been relieved of duty, other rescue workers are still trying to recover what remains of the people who didn't make it out. St. Jean assumes they'll be working throughout the night. As the line ahead inches forward, St. Jean tries to ground himself in the present, focusing on the feeling of the icy asphalt under his boots and the crunch it makes with each step. But no matter where he looks, he's haunted by the image of the nightclub doorway when he first arrived.

There was a pile of bodies blocking the entry, people who were just inches away from escaping the blaze but didn't make it.

Staring at the ground, St. Jean becomes vaguely aware of someone calling his name. He looks up and sees his partner, Aaron Perkins, standing in front of him, his eyebrows raised as if he's asking a question. St. Jean snaps back into the present moment. I'm sorry, what? Did you say something? I was asking what do you want? They're ready for your order. I'm sorry, just a black coffee. All right, make that two.

The server hands over two cups of steaming coffee, and the men take them and walk over to a sheltered area a few feet away. Perkins takes a sip, looks over at St. Jean. You okay, man? Yeah, yeah, but this one's gonna stay with me for a while. Yeah, I know what you mean.

But you need to remember, nothing that happened here is on you. We got here within four minutes of getting the call. That's a good response time. Yeah, but the building just went up so quickly. Yeah, I don't think the sprinklers went off. I don't think they have sprinklers. And even then, something else was going on. There had to be some kind of accelerant.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, both men look up and see a man wearing a black bandana tied over shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. Perkins looks up. "Can we help you with something?" "Yeah, uh, I was just wondering if everyone made it out okay." Perkins and St. Jean stare at the man, dumbfounded by the obliviousness of the question. "No, a lot of people die. A lot are injured."

The man looks stricken and then wanders away. St. Jean turns to Perkins. You know who that was? No, who? I'm pretty sure that was Jack Russell, lead singer of Great White. The fireworks that went off? Part of his band's show.

As Perkins shakes his head in disbelief, St. Jean watches Russell wander away into the night. He has no idea how much Russell was personally responsible for his fans' pyrotechnic display. But whoever contributed to this fire needs to be held accountable. The people who lost their lives tonight deserve justice.

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On February 20, 2003, pyrotechnics set off during a performance by the band Great White ignited a fire at the station nightclub in West Warwick, Rhode Island. By the time the fire department arrived on scene, the building was already engulfed in flames. The club's narrow entryway created a bottleneck that trapped patrons as they tried to leave. And less than 40 minutes after ignition, the fire department determined there were no more survivors inside the building.

Almost immediately, investigators began to look into why the fire had spread so quickly and who should be held responsible. But thanks to state law, holding people accountable proved more complicated than anyone expected. This is Episode 3, Lives Lost.

It's 2:20 a.m. on February 21st, 2003, in West Warwick, Rhode Island. Jeffrey Derdarian sits in a back room of the restaurant across the street from where the station nightclub once stood. The police have asked him to wait here so he can give his first official statement to an investigator. He's exhausted, and his mind is still racing through the details of what just happened. There's a part of him that's hoping that this is all a terrible dream, that he'll wake up and everything will be back to normal.

A middle-aged man approaches him, wearing a button-down shirt and tie. He introduces himself as Detective George Winman of the West Warwick Police and asks Jeffrey if he's willing to answer a few questions. Jeffrey nods and says he'll answer anything.

The detective sits across from Jeffrey and turns on a tape recorder. All right, well, let's start at the beginning. When did you notice the fire? Well, the band went on around 11. I was working behind the bar, and just after they went on, I turned around and saw the fire behind the stage. And the fire was started by some pyrotechnics? Yeah, yeah. Did you give permission for the use of pyrotechnics? No, absolutely not.

"'You never said the band could use sparklers or flashpots, anything like that?' "'No, nothing.' "'Okay. We'll have to check with the band, too.' "'Yeah, sure. But they'll tell you we didn't give permission.' "'Next, I want to know what possibly could have made this fire burn so fast. "'The firefighters think there must have been some sort of accelerant. "'Were there any flammable materials kept in the club? "'Any loose fabric applied to the walls?' "'Well, yeah, there's sound foam to deaden the noise from the club. "'We put that up so we wouldn't bother the neighbors as much.'

And what's it made of? I don't know. Just whatever sound foam it's made of. All right, where'd you get it? I don't remember. I'd have to look at our records. When did you put it up? A while ago, a couple of years? All right, let's try something else. What's the name of Great White's booking agent? I don't know.

I don't know. Jeffrey, come on. I know you've been through a lot tonight, but you've got to help me out. Who'd you book the band through? My brother was involved. Michael made all the arrangements. Well, if you didn't talk to the booking agent, how do you know Michael didn't give permission for them to use pyro? Because he wouldn't have. Well, we need to talk to Michael. He's in Florida? Yeah. Winman points to a phone at the end of the table. Call him for me.

Jeffrey nods and reaches for the phone. As he dials Michael's number, he gets an uneasy feeling. He thought this was a friendly interview, that he was being questioned as a victim of the fire. But now he's starting to get the impression that maybe he and his brother are being considered as suspects.

By the time Jeffrey Dadarian leaves the restaurant, it's almost dawn. The station is still smoldering. The snowbanks around the club are stained with blood, and the parking lot is littered with discarded clothes and trash from first aid supplies. First responders are still working to recover the dead, and each time another body is pulled from the wreckage, they pause for the on-site chaplain to say a prayer.

As the sun comes up Friday morning, people throughout Rhode Island wake up to learn about the tragedy that occurred overnight. Just a few miles from the station, house painter Rene Valcourt pours himself a cup of coffee and turns on the TV in his living room. There's a breaking news alert about the fire. Standing outside the rubble, a reporter says that numerous bodies have been recovered and authorities expect a death toll to mount.

Balcourt leans forward. He doesn't go to the station often, but he knows a lot of people who do. So he watches closely as the news report cuts to footage shot inside the club just as a fire broke out. He strains to see if he recognizes anyone. And as the camera pans over two people right at the front, his heart pounds. It's his nephew, Fred Chrysostomy, and Fred's fiancée, Gina Russo.

Valcourt grabs his phone and dials Chrysostomy's number, praying his nephew picks up, but there's no answer. So Valcourt rushes out of the house and heads over to see his niece, Chrysostomy's sister, but she too has not been able to reach Fred. The two of them start calling all the major hospitals in the area, but it's hard to get information. There are so many victims, with burns so severe they're hard to identify.

But soon they get word that Chrysostomy's fiancée, Gina Russo, is at a hospital in Boston. Her lungs are heavily damaged, and she's been burned so badly that doctors have put her into a coma and placed her on a ventilator. They are not optimistic she'll make it, but there's still no sign of Chrysostomy. Throughout the day, the families of other concert attendees frantically search for their loved ones.

And the parents of single mother Gina Galvin finally learned that their daughter is at another hospital in Boston, with burns covering her neck, torso, and head. For the moment, she is alive and stable. But the doctors have given her less than a 50% chance of survival, and she isn't the only victim of the fire facing an uncertain prognosis. In total, there are 30 victims still fighting for their lives in burn units across two states.

And by noon on Friday, February 21st, the day after the fire, all the remaining bodies from the station have been recovered. The death toll sits at 96. But many of these victims remain unidentified. Their bodies are burnt beyond recognition. So the governor puts out a call to family members with missing loved ones, asking them to provide dental records and DNA samples. The medical examiner warns that it's going to take several days to identify everyone who died.

Rene Valcourt is one of the ones anxiously waiting, searching for his nephew Chrysostomy for two straight days. But as he and Chrysostomy's sister continue to come up empty at the hospitals, Valcourt realizes there's another call he needs to make. On Sunday, February 23rd, three days after the fire, he grabs the phone in his living room and dials the number for the coroner's office.

When the receptionist answers, Valcourt asks to speak to a friend of his who works there. And after a moment, his friend comes to the phone. Valcourt takes a deep breath and tells him why he's calling. Valcourt's friend gasps. He did not know Chrysostomy had been at the station that night. Valcourt tells his friend that they've called every hospital treating station fire victims multiple times, but no one has seen him.

The man at the coroner's office hesitates for a moment because there's a protocol for notifying family members, and this isn't it. But Valcourt begs. The family is in agony. The uncertainty is unbearable. So the man sighs and agrees to look. But he reminds Valcourt that there are still bodies that have not been identified yet. He could come back and say Chrysostomy's not there, but that might not be true. Valcourt says he understands, and his friend tells him he'll be right back.

Put on hold, tinny music plays through the phone while Valcourt's heart pounds in his chest. Whatever the answer, it doesn't seem like there will be a good outcome. Either Chrysostomy is confirmed dead or he's still missing. Finally, the music stops and his friend comes back. They have Chrysostomy. Valcourt's nephew, the kid he watched grow up, is dead. By the end of the week, all but four of the 96 victims have been identified by the Medical Examiner's Office.

Among them are local DJ Dr. Metal, great white guitarist Ty Longley, bouncer Tracy King, ticket taker Andrea Mancini, and construction worker Rick Sinetti's niece, Bridget, as well as her friend Katie O'Donnell. The scale of the tragedy is hard to comprehend, especially in a state as small as Rhode Island. And Attorney General Patrick Lynch gets involved quickly to look into bringing criminal charges against the responsible parties.

Less than a week after the fire, he convenes a grand jury and starts calling witnesses. Investigators have already determined that there were four main factors that led to the scale of the tragedy. The lack of sprinklers, the bottleneck at the front door, the illegal pyrotechnics, and the flammable foam covering the walls around the stage as soundproofing. State law allowed older buildings like the station to be grandfathered into compliance and didn't require the owners to install a sprinkler system.

But the point of the grand jury will be to determine if anyone should face criminal charges for the other issues. Each involved human error or negligence. But as Lynch starts investigating, he discovers that many details about the tragedy are in dispute. It's unclear if the bottleneck was the result of overcrowding or a code violation that wasn't caught. The device used to track occupancy was never found, so no one really knows for sure how many people were in the club when the fire started.

And there are disagreements over whether or not Great White had permission from the club to set off pyrotechnics. The band's tour manager, Daniel Beakley, claims that he received authorization to use them. But the station's owners, Michael and Jeffrey Dadarian, insist that nobody asked about pyrotechnics, and if they had, the brothers would have said no. In either case, their use was illegal, since neither a licensed pyrotechnician or a representative from the fire department was on scene.

But the biggest point of contention is the foam on the walls. Foam specifically made for soundproofing is flame-retardant. But it turns out that the type of foam the station had installed was not for soundproofing, but packing foam, which is generally much cheaper and highly flammable.

The Dadarians insist that the foam company sent the wrong kind of material, saying they ordered the flame-retardant soundproofing foam, but because it looks just like packing foam, there's no way for them to have known that they received the wrong kind. A written record of the order they placed, specifying sound foam, appears to back up their claims.

But the owner of the foam company says the Dardarians bought the cheapest available foam and never specified that it needed to be fire-resistant. Many survivors and families of the victims are more inclined to believe this version of the story, arguing that the Dardarians had a history of cutting corners, and they're convinced that the brothers specifically bought cheaper packing foam, unaware of the danger it posed. That foam should never have been on the walls. It was a fire hazard and a violation of Rhode Island's state fire code.

So when state prosecutors call fire inspector Dennis LaRock to testify in front of the grand jury in June of 2003, the jury members are eager to find out why no inspections ever revealed that the foam on the walls of the station was flammable.

The lead prosecutor starts by asking LaRock when he was last at the station nightclub prior to the fire. LaRock answers that he was there in December 2002. The prosecutor notes that that was only two months before the fire, and then asks about the nature of his visit. LaRock explains that he was following up on a fire code violation he had noted the previous month, an inward-swinging door on one of the exits.

The prosecutor notes that LaRock signed off on the station's fire inspection following that visit, which indicated they were in compliance with code. LaRock nods and says the offending door had been removed. The prosecutor then shifts gears and asks LaRock about the foam lining the walls of the station around the stage. LaRock hesitates, then admits he never saw the foam.

Several of the jurors exchange surprise glances. For a fire inspector, this seems like a shocking oversight. But then the grand jurors are even more stunned when the lead prosecutor doesn't ask any follow-up questions. Instead, he changes the subject again to the station's capacity, and LaRock gives a series of dry, technical answers about how it was calculated.

When the prosecutor finishes questioning LaRock, the jurors are given a chance to cross-examine him. One juror quickly raises his hand and asks LaRock how he could have failed to notice the foam when there were 900 square feet of it covering the club's walls, even foam on the door that LaRock had cited for removal.

LaRock explains that he wasn't there that day to do a full building inspection. He was just doing a basic check of what inspectors call the four E's, extinguishers, emergency lighting, exit signs, and egress, like the inward-swinging exit door by the stage. Another juror tries to ask a follow-up question, but the lead prosecutor interrupts and advises LaRock that he can answer everything just by reading aloud from the state fire code.

Grand jurors continue to interrogate LaRock, but as he answers in the bureaucratic jargon of statutes and regulations, they grow increasingly frustrated. Eventually, they run out of questions, and the West Warwick fire marshal steps down from the witness stand.

When they were impaneled, each member of the grand jury was told it was their job to gather evidence and determine who should face criminal indictments. But now the jurors are left wondering if prosecutors really intend to let them hold everyone accountable for their role in this tragedy.

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In the spring of 2003, in hospitals throughout Providence and Boston, victims of the station fire continue to fight for their lives. In the months since the fire, three more people have died in the hospital, bringing the death toll to 99. But Gina Russo still clings to life. She's been in a medically induced coma for 11 weeks. But one day in May 2003, Russo blinks into consciousness. Her brother-in-law is in the room and rushes to get doctors.

At first, Russo doesn't remember anything about the fire. She's heavily medicated, and she's repressed much of what happened due to trauma. She knows that she's being treated for burns, but because she is bedridden and unable to see or touch her injuries, she's unaware of the extent of them. Her family and doctors try to shelter her from the truth. They're concerned for her mental state if she finds out just how badly she's injured, or that her fiancé, Fred Chrysostomy, died in the fire.

So they ignore questions about him or the extent of her injuries, choosing instead to fill conversations with updates about Russo's sons and other family members. But one day, Russo demands answers about chrysostomy and her own condition. Weeping, Russo's sister is forced to tell her the truth, that he died along with 98 other people. Russo doesn't believe it at first, but when it hits her, she cries inconsolably.

and soon the reality of her own situation becomes even worse. A few days after learning about her fiancé's death, a nurse lets slip that Russo lost her left ear in the fire. She's shocked. She can hear fine out of that side, so she had no idea it was damaged, let alone burned off completely. She's also furious, and sick of people hiding the truth from her. She tells the nurse that she wants a doctor to come to her room and tell her everything, no matter how bad.

So a few minutes later, a doctor enters with a serious expression on his face. He pulls up a chair next to Russo's bed, looks her squarely in the eye. I understand you have some questions for me. I was told I lost my left ear. That's true, unfortunately. There are some amazing prosthetics these days, though. I don't care about that. I need to know if I've lost anything else. I'm sick of surprises. No, no, you did not lose any other body part, but I don't want to sugarcoat it.

You are severely injured. You've suffered fourth-degree burns on your scalp. You probably will never grow hair again. So I'm bald. Yes, but like with prosthetics, there are really great wigs now. Once you've healed, you can get fitted for one. Anything else? Well, there is some good news. We were able to save your hands. We didn't have to amputate them. But they are badly damaged, and it's unlikely you'll ever have the full usage of them again. But I type for a living. I'm a medical receptionist.

I'm so sorry. But between the nerve damage and the scar tissue, it's unlikely you'll get the dexterity back to be able to type. Well, how am I going to work? I'm sure you'll be able to find another job, but one that's mostly typing may not be the right fit anymore. I understand this is a lot to process. No, no, you tell me everything. What else happened to me?

All right, well, your legs were largely unburnt, but you'll still see scarring because we needed to take skin grafts from the burns on your scalp, arms, and hands. So even the parts of me that weren't burnt are scarred? Yes. And then there's your back. Parts of it were badly burned, but other parts were fine. I think you were partly protected by the people who fell on top of you. You mean the people who died? The doctor nods. Russo turns away, emotion overwhelming her.

Gina, I'm sorry this has happened to you, but you're strong, and you'll find a way to get through this. The doctor gently pats her shoulder and stands up and exits the room, leaving Russo alone with her thoughts. She stares up at the ceiling, knowing the months ahead will be painful, full of surgeries and rehabilitation, but it's hard to imagine life beyond that. She's lost her hair, her skin, her career, her fiancé. The fire took everything from her.

Single mother Gina Galvin also faces an uncertain future. After six weeks in her own medically induced coma, she awoke to find that she had burns over 60% of her body. Doctors were forced to amputate her left hand due to infection and remove all but two fingers on her right. But as both injured women go through rehab, some of their depression turns into determination.

Galvin, who loves to paint, vows to continue her hobby, even without her dominant hand and only two fingers on her other one. And a few weeks after leaving the hospital, Russo's younger son Nicholas gives her a hug for the first time since before the fire. This moment of reconnection helps give Russo a renewed sense of purpose. She resolves to recover so she can take care of her kids again.

Over the next month, Russo endures painful daily procedures to help her skin heal. She undergoes intense rehabilitation and relearns basic skills like walking, eating, and dressing herself.

In June 2003, one month after waking up from her coma, Russo goes home from the hospital. It's a major milestone in her recovery, but being back in her old environment is a constant reminder of how much her life has changed. She has so many memories of her life before, of spending time with chrysostomy in this house, of taking care of her boys, of entertaining her friends and family.

She tells herself that she's lucky to have survived, but it's also hard to feel grateful when the sight of her own face reminds her of how much she's lost. Russo wants all the people who contributed to her pain to pay for their negligence. But the grand jury hearings drag on for months with no word about what kind of justice will be served or if it will be at all.

Finally, in December 2003, 10 months after the fire, Russo is invited to attend the meeting held by Rhode Island Attorney General Patrick Lynch. The grand jury has come down with indictments, and Lynch wants victims and family members to hear the charges before they go public.

It's an emotional invitation to receive. Russo is relieved that people are finally being held accountable. But she's frustrated to discover that she isn't being invited as one of the fire's victims, but only as the fiancé of one. She learns that Rhode Island law allows for criminal negligence charges to be brought only for lives that are lost, not for lives that have been destroyed by injury.

Still, as Russo walks into a conference room at the West Valley Inn and settles into a folding chair, she tries to focus on the positive. She's here to see justice served for her fiancé, Fred Chrysostomy. The room's windows are shut and the place is hot and stuffy, packed with the family members of other victims. All the chairs are filled and there's a group of people standing in the back.

After a moment, Attorney General Lynch walks into the room, followed by an aide from his office. As he reaches the front, the crowd turns silent. Russo leans forward in her seat. Lynch begins by thanking everyone for coming, then announces that the state is moving forward with criminal negligence charges against great white tour manager Daniel Beakley, who ignited the pyrotechnics, and station nightclub owners Jeffrey and Michael Dardarian.

Then Lynch pauses. Russo waits for him to continue naming more people. But instead, Lynch starts explaining how the cases against Beakley and the Dredarians will go forward. It quickly hits Russo that this is it. That the three people he named are the only ones who are going to face charges. Not Fire Inspector Dennis LaRock. Not Great White Singer Jack Russell. And not the bouncer who blocked her and Chrysostomy from escaping through the exit closest to the stage.

Russo doesn't feel it's right, and it's clear other people in the room agree. One man standing in the back yells about all the fire hazards in the room they're in right now. The windows can't be opened. There's only one exit. If a fire broke out, several people in the room would die. It proves that no one in the state has learned anything from this fire. Others start yelling, voicing their anger and grief that their loved ones aren't getting justice. And as she listens, Russo feels overcome with rage.

For months, the only thing holding her together has been the hope that everyone who played a role in this disaster would face some kind of justice. Now she feels like she's falling apart all over again. It seems like no one in authority cares that this fire killed so many people. They don't care that it's left her and many others permanently disfigured. They don't care that she's unable to work, unable to play with her kids.

And while three men will face charges, she's not satisfied with that. To her and the other angry people in the room, it's not enough. There's more blame to go around, and Gina Russo isn't going to give up until everyone pays the price for their negligence.

In December 2003, the grand jury votes to indict Daniel Beakley, Jeffrey Derdarian, and Michael Derdarian on 100 counts each of involuntary manslaughter and misdemeanor manslaughter. Prosecutors advise against charging Fire Marshal Dennis LaRocque, citing state laws that shield government officials from criminal prosecution if they were acting in good faith.

But for those who are indicted, the wheels of justice turn slowly, and more than two years pass before any of them face consequences. But finally, in May 2006, great white tour manager Daniel Beakley pleads guilty to all counts of misdemeanor manslaughter. He's sentenced to 15 years total, with 11 years suspended, meaning he'll serve four. At his sentencing hearing, Beakley gives a tearful speech apologizing for his role in the deaths of so many people.

But his apology does little to sway many survivors and loved ones of victims who think four years behind bars is far too lenient, and they hope to see the Derderians receive far longer sentences. But the brothers enter a plea of not guilty. They are adamant they did nothing wrong, and when given the chance to present their evidence in trial, they are sure the jury will agree.

The Dodarians know that the main evidence against them is the packing foam on the walls. And the state will argue that they did not do due diligence in assessing its flammability before installing. But the brothers have a written order request that shows they specifically ordered sound foam, not packing foam. And an expert witness will testify that by industry standard, sound foam is flame retardant. To the brothers, this evidence proves that they were not negligent.

State prosecutors also seem to have some doubts about their case. To prepare for a trial, the Attorney General's office brings in mock juries and runs practice versions of their arguments. Over and over, the mock juries either vote to acquit the brothers or are unable to reach a verdict. The jurors have a hard time wrapping their heads around the idea that the Derderians can be held criminally responsible if they hadn't intended for anyone to die.

And if the mock juries won't go for conviction, there's no reason to believe a real one will either. But the victims are adamant. They want a trial. They want witnesses testifying under oath and every piece of evidence entered into the public record. A trial feels like their only chance to learn the truth about what happened that night. And with the victims and family members so vocal about their desires, prosecutors feel they have no choice but to take the Dardarians to court.

The brothers are to be tried separately, and Michael is up first. But as jury selection begins, prosecutors have a change of heart. They begin to think that a trial would be harder on the victims' families and survivors than a plea deal, especially if they lose the case. So in September 2006, prosecutors approach Michael Jadarian's attorney and make an offer. It's an enticing one, but Michael will have to get Jeffrey on board.

He knows the conversation is going to be hard and emotional. It's not the kind of thing either of them wants to discuss in front of their kids. So Michael asks Jeffrey to meet him at a Dunkin' Donuts in the evening after peak hours. When Jeffrey walks in, Michael waves him over to a table in the back corner of the deserted shop.

Michael pushes a styrofoam cup of coffee toward his brother. There you go. Ordered for you. Thanks. So what's going on? Well, the prosecutor's office approached my lawyer, and I think they've offered a pretty good deal. Oh, Michael, we said no deals. We didn't do anything wrong. We swore we would never plead guilty to a crime we didn't commit. Well, that's the thing. We wouldn't have to plead guilty. What do you mean? Well, they said we could plead no contest, which means we wouldn't be admitting guilt. But we're not contesting the charges.

It doesn't sound any different. Well, it is different. They're offering what they're calling a buy one, set one free deal. If we agree to this, one of us goes to prison and the other one does community service. And I wanted to tell you that I'll do it. I'll go to prison. Michael, no way. We can beat this. We have a good case. Well, we have good facts. But we talked it over with the jury expert and they say juries rule based on emotion as much as they do facts. And they have all the emotions.

You know it. They could win this and we could be looking at 20 years. So why did the prosecutor come to you with a deal? Doesn't that mean that they're worried they couldn't win? Yeah, maybe. But it's still a risk to go to trial. Yeah, but it's a risk maybe we should take. We could both be free. Why are you the one going to jail? Jeffrey, your boys need you. Your kids need you. They're older. Ashley doesn't even live at home anymore. They'll understand.

Your boys are young. Losing their dad? No, you can't do that to them. You need to be home. Oh, I don't know. I think the reality here is that there is no good option. This one might be the best of a bad bunch. I'll go in, serve the same sentence as Daniel Beakley got, four years. It's minimum security. They're even saying I'll probably get a work release. So I'll spend the day at a job and just sleep in prison. But Jeffrey, look, I can do this. Jeffrey hesitates for a moment.

Well, if your wife or kids need anything while you're gone, you tell them to call me at once. Anything. I'll take care of whatever they need. I know you will, man. Jeffrey stands up and the two brothers hug. Six and a half years ago, when they decided to go into business together, they never expected it would turn to this. But they're going to get through it just like they've gotten through everything. Together.

When word of the plea bargain gets out, family members and victims are furious. They pour into the courtroom on the day of the official sentencing, angry and vocal. The judge warns them that they are welcome to make statements, but nothing they say will change the sentencing. He tells them that they can talk about their loss, but not comment on the bargain itself. Gina Russo, though, is determined to speak her mind, regardless of the judge's instructions.

So when it's her turn, she stands up and removes her jacket. She's wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals the scars on her arms. The legal system may not care about survivors like her, but she's determined to make the Darians, and everyone who signed off on this deal get a good look at what she suffered in the fire.

She strides to the stand, stares directly at the brothers. She tells them how her fiancé did everything he could to save her. How he shoved her through the crowd of people, telling her to go. How she lost him in a sea of people, burning alive. She says she was sure she was going to die, but somehow she survived. What's hardest is knowing that this tragedy could have been prevented. Then she turns to the judge. She tells him she knows he's not going to change his mind.

But she wants him to know that while Michael is serving four years in prison and Jeffrey is doing community service, she's serving a sentence of her own. Every day, she has to confront herself in the mirror, see her scars. Every week, she visits her fiancé's grave and weeps. She cries for the life they could have had together. She cries for the life she'll never get to live, for the life that was taken from her on the night of the fire. This is, Rousseau says, her life sentence.

In the final toll, 100 people died as a result of the Station nightclub fire, making it the fourth deadliest nightclub fire in U.S. history. In response to the tragedy, Rhode Island updated its fire code and enacted higher standards, including repealing the grandfather clause around sprinklers. All buildings with an occupancy of 150 or more were required to install sprinklers regardless of age.

In September 2006, Michael Derdarian was sentenced to four years in a minimum security prison and three years probation. He was granted early release in 2009, serving less than three years. Jeffrey Derdarian was sentenced to 500 hours community service. In May 2006, Great White tour manager Daniel Beakley was remanded to the same minimum security prison as Michael Derdarian.

Before he was sentenced, he wrote letters to the family members of every victim of the fire. He was released from prison in March 2008 after serving less than two years. No one else faced criminal charges in relation to the fire, including Fire Marshal Dennis LaRocque and Great White lead singer Jack Russell. Instead, fire victims settled for financial accountability by suing those they felt were responsible.

Ultimately, $176 million was paid out to victims through civil settlements from various entities, including the state of Rhode Island, town of West Warwick, the American Foam Company, and the Jack Russell Tour Group, Inc. And though hundreds of lives were altered irrevocably, at least one victim discovered a new purpose by sharing her story and advocating for other survivors.

Gino Russo wrote a book and led efforts to turn the site of the station into a memorial park, which was dedicated in 2017. Great White started touring again just months after the fire and donated proceeds from their performances to a station fire victims fund. Jack Russell died in August 2024. A few years before his death, he participated in a documentary about the station fire called

The filmmakers approached Gina Russo, asking if she would be willing to appear with Russell to discuss the fire and perhaps even absolve him of his role in it. Russo declined, telling the filmmakers that Russell had never done enough to apologize and that she could not forgive him. From Wondery, this is Episode 3 of the Station Nightclub Fire for American Scandal.

In our next episode, we speak with veteran journalist Scott James, author of Trial by Fire, who spent years investigating the aftermath of the station nightclub fire using firsthand accounts and court documents.

If you're enjoying American Scandal, you can unlock exclusive seasons on Wondery Plus. Binge new seasons first and listen completely ad-free when you join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a survey at wondery.com slash survey.

If you'd like to learn more about the station fire, we recommend the books Trial by Fire by Scott James, Killer Show by John Berulik, and From the Ashes by Gina Russo with Paul Leonardo. This episode contains reenactments and dramatized details. And while in most cases we can't know exactly what was said, all our dramatizations are based on historical research.

American Scandal is hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Gabriel Gould. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Austin Rackless. Edited by Emma Cortland. Fact-checking by Alyssa Jung Perry. Produced by John Reed. Managing producer Joe Florentino.

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