http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-evict6may06,0,5268127.story?page=2&coll=la-home-headlines
Better-heeled failing home economics too
As more owners are unable to make higher
payments, Deputy Strickland finds himself
evicting people in nicer neighborhoods.
By David Streitfeld
Times Staff Writer
May 6, 2007
Sheriff's Deputy Mike Strickland is a postman of
bad news, delivering eviction notices in the
western stretch of San Bernardino County.
He is armed with a Glock .45, which he seldom
draws, and Scotch tape, which he goes through in
prodigious amounts while posting court orders on doors and windows.
The deputy spends most of his days at down-market
apartment complexes, where the destitute, the
addicted and the forlorn fitfully live. But in
recent months he has begun venturing into
neighborhoods with spacious homes and groomed
yards, bringing his legal warnings to those who
have fallen hopelessly behind on their mortgages.
These people typically bought a home they
couldn't afford or drained their equity through
incessant refinancing. If they had a chance to sell, they passed it up.
Eventually, the lender foreclosed on the
property. When it was over, the home was auctioned off.
Now there's a new owner. But they still won't leave.
In some cases it's denial; in others, unwarranted
hope. They hang on as long as they can often to
the last week, sometimes to the last day.
Most of the time, they abandon the premises
before they have to be forcibly removed, but not always.
That's when Strickland shows up.
"You see me coming. You know I'm not exactly
bringing tidings of joy," the deputy says. "I'm the grim reaper."
Take the house he is heading to at the moment, a
three-bedroom in Rancho Cucamonga. He is supposed
to meet a representative of Deutsche Bank, the
new owner, as well as the bank's locksmith.
Once the door is open, Strickland will go through
the rooms, quickly but carefully. A couple of
years ago, a foreclosed man in Rialto shot himself when Strickland showed up.
This time a bank rep and an assistant are already
inside when Strickland arrives. The door was
open, they say, and they have so many foreclosed
homes to prepare for sale, they couldn't wait.
Strickland checks the place out just the same.
Much of the furniture is gone, but the former
owner's teddy bears are still there. Two eggs are
rolling around on the kitchen counter. A bottle
of ale is on the table. On the front door is a
note for a deliveryman: "Please leave package in back. Will be back shortly."
Not shortly enough. There's a drained pool in the
back, and the bank rep, Riverside foreclosure
specialist Kemper Kelley, is hustling to secure a
loose gate before a neighborhood tyke wanders in and takes a fall.
The foreclosed owner, identified in court
paperwork as Aaron Engerson, should have known
his days were numbered. "We sent letters, put
notices on the door, offered him cash for his keys," Kelley says.
Engerson, either oblivious or optimistic, ignored
it all. He could not be reached for comment.
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