A lawsuit involving Cornell University has reignited a national conversation about whether colleges and universities are doing enough to protect students from sexual assault—and whether the courts can force meaningful change when institutions fall short. The case raises fundamental questions about the obligations schools carry under Title IX, the federal law that bars sex-based discrimination in education, and about what happens when the criminal justice system declines to act.
To understand the stakes, NPR turned to Baine Kerr, a retired Title IX attorney who built a national reputation litigating precedent-setting civil rights and campus sexual assault cases. His assessment of the legal landscape makes clear that universities operate under a comprehensive and demanding set of responsibilities—ones that do not disappear simply because prosecutors choose not to pursue charges.
"The bottom line," Kerr explained, is that the moment a university receives notice of a possible sexual assault, it is obligated to act. That obligation is not optional and does not hinge on whether outside authorities take up the matter. Schools must investigate, and they must do so in coordination with law enforcement.
Crucially, Kerr emphasized, if police or prosecutors decide not to move forward, the university's duties remain fully intact. The institution cannot use the absence of criminal charges as a reason to stand down. Instead, it must continue its own process, hold hearings, and impose disciplinary consequences on anyone found through that process to have committed sexual wrongdoing.
According to Kerr, this framework amounts to "a very comprehensive set of requirements," and universities are acutely aware of what is expected of them. The rules extend beyond investigations and hearings into prevention and education. Under Title IX, for instance, schools are required to provide orientation programming for incoming freshmen about campus sexual assault, and every new student must attend a session designed to train them in sexual assault prevention.
Yet even with these mandates in place, the problem persists. NPR's Elissa Nadworny asked Kerr directly why the requirements have not been sufficient to change campus culture, and why sexual assault remains so widespread despite decades of federal guidance and institutional policies.
Kerr's answer was candid: it is "a constant battle." He pointed to the inherently transient nature of college communities. Students leave after four years or fewer, and new classes arrive to replace them. That constant turnover means education and prevention efforts must be repeated endlessly, with each new cohort starting from scratch in terms of awareness and norms. Institutional memory fades quickly, and the culture that enables assault can reassert itself with every incoming class.
That dynamic helps explain why lawsuits like the one involving Cornell draw so much attention. A legal challenge can do more than seek accountability for individual wrongdoing; it can force an institution to examine its systems, its response protocols, and its prevention efforts. The question at the heart of the Cornell case—whether litigation can compel changes that actually make students safer—speaks to a broader frustration among survivors and advocates who argue that voluntary compliance has not been enough.
The Title IX framework Kerr describes places significant power in the hands of universities. Schools are responsible for investigating reports, convening hearings, and determining outcomes. They are not required to wait for a criminal conviction, and in many cases they proceed even when law enforcement never files charges. This dual-track system exists because the standard of proof and the goals differ: criminal proceedings focus on guilt beyond a reasonable doubt and punishment, while campus processes focus on determining whether a policy violation occurred and what steps are needed to protect the community.
But that structure also draws criticism from multiple directions. Some argue universities are ill-equipped to adjudicate serious allegations and that the process can be unfair to the accused. Others contend that schools too often minimize reports, delay investigations, or impose light sanctions. For survivors, the experience of navigating a campus process while also dealing with the trauma of assault can be re-traumatizing, particularly when they feel the institution is protecting its reputation rather than its students.
Kerr's comments suggest that the legal obligations are clear and well known. What remains contested is whether awareness translates into action. The requirement that every incoming freshman attend prevention training is a baseline, not a solution. Training alone cannot dismantle the social dynamics, power imbalances, and cultural attitudes that contribute to sexual violence. And when turnover constantly reshapes campus communities, the work of changing culture is never finished.
The Cornell lawsuit thus becomes a test case—not just for one university, but for the broader question of whether the courts can succeed where internal policies and federal mandates have fallen short. If litigation can force institutions to strengthen their response systems, improve transparency, and invest more seriously in prevention, it could serve as a model for other schools. If it cannot, the burden may fall back on lawmakers, regulators, and campus leaders to find new ways to close the gap between what Title IX requires and what students actually experience.
For now, the case highlights an uncomfortable truth: even with comprehensive legal requirements, mandatory training, and coordinated investigative duties, campuses remain places where sexual assault occurs at troubling rates. The constant churn of students means the battle for a safer campus culture must be fought anew every year. Whether a lawsuit can change that reality—or merely respond to its consequences—is the question that will define the Cornell case and, perhaps, the next era of Title IX enforcement.
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