The Real Cost of Prisons Weblog

Mr. Hill came to the funeral in a neck brace, his forearm scratched raw. After a round of song and prayer, he took the pulpit.

He described Mr. Franklin as a mentor who offered pointers on life and art. Then, as if reliving the moment, he described walking across the tracks that night. His words tumbled out one upon the other.

“I saw a light behind Marvin,” Mr. Hill said. “I saw a light above his head. I couldn’t even yell.” Mr. Hill’s chest heaved, he shook his head and continued: “Marvin was squeezed behind me, I saw Marvin squeezed and mushed between the train and the platform.”

Tears began to roll down Mr. Hill’s face. Sobs and supportive shouts of “Amen!” rose in response from the church pews.

“Mrs. Franklin” — Mr. Hill looked at Mr. Franklin’s widow, Tenley, who sat in the front pew — “I love you with all my heart. And I love Marvin, too.”

Everyone in the church rose to their feet and clapped, and transit workers held clenched fists aloft.

Mr. Williams, a 55-year-old husband and father, died last Sunday night in the subway tunnels where he had labored for two decades.

Yesterday his coffin sat inside New Covenant Church of Christ in Queens Village, cloaked in carnations and lilies and within touching distance of his wife, three children, five sisters and four brothers.

In a post-modern city that often seems removed from its smokestack past, these men and women work at an industrial-age craft with all the dangers that implies. Since 1946, at least 238 subway workers have been killed on the job; nine in the last seven years. Mr. Franklin was the second track worker killed in less than a week.

Old hands at the funeral described feeling the vibration of the tracks, listening to the rumble and trying to determine from which direction a many-ton subway train is approaching.

Few maintain the illusion of fearlessness. “It’s like you’re walking in a bad neighborhood — you never, ever relax,” said James Tuck, a 59-year-old track worker.

Mr. Franklin was killed in the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station in Brooklyn as he and Mr. Hill were carrying a dolly across the G track toward the A and C lines track, which was undergoing work. Mr. Hill said they had followed safety precautions. “It was regular practice what we were doing,” he said. “Don’t let the media tell you otherwise.”

The New York City Transit Authority suspended track maintenance projects for a few days last week. The authority and the unions are preparing new safety measures and training.

Roger Toussaint, the president of Transport Workers Union Local 100, escorted Mr. Hill to the church in Queens.

“I wish I could say no more sad and horrible thing will happen,” Mr. Toussaint said. “It is extremely, extremely difficult and dangerous work.”

Mr. Franklin was a son of the South Jamaica projects and passed his adult life laboring in subway tunnels. But art sustained him. He earned a degree in illustrative arts from the Fashion Institute of Technology and carried a sketch pad to work, drawing his fellow workers and passengers and handing out the sketches as he left. (Mr. Franklin’s self-portrait adorned the Order of Service for his funeral).

Bob Ritter, a jowly 57-year-old trackman with white hair pulled back in a ponytail, carefully unfolded a sketch that Mr. Franklin had done of him. He patted his belly. “The sketch was too good,” he said. “Reality hurts, you know?”

Mr. Franklin often studied at the Art Students League. He wanted to retire and open an art gallery, and give the proceeds to the homeless.

Midway through the service, Michael Williams, a muscular track worker in a pinstriped suit, rose and walked to the front of the church. “I’m Mikey, because that’s the name Marvin gave me,” Mr. Williams said. “I called him Marvelous, because he was.”

Mikey and Marvelous lived a half-dozen blocks apart in Queens and drove to work together. Mr. Williams described his bearded friend with a booming laugh, who at holiday parties “danced with everyone — all the women, anyway.” (Mr. Franklin was married once before, and his former wife, who was the minister, noted that it was a measure of the man that she could deliver the eulogy yesterday while his widow listened.)

“Whenever I would worry about money, Marvin would say: ‘It’s going to be all right, Mikey.’ ”

Mr. Williams was there that night his friend died. He heard him cry out twice — “Man under!” Mr. Williams found his friend’s boot and, farther down the track, his body.

Mr. Williams fought to hold his composure, and did not lose it.

“Marvin had a gift,” Mr. Williams said. “So I want to thank you, Marvelous, for enriching my life.”