I called in sick tuesday. "Probably the flu," I told polly, who, as she was trained to do,

wanted specifics. Fever, sore throat, headaches? All of the above. Any and all, I didn't

care. One had better be completely sick to miss work at the firm. She would do a form

and send it to Rudolph. Anticipating his call, I left the apartment and wandered around

Georgetown during the early morning. The snow was melting fast; the high would be in the fifties. I killed an hour loitering along Washington Harbor, sampling cappuccino from

a number of vendors, watching the rowers freeze on the Potomac.

At ten, I left for the funeral.

* * *

The Sidewalk in front of the church was barricaded. Cops were standing around, their

motorcycles parked on the street. Farther down were the television vails.

A large crowd was listening to a speaker yell into a microphone as I drove by, There were

a few hastily painted placards held above heads, for the benefit of the cameras. I parked

on a side street three blocks away, and hurried toward the church. I avoided the front by

heading for a side door, which was being guarded by an elderly usher. I asked if there

was a balcony. He asked if I was a reporter.

He took me inside, and pointed to a door. I thanked him and went through it, then up a

flight of shaky stairs until I emerged on the balcony overlooking a beautiful sanctuary

below. The carpet was burgundy, the pews dark wood, the windows stained and clean. It

was a very handsome church, and for a second I could understand why the Reverend was

reluctant to open it to the homeless.

I was alone, with my choice of seating. I walked quietly to a spot above the rear door,

with a direct view down the center aisle to the pulpit. A choir began singing outside on

the front steps, and I sat in the tranquillity of the empty church, the music drifting in.

The music stopped, the doors opened, the stampede began. The balcony floor shook as

the mourners poured into the sanctuary. The choir took its place behind the pulpit. The

Reverend directed traffic--the TV crews in one corner, the small family in the front pew,

the activists and their homeless down the center section. Mordecai ambled in with two

people I didn't know. A door to one side opened, and the prisoners marched out--Lontae's

mother and two brothers, clad in blue prison garb, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, chained

together and escorted by four armed guards. They were placed in the second pew, center

aisle, behind the grandmother and some other relatives.

When things were still, the organ began, low and sad. There was a racket under me, and

all heads turned around. The Reverend assumed the pulpit and instructed us to stand.

Ushers with white gloves rolled the wooden coffins down the aisle, and lined them end to

end across the front of the church with Lontae's in the center. The baby's was tiny, less

than three feet long. Ontario's, Alonzo's, and Dante's were midsized. It was an appalling

sight, and the wailing began. The choir started to hum and sway.

The ushers arranged flowers around the caskets, and I thought for one horrifying second

they were going to open them. I had never been to a black funeral before. I had no idea

what to expect, but I had seen news clips from other funerals in which the casket was sometimes opened, the family kissing the corpse. The vultures with the cameras were

ever ready.

But the caskets remained closed, and so the world didn't learn what I knew--that Ontario

and family looked very much at peace.

We sat down, and the Reverend served up a lengthy prayer. Then a solo from sister

somebody, then moments of silence. The Reverend read Scripture, and preached for a bit.

He was followed by a homeless activist who delivered a scathing attack on a society and