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She knocked at the door. A few moments later, a woman’s voice called softly in Spanish, “Who is there, please?”
“It’s Justine Smith,” she replied. “Anita called me.”
After a moment, she heard a dead bolt thrown. The door opened several inches on a security chain. Maria Toro, the Harlows’ plump cook, looked out. She asked in English, “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Justine said.
“We think someone watches us,” Maria whispered. “Can you leave? Come back to alley? Anita finds you there.”
Justine was confused, wondered if their paranoia was justified or invented, but nodded. “Give me five minutes.”
She returned to her car as if she’d gotten the wrong address, trying to spot whoever they suspected of watching them, but saw no one and no vehicle that stood out. She drove back to Lankershim, turned left, and then made an immediate left again into an alleyway that ran behind the bungalows.
Anita Fontana stood in the alley by an open gate. She pointed to an open garage door on the opposite side of the alley, and Justine pulled in and parked. When Justine exited, the Harlows’ housekeeper pointed a remote control device at the garage and the door lowered.
Justine followed Anita through the gate into a yard that had seen better times. Untended orchid plants and a riot of cactus and vines crept onto the deck around a pool brimming with algae-green water.
“Who owns this place?” Justine asked as she followed the Harlows’ housekeeper through an open screen door into a dim room furnished with 1960s furniture and a shag rug. A television blared in the corner, cable coverage of the hunt for the Harlows. Jacinta Feliz, the youngest of the Harlow staff, sat on the couch, arms folded, watching Justine as she entered.
“I don’t know this for sure,” Anita said. “How are the girls? And Miguel?”
The housekeeper asked this with a longing in her voice that impressed Justine with its intensity.
“You love them, don’t you?” asked Justine. “Miguel? The girls?”
Anita’s eyes glistened and she clasped her hands. “Sí, I love Miguel … all of them. How could I …?” She choked and began to cry.
Maria Toro, the cook, came up beside Anita, put her arm firmly around the housekeeper, looked fiercely at Justine. “We all love the children. Especially Anita. She has no children of her own.”
At that, Anita began to sob and hold herself tight, as if pierced with inner pain. “Sit down,” Justine soothed. “It’s okay, we’ll figure out a way for you to see them, for all of you to see them. Okay?”
“Mr. Sanders, he say no,” Anita wailed. “I ask him. He say no.”
The poor woman was beside herself now. Jacinta Feliz had gone to her side, put her arm around the older woman too.
“You will see those children,” Justine said firmly. “Have you been contacted by the FBI?”
“No, no one,” the cook said. “We come here that same day we see you at the ranch, when they are just gone. We here ever since. Someone brings us food. Ms. Bronson, Mr. Sanders, they say they want to protect us from reporters, say we stay here until these things calm down.”
Justine heard her smartphone chime, telling her she’d received a text. She ignored it, said, “This is America, ladies. Mr. Sanders and Camilla Bronson can’t make you do anything, do you understand? You all have green cards, yes?”
They shook their heads. “We come on temporary visa, ten-month,” said Maria Toro.
“How long have you worked for the Harlows?” Justine asked, surprised.
“Twelve years,” Anita said.
“Eight,” said the cook.
“Four,” said the maid.
“And they never offered to sponsor you to try to get citizenship?” Justine was beginning to doubt the Harlows’ public personas in a big way.
Anita began to cry again, shaking her head. “No, they no do this for us.”
“Did you ask?”
They all nodded. “But Mr. Thom say they already bring in the children, it is difficult to get more through la Migra with them as sponsors,” Maria Toro said.
