“After the election,” Shad goes on, “there’ll be plenty of time to probe the death of Del Payton. And with me running the city, you can rest assured that will happen. But further pressure on Marston at this point could keep Riley Warren in the mayor’s office for another four years. And we simply cannot afford that.”

Shad is staring at me as though he expects me to rise and answer him, here, at the funeral of a woman I loved like a second mother. Every eye in the church is upon me. As though pulled by the collective will of the congregation, I start to stand, but my mother’s hand flattens on my thigh, pushing me back onto the bench. At that moment Althea Payton rises from the first pew and looks around the church. She speaks softly, but in the silent room every word rings with conviction.

“Thirty years ago my husband was taken from me. Murdered. For thirty years I’ve waited for justice. And no man alive has lifted a finger to help me get it, without I paid him money. Last week I went to Mr. Penn Cage and asked him to help me. And he did.”

Althea raises her eyes to the pulpit, from which Shad stares like an attorney facing a dangerously unpredictable witness, and points at him. “That man there wants to be our mayor. He’s come down from Chicago special to do it. And he might be a good one. He sure talks a good game. But I know this. He never came to my house and offered to help me find out who killed my man. And to stand up here like this . . . to use this poor lady’s funeral to tell a good man to stop trying to do good so he can get elected . . . well, it don’t sit right with me.”

“Mrs. Payton, I think you’ve misunderstood my motives,” Shad says in an unctuous voice.

“I understand more than you think,” Althea replies. “Get me elected, you say. Then I’ll do good. But like the man said a long time ago, ‘If not now, when?’ ”

“Tell him!” comes a shout from the back pews.

“Yes, Lord!” from the choir stand. “If not now, when?”

Shad is about to respond when Reverend Nightingale eases him away from the pulpit with a forced smile. Althea retakes her pew as the reverend smooths his jacket and says, “I thank Brother Johnson for that thoughtful comment. We sure have a lot to think about these days. Now, the service is almost over, but I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t give our white friends a chance to speak today.”

This is unexpected, but in the silence that follows, my mother stands and turns to the congregation. Her voice is softer than Althea’s, but it too carries in the church.