• Father's death puts terrible burden on young family
• Former radio host's new identity: The drunken driver
• One year in Maine: Stories behind statistics
• 1996 OUI arrests in Maine
• Alcohol-related deaths in 1994

David Rocheleau, convicted of vehicular manslaughter in the death of bicyclist Harold Hugo, is serving an eight-year sentence at the Maine State Prison in Thomaston. ''I was in a blackout drunk,'' explains Rocheleau, who says he has no memory of the accident. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

On a warm evening in August 1992, after 12 years of drunken driving and five OUI convictions, the odds caught up with him.

On that night, like so many other nights, Rocheleau stumbled from a bar, his vision blurred by more than a dozen beers and shots of licorice-flavored booze. He careened along Route 1 in Wells at 1 a.m., oblivious to anything in his path.

A few miles down the road, near the Wells Congregational Church, he plowed into Harold Hugo, a 32-year-old Kennebunk man pedaling his bicycle home from work. Rocheleau didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.

A police officer spotted Rocheleau as he wove his way homeward at 80 mph. The officer quickly knew Rocheleau was no ordinary drunken driver. The windshield of Rocheleau's car was shattered and smeared with blood. A blue backpack hung from the corner of the window frame.

''I was in a blackout drunk,'' explains Rocheleau, who says he has no memory of the accident.

Now serving an eight-year sentence in the Maine State Prison for vehicular manslaughter, Rocheleau is no longer a threat on Maine's roadways. But there are hundreds of others like him.

Called habitual offenders or hard-core drunken drivers, they insist on drinking and driving. There seems no way to stop them.

Harsher penalties and public education about drinking and driving have deterred many social drinkers from getting behind the wheel. But they have had no impact on chronic drunken drivers like David Rocheleau.

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Each year, hundreds of them make repeated trips to the courthouse. They pay their fines, surrender their licenses, serve their jail time. Then they get drunk again and get behind the wheel.

Of the 5,917 Maine adults who were convicted last year of operating under the influence, 1,582 had two prior drunken-driving convictions. Another 626 had three or more OUI convictions.

''Time after time we arrest these repeat offenders and they don't seem to get it,'' said Bruce Coffin, a Portland Police Department detective. ''They might as well stand on the street corner and fire a loaded gun. Because when they drive with such high amounts of alcohol in their blood, they're going to do some harm.''

Maine police are not alone in their frustration over chronic drunken drivers. National studies show that about a third of the motorists arrested for drunken driving have at least one prior conviction.

Police estimate each of these habitual offenders drives drunk 80 to 200 times a year.

Many are problem drinkers or alcoholics, people who have trouble staying sober and can't drink in moderation. They consume 10, 15, 20 or more drinks before traveling the roads. Their blood-alcohol levels are double and sometimes triple Maine's legal limit of 0.08 percent.

And because they are so impaired when they drive, they're four times more likely than the average driver to kill themselves or another person in an accident.

In Maine, these chronic offenders are estimated to have killed 750 men, women and children - 35 percent of the 2,140 people killed in drunken-driving crashes - in the last 21 years.

It usually doesn't help to arrest these drivers, to fine them, to send them to jail or offer them treatment. Many stay sober only for a short time.

And revoking their licenses doesn't do any good. Nearly 80 percent drive regardless. Some of them never even had a license to begin with.

Michael Carney is a prime example. He's been convicted of driving drunk seven times. The state suspended his license six times. But it never stopped Carney from driving.

''I never bothered to even get a license,'' he says.

Driving drunk became routine for Carney at an early age.

''I started drinking when I was 14,'' he says. ''Most of my family are alcoholics.''

Soon after he turned 16, Carney took a liking to beer and began stealing cars.

On one occasion, he totaled a stolen car in an accident. A couple times, he tried to outrun the police, driving drunk at speeds of 100 mph.

''Before I knew it I was a habitual offender with four OUIs,'' Carney says.

Jail, prison time and probation didn't deter Carney's penchant for drinking and driving. Though the courts would order Carney to get alcohol counseling, he never did.

Michael Carney, serving a 15-year sentence for seven OUI convictions and nearly causing a fatal accident, takes in the limited view from the substance-abuse counseling offices at the Maine State Prison. ''I'm an alcoholic that didn't want help, not until it was almost too late,'' he says. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

''Every time they released me from jail or prison, I'd be drinking again,'' Carney says.

And when he was driving, his blood-alcohol level was usually double or triple the legal limit.

When he was pulled over in Waterville in June 1993 for his fourth OUI, he admitted to the officer that he'd been drinking Southern Comfort and beer. He gave the officer a phony name and could barely stand. His blood-alcohol level was 0.24 percent. Convicted as a habitual offender - a felon with four driving-related crimes - Carney got two years in prison.

As soon as he was released on Oct. 25, 1995, Carney went directly to a bar.

''I got drunk every night,'' he says.

Within six weeks of regaining his freedom, Carney was pulled over by an Augusta police officer in front of the State House at 1 a.m. An open beer between his legs, Carney sat behind the wheel of a friend's Datsun 280ZX.

His three passengers were so drunk they were passed out. Carney staggered from the car, explaining that he didn't have a license with him. A blood test later showed his blood-alcohol level was 0.16 percent.

''I can't help it; I'm addicted to driving,'' Carney told the arresting officer.

Carney was released on bail while awaiting trial for that OUI charge. Twelve days later he was stopped again.

Pulled over at 1 a.m., Carney had liquor on his breath. His eyes were red and glassy. Arrested again for OUI, Carney should have been held in jail without bail. Within two weeks he had twice violated his probation, which prohibited him from consuming alcohol.

But a paperwork glitch landed Carney back on the street again. While awaiting a court date on the two OUI arrests, Carney continued drinking and driving.

On Dec. 26, he spent the night in a Waterville bar. About closing time, Carney's friend said he was too drunk to drive. He let Carney drive instead.

Driving drunk became routine for Michael Carney at an early age. ''I started drinking when I was 14,'' he says. ''Before I knew it I was a habitual offender with four OUIs.'' Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

Carney drove to a friend's house in Augusta, where he drank some more and popped a few Valium pills. A little before 7 a.m. Carney and his friend got back in their pickup truck and headed to Winthrop on Route 202.

Carney slid off the road and careened into a snowbank, but managed to back out. Just before 8 a.m. he lost control again, this time smashing into a car driven by Andrew Pipes, an insurance adjuster on his way to work.

Pipes suffered devastating injuries. His ribs, shinbone and left wrist were broken. When paramedics got to him he was barely breathing and turning blue. He soon slipped into a coma. Nearly two years later, he is still struggling to recover. (see his story)

Carney suffered a fat lip.

''Here's a nice guy going to work one morning and he meets up with little old Mike Carney, who is drunk at 8 a.m. and nearly kills him,'' Carney says. ''I'm an alcoholic that didn't want help, not until it was almost too late.''

Carney got 15 years in prison for his multiple OUIs and nearly killing Pipes.

To help keep his mind off booze, Carney attends Alcoholics Anonymous meetings faithfully inside the walls of the Maine State Prison in Thomaston, where he's serving his sentence.

For the first time since he began drinking at age 14, Carney says he's serious about getting help.

Now 33, Carney's brown hair has begun to recede from his forehead and his goatee is flecked with gray.

But there is still a mischievous glint to his brown eyes. He talks easily with strangers, quick to joke and share a laugh.

''I'm the nicest guy you'd want to meet when I'm sober,'' he says, grinning. ''But when I'm drinking . . .'' Carney shakes his head.

''After nearly killing someone, I definitely need to be in here,'' Carney says of prison. ''But 15 years is a long time. I'll be 44 when I leave here. I dug a pretty big hole for myself.''

District Attorney David Crook has little sympathy for Carney. Crook prosecuted Carney in 1996 and asked for the stiffest sentence possible.

''I can't make someone like Mike Carney stop drinking, but I sure as hell can stop them from driving,'' says Crook, who prosecutes cases in Somerset and Kennebec counties.

''People who have been convicted of OUI four, five, eight times, have been given all kinds of chances for treatment,'' Crook says. ''They're like walking time bombs, ready to go off at any minute.''

Prosecutors like Crook are contending with more habitual offenders since January 1996. That's when Maine started looking back 10 years rather than six to scrutinize records of drunken drivers.

The number of OUI offenders with two or more convictions jumped from 1,307 in 1995 to 1,582 in 1996. Offenders with three or more OUI convictions increased from 396 to 626 during the same period.

Paul Quijano is the sole substance-abuse counselor for 550 prisoners at the Maine State Prison in Thomaston and the Bolduc Correctional Facility in Warren. ''Somebody can be in here for a long time sober, but when they're released it's like being pushed out in the ocean and set adrift,'' he says. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

''We used to see five and 10 habitual offenders in court each year,'' Crook says. ''Now, we see 50 to 75 since the law changed. People better buckle up and pray because there are a lot of Mike Carneys out there.''

Carney epitomizes the national profile of habitual drunken drivers. Typically, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration says, these drivers are male and between the ages of 25 and 45. Usually, they are blue-collar workers, with a high school education or less. Often they have a history of other criminal behavior. They're mostly single, divorced or separated.

Many of them, up to 38 percent, drink daily. They prefer to go to bars rather than drink at home, and rarely feel they are too drunk to drive.

They often cruise the roads with blood-alcohol levels double and triple the legal driving limit - which is 0.08 percent in most states.

Last year, close to 4,000 of these drivers were arrested for putting themselves and others in Maine at risk. Nearly 3,000 were arrested with blood-alcohol levels between 0.16 and 0.22 percent. Another 680 drove with levels between 0.23 and 0.29, and 106 had a blood-alcohol content higher than 0.30.

Maine isn't alone in trying to force chronic drunken drivers off the roadways. Several states have sought novel measures to target these habitual offenders.

Michigan impounds their cars, while some states are considering ''scarlet letter'' license plates to identify chronic offenders. Other states have taken to installing anti-alcohol locks - machines that analyze the breath of drivers before they start their car.

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North Carolina has begun handing out lifetime prison sentences to chronic drunken drivers who kill.

''When these people come back into court their second time driving with a 0.15 blood-alcohol (level), you know you've got a serious drinker on your hands,'' says Terrence Schiavone, president of the National Commission on Drunk Driving.

''These drivers aren't your social drinker and they need to be treated and assessed differently in court. We can't wait until they've had four and five drunk-driving convictions. We need to take extraordinary measures like a home monitoring system or anti-alcohol ignition locks.''

David Rocheleau never considered himself to be a threat on the roadways. Others knew better.

After his third, fourth and fifth OUI convictions, alcohol counselors repeatedly told him that he was going to kill someone.

''I knew I was doing wrong but I never thought I'd hurt anybody,'' Rocheleau says. ''I said, 'No, it's not going to happen to me. I'm better than that.' ''

On Aug. 14, 1992, Rocheleau came home to Wells from his appliance repair job thirsty and wanting a cold beer. He drove to a bar, not caring that he was driving on a suspended license. He'd already been convicted four times for driving without a license. The last time, he'd lost it for a year on a driving to endanger conviction.

''I was driving drunk that time too, but police couldn't prove it,'' Rocheleau says.

With his multiple drunken-driving convictions, Rocheleau was no stranger to the Wells police, who kept an eye out for his car.

But that summer night, Rocheleau managed to avoid a police cruiser until it was too late.

''The last thing I remember was a friend buying me shots of Sambuca,'' he says.

After pulling Rocheleau over at 1:30 a.m., his car windshield shattered and bloody, police found Harold Hugo's crumpled body on Route 1 in Wells, a few miles away. An avid biker, Hugo worked three jobs to provide for his wife and 2-year-old daughter. He was pedaling home from his dishwashing job at an Ogunquit restaurant when Rocheleau hit him. The force threw Hugo onto the hood of Rocheleau's car. He struck the windshield and bounced back onto the road. The blue backpack he had been wearing snagged on the car's window frame.

Wells Police Department Sgt. William Betters pulled Rocheleau over that summer night.

He doesn't believe ''scarlet letter'' OUI license tags or an anti-alcohol ignition lock would have stopped Rocheleau from driving drunk. Suspending Rocheleau's license four times didn't stop him, so why would a marked license tag?

''We knew his record and knew he was out and driving,'' Betters says. ''But these people can be very elusive. They'll switch cars, license plates. You'd virtually have to follow them 24 hours a day. And we just don't have the manpower to do that.''

Now serving an eight-year sentence at the Maine State Prison, Rocheleau admits he had no respect for the law or the safety of others. ''I had total disregard for everybody,'' Rocheleau says. ''I just didn't care.''

''It hurts me to say I took an innocent life, a man that didn't need to die,'' Rocheleau continues. ''He had a little girl and a wife. And he died because of my negligence, my stupidity.''

A large man, his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, Rocheleau sits in a cramped, barren room that serves as the prison's substance abuse counseling office. There is a weariness and a hint of sadness reflected in his brown eyes. Rarely does he smile.

Soon after he came to Thomaston, Rocheleau joined the prison's chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.

''Today, I'm glad I'm here,'' he says. ''It gave me an opportunity to get some help. This is the first time I've been sober for three years since I was 12.''

Asked why he couldn't stay sober after receiving treatment following his third and fourth OUIs, Rocheleau had no answers.

''I don't know how you stop people on the outside,'' Rocheleau says. ''Ninety percent of the guys who come in here have alcohol problems and a lot of them keep coming back. I wish I had an answer to stop people from driving drunk. But I just don't know.''

When most inmates walk out the prison doors to freedom, the first thing they do is head to a bar for that cold beer they've been dreaming about. If they're alcoholics, chances are they're going to drink too much and get behind the wheel of a car, get into a brawl or break the law some other way. Often they end up back in jail or prison.

''Somebody can be in here for a long time sober, but when they're released it's like being pushed out in the ocean and set adrift,'' says Paul Quijano, the sole substance abuse counselor for 550 state prisoners at the Maine State Prison in Thomaston and Bolduc Correctional Facility in Warren.

The first 90 days of an convict's freedom is when they're most at risk of falling back into their old habits of drinking and drugging. It's crucial, Quijano says, to help offenders like Rocheleau when they return to the community.

''Their old lifestyle and friends are like magnets,'' Quijano says. ''I think a lot of men hope to change but they don't know how. They need a lot of support.''

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Support isn't what North Carolina prosecutor Tom Keith has in mind for habitual drunken drivers - especially those who kill.

Keith, district attorney for Forsyth County, this summer became the first prosecutor in the country to win a first-degree murder conviction against a drunken driver. Most states, like Maine, charge drunken drivers with vehicular manslaughter when they kill someone in a crash. The penalties range from probation to 40 years in prison.

In North Carolina, prosecutors use the felony-murder rule, which allows them to charge a drunken driver with first-degree murder if they've killed someone while committing a felony - causing a car accident with multiple deaths or causing one death and injuring another person.

''People say there's no intent to kill if you're driving drunk, but what's the difference if a drunk kills with a gun or a 3,000-pound car?'' Keith asks. ''The victim is still graveyard dead.''

If jurors convict a drunken driver of first-degree murder, the sentence is life in prison; if they believe the case is especially egregious, they can recommend the death penalty.

''There's two types of drunks,'' Keith says. ''The rational person who comes in contact with the court system once and is deterred. Then there's the drunk that is anti-social, predatory, and has no concerns about anybody else in the world. Those are the people we need to lock up for a long time.''

Somehow, luck has kept Steve Crommett from facing a vehicular manslaughter charge. He is now serving time for his 10th OUI. The 32-year-old man has been in a couple of accidents, once ramming police cars and another time hitting a deer.

''Luckily, I haven't killed anybody yet,'' he says.

A shy, polite man, Crommett sits in the substance abuse office of Bolduc Correctional Facility, a minimum-security prison known among inmates as the ''farm'' because of its pastoral setting along a country road in Warren.

Crommett wears a blue baseball cap over his dirty blond hair and often casts his blue eyes to the floor, humiliated as he talks about returning to prison time after time for driving drunk.

He rarely gets visitors. His two ex-wives, parents and siblings aren't sympathetic toward his problem anymore.

''They love me but they don't understand why I do this,'' Crommett says, his voice heavy with his own frustration.

Steve Crommett, 32, strips a floor at the Hallowell Pre-Release Center, where he is serving time for his 10th OUI conviction. ''Luckily, I haven't killed anybody yet,'' he says. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

''I've been locked up seven times for OUI, half my life,'' Crommett says. ''I know my problem is drinking. I know every time I drink I get into trouble. And if I continue to drink, this is going to be my life right here in prison.''

A self-described country boy and loner, Crommett grew up in Vassalboro. He began drinking when he was 14 and started having problems in school, with reading and writing. He admits he can't do either today.

''I felt bad about not being able to read and write so I drank,'' Crommett says. ''Drinking made me feel on top of the world. I think I was an alcoholic from the get-go. I never drank to be social. Just to get drunk.''

Crommett got his first OUI in 1982. He stole a car in Oakland, led police on a high-speed chase and then rammed their cars when they tried to put up a roadblock to stop him. He wound up with a nine-month sentence at the Maine Youth Center.

A few years later, he got another OUI. He spent seven days in jail. The next OUI landed him 60 days in jail. The third time, he did six months. Each time he got convicted, he got a lengthier stint behind bars.

''I'm a hell of a guy when I'm sober,'' Crommett says, a rare smile sliding across his lips. ''I can work hard. I'm trustworthy. Pleasant. But when I'm drunk, I'll rob and steal from you and drive in a blackout. I don't care about anybody else.''

Though the state suspended his license after each of his OUIs, like Carney, it mattered little to Crommett.

''It's sad to say, but I've never had a license,'' he says. ''There's been nothing anyone could do to stop me from driving.''

When Crommett didn't have a car, he'd steal one from a stranger or friend who parked outside the bar in which he happened to be drinking. If he made it home without getting arrested, he'd wake up the next morning wondering whose car sat outside his apartment.

''I'd have no memory of how I got home,'' Crommett says. ''One time, my blood-alcohol was point two-five. They told me I should have been dead it was so high.''

Pausing a moment to think about those nights lost to a haze of booze, Crommett adds in a somber voice: ''I'm very much amazed I haven't killed anyone yet.''

Crommett's most recent prison stint began in June 1996 - a 30-month sentence for his 10th OUI.

''I made it two and a half years out there without drinking,'' Crommett says wistfully. ''I was going to Alcoholics Anonymous, talking to my sponsor. Staying sober.''

Then he stopped going to AA meetings, believing he could handle his addiction on his own.

''One day, I walked out of the house with 16 dollars and no one saw me for four days,'' he says. ''I just said screw it and started drinking. Six months later, a cop pulled me over drunk and I said, 'Here I go again.' ''

Near the summer's end, Crommett was moved to a work-release prison in Hallowell. He works odd jobs, earning days off his prison sentence. Though his release date is July 1998, he may gain his freedom sooner.

Before he returns to the community and the temptation to drink, Crommett hopes he can get a grip on his addiction.

''I've got 13 more months to try and grasp a way to stay sober,'' Crommett says. ''I really don't want to come back here. And I really don't want to kill anybody. I don't want to know how you deal with killing somebody's wife or little kid.''