With half an hour of research, I had the concept of what I was supposed to do. There would be a hearing. My incisive cross examination would be valueless. I would lose because Carmen Luzano’s housekeeping skills didn’t qualify her for a preference and there were already 75,000 Mexicans ahead of her waiting to get into the country. Monica Fullbright would have to look for a new girl. Hiring a lawyer is not like getting your brakes fixed—you can’t guarantee results—but still I don’t like starting from the down position.

It seemed like a lot for Monica Fullbright to be putting herself through. Why was she so interested in this particular maid? Didn’t her kids go to day-care centers? Didn’t they belong to swim clubs and soccer teams? With a grand a month she could have had an English nanny and their dinners catered by Chasens. I was thinking about all this, trying to get a bead on Monica Fullbright, when I walked right past the Captain. And he got me.

“Eat shit and suffer severe coronary failure!” I yelled back. Not hysterical, but it was the best I could think of in my black rage.

It was hot. It was smoggy. I was probably the last woman left in town wearing panty hose when the temperature had soared over 95. I hiked over to a little place on Third I go to sometimes and ordered a couple of chicken tacos and a Tecate beer. An electrical fan sputtered sporadically. I didn’t know what to do next. I could ask Leo Hernandez, but he would try to hit on me again. A waitress with a gold front tooth stood sleepily by the cash register, occasionally brushing a fly away. She was probably illegal. The people at the next table were probably illegal. I was searching for a needle in a haystack. This depressed me so much I ordered a guacamole and another beer while I tried to decide what to do. Finally, admitting I was at a standstill, I got up to use their phone. Leo Hernandez wasn’t in, but his secretary turned out to be real chatty. She’s the one who told me about the detention centers in Hollywood and Inglewood.