It’s an hour before sunrise
in New Orleans, and
Markitha Sinegal is fighting with
her boyfriend again.
They’re both 20 years old, living
separately at their mothers’ houses
while raising their 9-month-old
twin girls together.
On this late spring night, their
daughters are with them in
their father’s bedroom, listening
to the couple arguing.
The fight is loud enough to
wake his mother, sleeping in the next
room. She tells them to cool
off, that Markitha should go home.
Markitha starts packing to leave.
His mother goes back to bed,
but the arguing continues until —
She rushes back to the bedroom.
Markitha is standing there, one hand
clutching her back.
“He shot me,” she says, and collapses.
His mother calls 911, tries
to use towels to stem the
bleeding, but Markitha’s breaths
are becoming ragged.
Her boyfriend is pacing now,
panicking. “I made a mistake!”
he cries out.
He takes Markitha’s car and flees.
An ambulance arrives to rush
Markitha to the emergency room at
University Medical Center, the
hospital a few blocks away from the
community college where she
was studying to become a nurse.
She dies there, just before dawn,
on the day before what would
have been her first Mother’s Day.
In Louisiana, where Markitha Sinegal lived, homicide is the second leading cause of death for pregnant and postpartum women. Only drug overdoses take more lives.
This data comes from Louisiana’s Pregnancy-Associated Mortality Review Committee, one of many created in the United States in recent years to study the causes of maternal mortality, which has ticked upward over the past two decades. Though the rise in the statistics is most likely because of a change in recordkeeping — with the gradual rollout of a pregnancy checkbox on death certificates making the reported maternal mortality rate increase — the deaths are real. We simply weren’t seeing them this way before.
Homicide deaths are usually omitted from maternal mortality statistics because they aren’t considered sufficiently related to the pregnancy itself. But homicide isn’t a rare anomaly for pregnant and postpartum women — it’s one of their leading causes of death. This makes pregnancy-associated homicides, as they’re called by epidemiologists and health researchers, a real public health concern.
A young woman’s elevated risk of homicide during and after pregnancy holds true whether she is white, Black or Hispanic, but young Black mothers are afflicted by much higher rates of lethal violence.
National-level data on the phenomenon is difficult to find, as it’s often buried in individual state reports on maternal mortality or in databases inaccessible to the public. Dr. Maeve Wallace, an epidemiologist at the University of Arizona, has put a special focus on the analysis and publication of data on pregnancy-associated homicides and provided some of the data for this story. According to Dr. Wallace, from 2018 through 2022, at least 837 women were killed during pregnancy or within the following year, although because the pregnancy checkbox is new and not always consistently used, that number is most likely an undercount. “There’s tons of funding and attention at the federal level for maternal mortality,” Dr. Wallace said, referring to obstetric causes of death. “My goal in looking at homicide is that it’s happening just as often.”
And though homicides aren’t generally classified as pregnancy-related, the pregnancy often has played a part. In these cases, more often than not, a husband or boyfriend is the killer.
The stress and emotional turmoil of a pregnancy — especially an unexpected one — can exacerbate an already abusive relationship. According to experts on intimate partner violence, the abuse almost always precedes the pregnancy.
Domestic violence is rooted in power and control, and pregnancy is a tether that can shift a relationship’s dynamic. Once partners are tied together by a child on the horizon, abusers can feel a greater degree of impunity to escalate their behavior. Suddenly, there are not just emotional ties, but legal and financial ones as well. And just as suddenly, as a pregnant woman, it becomes much harder to leave.
Like the stories of the other mothers who died at the hands of their partners, the story of Ms. Sinegal’s death began long before her boyfriend pulled the trigger. To understand how she died — and how to prevent more deaths of young mothers like her — we have to understand how she came to be in that bedroom in the first place.
It’s much more comfortable to grapple with America’s maternal mortality rates by staring down the faceless threats of hypertension and hemorrhage. The killings of young mothers are far uglier deaths. But that is precisely why we must not look away.
During her senior year of
high school, newly pregnant with
twins, Markitha throws up
most mornings. She still makes it
to class, because she wants to
be someone someday.
She graduates at
eight months pregnant in
the Louisiana heat.
She starts nursing school
with infants in tow.
She’s worked steadily since
her first job at McDonald’s at
age 16, but she works even
harder now. She wants to give
her daughters the world.
Markitha’s mother tries to tell
her daughter to leave her boyfriend.
She never sees bruises, but she
notices scratch marks on her neck
and knows something isn’t right.
“It was like her eyes
wasn’t big enough to see
him,” she says.
But Markitha doesn’t leave.
And the fighting keeps getting worse.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon
in October, about seven months
before Markitha’s death.
This time her boyfriend is
angry because she won’t let him
eat the candy she bought.
But then she says it:
I don’t want to be with you
anymore.
He slams her onto the bed, nearly
crashing onto one of their 2-month-
old twins. He lets her up, then
he pushes her around the bedroom,
shoving her into the walls.
He puts his hands on
her throat and chokes her.
He’ll kill her and the babies if
she ever tries to be with someone else,
he says, pointing a gun at her.
When the cops turn up,
Markitha is distraught and deeply
shaken. They’ve fought
before, she says, but not like this.
An officer tries tracking down
Markitha’s boyfriend, but — perhaps
in an attempt to shield him from
the police — Markitha has provided
conflicting information
about how to spell his name.
She goes to Markitha’s
house to try to resolve the issue,
but no one answers.
A detective from the St. Tammany
Parish Sheriff’s Office attempts
to contact her five more times in the
next two months, trying to get enough
information to make an arrest.
Finally, in early December,
she responds to the detective
with an email:
If you’re following up about
that incident, I haven’t heard from
that guy since then, she writes.
The detective calls Markitha
right away, but there’s no answer.
After a final letter and with
nothing else to go on, the Sheriff’s
Office closes the file.
Markitha calls 911 four
more times before her death,
all because of frightening
arguments with her boyfriend.
One time he won’t give her
one of their daughters
back. At least once more, he
draws a gun on her.
Another time he throws a vase
at her and misses, hitting one
of the babies instead.
She screams at him —
“You’re going to jail!”
She’s going to leave, and she’ll
take the kids with her.
But she never does leave.
There are ways Ms. Sinegal’s story could have ended differently.
Some of the potential interventions are broad — they address the problem of homicides in America writ large. Around three-quarters of pregnancy-associated homicides are committed with a firearm, and given that gun access increases the risk of intimate partner homicide, policies that keep guns out of abusers’ hands could help prevent some of these deaths. Louisiana has such a law, which applies to people convicted of certain domestic violence crimes or with a domestic violence restraining order in place. Laws like this have been shown to reduce homicides by intimate partners.
Others are focused on the pregnancy. According to her mother, Ms. Sinegal was excited about her pregnancy and thrilled about becoming a mom. But for other women, increasing access to contraception and to safe and affordable abortions could enable them to be in control of when and with whom they get pregnant, which can help them avoid becoming trapped in abusive relationships.
But most suggestions for preventing pregnancy-associated homicides are related to domestic violence of one kind or another.
One key intervention would be to conduct more robust screening for intimate partner violence during routine obstetric visits. These screenings are recommended by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, but interviews with public health officials and victims’ advocates suggest that they are not practiced widely and with sufficient vigilance and follow-through. Proper coordination of care between doctors and trauma specialists is also both lacking and necessary to get women the help they need to escape from relationships poisoned by domestic violence.
When the cops are called, police departments should also be more proactive about connecting young women to dedicated victims’ advocates. Trained advocates can be a critical link between law enforcement and victims of domestic violence, many of whom may not be inclined to trust police officers with details of abuse that can be deeply personal or embarrassing.
Preventing the abuse in the first place is more complicated and depends on teaching young people what dangerous relationships look like. The red flags of a relationship trending toward abuse can be difficult to see if you don’t know what to look for. Learning what’s healthy may begin in the classroom with young children, or it may begin with a court-mandated course for perpetrators of domestic violence designed to teach them how to have healthier partnerships.
These educational approaches are harder to recommend because they’re more nebulous, but they’re also some of the most consistent recommendations from doctors, advocates and other experts in pregnancy-associated homicides. Although only one person is ultimately responsible for Ms. Sinegal’s death — the man who pulled the trigger — it’s still worth considering what might have been, to better understand how to prevent tragedies like hers.
Ms. Sinegal’s boyfriend did not respond to repeated attempts to contact him through his lawyer or to a letter sent to him through the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office, which held him in jail for more than three years while he awaited trial. At the trial, his lawyer argued that he could have pulled the trigger accidentally that night. But the jury was not convinced.
On Oct. 3, 2024, he was convicted of second-degree murder. He will spend the rest of his life in prison without the option of parole, as Louisiana law requires. But her parents still lost a child. Her children still lost their mother. There is no real justice in this story.
It’s a humid spring evening,
the Friday before Mother’s Day.
Markitha asks her dad for
some money to buy gas. He lives
a few blocks from her boyfriend’s
house, so he drives some
cash over to her around 10 p.m.
She answers the door, but she
isn’t her usual happy self.
He can’t shake the feeling that
something is wrong.
She’s probably just tired
from taking care of the babies,
he tells himself.
He hugs her goodbye,
and her hold on him feels
like a vise grip.
I love you, he tells her.
As he gets back in his car,
he looks up.
Markitha is standing there,
watching him from the door. Something
is wrong, he thinks. Maybe he
should go back up there. Maybe he
should ask her what’s going on.
“I’m going to talk to her tomorrow,”
he tells himself.
Markitha would be dead by dawn.