A steep fall for a suburban idyll

Second of two parts

Julian and Lupi Aguilar had run out of options when the sister of a friend offered to help.

“Yes,” she said, “we have a room you can rent.”

The words became their life raft, and the pressures of the last three years — health problems, declining income and the loss of their dream home in Diamond Bar — drifted away. They agreed to meet that Friday night. It would be auspicious to share the Sabbath with their new housemates.

That afternoon, Julian, 47, Lupi, 40, and their children Alex and Miranda, 14 and 10, headed to Hesperia. The open space of the High Desert reminded Julian of rural Mexico. He marveled at how the Joshua tree could survive in such an arid environment.

The Aguilars picked up Chinese food at Panda Express and found their new home in a maze of streets in a community called Mission Crest. Over rice and orange chicken, they met one of the owners, Helida Franklin, and a few tenants.

They would share the six-bedroom, four-bath house with five others — and, on occasion, Helida and her husband Robert, long-distance truck drivers living in Nevada who had bought this home new in 2006 as a place to stay when they passed through Southern California.

The Aguilars could have the master bedroom for $650 a month. In a few weeks, the living room and the dining room would be available for $200 each and possibly a second bedroom and half a bath for $300. They could store extra furniture in half of the garage for $50. Bebe, their cocker spaniel, could have the backyard for nothing. The kitchen was used by everyone, and the laundry room hours were posted.

That evening, as the family headed to the rental in Pomona they could no longer afford, they felt relieved. The arrangement would be temporary, they said to one another, a stepping stone toward something more permanent.

As they drove the streets of Mission Crest, they noticed the empty houses and the For Sale signs. What promised to be a stable suburb was now overwhelmed by foreclosures and rentals. In the community’s first three years, more than 300 homeowners defaulted. Today, that number stands at 373. More than 40% — 392 homes — are listed as “non-owner occupied.” Nearly every house has lost at least half of its 2006 assessed value.

What the Aguilars didn’t realize that February night in 2009 was that many of the original homeowners, those with mortgages higher than the value of their houses, were disappointed and angry.

Weary of yard sales and moving vans, of not knowing who was coming and who was going, they pointed fingers at the banks and the builders. They blamed themselves. They looked suspiciously at new owners who bought these houses at half of what they paid. They worried about renters.

They had bought into Mission Crest believing their investment would appreciate, and when the housing market collapsed, they weighed their options: Should they stay or walk away?

But the Aguilars saw the community differently. They had found a place where Julian could continue looking for work as a translator and insurance broker, where Alex could practice his fencing and Miranda her ballet.

If the American dream was a boardinghouse, then that suited them fine.

Deciding to leave

Mission Crest was sold on the promise of predictability: that homeownership is the road to a secure future. It is the same message that developers in the High Desert have rolled out to prospective buyers since the 1950s.

Kadi and Daniel Prescott bought in Mission Crest in 2006, hoping to build on the equity from the sale of their previous house in Riverside. They love their single-story home with its flowing floor plan, large backyard and room enough for their seven children.

They were in their late 20s at the time. He worked for his family’s paving business and she freelanced as a Web consultant. Their combined income was $90,000. With 20% down — almost $78,000 — and a 30-year conventional loan for $309,050 at a fixed rate of 5.875%, they lowered their monthly payments and got a bigger home. Kadi would pick the whole thing up and move it if she could.

On a spring morning, Ella, 5, is running through the sprinklers. The backside of Mt. Baldy is still covered with snow, but beneath the cloudless sky it feels like summer.

Marlie, 11, has a friend over, and with Daniel, 10, they’re playing a game on the Wii. Phillip, 7, is watching. Trenton, 9, is climbing over the jumbo playhouse on the patio. Aiden, 6, is in timeout and Reed, 3, is teasing Dakota, the family dog.

Pandemonium never seemed happier, but as the children play, Kadi and Daniel have started to pack. The family pictures have come off the walls. They just gave away their two pet bearded dragons. They’re looking for a rental in Chino, Norco or Indian Hills; they hope to be out by midsummer.

Last August, after Kadi lost two clients, she and Daniel stopped paying their monthly mortgage of $1,828. They applied for a loan modification. They had paid nearly $390,000 for their house, and it had been reassessed at $244,000. (This January, it was valued at $150,000.) The bank presented an offer in February that the Prescotts rejected.

Kadi and Daniel decided to walk away.

“We could stay here if we wanted to,” Kadi said. “But this wasn’t a great community to begin with. We hoped it would get better, but it didn’t. I don’t want to raise my kids here. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder.”

Two years ago, Daniel was getting ready to take the children to school when he opened the front door and saw people swarming the perimeter of the house next door. “SHERIFF” and “POLICE” were emblazoned on the backs of their jackets.

Deputies from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department’s auto theft prevention task force were serving warrants, and when it was over, two suspects had been taken into custody. Since then, the house has stood vacant with one window boarded up.

For the Prescotts, the incident is an example of all that has gone wrong in the community. The list is long. It begins with the sales representatives who told them that no absentee owners were buying into the tract. It includes the promise of a Wal-Mart and a Home Depot that have yet to be built, and it ends with the unfinished homes, the trash, the graffiti and a friend who was robbed at gunpoint.

Kadi and Daniel are not alone with their concerns. Eighteen months ago, the city held four homeowner meetings to address complaints such as vandalized homes, stray dogs, subsidized housing programs, churches being set up in garages and marijuana houses.

In the end, it didn’t matter that San Bernardino officials reported that only 18 families live in subsidized housing in the community, and that crime is no worse than elsewhere in the High Desert.

Staying — for now

When Pete Solis works in his backyard, sparrows, otherwise drawn to the bird feeders, stay away. Today he’s designing a barbecue area and is about to inlay the half a dozen pieces of concrete that contain the handprints of his grandchildren. Catherine is inside working on a quilt.

Both are in their late 60s and retired. Pete worked for Los Angeles County and Catherine for San Antonio Community Hospital in Upland. They moved to Mission Crest in the fall of 2006, and the moment they walked through the model complex, they felt at home. This is our future, they thought, selecting a single-story design with its combined kitchen, dining room and living room, and Pete immediately tried to work a deal.

The home cost $374,000, but being on a fixed income, he wanted to pay no more than $350,000. His bargaining chip was a down payment of nearly $132,000, money from property they sold in Washington state. A sales representative cited the upgrades and countered with $352,000. It was an easy concession, and the Solises celebrated with dinner at the Olive Garden.

Initially, their block was empty. The wind scoured the empty lots, kicking up clouds of sand and dust. They got to know Robert the security guard, who patrolled the construction sites, and the Prescotts with their seven children.

Pete dreamed of pulling out his telescope and studying the stars. The Solises hosted a family party for his mother’s 86th birthday, and when their son, Mike, his wife and their 2-year-old son needed a place to live, they opened their doors to them.

In 2008, however, they noticed that a few houses three blocks over had telltale sheets of white paper duct-taped to the front door — signs of foreclosure. When the letter from the county arrived last year with news of a reassessment, they were saddened and angry. Their taxes had gone down, but their one-time bargain was now worth $218,000 (in 2010, their house was assessed at $135,000, a little more than what they put down).

Pete wanted to punch someone, but he didn’t know who. For a while he considered not paying the mortgage and squatting on the property. He wanted to make the bank suffer, but that didn’t make sense.

“We played by all the rules,” said Pete, who was denied a loan modification. “But we still had the rug pulled out from under us. It’s scary to think that we’re going to lose all that money and never see it again.”

Four months ago, Pete and Catherine received a letter from a law firm that had filed a class-action suit against eight national home builders. The builders were accused of failing to disclose that they had set up mortgage companies that provided subprime loans to buyers, putting communities at risk. The Solises joined the lawsuit hoping that they might recoup their down payment. A U.S. District judge dismissed the complaint, but the firm plans to appeal.

The Solises talk about moving to Arizona, but for now they’re staying. One evening in April, their son Mike was taking a walk when he saw a weathered sheaf of papers being blown by the wind. The next day, he described it in an e-mail.

“I thought you would want to know what happened to me yesterday,” he wrote. “In my neighborhood I found foreclosure papers blowin’ in the wind like a tumbleweed. I said to my wife, is this what it has come to?”

A new start

The Aguilars have been up for hours. It’s not quite 8 on a Sunday morning, and outside, their friend’s pickup is half full with furniture and boxes. Today is moving day. Friends from church are helping, and soon their space in the boardinghouse will be empty.

A month ago, they found a four-bedroom home a few blocks away that they could rent for $1,500 a month, not much more than they had been paying, and everyone would have his own room, including Seth, who had just turned four months old.

Rentals are common in the community, they learned, but you have to be careful. They found one house that they liked, but the lease was for only six months, a sure sign that the owner was facing a foreclosure. It’s not uncommon for tenants to pay rent to a landlord who has stopped paying the bank.

When Julian and Lupi toured the four-bedroom, there was a couple ahead of them. Lupi worried that they were too late. Julian filled out the application, and later that day, the family met the property manager, who remarked on Seth’s name.

“As in the Bible?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lupi said.

“Well,” he said, “Lupi, your prayers have been answered.”

As the Aguilars unpack, Lupi hopes that they might be able to buy this home one day. But for now, her goals are more simple: lunch for anyone who wants it.

Upstairs, Miranda watches Chris the cat. She’s looking forward to stenciling Mickey and Minnie Mouse on a wall in her bedroom, and she’s staked out the right sink in the bathroom. Alex can have the one on the left.

Miranda remembers classmates who talked about living in the same house all their lives, and though she knows she won’t have that experience, she hopes that she and her family just might be able to make a new start.

She won’t be alone in that wish. In recent months, new developers have bought the empty lots in Mission Crest. When the next boom hits the High Desert, they will be ready.

thomas.curwen@latimes.com

On the Web: A photo gallery and video can be found at latimes.com/missioncrest