New_York_Magazine_-_March_16_2020

42 new york | march 16–29, 2020

conflagration could erupt, even today. “I want to tell you,” Taylonn

Murphy said to me, sitting in his office at Manhattan’s family court,

where he works to help people navigate the system, “that was our

worst fear: that someone from up the hill would come down the

hill and one of the students would be killed.” Murphy’s own teenage

daughter, a basketball phenom nicknamed Chicken, had been

murdered in a gang shooting in 2011.

But no one knew what to do. Or what to say. Or how to say it or to

whom. At semi-regular meetings up at Columbia, stakeholders—

Taylor, reps from Parks and the university, local politicians—would

listen to Harper’s crime report. “Barnard hasn’t attended,” Harper

told me. “They weren’t disinvited. They hadn’t expressed interest.”

(Barnard says it receives regular briefings from the NYPD.) When

Tess and all the other first-year students arrived on campus, no one

mentioned the spike of crime in the park. A mandatory safety brief-

ing was part of their orientation, they say, but it was worthless. “We

had all been out the night before. We were all falling asleep. They

stressed basic safety information. There was nothing specifically that

I can remember about, ‘Don’t go in Morningside Park after dark,’ ”

says Sasha Hochman, who is from Philadelphia. “I personally did

not pay attention,” recalls Tehila Cherry, who is from San Diego. She

remembers talking to her parents on the phone a few weeks after

she arrived on campus. “They asked if I felt safe walking through

New York, and I was like, ‘Oh, yeah, I feel totally safe.’ And my dad

was like, ‘It’s good that you feel safe, but don’t be naïve.’ ”

This past September, Brad Taylor wrote his umpteenth email to

Mark Levine, the city councilmember for the area, begging for

three full-time Parks patrols to be dedicated to Morningside. “This

request is completely reasonable,” he wrote. In November, Taylor

counted 23 street lamps out in Morningside Park, at least five in

the area at the base of the steps.

the murder occurred on a Wednesday night during Finals Week.

In the libraries, laptops and phones were open and glowing—tex-

ting, thinking, flirting, writing, commiserating, and cramming all

part of the same mental stream—while back at the dorm, some

found it necessary to take brain breaks, to do laundry, or to watch a

crappy movie, as one first-year told me, like 50 Shades of Grey.

The first text came at around 8:30 p.m. “Barnard Public

Safety Police are investigating a robbery/stabbing inside Morn-

ingside Park,” it said. “Suspect is a male wearing a green jacket

and a mask. Please avoid the area.”

This was weird, but not too weird. Barnard, like nearly every

other college or university, has to comply with the Clery Act, a fed-

eral statute that requires schools to alert students of crimes on

campus; at Barnard, and at Columbia too, students receive regular

safety warnings about robberies and assaults on school property.

But soon rumors began to travel. This was a murder. The victim

was a Barnard student. She was a first-year, one of them. Sketchy

news reports outpaced the internal notifications, and parents

began texting, calling, sending links. The second text came in at

10:30. The incident did involve a Barnard student, it said. “Expect

email shortly, including information about counseling hours.” In

the dorms, the first-years began to panic, “Oh my God, holy shit, it

could be anyone. It could be your best friend.” Text chains with

dozens of people on them were circulating, pleading, “Say that

you’re here.” In the library, young women began to close their lap-

tops and go in search of their friends.

Confirmation came at 11 p.m. in an email from college president

Sian Beilock’s office. “Mourning the Tragic Death of a Barnard Stu-

dent,” the subject line said. Earlier that evening, a first-year named

Tessa Majors had been killed—“off campus,” it said, in Morningside

Park. The email was sincere, even anguished, but these two little

words, “off campus,” reflected a lawyer’s touch, a self-protective

assertion, in writing, defining the costs and risks of living in a big city

as beyond the jurisdiction of the college recruiting students there.

“With broken hearts,” the email began, “we share tragic news.”

Paulette Arnold, a junior, was in the basement of her dorm, not 500

feet from where the attack occurred, putting her clothes in the

washer when she received the email. “I collapsed on the ground,

heaving,” she said. “My legs went jelly.” Paulette had met Tess in the

first weeks of school, when Tess attended a meeting of Rare Candy,

the online music magazine Paulette helped to edit. Now, throughout

the hallways where the first-years lived and where a group had

recently commandeered a communal bathroom at midnight to help

Tess dye her hair seaweed green, you could hear people scream.

Tess was tiny and feminine and among her peers had started to

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PHOTOGRAPHS: WILLIAM FARRINGTON/POLARIS (WEAVER, LEWIS); ANDREW LICHTENSTEIN/GETTY IMAGES (VIGIL); RICHARD DREW/SHUTTERSTOCK (HUNT)ele

lef t: One of the accused

leaving court on February 15;

right: Another arriving

at court on February 19.

“That was our worst fear: that someone from up the hill would com

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42 newyork| march16–29, 2020

conflagrationcoulderupt,eventoday. “I wanttotellyou,” Taylonn

Murphy saidtome,sittinginhisofficeat Manhattan’sfamilycourt,

whereheworkstohelppeoplenavigatethesystem,“that wasour

worstfear:that someonefromupthehillwouldcomedownthe

hillandoneof thestudentswouldbekilled.” Murphy’sownteenage

daughter,a basketballphenomnicknamedChicken,hadbeen

murderedina gangshootingin2011.

Butnooneknewwhat todo.Orwhat tosay. Orhowtosay it orto

whom.Atsemi-regularmeetingsupat Columbia,stakeholders—

Taylor,repsfromParksandtheuniversity, localpoliticians—would

listentoHarper’scrimereport. “Barnard hasn’t attended,”Harper

toldme.“Theyweren’t disinvited.Theyhadn’t expressedinterest.”

(Barnard says it receives regular briefings fromtheNYPD.) When

Tess and all the other first-year students arrivedoncampus,noone

mentioned the spike of crime in the park. A mandatory safety brief-

ing was part of their orientation, they say, but it was worthless. “We

had all been out the night before. We were all falling asleep. They

stressed basic safety information. There was nothing specifically that

I can remember about, ‘Don’t go in Morningside Park after dark,’ ”

says Sasha Hochman, who is from Philadelphia. “I personally did

not pay attention,” recalls Tehila Cherry, who is from San Diego. She

remembers talking to her parents on the phone a few weeks after

she arrived on campus. “They asked if I felt safe walking through

New York, and I was like, ‘Oh, yeah, I feel totally safe.’ And my dad

was like, ‘It’s good that you feel safe, but don’t be naïve.’ ”

This past September, Brad Taylor wrote his umpteenth email to

Mark Levine, the city councilmember for the area, begging for

three full-time Parks patrols to be dedicated to Morningside. “This

request is completely reasonable,” he wrote. In November, Taylor

counted 23 street lamps out in Morningside Park, at least five in

the area at the base of the steps.

the murder occurred on a Wednesday night during Finals Week.

In the libraries, laptops and phones were open and glowing—tex-

ting, thinking, flirting, writing, commiserating, and cramming all

part of the same mental stream—while back at the dorm, some

found it necessary to take brain breaks, to do laundry, or to watch a

crappy movie, as one first-year told me, like 50 Shades of Grey.

The first text came at around 8:30 p.m. “Barnard Public

Safety Police are investigating a robbery/stabbing inside Morn-

ingside Park,” it said. “Suspect is a male wearing a green jacket

and a mask. Please avoid the area.”

Thiswasweird,butnottooweird.Barnard,like nearlyevery

othercollegeoruniversity, hastocomplywiththeCleryAct, a fed-

eralstatutethat requiresschoolstoalert studentsofcrimeson

campus;at Barnard,andat Columbiatoo,studentsreceiveregular

safety warningsaboutrobberiesandassaultsonschoolproperty.

Butsoonrumorsbegantotravel.Thiswasa murder. Thevictim

wasa Barnardstudent.Shewasa first-year,oneofthem.Sketchy

news reports outpacedtheinternalnotifications,andparents

began texting, calling,sendinglinks.Thesecondtextcameinat

10:30. The incident didinvolvea Barnardstudent,it said.“Expect

email shortly, includinginformationaboutcounselinghours.” In

the dorms, the first-yearsbegantopanic,“Ohmy God,holyshit,it

could be anyone. It could be your best friend.” Text chainswith

dozens of people on them were circulating, pleading,“Say that

you’re here.” In the library, young women began to closetheirlap-

tops and go in search of their friends.

Confirmation came at 11 p.m. in an email from collegepresident

Sian Beilock’s office. “Mourning the Tragic Death of a BarnardStu-

dent,” the subject line said. Earlier that evening, a first-yearnamed

Tessa Majors had been killed—“off campus,” it said, in Morningside

Park. The email was sincere, even anguished, but thesetwolittle

words, “off campus,” reflected a lawyer’s touch, a self-protective

assertion, in writing, defining the costs and risks of living ina bigcity

as beyond the jurisdiction of the college recruiting studentsthere.

“With broken hearts,” the email began, “we share tragicnews.”

Paulette Arnold, a junior, was in the basement of her dorm,not 500

feet from where the attack occurred, putting her clothesinthe

washer when she received the email. “I collapsed on theground,

heaving,” she said. “My legs went jelly.” Paulette had metTessinthe

first weeks of school, when Tess attended a meeting of RareCandy,

the online music magazine Paulette helped to edit. Now, throughout

the hallways where the first-years lived and where a grouphad

recently commandeered a communal bathroom at midnightto help

Tess dye her hair seaweed green, you could hear people scream.

Tess was tiny and feminine and among her peers hadstartedto PHOTOGRAPHS: WILLIAM FARRINGTON/POLARIS (WEAVER, LEWIS); ANDREW LICHTENSTEIN/GETTY IMAGES (VIGIL); RICHARD DREW/SHUTTERSTOCK (HUNT)

lef t: One of the accused

leaving court on February 15;

right: Another arriving

at court on February 19.

“That was our worst fear: that someone from up the hill would com