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You're listening to a Morbid network podcast, a bloodbath tonight in the rural town of Shinnok. Everyone here is hiding a secret, some worse than others. I came as fast as I could. I'm Deputy Ruth Bogle, and soon my quiet life will never be the same.

You can listen to Chinook, exclusively on Wonry. Join wonderie in the Wondery app, Apple podcasts, or Spotify podcasts. Hey, weirdos. I'm ash.

And I'm Elena.

And this is morbid.

This is morbid on this dreary cloudy day.

I know, but it's Friday.

It's Friday, and spring is. You know, spring's in the air.

Yesterday was gorge.

Yeah. Like, my littlest one found some flowers growing out of the earth, and she was like, that means spring is coming. Yeah. And I was like, correct.

Indeed.

Indeed. Nailed it. Good job, little one.

Just mom things.

So, yeah, spring is coming. That's funny. I'm trying to think if there's any other fun stuff coming up. Oh, the sequel to my book, the Butcher and the Wren. The sequel being the butcher game is coming out September 17, and I can finally talk about it.

And when can people pre order it?

Now. Oh, right now. Go put the links in, all the show notes going forward so that you can always be. You can always be getting it.

I know it's not a tiny URL. We regret to inform you.

We do regret to inform you. But it gets its own thing. It's gonna be the butchergame.com, which. That's cool. It's got its own fucking fun. Wow. Pretty fun.

She's an adult.

We're gonna have some fun stuff going through the year to promote this book. Like, stay tuned because there's some really cool stuff. And I promise you this one's longer. It's twisted. It's. There's a lot. There's a lot happening in this book. So I'm telling you, go get it. Go get it. You won't be. You won't be disappointed.

No, definitely not.

That's my guarantee. Yay. Manifest, you know, manifest. I love it. But, yeah, go get it, because that's awesome and really fun. And it's a series now, so it's the Doctor Redmuller series. So, uh, take. Take with that what you will. That's really cool, you know?

How many do you think there will be ultimately?

I don't know.

Are you gonna be like. Like, uh, doing a little Patricia over there. Just never end.

A little Patricia Cornwell.

Patricia, my girl.

Patrice.

Trish.

I could, I could never, but I can only hope to.

You could have the series go look.

Up to her and say, can I be like you someday? Me too, Patricia. Me too, Patricia. That's actually, that's one of those, that's one of those, like, I need to meet them in my life, people. Patricia Cornwell, Stephen King. I just want to talk to both of them.

I mean, you're a two time author now, so one step closer.

Fancy. Fancois. Fancois. I can be like, I know how both of you have, are literally prolific and have written a billion and four books together that are all iconique. You wanna talk to me?

Maybe you could go to a writer's retreat together.

Ooh. We could all. How fun would that be?

Actually, I was looking into writer's retreats for Christmas for you, but then I was like, that bitch doesn't like to leave her house.

That's not a good gift. I don't like to leave my kids.

You know what would be so perfect?

A writer's retreat. She could go away.

And then I was like, go away. Nope.

You're like, yeah, she won't do that. But that was really nice of you to think about that.

I know, I'm so kind, but, yeah.

You know, I'm so kind. You're like, I know, I know, Mother Teresa over here. But, yeah, but go get that book.

Go pre order it.

There's a poster that you can get too limited time and signed. And it's fun. There's all kinds of fun stuff. Woo. There's gonna be signed copies at Barnes and Noble, all the good stuff. Oh, I love Barnes and noble. But that's all the fun stuff out of the way because today is going to be very morbid. It usually is very morbid. This is a case. This is a kind of case that we don't cover often. This is a fire. It's an arson. A pretty horrific one.

Yeah, we haven't covered a lot of arsons.

We haven't? No. And we'll sprinkle them every once in a while. But there's just so much loss of life in these that it's pretty horrific to research, to be honest. And this one's so sad and so senseless. Oh, man. In so many ways. That's the thing. There's many layers of senselessness to this. There always is. Now, when this episode airs on wondery plus, actually, it will be one day after the 34th anniversary of this tragedy. Oh, wow. Timely. So, yeah, so it happened 34 years pretty much close to the day. And what's sad is, like, as time goes on with these kind of things, the anniversaries become less and less of a thing that people notice is happening because some of the family members are gone now. Time goes on, like, you know, it's not in the headlines, all that stuff. And it's sad that it just kind of fades. So, hopefully this can do a little bit to bring it back into, you know, people's ears, at least at this time. Yeah. Just to recognize it's an important. It's, you know, it's about safety measures in, you know, public areas. It's about, you know, people not being, like, cities not being concerned for the safety of mostly immigrant communities.

Like, they get pushed off to the side, and their safety isn't really of concern for the most part. It really touches upon that, and it also touches upon domestic violence and somebody trying to punish someone for not getting back together with them. Wow. So it's got everything. It's got everything. So, interestingly, I first heard of this fire way young, very young. So this happened in 1990, like I said, 34 years ago. So I heard about it because a little band called Duran Duran.

I think I've heard of them.

Yeah, they made a song about it called sin of the city. It's actually.

You loved that song.

Loved that song. When I was younger, my brother loved Duran Duran. Shout out to JP. Hey, JP. And he made me listen to Durandarin all the time, so I became obsessed with Durandarin. They're so fucking cool. We actually saw them live, like, a few years ago. It was great. Simon le Bon is still, like Labon, but they made a song about this, and it's actually very good song. Like, go listen to it. But that's the first I had heard about this. And I remember hearing the words and being like, wait, is this, like. I thought it was just, like, a fictional thing. I was like, wow, what a terrible thing to make fictional. You know? Like, you just came up with that and sang a song about it.

But it's like our episode with Ronnie and Ben. Like, all the dark events that then lead to songs.

Yes. And this is one of those of.

When I found out, I don't know.

If we touched upon sin of the city.

I feel like we didn't. I feel like you might have mentioned it in passing, but we didn't, like.

Deeply go into it. Yeah, maybe we'll have to add it to the next. Yeah, I want one to do another one of those. We want to do another one of those. We should have Ronnie and Ben back on to do another one of those, obviously. And also, congratulations to Ronnie and Ben for winning best pop culture podcast at the iHeart awards.

They are the best pop culture podcast. I have, like, a roster, I guess you could say, of like, I don't know, probably like six or seven podcasts that I listen to. They're the best one.

Ronnie and Ben for life.

I love them, truly.

So congrats to them. Love you. They deserve it. So again, on the evening of March 24, 1990, nearly 100 patrons gathered to celebrate carnaval at the Happyland Social Club. The evening took a deadly turn, however, when around 03:30 a.m.. An explosion of fire roared up the stairway leading to the second floor of the club. Blocked the only exit.

There was only one.

Yes. And we will get into that from the building. And it trapped all the patrons in the room, rapidly filling with toxic smoke and fire. Even now, it's unknown how many patrons actually managed to escape the fire because there wasn't a lot of, like, it was very lax with how this was all run. So they didn't know how many people were actually in the club. Right. But by the time that they knew, they know there was at least 100 people in there. But by the time the fire department had extinguished the fire, 87 people were dead. Wow. 87 people died. That's a mass tragedy. Yeah. The arson at the Happyland social Club remains one of the deadliest fires in New York history. And in a bizarre coincidence, it occurred on the 79th anniversary of the city's deadliest fire, the triangle shirtwaist fire factory fire of 1911. Oh, wow. That's strange and haunting.

And is that pointed in any way, or it's just a coincidence?

Just a coincidence. Wow. Yeah. Total coincidence. Oh, that's creepy. Now, social clubs are something that I'm sure a lot of people either don't really know what they are or maybe have the wrong idea of what they are. Like, I know. I wasn't totally sure what they were. I've heard the term. I've just never really. So social clubs are basically meeting places where people and communities can gather outside their homes or workplaces. They're typically formed around a shared interest. One of the more easily recognizable types of social clubs found in the United States specifically are those that cater to specific minority or immigrant communities, like greek american clubs or cuban american clubs. Or italian american clubs. Yeah, that makes sense. These are great because especially for individuals that are newly arrived in the states. They're oftentimes, you know, these people come with no social networks or limited social networks. And these clubs not only help them maintain a connection to their culture and heritage, but they also act as kind of like a lifeline. Yeah, a very big lifeline. And for important resources for things like education, employment, other civic and social needs. Like, in the simplest terms, these types of social clubs can serve as a lifetime for many people, attempting to settle in an unfamiliar place and just being able to reach out and grab onto their own community and rely on them and integrate their way into what they want to do.

So it's important to recognize that while social clubs may hold dances or operate cafes or other revenue generating activities, they're not the same as a nightclub or a coffee house. That's not what they're supposed to be. Okay? Their primary mission is to serve a segment of the community in the same way as a recreation or community center does.

Okay, that makes sense.

In New York City, for example, clubs like Harlem's El Caney Cultural center and Familia Sunidas in the East Village provided a refuge for the city's large latin american population and offered spaces where they could celebrate and engage with their art and culture. That was, at the time, especially pretty much unavailable for them in the mainstream around them. So it was really the only place they could go to actually connect with that, which I'm like, I think that's all that they can go to. You know what I mean? Obviously, it's changed now, but Migdalia DeJesus Torres, who is a professor from John Jay College of Criminal justice, said they serve as an important role in the adaptation and assimilation process. They serve as a needed introduction to american life, and they serve to preserve the culture and traditions of the home country. So it seems like a great thing.

It really does, yeah.

Now, again, while most social clubs are anchors for the communities they serve, some, you know, historically have been used for questionable, unsavory, or nefarious purposes. Because people are always going to be people going, people wherever. There's this nice, great thing that's useful and wonderful in helping people get ahead and helping people connect. There's going to be a segment of any kind of community where they take it into a different direction.

They're going to keep it that weird people like the weird that I tell.

You not to keep it. Exactly. Just people are always going to people.

At the end of the day, we.

Find this out time and time again. They're always going to people. Now, beginning in the 1960s, the New York law enforcement and city administrators began seeing a trend of social clubs being used as fronts or bases of operation for organized crime families. A New York detective told the New York Times in 1986, social clubs are regularly used as meeting places and message centers for kapos, underbosses, and their lieutenants.

I find that stuff so interesting.

Yeah. So while these types of operations were rare by the 1980s, like I said, people always go to people. There's always a segment that does it. They nonetheless highlight the complicated political and economic problems that these kind of businesses could present. This segment of these businesses, in some cases, the missions of social clubs will qualify them for tax exempt status, but many are likely to be entirely unregulated, illegally run businesses. And because of that, they really don't pay a lot of attention to things like fire codes, liquor laws, occupancy regulations, safety measures. So throughout the 1970s and eighties, New York City experienced a significant boom in immigration, with more than a million new residents coming from diverse geographic locations. And as a result of this population transformation, social clubs became more important than ever, with many newcomers just trying to integrate while still maintaining that connection to their culture and heritage. So it was a very important thing to have. While the existence of the clubs themselves was by no means a problem, the increasing informality that some were being opened up with was becoming an issue because they were violating a number of laws, zoning codes, and that was becoming an issue to the cops.

But the growth of a much younger population also meant that these illegally run clubs, not the regular social clubs, the illegally ones were starting to resemble more nightclubs than civic and community centers. Cause this is a younger population that's now taking over these unsavory ones.

So they're making it. They're putting their own pizzazz on it.

Yeah, exactly like they're doing it illegally and they're putting their own pizzazz on it.

Realistically, they're just making nightclubs illegal.

Nightclubs? Social clubs. Yeah, exactly. So by the late 1980s, there were hundreds of social clubs operating around the city. A lot of them were illegal in that they had no license to operate a business, serve alcohol, or host events there. But these were minor offenses in the grand scheme of things. But they did contribute to the attitude of general, like, just casualness with regard to operations that put patrons health and safety at risk. In addition to operating out of buildings that were already in violation of safety codes themselves, just the buildings. Many clubs continued serving alcohol way into the early hours of the morning, like, way past the point. You're allowed to.

Well, actually, when you said something about this happening at 330, I was like.

Wait, how was that point? It's also, I mean, we're also from Boston, where we have a very different view of when things are open until.

Like, we're like, what?

You're open until past twelve? Like what?

Yeah, now I think it's like what.

Everywhere else is sitting there being like, yeah, of course they're open at that time. Like this. We're just weird. Yeah. Like, up here, we're just like, everything closes. Everything closes.

Like, last call is like, I think everything closes at two or 230 now.

Yeah, I think. And that's new. Really earlier than that.

My whole, like, going out life was like, around that time.

That's newer. Yeah, like, it used to be even earlier.

This show is sponsored by better help. I feel like this time of year, my social battery is, like, feeling a little bit drained. And it can be easy to ignore that social battery and kind of spread ourselves too thin, especially with all the social gatherings that seem to pick up a lot after the winter. And that's where therapy comes in, because therapy can give you the self awareness to build a social life that doesn't drain your battery. You're going to learn things about yourself when you're doing therapy. What's the right amount of socializing for you? How can you recharge? Maybe you thrive around people, or maybe you need a little bit more alone time. Personally, I've benefited from therapy. I love therapy, and I agree. It's taught me a lot about myself, and I have kind of explored some of these questions in therapy, gotten the answers to them, and then been a better social interactor because of it. So if you're thinking of starting therapy, give betterhelp a try. It's entirely online, designed to be convenient, flexible, and suited to your schedule. And all you have to do is fill out a brief questionnaire to get matched with a licensed therapist and switch therapists anytime for no additional charge.

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So this. So, yeah, so basically, you know, when people are drinking way too far into the early morning hours, it is creating an unsafe environment. There's an increased risk of violence, accidents to happen. You know, it's not good.

It's like our moms always told us, nothing good ever happens after midnight.

It's true. It's so true. But the biggest problem, however, was that many of these social clubs operated in spaces, like we said, that have no safety, have a lot of safety violations, but they lacked proper ventilation, working sprinklers, or even fire alarms. They had an inadequate amount of exits, other various issues that were definitely going to increase the danger and risk if there was ever an emergency in these places.

And that's really scary because you have to realize that a lot of these people going out to these places don't know that. Like, how many places do you walk into? And you're like, I know the building operator here and I know that this place is up to an a.

Exactly. That's the thing. Not everybody walks in and knows where all the exits are. Yeah, everything's. And as we'll see, sometimes in these places, there would be more than one exit that had an exit sign over it, like an emergency exit, but it wouldn't be. You would open the door and it would have just led to a brick wall or something. Oh, that's funny. So it was like people would be running into, like, it's really bad.

That's scary.

So, in fact, by the mid 1980s, social clubs had become, quote, the sites of some of New York's worst blazes, resulting in many deaths. After fires broke out and confused or very intoxicated patrons couldn't find or access and exit, which is horrific. Yeah. By the late eighties, community complaints about social clubs and their safety violations had reached an all time high. But law enforcement were at a loss for how to deal with the problem. And like we said, it gets put on the back burner for various reasons.

Well, especially, like, in New York City. Like, a place where there's, like, tons of shit going on.

Yeah. It's not okay, but you can see how it happens. Oh, yeah. Like, there's definitely one of the firefighters in the Bronx. Tony D'Angelo, said, we closed down a few, but some entrepreneur would just open it a few blocks away. Tony D'Angelo. Tony D'Angelo. I could not get Tony D'Angelo from the Bronx. My guy, Tony D'Angelo, he's a firefighter. He said, I don't know. They just open it a few blocks down. So due to the informal nature, it's difficult to pinpoint, like we said, anything about Happyland social club when it comes to figuring out who was, how many people were in there that night, it's also hard to pinpoint when it opened exactly as a social club. Oh, wow. As far as anyone can really tell, the building that the club was in at 1959 Southern Boulevard off East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx, was purchased in 1985, the year I was born, by Alex DiLorenzo, who was a New York real estate developer who actually was part of a family that once was the largest property owners in the city. Shit. As soon as the purchase was complete, he leased the entire building for 49 years to Little Peach Realty, Inc.

This was a property development management company run by Jay Weiss. Jay Weiss was actually the husband at the time of actress Kathleen Turner. In September 1987, Little Peach Realty entered into a seven year sublease agreement with many tenants who opened businesses in that building, including Elias Colon, or owner of Happyland Social Club. So that's at least the train of how it became into being. All right. In March 1988, Elias Colon and his partners, Rafael Camacho and Jesus David Cruz, filed incorporation paperwork with the city and established Happyland Social Club. They informed their new landlords that they intended to operate this club as a bar and game room. The incorporation and other legal filings allowed the club to operate as a tax exempt tavern, but it appears that neither Cologne nor his business partners ever obtained a license to serve alcohol on the premise of this. Also, a license to operate a tavern was not the same as a license to operate a social club or a dance club. Okay? Which is very confusing. It's like these licenses, like, you can operate as this, but not as this, but not as that, but this. And it's like what?

I could see where that would get confused. I could see where that could get confused. That part I can get, like, the license thing I can understand. Me personally is so confusing to me, so I can understand how anybody would be confused.

Buying a house is confusing. I can't imagine, like, owning a property that I was supposed to, like, get different licenses for.

It would very much confuse me. So I can't say anything about that. But it appears that everyone in the neighborhood understood that Happyland was a fully operational social club that definitely served drinks. It should be noted that following the fire, Rafael Camacho told reporters that he had no idea he was listed as an agent with Happyland, and if his name had been listed on any incorporation paperwork, he said it was done without my consent.

Oh, that's shitty.

So that's interesting. When they opened in 1987, Happyland occupied two large storefronts on the ground levels, one of which had once housed a smaller social club. So it had already operated as one and as a bar and game room. The club was explicitly forbidden to admit anyone under the age of 21. Fair. A regulation that was routinely ignored by Cologne and club staff.

Not great.

Now, despite the questionable business practices, Happyland did enjoy early success with the latin american community in the South Bronx. They honestly had few social spaces to gather, which is sad. That is sad. William Kornblum, who was a researcher with the City University of New York, said, people really love these clubs. The prices they charge for food and drinks are lower. The customers all know each other. They can speak their own language, and a lot of times they have a running account. All right, so it just sounds like a place where you feel it's like.

Cheers, everybody knows your name.

Or it's like, you know the Olive garden when you hear your family. So despite the club's success, the problem started not long after opening. In September 1988, just a few months after it was opened, there were three arrests made at the club for selling liquor without a license, their fourth citation since opening. And then, less than two months later, the club was ordered closed for imminent danger to safety and life of the occupants. Oh, wow. This was only a few months after it was open.

That's not great.

The order said the building lacked a second exit, no fire alarms, and no sprinkler systems.

Okay, we gotta take care of those big ticket items.

And it had no emergency lighting, so.

If anything were to happen, it would.

Just be pitch black. Oh, my God. Per the sublease agreement, Little Peach Realty had the right to evict Happyland in the event that any governmental agency complained about the business. But none of the little peaches executives were very involved with their tenants, so they took no action. Oh, no. They let this happen as well. Six months later, however, Lil Peach did serve cologne a notice of their intention to evict after the club had fallen more than $3,000 behind on the rental. Yikes.

But they never can't operate. They've been closed down now at this point.

Exactly. But they never filed any paperwork in court. Okay, so they were gonna evict them because they didn't pay, but they weren't gonna evict them based on the fact that it was like a death trap. But you're not paying me now, so that's like, come on, guys, lots of talent complicit people here. People are always gonna people. And when you hear about this kind of thing, there are some amazing people in the world that prove us all wrong. But there are some people that are always gonna people, they are always gonna be looking out for themselves and not even considering loss of life as an issue.

And nine out of ten times, it's a money thing.

It's always money. Now, although they had been officially closed by the city, Cologne continued to operate Happyland. In May, while the club was supposed to be closed, Carlos Negron, a local business owner, rented out the club from Cologne for dollar 500 to have a private party. According to Carlos, at one point during the party, the second floor shook and partly fell apart.

No, no.

Yeah, yeah, that's bad. Now, as a result, Cologne replaced Happyland's entire second floor, totally renovating the dance floor, putting in a new lighting system. So he made renovations. Now, this was. This would have been a shock to Cologne's landlord, because when they rented it to Cologne, it didn't have a second floor. What? So they would have been like, excuse, the roof is coming in? Is that what that meant? They just didn't have a second floor? They just built a second floor? Yes. That's why it was so shoddy and, like, falling apart. They had just built a second floor.

Oh, no.

Now, based on rumors that Happyland was still operating, city officials would routinely go by the club just to see if there was any activity going on. I was gonna say, yeah. But each time they went, the club appeared to be closed. Interesting. July should have changed up their time, right? In July 1989, a surprise visit from the local commit, the liquor commission, found that not only was the club reopened without approval, but it was once again selling alcohol without a license. An officer from the public morals division was on hand for the visit. I'm sorry? The public morals.

No, I'm so glad you went to that.

Like, such a dick division. I realize they probably. They're probably doing great work. I don't know. Well, clearly they're there for a reason. But the name you got, a rebrand. It's giving Leslie.

Nope.

You need a rebrand. You do. Like, you gotta. The public morals. No, it reminds me of flick from Reese Witherspoon from election. Tracy Flick. That's what it's giving me. And since you haven't seen that, that will not hit as hard with you. But the listener, it's giving me Tracy Flick. But they were on hand for the visit. And the Happyland bartender, Santos Batis, was arrested for the violation. The bartender? Yeah. According to Batis, he was not the regular bartender at the club and was only on hand to help out with the party.

Oh, that's like.

I don't know. Well, and he claimed the owner told me one time he was gonna get a license, so he didn't think it was a big deal.

Just figured they had one.

I don't feel like, I feel bad for him. Santos Batiste. I'm like, he's just the bartender. He wasn't the regular one. I feel bad he was arrested. That sucks.

It's like wrong place, wrong time.

Yeah. Following the July arrest of Baptiste for the liquor violation, Happyland was inspected one final time on November 1, 1989. Now this is only a year before the fire, at which time officials found the club closed and cologne claimed they had not been in operation. But neighbors later claimed that while the club had stopped keeping regular hours, it was still open regularly for private events and parties. That's how they were keeping it going.

And making money to pay the rent.

Yeah. Now while Happyland social Club and the hundreds of other informal clubs like it were definitely a thorn in the side of law enforcement and city officials, I guess. So it remained an inviting place for the honduran community in the Bronx, who often felt excluded or ignored by mainstream american culture. That's really shitty. Which it does suck that they have to operate like this to create a place where people feel like they are being seen. That's the thing.

The department of Morals maybe get together and get them a place where they can actually be safe and celebrate their.

Heritage, make it viable to. For people and, like, make it something that they can actually maintain and actually have, you know?

Because it sounds like, I don't know.

What you have to go through to.

Get a liquor license, but I know it's a pretty arduous process.

Yeah.

So I'm not saying make it easier, but, like, maybe these people just needed some help.

The process. Yeah, because that might be part of the issue. I mean, here, there's a lot of shady shit happening in this one in particular, but I mean, some other ones that, like, and I'm sure this one, you know, like, I'm sure the atmosphere was nice, the people are nice. So it's like, it had a lot of potential. Right. If the people running it weren't being so shady. But, yeah, I just.

I do think overall, there needs to be, like, more help involved in the process.

Yes. Yeah, exactly. Now, with a five dollar cover charge and just $3 for a drink, the club gave them a place to get together, to dance, to hear some salsa, reggae, calypso music. Just have a fun time. Yeah. Most of these people are working their asses off all day, and this is just a place to let off some steam. Definitely. So club regular Franco Mina was quoted as saying, we all knew each other, and he expressed that they appreciated that sense of community connection that was provided by Happyland club. That's great. Now, on the evening of March 24, 1990, nearly 100 people. But like we said, sources vary on exactly how many above that amount were packed into 60 by 20 foot happy land to celebrate carnival.

60 by 20 foot. And carnival is, like, huge in that culture.

Yeah, it's a. It's a beautiful celebration. Yeah.

Ruba for carnival.

Oh, that's cool. Because carnival is a period of mass celebration that occurs right before Lent. And it really is. It's such a celebration. And the costume, and this is. Yeah, it's a dance, amazing celebration. And I'm sure this was just like, this place was probably so much fun. Oh, yeah. You know what I mean? But what a small area. Yeah.

Huge amounts of celebration going on.

So downstairs, Minerva Laguna was serving drinks at the bar, but the real party was upstairs on the second floor in the informal nightclub. Not existed before. Had not existed before. The mood that night, everyone said, who was able to say it, said it was light and happy. Everyone was dancing, having a blast as DJ Reuben Valderis played merengue and salsa records. It was just like a good time. Yeah, everyone was happy, having a great time. Around 02:00 a.m., however, Julio Gonzalez arrived at Happyland to confront his former girlfriend, Lydia Feliciano, who was working as the coat check that night. At 36 years old, Gonzalez had been a member of the cuban army in the late 1970s, but then he faked a drug trafficking incident in 1980 in order to be kicked out of the army and the country. Huh. At the time, he was one of the countless cuban citizens expelled from the country by Castro in the Marielle boat lift and sent to the US as a refugee. Wow. Since arriving in the US, he had worked as a mechanic briefly. He held some entry level factory jobs, you know, made some quick cash washing cars or peddling on the street.

In the winter of 1990, however, he had fallen on some hard times and was unemployed, living in a ten square foot room in the Bronx that, according to all the sources that I could find, said that the only thing in that place besides where he was sleeping was just a picture of Jesus Christ taped to the wall his bed. So living in that kind of, like, just isolation. Yeah.

That's like solitary confinement.

Yeah. Now, Julio and Lydia had been dating off and on for nearly eight years until about six weeks earlier, before this, when the couple broke up and Gonzalez had moved out of Feliciano's apartment into the room that he was occupying right now. Although it's unclear why they ended things, only that she had, quote, accused him of something he had not done, according to him. Okay. Which I'm like, so something you did do? That's usually the case. What is known is that Julio tended to be controlling and frequently demanded that Lydia quit her job at Happyland. It was very controlling. A short time after the breakup, Gonzalez lost his job packing boxes at a lamp factory in Queens, which caused him to fall behind on his weekly rent, and, according to his landlord, was down to his last hope. So he was going through it now. After drinking heavily for much of the evening of the 24th and early hours of the 25th, Julio went down to Happyland, intending to convince Lydia to get back together with him. Arriving a little after 02:00 a.m. He approached Lydia at the coat check with what she described as a, quote, sarcastic and ironic smile, but his tone was friendly.

She said that he said to her, you see, I'm here. Like the police. They come to a place unannounced, too. After arguing a little bit briefly, Lydia told Julio that she, quote, didn't need him and insisted that he should go. At that point, he left the coat check area. He went around, mingled with some other patrons on the first floor for, I think, about a half an hour, and then he headed back up to the second floor and out of Lydia's sight, but returned a little bit after that to confront her again about 15 minutes after. Oh, wow. He said, I know you have a boyfriend. It doesn't matter. You and I until deaths. Oh. Which as soon as somebody says shit like that to you, that's toxic. Call someone. That's toxic. Walk the other way. That's really toxic. Shit. Oh, God. When Julio had first disappeared upstairs because of the first argument, Lydia went to the bouncer, Marvin Alicia, and told him that Julio was very drunk and had been harassing her. So when he came back the second time to confront her, it was Marvin the bouncer that intervened and actually escorted Julio out of the club because he was like, you can't harass our employees.

Yeah.

No, please leave.

But before he left, he turned back to Alicia, the bouncer, and said, I'll be back.

Oh, that's really chilling.

Now, having failed to convince Lydia to get back together with him, Julio wandered the neighborhood for about a half hour, just marinating in frustration, anger, and drunkenness. And about three blocks away from Happyland, he stopped at the Amoko gas station and purchased one gallon of gas. He told the attendant his car had broken down. Now, he returned to the club, and he noticed someone standing outside. So he went to a nearby pay phone and pretended to make a call. Once that person left, he began pouring the gasoline all over the stairs and entryway that led inside Happyland. So to be clear, he premeditated this. Yup. Even so far as hiding in a payphone and pretending to be on a payphone, this other person wouldn't catch them.

Had plenty of time to change his mind.

And then he put it all over the entrance. Like, you know what you're doing.

Of course you do.

Standing on the sidewalk, he pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit two matches and then tossed them onto the gasoline that was puddled in front of the front door. That also leads you to believe that.

If somebody is capable of doing something that deranged and depraved, he probably did do whatever Lydia.

Yeah. Said he did. Yeah. Now, the fire ripped up the stairs and into the building quickly, sending everyone into a panic. The other exit from the building had been padlocked. There was one other exit, but it was padlocked to prevent people entering without paying the COVID charge.

It's like, just put someone at that door.

Yeah. So the only exit was now blocked by a raging fire. Oh, my God. Ruben Valderis, the dj, recalled, quote, I heard a lot of people screaming. He had been djing in the booth at the top of the stairs and realized there was still a chance to escape. So he. Which I was like, heroic. He called out to everyone, if someone's going to leave, follow me. And he tried to lead people out. Wow.

That just gave me chills.

Balderas was one of only six people to escape the fire that night, and when he managed to finally get out of the building, he was engulfed in flames.

Oh, my God.

And would. He sustained serious burn injuries. Serious injuries. Lydia had also managed to escape the building slipping out just before the fire broke out. And once outside, she ran down the street and called a cab and never alerted anyone else to the fire or called the fire department, which is fucked up. That's so strange. A lot of people pointed to that, too, and were like, what the fuck was that about? Like, I realized she, you know, whatever, but it's like, call the fire department. What are you not calling someone? Making an fire department? You know that there's only one exit. You work there. Maybe you know that it's a packed club. If there's a fire raging in there, call the fire department. Yeah. That's all you have to do. Don't. You don't need to stick around. Like, that's fine. You're probably scared later. She says she was scared Julio was gonna come back and hurt her outside, which I totally understand, that she get.

Away, that it was him who had done that.

Yeah. Wow. And she was afraid that he was gonna hurt her outside. So that tells you a lot about what was happening there. Yeah, about that. So I totally understand why she jumped in a cab and was like, get me the fuck out of here. But. But call or tell the cab driver. Like, be like, somebody. Contact somebody. Like, there's. She called a cab.

Yeah, exactly.

So that just bothered me. I was like, oh, man. Not that I don't. I don't even know if anything could have been done to stop this, to be quite honest. Which is even sadder. The fire department did arrive a few minutes later, but by then, the entire club was ablaze. Firefighter Jerry Murtha said of that night, quote, I guess other than 911, happyland was the worst thing to ever happen to me as a firefighter. Wow. As one of the first responders, he had an oxygen mask on, and he pushed his way through the hysterical crowd outside on the street and started crawling his way up the stairs to the second floor firefighters. I'm like, you're real ones, like, thinking about that. I'm like, you're just, like, crawling into a fire. Absolutely. I never take a second to just really think about that.

No, my brother in law's a firefighter, and some of the shit he'll send us. And they train and go into houses, but even then they get the real calls and he'll send pictures of what they'll go into sometimes. And I'm like, oh, my God.

Yeah, it's wild.

And just your human instinct is to.

Run out of a fire.

And the fact that these people train, just run into. Run into a fire to save people is really wild.

So firefighters out there shout out to y'all. Snaps to you. He said. And this is. This is horrific to think about. He said, when I got up there, it was just one after the other of people stacked up on the top floor. Oh, that's. I knew they were people and I was just trying to get off them. And the further I crawled, I was just crawling on more and more people. When he had made it back outside, he radioed the chief to report the fatalities. And when asked how many, he just said, numerous.

Numerous.

There's no way he could have counted. Aside from the six people on the first floor who were known to have escaped, there were 19 patrons who died on the first floor. And the remaining 68 people were on the second floor. And they were all dead, mostly from suffocation, though a few died from trampling or crushing injuries. Oh, my God. Because the fire was set at the bottom of the stairs, the stairway acted like a chimney, so it pumped smoke and carbon dioxide right into the second floor. When the flames reached the second floor, the toxic cloud was just exasperated by all the plastic decorations and other materials that caught fire and made this, like, toxic, poisonous smoke that was happening because it was carnival, so it was all decorated for them. Plastic is gonna turn into, like, poison. Oh, my God. So it's awful. It's awful. And in their panic and terror, the patrons on the second floor probably became very confused, making it almost impossible to find the stairs. And it wouldn't have mattered if they had, because they would have been inaccessible by that. They couldn't go to the. They couldn't have even gone.

In their last moments, many slumped to the floor and held onto the person nearest to them as they died. Oh, my God. Yeah, it's horrific.

All because one man couldn't handle the fact that he was being broken.

One asshole couldn't. I shouldn't even say, man. Yeah. In a statement to reporters, firefighter Richard Hardin said, some looked like they were sleeping, some looked horrified. Some looked like they were in shock. Some people had torn their clothes off and they're panicked to get out. It must have been a. I can't even fathom that scene that would change you as a person. It was the largest loss of life in a fire in New York since the triangle shirtwaist factory fire, which, again, in a bizarre coincidence, occurred exactly 79 years earlier on March 25, 1911. That's so scary. Yeah. So we have the names of the Happyland social club victims, and we are going to put them either on our socials or in the show notes, wherever they, because there's a lot. So we wanted, like, character wise, we just want to make sure they all fit in one place. So we will likely put a link to their names as well so that you can see all of their names and how old they were. It's. There's. I mean, there's people as young as 18 years old. Wow. This fire, you know, like, it's. These are people in their.

In their twenties, thirties, and just these.

People getting together to celebrate their heritage. Like, it's supposed to be one of the happiest times of the year for them.

Exactly.

That's this one asshole who was unhappy and couldn't do anything to fucking get past it just ruined everyone's lives.

Yeah.

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So after fleeing the scene outside Happyland, Julio went to the apartment of his friend Carmen Melendez, where he confessed that he'd poured fire around the exit of happy land and set the club on fire, Melendez later said in court. I asked him why. He said, I don't want Lydia to work there. Melendez didn't believe his story, but he did seem incredibly upset, she said. And when she asked what he planned to do next, Julio told her he was going to wait until the police could come get him. Then he left Melendez's apartment and went down the hall to his own room and went to sleep.

He just went to sleep.

He just went to sleep. I'll just wait here until they come get.

How the fuck do you go to sleep after that? That's a monster.

That's even worse, because he watched the firefighters fight the fire. He was outside watching them.

What, so he went to sleep and then went back?

Yep.

What a twisted fuck.

Or he at least watched them and then went to sleep. One or the other. But either way. Now, the following morning, investigators interviewed the six known survivors, including Lydia Feliciano who told them about her argument with Julio and the threats he made before leaving the club. When police officers arrived at Gonzalez's room later that afternoon, there was an overwhelming stench of gasoline that permeated his clothes and the entire room itself. And when the officers told Julio why they were there, he seemed to understand and didn't resist arrest at all. They said it was like he was being picked up for a traffic warrant. It was nothing. He was sleeping. He was sleeping.

That's disgusting.

Once at the station, Julio broke down into tears, and in an hour long taped confession, he admitted to starting the fire.

You're just crying because you got caught. You're not crying because of any of.

Those people's lives that you took, he said, I knew that I was going to do damage, but not of that intensity to cause the tragedy that occurred.

You lit a building full of 100 people on fire.

This is the same kind of thing of people who poison people and go, I was just trying to make them violently ill. I didn't know I'd kill them either way. That's. Fuck. You're still an asshole.

You're still gonna blast people.

Like, you're still a piece of shit. Like, I hate that. I'm like, just cause you wanted to cause a little less damage than you caused. Oops. I caused, like, wild amounts of damage. You're an asshole, and it's not believable. No, it's not. Because if you can take that one piece that you're telling me you wanted to do, you wanted to cause damage. You just didn't know you caused that much. You didn't think anyone would die in that fire.

Like, come on.

Or the possibility was there, you know, about that club.

You know, there's one exit, and it's.

Like, that's the thing, asshole. You lit the only exit on fire. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And that's not. I didn't want her to work there.

That's.

I wanted to kill her because she didn't want to be with me.

She didn't want to be with me, so I figured I didn't want her to work there.

If you didn't want her to work there, you'd wait until after everybody left.

And then you'd set the place on fire. Exactly. That's what you would do. Exactly. And that would still be fucked. That would still be fucked up. In his tearful confession, Julio told detectives he was drunk and angry because Lydia had broken up with him and he still loved her and wanted her back when she refused. And then asked the bouncer to escort him out, he became enraged. His first thought, he said, was to, quote, close the club for good. So Shu couldn't work there anymore. This is even worse. He was going to call the police and report them because he knew of the illegal operations. But he said, I went with the fire instead.

Are you kidding?

Just fucking call the police and get the party shut down. And they try to go for an insanity defense with him. And I'm like, good try. Because he meant literally telling you in this confession. She said she wouldn't get back together with me and have me escorted out.

I was fucking angry at her, and.

I did this because I didn't want her to work here anymore. And I could have called and just reported them and had the place shut down and no one would have died. But instead, I went with a fire because I wanted to hurt people, because.

I was that angry.

I was mad, like, that's it. Yeah. Wow. Now, according to Julio, he'd initially fled the scene after setting the fire, but came back a short time later and, quote, watched the firemen fight the fire, which, like, I.

What is the fucking pathology there?

He said it was then that he realized the extent of the damage he'd caused and left the scene for a second time, this time on a city bus to his neighborhood. And he said, that's when I reflected and began to cry. No, I don't think so. And he said, I remembered again all that I had done. No one cares that you cried.

I don't know. I there something about.

And I don't believe you.

And watching the damage is like. I feel like he got some weird.

Enjoyment out of it. Fucked up. It's fucked up.

That's not.

Yeah. No, no. After giving his statement to detectives, Julio was brought before Judge Alexander Hunter at the Bronx criminal. Bronx criminal court. Excuse me. A little after 02:00 a.m. On March 27, where he was formally charged with 87 counts of arson, felony murder, and 87 counts of murder by depraved indifference to human life. That's exactly what that. Which is a perfect count. As well as several other, even lesser charges. The judge ordered that Julio be held without bail until a grand jury could be convened, and Julio was taken to Kings County Hospital and held in the psychiatric ward, where he was put on suicide watch. In a statement to reporters, Bronx da Robert Johnson said, the maximum of 25 years to life doesn't nearly reach the level of premeditation involved in this group.

No, it sure doesn't.

Now, as the deadliest fire in nearly a century. The tragedy at Happyland dominated the headlines in the days and weeks following the fire, of course. But while some news news outlets were focusing on the victims of the fire, the majority emphasized the fact that the club was operating illegally and cited the number of complaints the city had received about Happyland, you know, in the years leading up to the fire. And in response to the tragedy, Mayor David Dinkins immediately activated a task force of police officers and ordered them to inspect the 173 active social clubs operating in the city and look for any code violations, which I was like, you should have done that. It's weird that it took this, like, I don't like. I hate that it takes this kind of for anybody to do anything.

Many people shouldn't have had to die such horrific deaths for you to take.

Care of a problem, to actually try to make it safe.

If it was that quick and easy to put together the task force and they went right to it, that should have happened.

Yeah. In his statement to the press, he said, somebody will suggest that it is important that these clubs open because it is an aspect of economic development, jobs for these areas. But let me tell you, anybody that has an opportunity to see those bodies laid up there will know that it's not a persuasive argument. Now, among his campaign promises was legislation to crack down on the informal social clubs around the city. But a bill promising exactly that was introduced a year earlier and failed to get any support. So isn't that funny that now that this has happened, everybody's like, oh, we got to crack down? And it's like, well, they actually tried to do that a year ago before this happened, and you guys said, go fuck yourself. So it's nice that you're doing it now. How kind. Now, in the wake of the fire, he was now vowing to put forth new legislation that imposed harsh penalties for any clubs that violated fire and safety codes. It's always how it goes. It's always after mass trafficking, horrible loss.

Of life, and sometimes not even then.

Yeah. A few days later, more than 100 New York City police officers fanned out across the city to search for code violations. Many were very resentful for having to be put on this task force in the first place. One officer told the New York Times, it's ridiculous. Last night, we were out doing this social club stuff, and I could see felony drug sales going down. Whose list am I on to deserve this? That's your job. How tasteless.

Whose list are you on to deserve doing your jobs?

Either way, it's your job.

Like, the felony drug deal or the.

It'S all your job violations.

You signed up for all. All of the above.

You get to do it all.

Whose list are you on? Are you fucking? Whose list were these people?

Whose list are you on? The list of employees at the New York Police Department? I think so. Like, that's your list?

Are you on the payroll?

Bye. The payroll list. That's what you're on. Despite how they felt about the detail, the task force members did find several flagrant violations of safety and fire codes, including one barred door under an exit sign that, like I said before, opened to reveal a brick wall. That's heinous. Which is terrifying.

Heinous.

Well, many. Cause imagine being in an emergency and you rush to that exit thinking you're in a rush outside, and it's a brick wall. No. While many news outlets chose to focus on the illegal operation of the club and of social clubs more broadly, or on Julio's immigration and refugee status, some focused on the loss of life. Luckily, that's good. Photos in the New York Times and Newsday, among a few others, showed family members gathered around large tables trying to identify photos of those whose lives were lost in the fire. Jerome Ford, whose five family members died at Happylands.

Oh, my God.

Said, I told them not to go, but kids are kids. I knew it was dangerous.

Like, oh, that hits so much harder.

Five family members, and you told them not to go? Like, please don't go. And he's like, but kids, like, what are you gonna do? Yeah.

How many times you were 18 year olds?

You know, like, they're not listening to you. For many New Yorkers, the news about the fire victims was the first time they'd learned or even heard anything about the large honduran community who'd made the Bronx their home. This was their first time hearing. In an article published just two days after the fire, the New York Times profiled seven of the victims, whose futures were very bright. Israel Bolnes told the Times they were not kids who were into drugs. They just loved to dance.

Yeah.

And his son Tonio was one of the ones killed at Happyland just three years after arriving in the United States. Like many of the victims, Tonio was young. He was only 18 years old. Wow. And his life was as exciting and also mundane as any young person's life is. He loved basketball, television, music, but he never lost sight of the opportunities he had in the US and was intending to make the most of them. Yeah. Of course, a lot of these people.

Came here for better opportunities and a.

Lot of them were working their asses off during the day, and this was them blowing off steam. But they were working their asses off to make better opportunities here. The stories of the victims told in the wake of the fire really reflects the stories and experiences of many who immigrate to the United States. They quickly fell in love with their new home. They worked hard to make the most of the chances that they've been given. Like 22 year old Nicholas Zapata, for example, worked ten hour days on a construction site and lived a very modest life, sending most of his earnings back to his family in Honduras. Wow. On the night of March 24, Nicholas had just gone to meet with his friends will Castillo and Jose Diaz at Happyland. Like I said, to blow off some steam after a long work week.

No, just hang out.

All three of them died in the fire.

That's so tragic.

Some reporters took the middle of the road approach, balancing the focus on safety and, you know, in the fire codes and stuff with outrage over how lax the city was when it came to the safety of immigrants.

I think that's fair.

Scathing indictment of the city's judicial system. Newsday reporter Sidney Schandberg wrote, squadrons of police were sent whizzing around the town to padlock every similarly unsafe social club in sight. But only nine days after the masked death, when the owner of the fire trap building, Alex de Lorenzo III, was released on his own recognizance in a proceeding so benign that it makes traffic court look frightening by comparison, the judge never even mentioned the Happyland fire. What, so Alex DiLorenzo is the owner there? Yeah. And he was released, and they just. Nothing. Just get nothing. Didn't even. For all those code violations, everything just doesn't matter. And that the safety. Yeah, that the safety code violations of at Happyland would get so much attention obviously isn't unreasonable. It is very much part of the narrative. You know, had a second exit not been locked and the sprinkler system has been operational, it's possible that some, if not most or not all of the patrons could have made it out with their lives.

Absolutely.

But the emphasis on fire codes, illegal clubs, and the landlord's responsibility really overlooked the fact that the fire was intentionally set by a frustrated little bitch of a man who wanted to get revenge on a woman he believed had wronged him by simply not wanting to be with him. So a reader of the New York Times actually wrote a letter to the editor at one point, saying, all your articles on the burning of Happyland social Club have focused on the hazards of such illegal clubs, inciting this as the reasons for the death, you effectively ignore the fire's cause. A jilted lover's revenge. Julio Gonzalez's 87 murders demonstrate the abomination that is domestic violence. Absolutely, and it's 100% true.

And you can report on, like, basically.

Just like you're doing right now. All of it.

You can report on the entire story. They're all of it contributing for every single piece of misdoing. But you need to highlight the fact that none of this would have happened had it not been for this motherfucker Morgan.

That's the thing. Had he not intentionally set that club on fire to hurt his ex girlfriend for not loving him anymore, then these code violations would obviously need to be fixed anyways, but we wouldn't be talking about them. So it's like, absolutely all of that contributed, but you can't talk about what you have to talk about. That first thing that made this even a topic of conversation, and that is one man who committed arson.

And I don't understand how that got lost in the retelling of this.

Yeah, it's. Wow.

At the time, at least.

But truly, safety measures aside, no one at Happyland would have died that night had Julio Gonzalez not acted out of a misogynistic desire to punish his ex girlfriend. Yup. That's it. That's it. The end of the. That's it. Yeah. So the variations in how the story was covered in the press, really, like you were saying, like, how are they just ignoring that? It really illustrates the ways that american culture in 1990 was divided over things like public safety, immigration, diversity, and domestic violence.

There's a lot here.

And unfortunately, those divisions would be even more evident during Julio's trial. Really now, because he had confessed almost immediately after being arrested for the fire. The trial of Julio Gonzalez was not to be about whether he committed the arson that ended 87 lives, but why he did it and whether he could be held criminally responsible for his actions. Now, in his opening statement on July 18, 1991, the prosecutor, Eric Warner, laid out the state's case that after failing in his attempt to persuade Lydia to return to him, Julio left the club to purchase gasoline that set the building on fire, knowing that there were nearly 100 people who would be trapped inside. Among those called to testify on the state's behalf were seven of the nine medical examiners who performed the autopsy, all of whom detailed the extent of the horrific damage suffered by those who died in the fire. But the most compelling witnesses to testify for the state were Carmen Melendez, the friend that Julio went to after setting the fire, and Lydia herself, who, in her brief testimony, Melendez explained that Julio seemed to recognize that he had acted irrationally. Irrationally and caused tremendous damage.

She told the jury, quote, he told me it was an error he had made.

That's the understatement of the century.

That's not going to help him. An error. As she left the witness stand and made her way out of the courtroom, Carmen Melendez gave a small wave to Julio, and that outraged many of the victims families who were in court that day. Yup.

How dare she put her hand down. Yeah, there's a time and a place, girl, and it's not here or now.

Yeah, definitely not. Outside the courtroom, many of the family members surrounded and confronted her. Rosario Alvarez, whose husband was killed in the fire, said, I asked, how could you remain friendly with someone who left so many children without a parent? And she said, she was his friend.

You should look at your circle.

You should reevaluate your choices. Great girl. Own that again, like Tatiana says, you own that. Choices, choices. You own that. So, in her testimony, Lydia Feliciano described the argument she had with Julio shortly before the fire, noting that he had made several ominous statements and threats indicating his intention to do something very drastic if she would not return to him. The prosecution's intention was to demonstrate that, rather, being temporarily or otherwise mentally ill, and thus not responsible for these actions, Julio knew precisely what he was doing when he set the fire. Lydia's testimony was vital to the prosecution's case, but it was also pretty controversial because many family members were angry that she simply fled the scene rather than alerting someone to the emergency.

I would be pissed.

Maria Colon, wife of Happyland owner Elias Colon, who died in the fire, said she screamed fire to herself. She had time to call a taxi, but she didn't have time to call the fire department.

I mean, valid point. Absolutely.

And in defense of her actions, Lydia claimed she feared that Julio might return and harm her on the street, which is why she left without calling the fire department. But I was like, why didn't you call after?

That's the thing. You couldn't call when you got home. Yeah, like, I know. I don't know. Obviously, cell phones were not very common back then, but I'm sure you had a phone at home.

Call some or, like, a pace near your home. Yeah. Tell the taxi driver and say, can you report. Can you report this? Yeah. Perhaps the most damning evidence in the case was Julio's own confession, which the jury heard in its entirety in the confession. Julio can be heard admitting to the DA that he knew the club was full that night. He said, yes, yes. There were many people. Many people. Yeah.

He was in there.

And he said, yeah, he talked to.

Some of those people.

Exactly.

Mingled with.

Mingled with them. He said they were dancing. And when the DA asked why, if he. If he knew it was full of people, why did he light it on fire? Because Leo said, I didn't think it was going to. I didn't think it was going to take a lot of intensity. I didn't think that it was going to do a. That.

What the fuck did you think it was gonna do? Do you know what fire is?

I was like, you know what fire does, my friend? What?

Like, I don't know what it was gonna do. It's a small club.

Yeah. If you see a picture of this.

That place was gonna go up in flames.

You know if you pour gasoline on something and light it on fire, that it's going to burn. You know, that that's basic. Exactly. That's why you did it. Why else would you do it? Was it just like, a coincidence that you put fire and gasoline together? Just like. Whoopsie. Although the audio was occasionally muffled and Julio did frequently rely on a translator, the confession does make it clear that while he may not have intended to kill 87 people, Julio knew the risks when he lit the gasoline and set happy land on fire. Yup. At the very least. Yeah. In his opening statement, the defense attorney, Richard Burney, told the jury his client admitted causing the fire at Happyland, but he had only done so because he was, quote, legally insane on the morning of March 25. Incorrect, he said. Ladies and gentlemen, on March 25, 1990, Julio Gonzalez started the fire in the Happyland social Club. You've all heard me concede that repeatedly, he said. I'm conceding that he started the fire. But, ladies and gentlemen, when Julio Gonzalez started that fire, he was legally insane.

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In defense of their insanity defense, Bernie called Andrew Lugos, one of the arresting detectives, to testify on their behalf. According to Lugos, when they asked Julio why he had set the fire and whether he had intended to kill everyone inside, he said he didn't know. That something had gotten in him, that the devil had gotten into him.

Not the devil made me do it.

Not good enough to me.

Also, are there previous instances of the devil making you do things you just suddenly happened to go insane this night?

Stop. It's like you already told her. You told Lydia, I'll be back. You told the bouncer, I'll be back.

Was the devil in you at that point? Or was that just you?

Or was that just you? While this seemed to support the defense's assertion, Lugos also stated that Julio was very calm and seemed to recognize what he had done. And at no point did he appear to have any peculiar ideas that one might recognize as a symptom of mental illness.

That's the thing.

There's no history there.

He also went to fucking sleep afterwards.

And came and watched. Yeah. Despite the sensational headlines that followed in the wake of the fire, in the constant outrage of zoning codes and fire safety afterwards, the trial itself was kind of mundane. Reporters covering the case day after day started noting that it was kind of long stretches of numbingly repetitive testimony, occasionally punctuated with some interesting moments or good moments of testimony. But otherwise, they referred to it as quite boring, which I was like, I'm sure the family members really appreciate that. That the trial of their loved one for their loved ones was boring you. Yeah. Sorry about that. So sorry that it bored you. Jesus. It's like, keep that to yourself. In fact, even the judge at one point turned to the jury and apologetically said, this is not the stuff from which television dramas were made.

That's because this is real fucking lives, honey.

This is 87 lives.

Like, this is horrific.

I'm sorry that it's not, like, super exciting for everyone. That's when I'm like, people are gonna people. Because I'm like, people are always people in. Because it's like, people goblin. Honestly, we're gonna goblin. No, it's true. Truly. People peopleing. Unfortunately, I would love to say it's goblining, but I think goblining is more fun. I think people peopling is where we are right now. Where it's like, this isn't fun to read anymore. Make it fun for me. Make this tragedy fun. And it's like, okay, also.

What? That's the thing. Like, 87 people lost their lives in horrific fire. What exactly are you looking for?

You need more drama.

What else do you need there?

They lost their lives because a jilted lover came and lit the club on fire. Because this girlfriend, his ex girlfriend, wouldn't take him back. Do you need more? What else would you like? An alien abduction on top of it? Like, I don't know what else makes this more horrific?

And for the judge to do that.

In front of the family, like, that's.

How you look at the family and say, I'm so sorry that you're going through this right now and that your loved ones were taken by this asshole over here.

Yeah. And that people are calling this boring. Like, what? Now? Finally, after a month long trial and four days of deliberation, the jury delivered a verdict, finding Julio Gonzalez guilty on all counts, including 174 counts of murder. Wow. 87 counts of arson, felony murder, and 87 counts of murder by depraved indifference to human life per victim.

How did he get 174 counts of.

Murder with the 87 counts of arson, felony murder, and then 87 counts. Oh, I see. Depraved indifference to human life, privacy. Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha. Given the sheer enormity of the case and the number of victims involved, the verdict took more than five minutes to read in its entirety. Wow. Because they had to go, like, charge by charge. Now, when the jury foreman finally finished reading the verdict, many of the 20 families of the victims that were present broke down in sobs. Of course. Also there for the verdict was Ruben Valderas, the DJ who'd escaped the fire. He had extensive burns. He required many surgeries. He was there with his social worker, and he said outside of the courtroom, he said, it's a good thing. He said a just thing. And, like, I mean, he went through so much after this. So he was. He was pleased with the verdict, but nothing is going to give him back his life, his quality of life. And the jury was equally relieved that the case had finally come to an end. Although they declined to hold a press conference. One or two took questions from reporters to say that while they were moved by the testimony and heartbroken by the loss of life, the verdict was based solely on the evidence presented against Gonzalez.

Yeah. Now, in a statement to the press, prosecutor Eric Warner said, while the prosecutor's office was obviously satisfied with this outcome, he said, there's no happiness in this. The case has just drained everyone involved in it. I could definitely see that, which is, I think, a good statement like, that there's no happiness in this. Like, we're satisfied that justice was served. But this doesn't happen.

It doesn't bring anybody back.

Now, a month later, on September 19, Julio Gonzalez returned to the pact courtroom for sentencing. And before passing sentence on Julio, Judge Burton Roberts addressed the spectators and press, saying that while the defendant was ultimately the one who caused the fire, there were many things that led to the death of 87 people, most having to do with building and fire code violations. He said, there are many to be blamed, not just Julio Gonzalez, which I was like, I see where you're coming from, of course, that you're saying there are many people to blame here. Let's blame Julio. Yeah.

For the ultimate loss of life here.

That's Julio. And especially since the. The trial here is for Julio.

That's the thing. I understand. I understand where he's coming from, and he's not wrong that there are many things to blame. I don't think this was the time or the place to talk about those.

This was not. Yeah. This was not the venue. This is the murder trial and the press talking about the different things and. Yeah. Like, them. The code violations and all that, that, honestly, the city should have dealt with. Yeah. But this is about something much more intimate partner violence. This is literally something much more consolidated. Yeah, that's the thing. And something that a lot of people are dealing with. A lot of people are not dealing with fire and code violations right now, but a lot of people are living with someone who could potentially do this to them. Exactly. I don't think that was anybody's focus in 1990. So when he had finished his statement, Judge Roberts sentenced Julio Gonzalez to 25 years to life in prison, the maximum allowed under New York law. Wow.

That's definitely not enough, in my opinion.

Well, Julio Gonzalez served his sentence at Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, New York. In 2015, he became eligible for parole, but his petition was unanimously denied by the parole board, who stated that he would, quote, not live at liberty without again violating the law, and concluded that releasing him would be quote, incompatible with the welfare of society. Correct. A year later, on September 13, 2016, Julio Gonzalez died from a heart attack at age 61. Wow. So shortly after the fire at Happyland, the building's owner, Alex de Lorenzo III, turned himself into police on a warrant for the many building code and safety violations, a judge released de Lorenzo on his own recognizance. That's what we talked about before. With an order to appear at a later date in May 1992, de Lorenzo and Jay Weiss, the building's landlord, agreed to a plea deal with prosecutors in which they pleaded guilty for violations, and in exchange, they just had to perform 50 hours of community service and pay a fine of $150,000, which went towards a community center for hondurans living in the Bronx.

That's nice that that money went toward.

I'm glad that happened. A lawyer for Dilorenzo told reporters. We didn't think jail was the appropriate sentence.

I disagree.

And we were able to resolve it without that sentence. Like, that's nice for you. Yeah.

I wonder how the family felt about that.

In the months after the fire, victims families actually filed a $5 billion civil suit against DiLorenzo Weiss, the city of New York and several of the companies whose products produced toxic fumes during the fire. Rightfully so. The suit took several years to resolve. But in July 1995, a settlement was reached totaling 15.8 million, with each family receiving an average of $163,000. I think that's shit. That's bullshit. Yeah, that's bullshit. That's, that's bullshit. I don't know. You can't put a price on anybody's loved one, but that's bullshit. But if you're going to. That's bullshit.

It's not, it's not in the thousands, in my opinion.

No, that's bullshit. And when asked why they were willing to settle for a significantly lower number than the initial suit had had been, lawyers for the family said while the settlement seemed small compared with other high profile wrongful death awards, the Happyland case was complicated by questions of insurance liability, the bankruptcy of the building's wealthy owner, and by the death of the club's operator in the fire. Now, although they were relieved that the suit had been resolved, many families were disappointed with this outcome. I would say I would be, I would stand. It's not enough money for what we've lost, said Leticia Geminita, whose two sons died in the fire. Two sons? Yeah.

That's your whole life.

That's, you, like, there's not enough money for what you've lost and truly, many of the victims families found themselves in dire situations after the fire. They had been forced to make hard emotional and financial decisions because they had lost loved ones that were sometimes generating the income. The person that was generating the income, Delicia Pineta, who lost her husband in the fire, said, I've been doing my best, but it's been a very difficult time.

And to think that all these people have lost their loved ones and then some of them were left completely alone to generate an income and keep a roof over their head while they're grieving. Not just like some of them raising kids alone, but a horrific murder. The most horrific murder you could ever. One of the most horrific murders you could ever imagine.

Yeah.

Grieving that while trying to maintain, trying.

To figure out how to pay for things, how to pay their bills, how to send their kids to school, how to do all of that.

How do you even get up in the morning, never mind do all of those things?

Yeah. Many, like Pinetta, had hoped the settlement, while incapable of restoring obviously what they had lost, could at least help them recover the financial losses suffered due to the fire. But after settling for a much lower amount and paying lawyers fees. Yeah, that's the other thing. They were left with considerably less than they expected.

And that's what people don't realize with.

Like, settlement amounts, all that shit.

So much of that goes to a lawyer.

Pinetta asked reporters outside court, how can I bring up my children and send them to college on what they're giving us? This is an insult to the people who died in that building. Absolutely, it is. Every year since the fire, community members have held a vigil at the site of the fire, where a small stone was placed listing the names of those lost in the fire. Like many events, though, commemorating the loss of life and tragedy, the vigil gets smaller every year. The event starts fading. Those directly affected move away or pass on. Still, there are those in the community, like Jeanette Boca nae Grassimone. I hope I said your name correctly, who, while not directly connected to the fire, work hard to keep the memory of the victims alive in the community. That's right. Which is pretty badass. She told a reporter in 2020. They say out of sight, out of mind, but it's not out of sight. It's very visible to the community. The trauma is real. I think the latino and african american community has dealt with trauma in different ways without getting the support that they need.

Yeah, absolutely.

And that is the story of the Happyland social club arson. Wow.

That is a tragic, tragic case.

And there's a lot of failings, a.

Lot of failures there, and a lot of moments with the way that it.

Was dealt with afterwards. It's so sad. It's so. Those thinking of people just. And, like, we've seen this a lot in different ways. Like, you know, recently with, like, mass shootings and other things that are happening. Whenever I think of people just doing something so innocuous, like going to school, going to a social club one night just to blow off steam. One that you go to all the time. Yeah. Just go on a hangout with your.

Friends, going to a grocery store.

Store. Like, all this stuff. It's like going to a parade. Yeah. And they're just. And that's it. Like, that's it. Like, it's so.

And then everyone in your family is just left to pick up the pieces.

Yeah. Like the, like, the pulse nightclub. That one always rings in my head. It's like this. Thinking about that and, like, hearing the stories of the cell phones ringing afterwards and stuff, it's like, you think of those things. Those people just went to dance and.

How many times have we done the same?

You just go out to have a night to dance. I can't wrap my brain. Doesn't it? Like, it fucks my brain up every time I think. I can't think of that being you. You have no idea that that's your last thing you're doing.

You go out, you're so happy. You're getting ready with your friends and. Yeah, I can't imagine being a parent right now.

No.

And, like. Like, not only can you not send your kid to school, we don't need.

To get into all of that, but.

Like, you can't send your kid to school, but then they grow up. They're scared of everything.

They can't go anywhere. Like, no, it's so.

It's so much added responsibility that shouldn't be happening.

Like, everywhere you go, you have to worry, am I doing it? Was this a correct decision, going out as a family here? Like, are we safe? Are we okay?

Yeah. And for that to be in the back of your mind as much as now it has to be, is just.

Yeah. And this.

Unreal.

And this is the same kind of thing. Those people had no fucking clue that there was some asshole that couldn't handle rejection that was going to make it there last night.

And no idea. Like, that's the biggest thing right there.

What you just said.

And no idea that these buildings weren't so unsafe.

That's the. And that is the other layer to it is that these people running these buildings had no, like you as a patron, they had no thought of life, of human life.

They weren't thinking of that. And you as a patron, should be able to go out and, like you.

Said, blow off steam and know that you are safe. Know that you're safe and know that.

There are exits and everything's up to.

Code measures put together so that you can get out, have thought about you as a human being and that you should be safe. That's what you should be able to think that. But when I say people are gonna people, unfortunately, sometimes people are gonna people.

That's the theme of people.

And they think of the bottom line and they don't think about human life.

Humanity is fucked.

So people don't people. Yeah.

I feel like we need a palate cleanser after that.

We do.

Because my next case is also very, very brutal, very, very senseless.

And so we're gonna need one. Really horrific.

So we'll definitely need one. So we'll figure that out.

Hopefully, in between these cases, I think is a good idea to do. Yeah.

And in the meantime, we hope you.

Keep listening and we hope you keep.

It weird, but not so weird that you don't care about your fellow person. Go do something nice for someone today, people, in the good way. And don't think about yourself when you're doing it. Just go do it for someone else.

Yeah. Love you sake.

Follow morbid on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to episodes early and ad free by joining wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey@wondery.com. Survey hey, weirdos. After seeing our celeb's turn up an old Hollywood glamor at the Oscars and other award shows, I am craving more from this golden era. And I'm feeling a bit more, mmm, nostalgic than usual. If you are too, you should scroll down our feed just a bit and join us for the unsolved murder of Georgette Bowerdorf. After a night of dancing, Georgette's lifeless body was found in her bathtub, face down in a shallow pool of water. And the police investigation concluded this was no accident. Georgette was the daughter of a Wall street financier and an independent oilman who often went out of her way to help those less fortunate than her. But was her generosity her undoing? And does her murder set the stage for another high profile Hollywood case? Hold on to your butts for this story. You can find this episode by following morbid and scrolling back a little bit, or by searching morbid Georgette wherever you listen to podcasts.