Jamie Komoroski, driver in SC bride death, expresses remorse, hopes to avoid prison

This crime-scene photo shows a golf cart and car involved in a fatal Folly Beach crash in which a new bride died minutes after leaving her wedding reception. File/Folly Beach Department of Public Safety/Provided

FOLLY BEACH — An accused drunk driver who mowed down a bride on her wedding night has expressed remorse, frustration and resignation that her actions will likely land her behind bars for years to come.

Through sobs, shrieks and occasional eye rolls, 25-year-old Jamie Lee Komoroski has bemoaned and questioned her plight in a series of conversations with her family and friends since landing in the Charleston County jail last month. The Post and Courier obtained copies of those recorded conversations through an open records request.

The recordings paint a portrait of a young woman who has struggled to grasp the gravity of her situation and one who may have received special treatment at the jail. She indicated in her calls that Sheriff Kristin Graziano arranged for her to meet in-person with her parents at the jail — a privilege not normally extended to other inmates.

The sheriff's office said that Graziano deals with such matters on a case-by-case basis, and that she considers it her duty as a public servant to look after the well-being of inmates in her agency's care.

Komoroski is accused of plowing a Toyota Camry into a golf cart on East Ashley Avenue after a night of heavy drinking on April 28, killing newlywed Samantha Miller and injuring the bride's husband and two others. She was charged with felony drunk-driving after her blood alcohol content registered .26 — more than three times the legal limit.

Jamie Komoroski speaks during a video conference call from the Charleston County jail. Provided

Two days later, Komoroski cried and wailed as she spoke with her parents by phone from the North Charleston jail, where she is being held without bail.

"I can't believe this is my life … and my whole life is going to be over," she sobbed. "Oh my God. I just can't believe this happened to me. … Why me? … I’m going to be here for years and years and years and years."

Her father told her it was time to "suck it up" and "get tough" in her new environment.

"I can't," she moaned. "I want it to be over."

Komoroski, a 2020 Coastal Carolina University graduate, allegedly went bar hopping at four establishments before smashing into the low-speed vehicle carrying Miller, 34. The bride died on the road in her wedding dress. Komoroski, who had recently been hired as a restaurant server on Folly, was traveling 65 mph — which is 40 mph over the posted speed limit — at the time of the crash, police said.

Samantha Miller and Aric Hutchinson met during a work trip out West to Idaho. They lived in an apartment on James Island minutes from the beach and enjoyed exploring the outdoors. File/Provided

Miller's new husband, Aric Hutchinson, told "Good Morning America" in an interview broadcast May 19 that he doesn't remember the impact, only his new wife's last words. She told him she wanted "the night to never end," he said.

Hutchinson woke up the next day in the hospital and asked his mother where Miller was. She replied that "Sam didn't make it," Hutchinson told GMA.

Komoroski, meanwhile, arrived at the county jail smelling of booze and with bloodshot eyes, according to detention center logs obtained through a Freedom of Information Act request. She had reportedly threatened to harm herself and became hysterical, banging her head on a nurse's desk after being told she couldn't use a phone. Detention deputies placed her in a restraint chair, where she continued to cry and smack her head, the logs state.

The New Jersey native continued to scream, cry and bang on the walls of her cell when she returned from her bail hearing on April 29. She later told officers she did not deserve to eat or drink, logs state.

"Resident needs to be watched extremely closely," according to a deputy's note.

Over the next several days, Komoroski's family, her boyfriend and friends tried to console her and show their support, urging her to cling to her hope and faith. They often professed their love for one another and exchanged air kisses. She repeatedly thanked them for standing by her.

"You don't need to be sorry, Jamie, this is what happened and we’re going to take care of it. There's no being sorry about it," her father said during one call. "We don't care about what happened. We don't care. We care only about you."

Dressed in a striped jail jumpsuit, Komoroski initially sobbed and covered her face when she saw her boyfriend and a small group of friends on a video chat screen on May 2. She expressed remorse, explained that she didn't want people to think she was a terrible person and predicted she would be set free on bail within two months. In the meantime, she said, she was thinking of learning a new language and was listening to history and science podcasts.

"I’m going to be a genius when I get out," she said.

Privately, she also told her boyfriend that she wanted him to be happy and would be OK if he decided to move on from her. He demurred.

Komoroski also predicted that she wouldn't serve any prison time because it had all been an accident. Other inmates told her she would get out on bond and have to do "a bunch of stuff" while awaiting trial "that, like, makes you look good and they’ll, like, let you off easy," she said.

"There's been people that have, like, killed people on purpose before and, like, they’ve gotten out on a bond," she told her friends.

As for the crash, she said, "It was just like a freak accident … obviously, I didn't mean it to happen. I just feel like a terrible person, like, I didn't mean for any of that to happen."

Before signing off, she gave her friends advice: "Please don't be stupid like I was because all it takes is one time."

In another video call the same day, her parents tried to keep Komoroski's spirits up, joking with her and telling her to try to stay positive. She said she was leaning on prayer, hope and faith but "I’m just so confused, like, why this would happen to me."

Jamie Komoroski speaks during a video conferencing call from the Charleston County jail. Provided

Her father replied that things sometimes just happen that way and nothing can be done about it.

"I just pray and hope that the judge understands how regretful and remorseful I am, and that I’m not a bad person and that I’ll never do anything bad again," Komoroski said, her eyes puffy from crying.

On May 4, her father told Komoroski he had hired two top-notch attorneys to represent her: a husband-and-wife team who hail from their home state and are "bringing the Jersey to South Carolina, baby." The attorneys, Christopher and Deborah Gramiccioni, live in Mount Pleasant and run the law firm Kingston Coventry LLC, which has offices in both states.

Her father told her the most important thing was for her to talk to no one about the events that had landed her in jail. He reminded her that her statements were being recorded and could be used against her, but Komoroski kept interrupting and ignoring his cautions.

"But I wanted to make sure that I could say an apology and they said I would be able to say an apology," she whined.

"Listen, stop talking about it," her father interjected. "Don't even say that."

Komoroski also let loose a litany of complaints about conditions in the jail, from a lack of writing supplies to a resistance to her having an exercise mat so she could do her crunches. She griped about nosy deputies and grim food offerings: hot dogs, cold meatballs, white bread and the like. And she complained that a deputy wouldn't even let her hold the remote control to change the television channels in her holding area.

Komoroski shared similar complaints with her boyfriend on a May 8 call and then pivoted to a topic she said her father told her not to tell anyone about. That concerned "the head person of Charleston County" who had come to see her.

"She's really nice, and I think she's gonna help me," Komoroski said. "Things are looking up."

Komoroski told her boyfriend this official thought she should be home with her family, not locked up in jail. That same official, she said, had arranged for an in-person visit between Komoroski and her parents at the jail, separated by a glass partition.

Since the pandemic, the county jail has only allowed online video visitation for inmates. Only attorneys are granted in-person visits with clients at the 1,693-person facility in North Charleston, according to the jail's website.

In a separate call, Komoroski asked her father how he knew "deputy sheriff lady." He indicated that the person in question was Charleston County Sheriff Kristin Graziano, whom he said he had communicated with through texts and a phone call. He explained that Graziano "had a relationship" with Komoroski's attorney Christopher Gramiccioni, and that the lawyer had encouraged him to call the sheriff.

"So that's how the whole thing went with Sheriff Graziano," her father explained.

The sheriff's office said Gramiccioni's relationship with Graziano is purely professional. Gramiccioni said he'd met Graziano once.

The agency added that it is not unusual for her to meet with inmates or their families.

The sheriff's office said in a written statement that Komoroski's family reached out to the agency soon after her arrival "because they were concerned about her access to medication, and our staff had already voiced concerns over Komoroski's mental health."

"We take our jail residents’ mental health very seriously, and we believe that we made necessary accommodations to ensure she did not harm herself," the statement read. "Sheriff has no control over bond and has a right to personal opinions. In times of crisis, all people deserve the right to be with their loved ones, and it is unfortunate and tragic when circumstances prevent that."

In another call, from May 11, Komoroski told her father she had talked to "Kirsten." Her father corrected her: "Sheriff Graziano."

"I saw her again today and she said that she's gonna set up a call with her friend who, like, went through a similar situation, like a video call," Komoroski explained. "So I’m doing that tomorrow, so that should be good."

Her father explained that one of Graziano's deputies had recently gotten into trouble, so the sheriff was sympathetic.

"She's a very, very nice lady," he said.

The recordings indicate that reality eventually began to sink in for Komoroski that prison could well be in her future. She faces three counts of felony driving under the influence and one count of reckless vehicular homicide. The felony DUI charge carries a maximum 15-year penalty, and she faces up to 10 years on the vehicular homicide charge.

Her father told her she could come out of the experience a better person but it will be hard. He predicted she would likely receive less than 15 years but "you’re going to have to do time."

Komoroski pondered during one call how she might spend her time behind bars, possibly studying law or coming up with a plan "for like, philanthropy or something." She also told him how she spent her time trying to be productive, by coloring, completing crosswords, and reading the Bible and a biology textbook.

Still, her father cautioned her to remain mum about the case in the interim, telling her on a May 11 call that the media was interested in her and trying to contact her in jail.

"That just makes me scared that the media is so involved in it," she said. "Why are they so involved in it?"

"Because it sells newspapers," her father replied. "That's why, baby."

"But that's not gonna help me," she said. "Like, oh my God, it's gonna be so bad when I get out. Everyone's gonna be so mean to me."

Her father told her that her family would be there to support her. They had planned for her to go live with her mother in New Jersey until the trial if she is granted bail.

Her father asked her to supply him with a list of people who might write to the judge to support her release from jail. He then floated the possibility of her being released into an alcohol rehabilitation program.

"How long is that?" she asked.

When told it would be four to six weeks, she rolled her eyes. "Alright."

"Well, listen …" her father said.

"If it helps the case, I’ll do it," she replied.

"It might help you a little, too," her father suggested, adding that she needed "to accept the reality of some of this stuff, baby, OK?"

Komoroski grew upset and banged her head as her father watched, smoking a cigar.

"I’m just scared, Dad," she said. "I don't want to go away for so, so long."

He assured her that her family was doing everything they could.

Komoroski pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed. "That's not enough."

Her words echoed in the white cinderblock recreation room where she sat, as she leaned forward in her chair.

"We’ve got the right people working on it," her father said.

Samantha Miller's mother Lisa Miller (foreground, right) thanks the crowd gathered to pay tribute to her daughter and Aric Hutchinson (seated), joined by his mother Annette Hutchinson, on Folly Beach on May 13, 2023. File/Grace Beahm Alford/Staff

Her attorneys filed a motion for bond May 19 arguing Komoroski is neither a danger to the community nor a flight risk — the two criteria for determining bail. Their client has no criminal history and has parents and siblings in New Jersey who support her, according to the motion. South Carolina's constitution guarantees that all defendants have a right to bail unless charged with a capital offense or a crime punishable by life imprisonment. If released from jail, the motion states Komoroski would seek inpatient treatment in either New Jersey or South Carolina for substance abuse and mental health, which she has struggled with since college.

Of her statements made on the recordings, they offered: "These are the statements of a distraught young woman. She was seeking guidance and support from her family, as many daughters do."

Meanwhile, Aric Hutchinson was on "Good Morning America" sharing what it was like for him to go forward without Miller, the woman he had planned to spend his life with.

Hutchinson told the reporter he had moved back into the third-floor apartment the two shared, and he said he can still feel her presence.

As for Komoroski, Hutchinson said he had nothing to say to her at this point.

"I can't right now," he told GMA. "I'd like to. I mean, she stole an amazing human being that should not have been taken."

Ali Rockett, Scott Hamilton and Thad Moore contributed to this report.

Reach Glenn Smith at 843-937-5556. Follow him on Twitter @glennsmith5.

Watchdog/Public Service Editor

Glenn Smith is editor of the Watchdog and Public Service team and helped write the newspaper's Pulitzer Prize-winning investigation, "Till Death Do Us Part." Reach him securely on Signal at 843-607-0809 or by email at [email protected].

Ema Schumer covers public safety and the criminal justice system in Charleston County.

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