Victim Impact Statement 

Name: 
Katerina Savopoulos 
 
Loved ones:  
Amy, Savvas, Philip and Vera 
 
Relationship:  
Child, Sister, Friend  
 
Defendant’s name: 
Daron Wint  
 
Case # 
2015CF1007047 
 
Sentencing Date:  
02/01/19 
 
Honorable Juliet McKenna  
 
 
Signature: ​______________________________​ Date: ​_______________ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
January 12th, 2019 
 
Dear Judge McKenna,  
 
My family meant more to me than anything in the entire world. They taught us to work hard, love 
everyone, and take time every day to make the world more beautiful. I know that I am still young, but my 
parents loved each other more than anyone I have ever met. I remember waking up as a child because 
they would be making each other laugh hysterically. As I learn more about their relationship, I doubt I 
will ever have a love or friendship as strong as theirs. Seeing photos of them hanging out at my age brings 
tears to my eyes. I could not imagine losing the person I had spent my whole adult life with and the pain 
they must have felt for each other during those final hours. Strangely, the one thing I am thankful for is 
that neither of them will ever have to live without the other. 
 
Philip, my baby brother, and I were working on reading Harry Potter. Every Sunday night, he would call 
and discuss what he had read. I miss waiting for my phone to ring to talk about the world of witchcraft 
and wizardry. He was smarter than me and my sister combined. We all knew that, loved it, and were so 
excited to see the man he was soon to become. Philip was also passionate about taking care of others and 
was the most selfless and aware kid I've ever met. He believed in the love of God -- every week, he would 
ask what was going wrong in our lives so he could pray for us during chapel. His love and kindness 
astound me to this day. Our parents supported his aspirations, bigger than my own, and wished for him to 
succeed.  
 
Even when he was sick, he never gave up hope of returning to school, racing, and being with friends. By 
the time of his death, he was sponsored as a driver by a racing company and was planning on going to 
their training school in Italy that summer - the first step to becoming a Formula One driver. Needless to 
say, we were all thrilled that his dreams were coming true.  
 
Vera was always a constant in my life. She is, and always will be, part of the family. One of the most 
painful parts of this whole process has been the media defining her by her occupation rather than 
discussing this wonderful, selfless, strong individual who was loved by many. Last week, I was sick with 
the flu, and I cried because she used to make the best soup in the entire world (If my mom were here, she 
would claim it was her recipe -- but we all know she got it from Vera). I miss her knock on my door, 
poking her head in to chat and help. I miss her getting the knots out of my hair, talking about how she 
used to do the same for her daughters. She loved her family more than anything and was so excited to 
retire and be with them.  
 
Vera taught me strength, loyalty, and to never give up. She wiped away my tears when I was bullied in 
school, cleaned out my cuts from the playground, taught me how to curl my hair for dances, and even 
how to use feminine hygiene products. Despite a language barrier, I miss her laughs, I miss hearing about 
her kids and family and her amazing life. She was so pure, kind hearted, and filled with love. It is painful 
to know that Vera will never see her kids or kiss her husband goodnight again.  
 
Thinking about my sweet, gentle, brother being eternally ten hurts like hell. Birthdays are no longer 
something to celebrate because he isn't with us anymore. My parents were thrilled that Abigail was 
graduating high school. Sadly, they died two weeks before their first child got her diploma. In just a few 
months, they will miss her wedding. 
 
In the spring of 2015, my father was helping me study for the ACT and spent hours encouraging me over 
the phone and joking about how poorly he did on standardized tests in his day. He and I both rarely slept 
at night, and I miss calling him in the middle of the night to chat. I will cherish those phone calls for the 
rest of my life.  
 
The last time I saw my mother, we went on college tours and celebrated her birthday. We laughed our 
way up and down the coast. When she dropped me off at school, she gave me her necklace. In the past 
three years I have only taken it off once. 
 
…  
 
I would like to submit two pieces I wrote in the first year after the murders. The first is a piece about my 
first time going back into the home after the fires. The second was my senior speech to my high school 
class that captures the values my parents instilled in me and may give some insight into how they would 
have felt about this case.  
 
1. 
 
I had seen the footage of billowing smoke and flames bursting through my bedroom window as 
firefighters tried frantically to put out the fire. As I approached the house weeks later, I expected 
to see the charred, boarded up windows. The press had prepared me for that. But, there was no 
way to imagine what we would find behind those walls. 

I remember standing in front of those big double doors for the first time, the hedge towering over 
me. I was three years old, and everything looked so grand. The brick façade had stood there for a 
century and would remain a symbol of strength for years to come. This was to be my home. I did 
not know what the future held for our family in those halls the first time I stood outside the doors, 
but almost fourteen years later, standing on the pathway looking up at the house once again, that 
is all I can think about. 

My hand tapped rhythmically as we unlocked the tall gates. We pushed our way through the 
doorway. I let out a long sigh as I stood in the dark, smoky living room holding a flashlight, 
taking everything in. The piano I had played for years was covered in plaster, a leg broken off. I 
thought about the parties and family meetings filled with laughter and tears that had been held in 
this room. Only six weeks ago, we had gathered here with friends and family for Easter. In this 
room, we were told we were going to have another baby in the house. Each room we went 
through triggered flashbacks of different events as we combed through many sentimental objects, 
like old report cards and notes from my parents to one another.  
I looked at my sister. We knew it was time to go upstairs. The wallpaper had been burned and 
smudged by the fire, and every surface had layers of dust, glass, and darkness. Still, some part of 
me held out hope that something, anything, would have survived the fire. Maybe a stuffed animal 
would be left in the corner of my room. I turned the corner to the door like I had a million times 
before, but when I arrived; there was neither a door nor a wall. The room I once called my own 
was blackened and burned.  

The whole house appeared to lean into a black hole of destruction. I thought of my brother. 
“Thermal injuries,” they had said. The police did not tell me directly where in the house they had 
been, but it was more apparent than ever that my room was where my ten-year-old brother had 
been tortured and burned alive. Out of desperation, I ran into my parents’ room for comfort. I 
half expected them to be in their bed: Dad on the right, Mom on the left. But, the bed was empty. 
The sheets were gone. 

I needed to find something that connected this house to them again. I looked in the closet at the 
burned, water-soaked remains. Finally, I opened a drawer and saw my mother’s scarves and my 
father’s pocket hankies. The mix of their scents wafted over me. I quickly grabbed one of each 
and rubbed the silk scarf on my nose and chin. In that room, they were the only things that 
brought me close to my parents again. I pocketed the scarf and hanky as I heard my name being 
called, signaling it was time to leave. Walking out of the house carrying half-burned legal 
documents and a few other sentimental objects, we avoided eye contact with the press whose 
cameras were pointed at us. 

Sitting alone that night, I pulled out the hanky I had taken from the house and smelled it. 
Breathing in smoke, I gagged. The scent it once had was gone. 

2. 
We  often  think  that  we  have  no  impact  on others’ lives. Why would what I do matter? A lot of the 
time  we  are  thinking  about  how  someone  can  change  us  in  a  physical  sense but we seldom think 
about how just one action can change other’s whole perspective on life.  

I  wanted  to talk about something I wish I had known earlier; knowing how to forgive someone for 
their actions even when it seems impossible. 

The  dictionary  defines  collateral  damage  as  “general  term  for  unintentional  deaths,  injuries,  or 
other  damage  inflicted  incidentally  on  an  intended  target.”  But  it  is  so  much  more  than  that. 
Damage is not just physical, but it is mental, it is emotional.  

Last  May,  I  was  a  junior  at  Peddie.  I  participated  in  sports,  did  my  work,  was  studying  for  APs 
and  daydreaming  about  after  prom  and  summer  vacation.  Was  I  stressed?  Absolutely…but  in 
retrospect, I had no idea what stress truly meant.  

On  May  14th​   2015,  I  was  walking  back  from  practice  when  a  dean  pulled  me  into  his  office.  I 
racked  my  mind  trying  to  figure  out  what  I  did  wrong  –  How  many  MO’s  [missed  obligations] 
did  I  have  again?  Did  I  win  an  award?  -  That  doesn’t  sound  like  me…  what  the  hell  is 
happening? Then he said four words that caused everything to break down, “there was a fire.”  

You  know  that  feeling  you  get  when  you  hit your funny bone or have the wind knocked out of you 

–  the  inability  to  vocalize  how  you feel to anyone? That is how I felt for the first few months. This 
is what it feels like to be collateral damage.  

I’m  not  going  to  go  into  the  details  of  what  unfolded  in  those first few weeks back in DC. Mostly 
because  I  remember  it  as  a  blur  of  appointments  with  different  detectives,  lawyers  and  other 
professionals  with  occupations  I  didn’t  even  know  existed.  With  my  sister,  we  planned  a  funeral 
for  three  in  less  than  two  weeks.  The ambiguity of our situation, our newfound adulthood loomed 
everywhere.  We  toured  cemeteries instead of colleges and searched for the perfect coffins instead 
of the perfect prom dresses. For every question answered, 5 more took its place.  

Who would do something like this? Where do we go from here?  

There  was  a  time  where  hearing  the  name  of  the  accused  perpetrator  would  trigger  immediate 
anger and fear. Seeing his face made me want to run into the corner; not to hide, but to accept my 
fate.  A  year  later,  I am still plagued by nightmares, panic attacks, and suicidal thoughts. Plagued 
with an overall fear both of dying but also the fear of living without my family.  

I  still  have  moments,  even  days  where  I  feel  like  I’m  drowning.  But  the  fear  has  changed-  for  it 
was  no  longer  fueled  by  hatred.  And in the past few months, I have been working every day to try 
and forgive this man.  

One  night,  I  was  up  late  with  another  spell  of  insomnia.  I  began  to  think.  What  was  Wint’s  life 
like  before  all  of  this?  How  did  he  end  up  not  being  able  to  see  love?  In  hope  of  rationalizing 
what had happened, I began to consider what his life had been like.  

And I realized something- maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt.  

Only  someone  who  has  been  deprived  of  love-  someone  who  doesn’t  even  recognize  it  when  it’s 
right  in front of them- can take love away from others. Filled with hatred and passion, they do not 
even  consider  or  understand  what love they are destroying. Maybe if there was more love around 
us,  a  little  more  human  decency,  this  wouldn’t  have  happened.  You  can’t  fight  fire  with  fire  and 
you  shouldn’t  fight  hate  with  hate.  Take  that  vengeful  passion  and  turn  it  into  the  water  of  love. 
Put out that fire. That is the only way you can begin to repair the damage.   

I  want  to  clarify  something;  I  am  not  trying  to  justify  what  has  happened  to  my  family.  It  is 
something that impacts me every day.  

I  will  always  be  the  kid  that  doesn’t  have  parents.  My  parents  will  never  see  me  graduate  high 
school,  get  into  college,  walk  me  down  the  aisle  or  many  other  small  things  that  we  take  for 
granted  every  day.  My  brother  will  eternally  be  10  and  my  friend  Vera will never have a chance 
 to  retire.  She  will  never  kiss  her husband goodnight again or see her kids one last time. And I am 
saddened by this.  

These  are  things  we  can  never  forget  and  will  probably  never  understand  –  but  we  can  forgive. 
Hating the people who hurt us will not right any wrongs. 

So  instead  -  We  should  spend  our  time  trying  to  forgive  those  who  have  wronged  us  rather than 
prolonging the pain. 

This  is  why  I  forgive  Wint  for  his  trespasses.  For  taking  my family away from me; for orphaning 
my  sister  and  me.  Hating  someone  is  exhausting,  it  drains  you  until  you  are  grasping  for 
something, anything to be angry about.  

Although  forgiving  will  never  change  what  has  happened–  it  makes  me feel a bit less empty; it is 
a  step  towards  recovery  –  a  step  towards  accepting  that  we  really  don’t  have  control  and 
knowing  that  that  is  okay.  I  know  my  parents  and  brother  would  be okay with me forgiving what 
is often perceived as unforgivable – as long as I wasn’t forgetting them.  

No  matter  how  much  someone  has  wronged  you,  no  matter  how  small  you  feel,  you  have  the 
power  to  forgive.  ​It’s  a  solo mission that requires work every day. Forgiveness is a choice, it’s a 
process  –  sometimes  it’s  the  only  thing  you have control over. The choice is yours. What will you 
do? 

…  
 
To Daron Wint:​ Although I cannot be at the sentencing, I want to know that I forgive you. I understand 
that many will disagree with me -- even family members. However, in my heart, I believe it is what my 
parents and especially what little Philip would have wanted. I truly hope you find peace and can have 
access to the services you need to heal.  
 
 
Thank you for your time,  
Katerina M. Savopoulos