This is an opinion column.

I believe in prayer. Wholly, and without equivocation.

I’ve seen it work. For my family. For others. For me.

When my daughter was in first grade, she accidently spilled most of a cup of hot cocoa on her chest. She bent over in pain, trapping much of the hot liquid in her abdomen. Third-degree burns (words you never want to hear), the doctors said.

She spent 10 days in the hospital burn unit—a place you never want to go, ever. Ten days of cleansing the wound. Of grafts. Of pain. For all of those days, our church prayed. Our family prayed. Our friends prayed. Her friends prayed. Teachers prayed.

She left the hospital. Prayers answered.

Upon arriving at home, she couldn’t walk. Too much pain. Just a few days later, though, she walked into church. Prayers answered.

She already swam competitively, though we didn’t know when she would swim again. If she’d swim again. If she’d feel comfortable in a swimsuit, comfortable revealing the scars on her abdomen.

One day during a follow-up doctor visit, she looked at me. “Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll wear a two-piece.” Prayers answered (I think.)

She became a state champion. Prayers answered.

Prayers are for healing. Prayers are for strength. Prayers are for discernment. Prayers for restoration.

Stephen Clay Perkins’ family should not have to pray for truth. For transparency.

His friends should not have to pray for truth. For accountability.

His city should not have to pray for truth. For action.

We should not have to pray for any of it. Not anymore. Not after George Floyd. Not after Brianna Taylor. Not after Tyre Nichols. And so many more. Too many more. (E.J. Bradford’s family is still praying.)

Not after so many lives taken by police. So many Black lives.

We should not have to pray for the release of the bodycam footage revealing another angle of what happened early Friday morning on September 29 when Perkins was killed by police in the front yard of his home in Decatur, about 26 miles southwest of Huntsville. Shot and killed over a dispute with a tow truck driver who had come to repossess—rightly or wrongly, as his family attests—Perkins’ truck.

A tow driver. A truck. All for a life.

The angles we’ve seen, shot by neighbors’ security cams, don’t show us much, but what we hear is horrifying—18 shots fired in rapid succession, less than a beat after an officer yelled for Perkins to drop the gun.

18.

We know what police say: That Perkins, some time after 1:30 a.m., turned the gun toward the officer “causing the officer to fire.”

18 times.

What does the video say? Let us all see for ourselves. That should not have to be our prayer. Not anymore.

Read more:

· Decatur police chief claims law prevents releasing body cam footage in Stephen Perkins’ death

· Stephen Perkins’ family releases video of deadly police shooting

Emotions are understandably raw in Decatur, the River City it’s called. Last weekend, hundreds gathered at city hall there to pray. To pray through their pain.

Everyone does not believe in prayer, I know and respect. Prayer will not please everyone. For some, it’s not enough. On Tuesday, a Decatur city councilman called for the still-unnamed officer who killed Perkins to be fired, and for Police Chief Todd Pinion to lose his job, too.

The department “failed”, the councilman said.

Our state bodycam law is toothless. Any citizen can ask for footage, but the authorities—here, the folks at ALEA (Alabama Law Enforcement Agent) overseeing the investigation—don’t have to turn it over to the public. When they don’t, they must only tell us why.

The usual reply: Just because. Or it might as well be. Wrapped in jargon, they defend the denial by calling it part of an “ongoing investigation.”

Duh. All the more reason it should be released. All the more reason its truth—as horrific as it almost certainly is—should be revealed. (Or, at minimum, shown to the family.)

All the more reason ALEA should stop hiding behind opaque claims that long ago became unjustifiable.

Just because. Because we should no longer have to pray for truth and transparency.

Not anymore.

More columns by Roy S. Johnson

This baseball fan laments disappearing 20-game winner

Tuberville’s racist military words set us dangerously back

I want to cry too, at sight of Black men flailing, failing our youth

Remembering Rep. Barbara Jordan

I’m a Pulitzer Prize finalist for commentary, a member of the National Association of Black Journalists Hall of Fame, and winner of the Edward R. Murrow prize for podcasts for “Unjustifiable,” co-hosted with John Archibald. My column appears in AL.com, as well as the Lede. Check out my new podcast series “Panther: Blueprint for Black Power,” which I co-host with Eunice Elliott. Subscribe to my free weekly newsletter, The Barbershop, here. Reach me at [email protected], follow me at twitter.com/roysj, or on Instagram @roysj