Excerpt from The Webster Chronicle by Daniel Akst, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"OK. So what can I do? How can I make my voice heard? Basic stuff. Badger every legislator, every assemblyman and state senator, call your congressman, get after the press---" did she direct a glance at Terry here? "---because they’re the ones who set the agenda. Don’t let your writers and editors fall down on the job until the problem is recognized and the problem is solved. There’s a shortage of funding, a shortage of training, and most of all, which is why I’m here tonight, a shortage of awareness. There’s so much work to be done. So I guess the message I want to leave you with is to remember that you’re the only voice of the violated child. If you don’t speak, there is silence. I’m not saying it’s always going to be easy. But think how much easier it is for you than for that poor child."

Afterward, there was a smattering of heartfelt applause---a smattering not, Terry could see, because the audience wasn’t impressed but, on the contrary, because it was deeply so. He was sure a couple of people even wiped tears from their faces. Then the speaker quickly alit the stage and became invisible, engulfed by a bodyguard of women from the audience who rushed up with serious expressions on their faces. They took pamphlets, business cards, added to their already copious notes. He wanted to meet her but hung back, waiting for the crowd to clear and determined not to trample on anything. What would it be like to know this woman, he wondered. What was her story? How had she come to this particular moment in the history of the universe? He tried to play Sherlock Holmes based on her clothing and speech, but his faculties were overwhelmed and it began to dawn that he was thoroughly, vertiginously stoned. Hold very still, he told himself, hoping the dizziness would pass. When Diana’s other admirers had mostly drifted away, he went up and introduced himself, discovering with relief that his mind and body remained on speaking terms. But something in her tone set him on edge: a hint of officiousness, a little chill, the slightest narrowing of the eyes. Could she tell he was high? He felt baited, jealous of her fluency. If she would adopt that role, he would take the one of insinuating, suspicion-filled reporter. It was a part he knew well.

"So tell me, what’s the budget for your office?"

"Well it’s really just my salary. I share an assistant."

"OK, what’s your salary?"

"I’m not going to tell you that!"

"It’s a m-matter of public record."

"Then go look it up!" Diana said, shaking her head at this chutzpah and turning to pack up her things.

"Look, I don’t know if you’re n-n-new to p-public life, but you’re r-really not helping your cause by a-a-alienating the local newspaper."

She whirled on him furiously.

"The problem here is that you can’t seem to focus on the issues," she said. Her eyes were huge. "There are children in this community suffering sexual abuse that will leave them scarred for life, and all you want to know is what kind of paltry paycheck I get for this job. This county isn’t spending a dime of its taxpayers’ money, and even if it were, my pay would be a rounding error in the overall budget. Do you have children, Mr. Mathers?"

"I-I-If I say yes, a-a-am I entitled to an opinion?"

"Any time you want to talk to me about the substance of what I do, give me a call, OK? I’ve got to go."

"I’d be happy to talk about the substance of what you do," Terry said. Stop now, he told himself, knowing that his love of disputation was leading him into ever deeper shit. "But whether there’s anything for you to do is part of what I meant to ask you about. Wouldn’t we be better off spending this money on shelters in the inner city or training schoolteachers to spot abuse so they could report it to the police?" Diana, packing more rapidly now, looked as if she might respond but then thought better.

Reprinted from The Webster Chronicle by Daniel Akst by permission of BlueHen Books, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2001 by Daniel Akst. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.