Reporters and the public wanted answers from the town of West Warwick, too. How could a club with highly flammable foam on its walls pass fire inspections? Was the club overcrowded that night? Just what was the club’s permitted capacity?
Some answers would be long in coming. Some would never be given. As to the club’s legally permitted occupancy, no one seemed to know. On the day after the fire, West Warwick fire chief Charles Hall told a reporter for the Providence Journal that The Station’s permitted occupancy was “300.” (He was only off by 104.) He “strongly denied” to reporters for the Boston Herald that there had been more than 300 patrons in the club at the time of the fire. (Confirmatory interviews and body counts after the fire showed that this statement by Hall was low by a mere 162.)
The man who had increased the club’s capacity from 253 to 317 in December 1999, then to 404 only three months later, West Warwick fire marshal Denis Larocque, had no public comment after the fire. In a taped police interview, however, he was asked, “Do you know if you’ve had any complaints from citizens directly to the fire department or to yourself regarding overcrowding there?” Larocque answered, “Um . . . we haven’t had any complaints, um, that I can recall about any overcrowding or any type of complaints, complaints of that nature.”
Perhaps Larocque forgot that on November 15, 1999, acting West Warwick police chief Gerald Tellier wrote to the fire chief at the time, Peter Brousseau, stating “there have been a number of complaints about the Filling Station located on Cowesett Avenue. Could you please have your Fire Prevention Officer [Larocque] check that building and advise me as to the correct occupancy limit for the building?” It probably also slipped Larocque’s mind that he himself then wrote to the building’s owner, Triton Realty, on December 13, 1999, that “a complaint was received in this office concerning The Filling Station.” Perhaps Larocque had also forgotten that on February 18, 2000 — one month before he increased the club’s capacity to 404 at the request of Michael Derderian — his own boss, Fire Chief Richard Rita, had written to the West Warwick Town Council regarding The Station’s liquor license transfer to the Derderians: “Another issue that is of grave concern to me is an ongoing problem of overcrowding which occurs at this establishment. Occupancy limits are determined and are exceeded on busy nights. Again, this presents a problem should evacuation or emergency medical treatment become necessary.”
Given the post-fire confusion over the permitted occupancy of The Station, and the many requests by news media for reliable information on that subject, the town solicitor for West Warwick, Timothy Williamson, undertook to clear the air, publishing a “To Whom It May Concern” letter on March 14, 2003. A tour de farce of inaccuracy and obfuscation, the attorney’s letter contained the following highlights:
Please note that the capacity numbers in the facility formerly known as Glenn’s Pub, Crackerjacks, The Filling Station and The Station have changed because of a request by owners of the property to change the use of the facility. Specifically, the last change in the occupancy numbers came about at the request of the Derderian brothers, through their company, DERCO LLC, to change the use of the facility.
A true “change of use or type of occupancy” would have ended The Station’s grandfathering for no-sprinkler purposes. Williamson’s letter uses the phrase “change of use” or “change the use” five times.
The change of use consisted of moving three pool tables from the front bar area (left hand side of building) to the atrium greenhouse area. The change resulted in additional room, providing for a higher number of occupants in the building.
Actually, the pool tables could not have fit in the “front bar area (left hand side of building).” More important, their location within the building was immaterial. Pool tables take up the same amount of square footage — the basis for occupancy calculations — wherever they are located. Moving them to a different location within the building does not create “additional room.”
Pursuant to State Law and the Rhode Island Fire Code and the NFPA Code, approximately seven square feet is provided for each person standing.
Larocque used just five square feet per standee. Then, he called the entire building “standing room” to get his 404.
If [the Derderians] anticipated the crowd exceeding the maximum capacity, they were supposed to request a firefighter. On the evening of February 20, 2003, the Town of West Warwick never received a request from the Derderian brothers and/or DERCO LLC for the presence of a firefighter.
Hiring a firefighter does not expand a building’s maximum occupancy. The maximum capacity may not be exceeded. Period.
Needless to say, Attorney Williamson’s “To Whom It May Concern” letter raised more doubts about the competency of West Warwick officials than it quelled. But Williamson had an equally astute ally in West Warwick town manager Wolfgang Bauer. The town manager pronounced that, when Larocque raised the club’s occupancy to 404, “He did that for a purpose that had very concrete and sound principles behind them [sic]. He didn’t do it on a whim.” Bauer never explained what those sound principles might be.
Neither was it ever explained how Larocque overlooked nine hundred square feet of highly flammable polyurethane foam covering the entire west end of the club during multiple inspections over three years. The response of Fire Chief Hall was simply to deny that Larocque missed it. “Our inspector missed nothing,” asserted Hall. “They [The Station] were in compliance.”
Town Manager Wolfgang Bauer took a slightly different tack. “We didn’t see it [the foam] because we either missed it or it wasn’t there,” he speculated, floating the novel theory that the Derderians, sensing multiple unannounced fire inspections, somehow removed nine hundred square feet of glued-on foam from walls and ceilings just in time for each inspection, then reglued all the foam back on as soon as inspections were complete. Bauer asserted, “At the outset, we clearly wish to state that we believe our town and our officials acted appropriately in inspecting The Station. Our officials were doing their customary public duty in a conscientious way.”
Wolfgang Bauer was in no hurry to shed light on the “conscientious way” that Larocque had performed his public duty, circling the proverbial wagons around the town’s fire marshal. Town employees were under orders not to give reporters access to Larocque. One reporter was even threatened with arrest by a West Warwick police officer when he went to Larocque’s house to interview him.
Meanwhile, criminal investigators remained in a quandary over Frank Davidson’s story. Both club manager Kevin Beese and soundman Paul Vanner denied Davidson’s accounts of The Station’s encouraging pyrotechnics there. What’s more, Beese and Vanner claimed not to even know the guy. The police would have to somehow tease out who was lying. If only investigators could listen in on phone calls between Davidson and the two club employees, they might just learn the truth.
A wiretap is a court-ordered secret surveillance of a phone conversation. Neither party to the conversation knows the conversation is being recorded — until it is too late. But when police have one cooperative witness and another not so cooperative, they sometimes use a recorded “controlled call.” A controlled call is one in which the apparently cooperative witness, in the presence of, and under the supervision of, the police, calls the less cooperative one. The caller follows an agreed-upon outline, which is designed to elicit admissions from the other person. The Rhode Island State Police used separate controlled calls by Frank Davidson to Kevin Beese and to Paul Vanner in an attempt to confirm Davidson’s story. The calls’ content proved to be enlightening, if not particularly enlightened.
On the issue of whether Davidson actually knew Beese and Vanner, that much was readily apparent from the opening seconds of each call. As to whether either club employee was aware of prior pyro at the club, the transcripts of the calls could fairly be entitled, “Beavis and Butthead Analyze Fault in the Station Fire.” Studies in rationalization and circumlocution, the two conversations establish beyond dispute that em
ployees of the club well knew that pyro was used there for years, with permission often explicit, but sometimes tacit. In his call, Vanner volunteered that once a band was given permission by the club to use pyro, it probably wouldn’t ask permission on subsequent gigs.
Contrary to the statements he gave police, Beese admitted to Davidson in his recorded call that permission to shoot pyro was, indeed, given in the past: “Some we knew about, some we didn’t know about. . . . But it’s not like every show we have is a pyrotechnic thing.” As far as Beese was concerned, the prosecutors should have only focused on Dan Biechele. “The guy from Great White is the guy that should go down,” was the club manager’s considered legal opinion.
Unaware that the call was being recorded, Beese confirmed Davidson’s claim that he had demonstrated pyro for Beese, and shot it at concerts at The Station:
Davidson: And you know, he [Biechele] didn’t have any extinguishers or, I mean, that was a real dumb move on his part.
Beese: Oh, it was really dumb.
Davidson: Yeah.
Beese: It was real dumb.
Davidson: I mean, at least we had, you know, we had Scott [Gorman, holding a fire extinguisher] there and all that shit, and I had Aaron there and, you know.
Beese: Right.
Davidson: So at least I had my ass covered that, you know, the nights I shot. I just want to make sure that I, you know.
Beese: Yeah, and what was that, like once, twice? You know what I mean?
Davidson: Yeah, twice.
Beese: You know what I’m saying?
Davidson: Right, right.
Beese: I mean, like what? Maybe, I don’t know, a year apart, eight months apart?
Davidson: Yeah.
Despite Davidson’s, Vanner’s, and Beese’s reliance upon stoner vernacular and non sequiturs, a common theme emerges from the call transcripts. It is, essentially, that the club let people it knew, like Davidson, shoot pyro, because they seemed to know what they were doing, and because club employees told them to be careful not to “burn my building down” or “make any stupid mistakes” (quoth Vanner). Many others simply shot pyro there without objection by the club. But, with the circular logic that hindsight bestows upon the truly clueless, the club would never have given permission to Great White if it knew that their pyro was going to kill so many people.
All of which proved that Beese had flatly lied to investigators about his knowledge of prior pyro at the club. But what of both Beese and Vanner denying any knowledge of Frank Davidson? The all-too-simple answer appears in each call transcript. Davidson’s call to Vanner begins:
Recipient: Hello.
Davidson: Is Paul there?
Recipient: Who’s this?
Davidson: Grimace.
Recipient: Who?
Davidson: Grimace.
[Vanner picks up phone.]
Davidson: Hey, what’s up?
Vanner: What are you doing, man?
Davidson: Dude, what the fuck happened?
Vanner: Fucking kid fucking blew up the club, brother.
Davidson: Who?
Vanner: Fucking idiot from fucking Great White.
Davidson: Ugh. What the fuck. I talked to Scooter like right after it, like when he — he was, like, out — when you guys were outside, or whatever.
Vanner: Oh, did you?
Davidson: Oh, yeah, dude.
Vanner: Oh, really? What did he say?
Davidson: He told me the pyro looked fine.
Vanner: Oh, really?
Davidson: Yeah.
Vanner: Oh. It was fucking out of control, brother.
…
Vanner: . . . What’s your real name, bro?
Davidson: Frank Davidson.
Vanner: Yup, that’s it; it came up, man. Somebody asked me about, “Do you know this kid, Frank Davidson?” And I was, like, “No, I don’t know him.”
The same theme was echoed in Davidson’s recorded call to Kevin Beese:
Beese: Whatever. I mean, the whole day was going smooth, man. Not a problem, nothing. And then this shit, you know?
Davidson: God, dude. Hey, do you know my real name?
Beese: No.
Davidson: No?
Beese: No, why? What is your real name?
Davidson: My real name?
Beese: Yeah.
Davidson: It’s Frank Davidson.
…
Beese: They did ask me about a Davidson.
Davidson: What?
Beese: They did ask me about a Davidson and I told them I didn’t know him.
Davidson: You’re kidding me.
Beese: No.
Davidson: No shit?
Beese: Nope.
Town officials and club owners were not the only ones running for cover when tragedy struck. Musicians, their lawyer, a foam salesman, a videographer, a landlord — all distinguished themselves by spinning tales or covering tails.
Jack Russell told Larry King in a televised interview that he was “pulled out” of the club while he tried to go back in to rescue people: “Actually, I was pulled out. I’m not sure who pulled me out the back door. To this day, I don’t know. I kept trying to go back in and make sure my guys and people had gotten out. I kept getting pulled out and pulled out.” This is not corroborated by any eyewitness account, nor does it appear in Russell’s own immediate post-fire police statement. On the Butler video, band members are seen scurrying out the band door — under their own power.
Ed McPherson, Russell’s lawyer, appeared on Larry King with his client, blaming the polyurethane foam, an inward-opening exit door, and overcrowding for the tragedy. He conveniently overlooked Great White’s illegally igniting fireworks inside the building. In fact, the inward-opening door, while a repeated fire code violation, played no part in the outcome; it is seen on the Butler video wide open during the entire event.
Barry Warner, the neighbor who worked for American Foam Corporation and took the Derderians’ order for flammable polyurethane foam, told the Associated Press that the Derderians approached him after learning that he worked for American Foam. According to Warner, he “absolutely, positively” wasn’t selling when the Derderians visited him. “It was late afternoon. . . . I wear a suit and tie when I sell or work. . . . I was sitting there in my jeans and a T-shirt,” he explained. However, Warner’s sworn grand jury testimony established that, in fact, he suggested and sold the foam to the Derderians.
The Providence Journal reported that Brian Butler “stopped taping and came to the aid of trapped patrons shortly after the fire heated up.” Actually, on the video, Butler pauses for approximately three seconds immediately after exiting the front doors of the club. With the exception of that brief pause, Butler filmed continuously until fire completely engulfed the building, never putting down his camera to reach for a single patron seen struggling to escape from a door or window. Butler first set his camera down six minutes after he exited the building, in order to phone his television station and report that he “got it all on tape.”
Triton Realty Company’s lawyer claimed that the landlord was unaware that the building had become a nightclub. Triton believed, according to its attorney, that “there was food and maybe some light entertainment from time to time.” Evidently, the landlord didn’t listen to radio or read the newspaper. For years, the Filling Station had billed itself as “Rhode Island’s Number One Party Club,” advertising national and local acts. Moreover, under their Triton Realty lease, the Derderians were required to report monthly sales to the landlord by category. Their March 2002 report to Triton stated, “Food: $1,000. Liquor: $6,900. Other: $8,100.”
The most blatant incidents of turning (or covering) tail involved those who had the most to lose. The Derderian brothers filed for personal bankruptcy two years after the fire, shielding their basic assets from creditors — including victims of the fire. Triton Realty transferred millions of dollars in properties to related limited partnerships right after the fire, while its principal, Raymond
Villanova, deeded his family home to his wife, alone. Corporate behemoth Shell Oil Company, which had earlier denied the Derderians approval to purchase the gas station where Erin Pucino worked (the brothers bought it anyway, using the prior owner as a “front”), demanded that the brothers’ ownership be terminated. Shell wanted no connection to the Derderians after it learned that Station nightclub flyers and coupons had been distributed at their gas station in advance of the Great White concert.
Anyone with deep pockets could not distance himself or itself fast enough, or far enough, from The Station, the Derderians, and Great White. In short, everyone hunkered down and shut up.
That is, everyone except Dan Biechele. Great White’s road manager, who had set off the fatal pyrotechnics, cooperated with the police investigation from the moment of the tragedy onward. Visibly tortured by what his carelessness had wrought, Biechele told all, and immediately. And in that, he distinguished himself from all the other miscreants.
CHAPTER 23
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
ONCE THE BASIC FACTS OF THE STATION FIRE became known, there was a public outcry, fueled by talk radio and media reports, for criminal prosecution of those responsible for the tragedy. In the weeks following the fire, an additional four hospitalized victims died of their injuries, raising the total fatalities to one hundred. Considering the unlicensed pyrotechnics, the overcrowding, and the use of flammable foam as soundproofing, surely several people would go to jail — and for a long time — for taking so many innocent lives.
The immediate objects of this wrath were the Derderian brothers, town fire inspector Larocque, and Great White’s alter ego, Jack Russell. However, criminal justice would prove to be slow and elusive in the Station fire case, leaving far too many questions unanswered for many victims’ families.
The public appeared divided, paradoxically, between two camps: the majority, rolling out the tumbrels and calling for heads to roll, and a small minority, who wondered aloud how “an accident” could give rise to criminal prosecutions. The first was characterized by Christopher Travis, who escaped from the blaze. “They ought to do life,” he urged. The minority position was exemplified by one Internet rant: “I cannot understand why someone/anyone should go to prison for the Station fire. Yes, people lost their lives, but it was an accident. . . . God called for those who past [sic] at the Station.”
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