I was admitted through an electronically controlled door into a shaded hedge that led into the interior of the building. The information center was housed in what had once been the manager’s apartment. Wearily I gave the representation-of-attorney statement, now dog-eared in my sweaty grip, to the officer. While he checked his list, I examined the room. The usual gray metal desks and chairs, a few posters of an overweight Smokey the Bear from the forestry service and some dirty ashtrays.

“There’s a Luzano here, but she’s from El Salvador. You want to see her?” asked the INS man.

He motioned me toward a bedroom that had been made into a waiting room.

Basically I’ve always been lucky. I passed the bar exam the first time. I got into the law school that was my first choice. I’ve never had to have braces on my teeth, I’ve never had a serious illness and I’ve never been injured in an automobile accident. I have won a Panasonic stereo in a drawing at a department store. This might have explained the disappointment I felt when the woman first appeared.

She was an Indian. About four ten, frail as a bird. Her face was heavily wrinkled, and she stared back at me impassively when she was brought into the bedroom-cum-waiting area. She was sixty if she was a day. I couldn’t imagine her making the long trip through Mexico, running across the open fields at San Ysidro, lying in the bed of a truck as it pulled into Los Angeles in the hours before dawn. Now they had her locked up like a criminal.

Most of my clients are guilty. It’s all a matter of degree, of intent. The old woman looked at me without blinking. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Viva, viva,” I told her finally. They were the only Spanish words I knew.

CHAPTER THREE

Crystal’s is the opposite end of the scale. Located across town on Rodeo Drive, it is the perfect Beverly Hills boutique—slick, expensive and theatrical. Baby palm trees in terra-cotta pots flank the doorway. A parking valet in a red-and-black monkey suit stands attentively to the side, periodically checking the terra-cotta pots for offending gum wrappers or discarded cigarette butts. He leaps to attention when a Rolls-Royce pulls to the curb. He is conversant with the rich in three languages.

The doorman made a laconic half bow as I walked through the beveled glass door to look for Monica Fullbright and get some more information from her about Carmen Luzano and her disappearance. Wasn’t it just possible Carmen Luzano had decided to stay in Guatemala? Had Monica Fullbright considered that?