Alvaro turned to look at LePore and Ryan. He could see their profiles and wanted them to turn to their left to meet his eyes, to look at his scarred face, to see the anger in his eyes. He wondered if he would see something in their eyes. Sorrow? Regret? But they didn’t look, and now it was his turn to speak and the room began to spin. Seven years of pent-up emotion circled in his head, and his eyes began to tear.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered to Paula. “I can’t.”
Squeezing Alvaro’s hand, Paula took the piece of paper from his lap and walked to the front of the courtroom. She swallowed hard and then began reading from the paper, which shook in her hand. Now Paula was speaking for him. “My heart goes out to all the families who have lost family members in this tragic fire,” she said, reciting Alvaro’s words before bursting into tears. Then Alvaro burst into tears, too.
Paula was helped back to her seat by a sheriff ’s officer. She buried her head in Alvaro’s shoulder and sobbed while the prosecutor picked up the paper and began where she had left off.
“Right now I can’t see myself ever forgiving these two kids for starting this fire,” the prosecutor said, reading the words Alvaro had written in the privacy of his room the night before. “If it was a mistake, they should have been man enough to bang on people’s doors and save everyone’s life. Instead, they ran off like the cowards that they are. One question I have always wanted to ask is why. What was your reason for starting this fire?”
It was a question that would not be answered. Not now, not in this courtroom. Maybe not ever. When it was their turn to speak, LePore and Ryan recited similar statements.
“I, along with Sean Ryan, lit a banner on fire that was draped across the couch in the third-floor lounge of Boland Hall. There’s nothing I can do to take your pain away,” LePore said, looking straight ahead at the judge. “I’m sorry.”
“I am very, very sorry,” Ryan said, glancing toward Alvaro and the families of the dead, then quickly looking away. “I hope you can move on.”
Ninety minutes after the proceeding had begun, it was over. LePore and Ryan were led out of the courtroom in handcuffs and shackles. Their loved ones wailed. They did not look back.
If they had, they would have seen Alvaro wiping away his tears.
Shawn picked up the phone on the first ring. It was Alvaro. He knew it would be.
“I couldn’t do it,” Alvaro said. “I tried, but I broke down.”
“I know,” Shawn said. “I was watching on TV. I’m proud of you, Al. You went. You were the strong one.”
“It’s over,” Alvaro said.
“Yes,” said Shawn. “It’s over.”
Epilogue
Alvaro and Paula Llanos have two children, a girl and a boy.
Shawn Simons has two sons. He is engaged to Chinaire Fields.
Both Shawn and Alvaro work at the Star-Ledger in Newark, New Jersey.
Hani Mansour is still the director of the Saint Barnabas Burn Center. He continues to dream of one day returning to Beirut to open a burn unit there.
John Frucci is no longer investigating fires. When the Seton Hall fire investigation concluded, he asked to be transferred out of the arson unit. He now works homeland security.
Joseph LePore and Sean Ryan, known as inmates 570191 and 570192, are serving sentences at the Garden State Youth Correctional Facility in Chesterfield Township in Burlington County, New Jersey. In separate hearings in March 2008, each went before the New Jersey State Parole Board to make their case for early release. Both were denied. The parole board received more then three hundred letters opposing their release. The panel told LePore he could reapply for parole in eighteen months. The earliest he can go free in November 19, 2009. Ryan’s next possible parole date in April 19, 2009.
Acknowledgments
Let me begin by thanking Shawn and Alvaro for the privilege of allowing me to tell their story. They opened their hearts and trusted me with the most intimate details of the worst days of their young lives and, in the process, taught me the meaning of courage and grace. I cherish them both and always will.
I have had the good fortune to work with incredibly talented people. I am even more fortunate that they have been willing to share their gifts with me. Star-Ledger editor Jim Willse — “Mr. Willse” to me — groomed me for the best newspaper job in the world, and I am impossibly indebted to him. This book would not have been written had it not been for Fran Dauth, editor and friend, who called me into her office on a morning in January 2000 and asked if I would be interested in telling the story of the students who were burned in the Seton Hall fire. She guided the year-long project to its exalted place as the most successful series in the Star-Ledger’s history. Thanks doesn’t begin to express my gratitude. Guy Sterling, Brian Murray, and Kelly Heyboer, your tenacious reporting on the fire investigation made all of us at the paper proud. Thank you for sharing your notes, your sources, and your expertise.
Little, Brown has been more than kind to a first-time author. Geoff Shandler believed in this book, then made it better with every stroke of his magic red pencil; and Michelle Aielli advocated for it with incessant enthusiasm.
A special thanks has to go to Saint Barnabas Medical Center in Livingston, New Jersey. Few hospitals would be willing to take the enormous risk it did of allowing a journalist in to watch high-risk patients in treatment, when death was the likely outcome. A decision was made at the highest level to allow me unfettered access to the burn unit. I believe this was done because the hospital realized that only a total cynic wouldn’t recognize the wonder amid all the sorrow. Few people outside the unit would ever have known about the miracles that happen there had it not been for the hospital’s public relations director, Robin Lally, and, of course, the incredible Hani Mansour and his staff, who urged the decision makers to take the risk. Thank you all for trusting me to tell the story of your extraordinary unit, and for allowing me to become part of your close-knit family. As the wonderful burn nurse Kathe Conlon told me early on: “Not everyone is accepted in the burn unit. You have to pass the test.” I’m thankful I did.
I have amazing friends: Jayne Daly Munoz, Mary Romano, Kitta MacPherson Lucas, Kenny Cunningham, Marianne Timmons, Robin Boyle, thank you for believing in me.
Amy Ellis Nutt, dear amiga, few are your equal in prose, and you gave your precious time unselfishly to refine and polish mine. The value of your friendship is incalculable.
Matt Rainey, your haunting Pulitzer Prize–winning photos bring me back to those long, grueling days in the burn unit, when our working relationship blossomed into an enduring friendship.
Marilyn Dillon and Brian Horton, you inspire me.
My family is the wind in my sail. Dad, you taught me decency, drive, and determination; Carolyn, you filled a pair of shoes I thought no one could fill — my mom’s; Scott, how many other brothers would read every word? You rock. Penny, on that dark day thirty-two years ago, we vowed to stick together through whatever else presented itself, and we have. You are sister and soulmate. Yvonne (Tootie), Nicole, Shawn, Emily, and Peter, my dear nieces and nephews, I couldn’t love you more if . . . well, you know the rest.
Loren Fisher, the day I met you was the day the possibilities began. For eighteen years, you have shown me unconditional love, respect, and acceptance. I believe in me because you do. Now let’s go to Vermont.
About the Author
Robin Gaby Fisher is a nationally acclaimed news feature writer with the Star-Ledger in Newark, New Jersey. She has won a National Headliner Award and the Nieman Foundation at Harvard University’s Taylor Family Fairness in Media Award. She was also a member of a Pulitzer Prize–winning team and a two-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in feature writing. She lives with her family in New Jersey and Woodstock, Vermont. This is her first book.
&nbs
p;
After the Fire: A True Story of Friendship and Survival Page 18
