A phone camera clicked. The sound sharp and inappropriate in the sacred space. Miller held his phone up, deliberately taking photos of the open casket. His fellow officers shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. Got to document this for the boys back at the station, Miller said, his voice carrying in the hushed church.
They'll want to see how peaceful he looks now. Gasps and mutters rippled through the congregation. Deacon Johnson half rose from his seat, but was gently pulled back down by his wife. The choir director's hands trembled as she guided the singers into, "Precious Lord, take my hand." Sharon felt the rage and grief building in her throat like a scream. Marcus's mother squeezed her hand harder, her wedding ring pressing painfully into Sharon's fingers.
"Look at them all acting so holy." Miller stage whispered to his companions like he was some kind of saint instead of just another "Officer Miller," Reverend Williams interrupted, his voice firm but controlled. "This is a house of God." Miller smirked and leaned back in the pew, spreading his arms across its back. His badge caught the light from the windows, a mocking reminder of the power he wielded. The service continued, but the damage was done. Every testimonial about Marcus' kindness, every story about his dedication to his students was tainted by Miller's presence and his occasional derisive snorts.
When Marcus's former students stood to sing Bridge Over Troubled Water, his favorite song, Miller pulled out his phone again, this time typing loudly. The clicking of his keys punctuated the children's voices like tiny gunshots. Sharon tried to focus on the memories being shared. Marcus staying late to help students with college applications. Marcus organizing food drives.
Marcus mediating conflicts with endless patience. But Miller's voice kept cutting through. Guess he should have shown more respect for the law. He commented during one eulogy. Might still be here if he had.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Miller and his fellow officers stood. They made a show of stretching, their movements deliberately casual and disruptive. As they walked out, Miller's laughter echoed off the high ceiling, followed by the heavy thud of the church doors. The congregation sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Sharon felt something inside her break.
A sobb tore from her throat, raw and primal. Marcus Jr. Wrapped his arms around her as she doubled over, her tears soaking into his suit jacket. Around them, the murmuring began. This isn't right.
Something has to be done. We can't let them get away with this. Mrs. Johnson leaned forward from the pew behind them, her voice trembling with rage and determination. The Lord sees everything, she said.
And so did everyone in this church today. Justice will come. The choir director raised her hands, leading them into, "We shall overcome." The familiar words rose from hundreds of throats, carrying years of pain and hope in every note. Sharon rocked in her son's embrace as the voices swelled around them, a promise and a prayer. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as mourers spilled out of greater Mount Zion Baptist Church.
The temperature had risen during the service, and now the humid air crackled with more than just heat. Police cruisers lined the street, their lights off, but their presence unmistakable. Officer Miller stood with his colleagues near their vehicles, still smirking as he showed them something on his phone. The sight of him pushed the crowd's simmering anger to a boil. "Murderer!" someone shouted.
Others took up the cry, their voices rising in a chorus of rage and pain. The police shifted their stance, hands moving to their belts. Miller's smirk widened as he stepped forward, badge glinting. "You all want to be careful now," he called out. Wouldn't want any more unfortunate incidents.