Culpability in Mr. Jordan Neely's Death

It had been a hellish two months. I am not quite ready to share that story, but I can say with some serenity that it is now behind me. On my way home from one of my solo dinners — a book in hand, celebrating the quiet return of civility to my life — the Lyft paused in traffic in front of 1313 W. 8th Street. The building houses the ACLU, one of the NGOs I once supported. The past tense there is a longer story for another time.

Above the entrance is painted a list of demands: housing, healthcare, green space — all reasonable things a society should strive to provide. At the very bottom of the list, just above the ACLU sign, the words “More Police” have been crossed out.

The sight of it brought to mind the death of Mr. Jordan Neely and the man who restrained him on a New York City subway train, Mr. Daniel Penny.

Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash

You may not have heard of Mr. Jordan Neely. He died before reaching thirty-one years of age. At the time of his death, he was on New York City’s “Top 50 List” of homeless individuals considered most at risk. The list, maintained by a task force of city agencies and social-service nonprofits, identifies people whose troubles are severe and whose lives are marked by repeated resistance to assistance.

To put that in perspective, New York City has more than eight million residents.

In November 2021, Mr. Neely punched a sixty-seven-year-old woman, breaking several bones in her face. He was arrested, served time in jail, and in February was released to a residential treatment program. Two weeks later he walked out of the facility and never returned. An open arrest warrant remained.

You may also not have heard of Mr. Daniel Penny, the former Marine who placed Mr. Neely in a chokehold on a New York City subway train on May 1 after Mr. Neely allegedly began shouting and behaving erratically toward passengers. The chokehold ultimately killed Mr. Neely.

Following public outcry and protests demanding accountability, Mr. Penny was charged with second-degree manslaughter.

There is little dispute about the immediate cause of death: Mr. Penny’s restraint killed Mr. Neely.

I first learned of the case through a Wall Street Journal editorial titled “Charging Daniel Penny, the Subway Samaritan.” The editorial board argued that prosecuting Mr. Penny — even if he were ultimately acquitted — might discourage bystanders from intervening in dangerous situations. The concern is not frivolous.

As someone who rides the Metro trains in Los Angeles — our local equivalent to New York’s subway — the case does not feel as simple as one man killing another.

Los Angeles County has roughly seventy thousand homeless residents. Harassment, threats, and occasional violence on public transit are real experiences for riders. At the same time, it is heartbreaking to witness how many people are forced to live without dignity in conditions that are plainly inhumane.

Whether we like it or not, the presence of police on transit systems often helps maintain a basic level of civility and safety. That is simply the reality many riders experience.

Just as homeless individuals have rights, I also have the right to move through public space without fearing harm.

Perhaps Mr. Penny believed he was protecting himself and other passengers. Perhaps he heard Mr. Neely’s statements — that he was hungry, that he was not afraid of jail, even death — as threats rather than pleas. Perhaps he perceived danger where there was none. Perhaps he perceived danger because Mr. Neely was homeless. All of these possibilities exist.

The situation is complicated.

I doubt Mr. Penny knew about the assault in 2021. I doubt he knew Mr. Neely was on New York’s Top 50 list or that an arrest warrant existed. Without that knowledge, what led him to perceive such an immediate threat that he resorted to a chokehold — a restraint many police departments themselves prohibit?

The unanswered questions are unsettling.

But there are other questions that are equally unsettling.

What if someone on that train had simply handed Mr. Neely food and water? What if the passengers had collectively offered a few dollars rather than recoiled in fear? What if the city and its agencies had intervened earlier — with mental health care, housing, sustained support — before his life deteriorated to this point?

What if a police officer had been on the train so that Mr. Penny never felt compelled to intervene?

What if we, as neighbors and citizens, had invested more in caring for those who fall through the cracks of our systems?

What if we had chosen engagement instead of avoidance?

Are we, in some measure, all culpable for Mr. Neely’s death?

We live in a society where a man pleading for food and water can reasonably be perceived as a threat because that perception has been reinforced by reality.

I do not know whether Mr. Penny perceived Mr. Neely as dangerous because he was a Black homeless man. Our society is undeniably shaped by racism. That does not automatically make Mr. Penny a racist. If you have read my essay “Was I Wrong to Have Accused White Men?”, you know that human motives and perceptions are often more complicated than our first assumptions.

After nearly a decade riding Los Angeles Metro trains, I can understand how a rider might interpret a volatile situation as dangerous.

I am not on “Team Penny.”

But this may not simply be a story about a White man killing a Black homeless man.

It may also be a story about how a society slowly abandons people who need help until tragedy becomes almost inevitable.

Mr. Penny killed Mr. Neely with a chokehold.

But long before that moment, had we already been killing Mr. Neely — slowly — through neglect, avoidance, and indifference?

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