TALLAHASSEE — Julian White had a bad feeling about Orlando.

The longtime director of Florida A&M University’s Marching 100 had just suspended 26 members of his renowned band for repeatedly hazing Bria Hunter, a 112-pound, 18-year-old freshman clarinet player from Decatur.

Hunter, a graduate of Southwest DeKalb High School, was beaten so badly over a three-week period in the fall that she required hospitalization, suffering a broken leg and damaged knee. The incident led to high-level discussions between the band director and university officials about Marching 100’s immediate future, according to White’s attorney, Chuck Hobbs of Tallahassee.

White argued in favor of keeping the band at home on the weekend of Nov. 19, prohibiting members from participating in the annual Florida Classic against archrival Bethune-Cookman University. But FAMU’s administration, perhaps reasoning that the financial payout of having the band perform at halftime was too much to pass up, decided against that, Hobbs said.

Florida A&M took part in the Classic. But, before the day was over, the band once again would find itself under scrutiny. Drum major Robert Champion, a Lithonia native, was found unresponsive on a bus parked outside of the Rosen Centre Hotel in Orlando, another apparent victim of hazing. He was pronounced dead at a local hospital.

Now, the band is indefinitely suspended, and FAMU is in turmoil.

“FAMU is focusing on one of the greatest challenges in the life of this university: the death of Robert Champion, coupled with allegations of hazing and the suspension of The 100, ” said president James Ammons, who, on Thursday, received a public reprimand by the school’s board of trustees.

On Wednesday, White, who had been fired by Ammons, was reinstated and placed on administrative leave. Four students, who were said to be involved in the incident that killed Champion, were also re-admitted after brief suspensions.

Meanwhile, students at the university are holding mass meetings, where the administration has come under fire for its seeming inaction in the immediate aftermath of the death.

‘Seen as superstars’

Arguably — and, in some circles, begrudgingly — the band is the most significant organization on campus. Known simply as The 100, the band is the face of the 13,000-student school.

“The band is the caveat that drives the popularity vehicle on campus,” said Klarque Garrison, an Atlanta resident and online radio talk-show host who marched in the band in the ’90s. “We are seen as superstars.”

The Marching 100 hasn’t been 100 members in years, as their numbers have swelled to close to 400.

Among historically black colleges, FAMU’s $96 million endowment is substantial.

But the estimated $300,000 in revenue that the band annually brings in is critical in recruitment efforts and in providing scholarships.

The band, which recruits heavily in Atlanta and has a large alumni base in the area, has played at presidential inaugurations, at the 200th anniversary of the French Revolution in Paris, and at several Super Bowls, including the 2007 game in Miami, where they accompanied Prince.

Every summer, hundreds of middle and high school students pay to attend FAMU band camp in hopes of one day joining.

The glamorous outward appearance makes it easy for some to overlook a culture of hazing and secrecy that persists despite efforts to eliminate it. When he was initially fired, White produced documents detailing his fight against hazing — including letters, training guidelines and suspension notices.

Now, in the wake of Champion’s death, Ammons is promising full eradication of hazing throughout the university.

In 2006, the then-president of the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity became the first person to be convicted under a new law that made hazing a third-degree felony in Florida. That student was found guilty of beating a pledge with a wooden cane and sentenced to two years in prison. The Kappas were suspended from campus for seven years.

“We are going to leave this behind once and for all,” Ammons said. “Institutionalized hazing will be eliminated, and we will be a leader in the national dialogue of zero tolerance.”

Last Monday, student activist T.J. Legacy-Cole took up a bullhorn on The Set, a popular campus meeting spot, and called for classmates to wake up. A few yards away, the FAMU flag was at half-staff, in remembrance of Champion.

“Change starts within the student body. We need to change the culture of hazing,” said Legacy-Cole, a member of the club Rattlerz With Attitude. “We still have the baddest band in the land. We don’t want to alienate the band, but hazing is infested in clubs and organizations on campus.”

That evening, more than 2,000 students, many members of the 130 organizations on campus, crammed into Jake Gaither Gymnasium for a Student Government Association meeting. Across the street in the new gym, fewer than 50 people watched the school’s basketball team tip off against Allen University. At the SGA meeting, students signed anti-hazing agreements.

Julian Massey, who is a member of the Baptist Collegiate Ministry, said he doesn’t believe that hazing is as widespread as the administration now claims it is.

But others agree with Legacy-Cole and say hazing — which experts agree occurs in all kind of organizations and across racial and class lines — has become part of the culture at FAMU, with The Marching 100 being one of the biggest offenders. In May, at the Rosen Centre Hotel, the same hotel outside of which Champion died, an unspecified hazing incident occurred that led to the suspension of 15 other band members.

Members of The 100 refused to comment for this article. But in interviews with former band members, current and former students, and in reams of documents, it appears hazing is a crucial part of the band’s culture.

Some students who are already members of the band endure weeks or even months of physical and mental abuse for acceptance into The 100’s popular subgroups, which carry names like Red Dawgz, Gustapos, the White Whales and Bus C, so named for the vehicle the members travel in.

It’s unnecessary, Garrison said. All that is required is knowing the music and the routines.

“Freshmen always feel peer pressure,” said Garrison, who is also a member of Kappa Alpha Psi. “I never found the need to participate in it. I was a great trombone player. That was enough.”

Hunter, already a member of the clarinet section, wanted entry into the Clones. She said she was beaten at least three times this semester.

But Hunter, who would not comment for this article, told a Florida television station that, unless a band member joined a subgroup, “it’s like, you’re lame.”

In 1998, 13 years before Hunter tried to join the Clones, clarinetist Ivery Luckey tried and was paddled more than 300 times. He spent two weeks in the hospital when his organs failed. In 2001, trumpeter Marcus Parker went into renal failure after a hazing incident. Luckey would win a $50,000 settlement, while Parker won a $1.8 million lawsuit against other band members.

But at least a decade before that, White said, he started trying to rid the band of hazing, which had gained national attention – specifically among students in black Greek organizations in the wake of the 1989 death of Joel A. Harris, a Morehouse College sophomore. Harris was killed trying to pledge Alpha Phi Alpha.

White, the associate band director at the time, wrote a letter to then-director William P. Foster, who was known as the “dean of America’s band directors,” warning him that what had happened at Morehouse was hitting too close to home.

Since taking over the band in 1998, White has suspended dozens of members over alleged hazing incidents and revoked scholarships. But he said he lacked the authority to expel students from FAMU, which he said would have sent a stronger message.

Questions remain

At 26, Champion, a music major, was one of the older members of the band. He had marched for five years and was scheduled to be the head drum major next season.

Which is what makes his death more perplexing to some, who question why an older, established drum major would submit to hazing.

Witness accounts and published reports suggest that Champion died after suffering a barrage of punches as he walked from one end of Bus C to the other, as part of the subgroup’s initiation ritual.

Garrison, who served for three years as a drum major, said Champion should have reached a status in his career where he didn’t have to answer to anyone in the band.

“This guy was already at the top. Why in the heck — if it turns out it is hazing — he would subject himself to anything anyone has to say except Dr. White is beyond me,” Garrison said. “I just don’t get it.”