At the base of the hill, Interstate 5 bisects the city. As we rounded the circular driveway and drove past a gurgling fountain, I could imagine Homer and Darrell sipping cocktails and watching the freeway turn to a parking lot each evening as commuters tried to go home. “Who lives here?” I asked. “Homer used to,” Tom said, “but now he’s moved into a condominium. ” “This is where Ginger lived, then?” “For about a year,” Tom answered. The mansion itself was a spacious white colonial, set in a manicured, parklike setting. By the time we arrived, the drive was already teeming with a variety of trendy late-model vehicles. Ginger had described the last few years as a struggle for financial survival. That was why she had gone to work for the parole board. These surroundings gave no hint of encroaching poverty. “They bought this from Homer Tom shrugged.
