The turnoff itself was easy to miss, only a few hundred yards past a hairpin bend in the road. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass in opposite directions, and heavily shadowed by trees. It rose a half - mile at an unrelenting incline, steep enough to discourage any but the most purposeful foot traveler. Clearly the site had never been meant to attract the walk - in trade. Perfect for a labor camp, work farm, detention center, or any nexus of activity not meant for the prying eyes of strangers.
The access road ended at a twelve - foot high - barrier of chain link. Four - foot - high letters spelled out La Casa de los Ninos in polished aluminum. A hand - painted sign of two huge hands holding four children - white, black, brown and yellow - rose to the right. A guardhouse was ten feet on the other side of the fence. The uniformed man inside took note of me, then spoke to me through a squawk box attached to the gate.
"Can I help you?" The voice came out steely and mechanical, like human utterance pureed into bytes, fed into a computer and regurgitated.
"Dr. Delaware. Here for a three o'clock appointment with Mr. Kruger."
The gate slid open.
The Seville was allowed a brief roll until it was stopped by an orange and white striped mechanical arm.
"Good afternoon, Doctor."
The guard was young, mustachioed, solemn. His uniform was dark gray, matching his stare. The sudden smile didn't fool me. He was looking me over.
"You'll be meeting Tim at the administration building. That's straight up this way and take the road to the left. You can park in the visitors' lot."
"Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, Doctor."
He pushed a button and the striped arm rose in salute.
The administration building looked like it had once served a similar purpose during the days of Japanese internment. It had the low - slung, angry look of military architecture, but there was no doubt that the paint job - a mural of a baby blue sky filled with cotton candy clouds - was a contemporary creation.
The front office was paneled in cheap imitation oak and occupied by a grandmotherly type in a colorless cotton smock.
I announced myself and received a grandmotherly smile for my efforts.
"Tim will be right with you. Won't you please sit down and make yourself comfortable."
There was little of interest to look at. The prints on the walls looked as if they'd been purloined from a motel. There was a window but it afforded a view of the parking lot. In the distance was a thick growth of forest - eucalyptus, cypress, and cedar - but from where I sat only the bottoms of the trees were visible, an uninterrupted stretch of gray - brown. I tried to busy myself with a two - year - old copy of California Highways.
It wasn't much of a wait.
A minute after I'd sat down the door opened and a young man came out.
"Dr. Delaware?"
I stood.
"Tim Kruger." We shook hands.
He was short, mid - to - late twenties, and built like a wrestler, all hard and knobby and endowed with just that extra bit of muscle in all the strategic places. He had a face that was well - formed, but overly stolid, like a Ken doll that hadn't been allowed to bake sufficiently. Strong chin, small ears, prominent straight nose of a shape that foreshadowed bulbous ness in middle age, an outdoorsman's tan, yellowish - brown eyes under heavy brows, a low forehead almost totally hidden by a thick wave of sandy hair. He wore wheat colored slacks, a light blue short - sleeved shirt and a blue - and - brown tie. Clipped to the corner of his collar was a badge that said T. Kruger, MA." M.EC.C." Director, Counseling.
"I was expecting someone quite a bit older, Doctor. You told me you were retired."
"I am. I believe in taking it early, when I can enjoy it."
He laughed heartily.
"There's something to be said for that. I trust you had no trouble finding us?"
"No. Your directions were excellent."
"Great. We can begin the tour, if you'd like. Reverend Gus is on the grounds somewhere. He should be back to meet you by four."
He held the door for me.
We crossed the parking lot and stepped onto a walkway of crushed gravel.
"La Casa," he began, "is situated on twenty - seven acres. If we stop right here, we can get a pretty good view of the entire layout."
We were at the top of a rise, looking down on buildings, a playground, spiraling trails, a curtain of mountains in the background.
"Out of those twenty - seven, only five are actually fully developed. The rest is wide - open space, which we believe is great for the kids, many of whom come from the inner city." I could make out the shapes of children, walking in groups, playing ball, sitting alone on the grass. "To the north" - he pointed to an expanse of open fields - "is what we call the Meadow. It's mostly alfalfa and weeds right now, but there are plans to begin a vegetable garden this summer. To the south is the Grove." He indicated the forest I'd seen from the office. "It's protected timberland, perfect for nature hikes. There's a surprising abundance of wildlife out here. I'm from the Northwest, myself, and before I got here I used to think the wildest life in L.A. was all on the Sunset Strip."
I smiled.
"Those buildings over there are the dorms."
He swiveled around and pointed to a group of ten large quonset huts. Like the administration building, they'd been gone at with the freewheeling paint brush, the corrugated iron sides festooned with rainbow - hued patterns, the effect bizarrely optimistic.
He turned again and I let my gaze follow his arm.
"That's our Olympic - sized pool. Donated by Majestic Oil." The pool shimmered green, a hole in the earth filled with lime jello. A solitary swimmer sliced through the water, cutting a foamy pathway. "And over there are the infirmary and the school."
I noticed a grouping of cinder - block buildings at the far end of the campus where the perimeter of the central hub met the edge of the "Grove." He didn't say what they were.
"Let's take a look at the dorms."
I followed him down the hill, taking in the idyllic panorama. The grounds were well - tended, the place bustling with activity but seemingly well - organized.
Kruger walked with long, muscular strides, chin to the wind, rattling off facts and figures, describing the philosophy of the institution as one that combined "structure and the reassurance of routine with a creative environment that encourages healthy development." He was resolutely positive - about La Casa, his job, the Reverend Gus, and the children. The sole exception was a grave lament about the difficulties of coordinating "optimal care" with running the financial affairs of the institution on a day - to - day basis. Even this was followed, however, by a statement stressing his understanding of economic realities in the eighties and a few upbeat paeans to the free - enterprise system.
He was well - trained.
The interior of the bright pink quonset hut was cold, flat white over a dark plank floor. The dorm was empty and our footsteps echoed. There was a metallic smell in the air. The children's beds were iron double bunks arranged, barracks style, perpendicular to the walls, accompanied by foot lockers and bracket shelves bolted to the metal siding. There was an attempt at decoration - some of the children had hung up pictures of comic book super heroes athletes, Sesame Street characters - but the absence of family pictures or other evidence of recent, intimate human connection was striking.
I counted sleeping space for fifty children.
"How do you keep that many kids organized?"
"It's a challenge," he admitted, "but we've been pretty successful. We use volunteer counselors from UCLA, Northridge, and other colleges. They get intro psych credit, we get free help. We'd love a full - time professional staff but it's fiscally impossible. We've got it staffed two counselors to a dorm, and we train them to use behavior mod - I hope you're not opposed to that."