By John M. Glionna, Los Angeles Times, May 31, 1996
PALMDALE, Calif. — As As Joshua trees stand sentry on moonlit desert nights, the seven Diaz children do their homework by the light of a lone propane lantern.
On the coldest mornings, the six young girls and teenage boy dress shivering under the covers rather than brave the cold floor of their unheated 1950s Trailorama.
Come summer, those warped wooden floors provide the only cool refuge as daytime temperatures top 115 degrees inside the run-down trailer and add-on shacks, which have no electricity or running water.
“In January, the girls cry themselves to sleep because of the cold,” said their mother, Maria Diaz. “July is no better. Because there is no way to escape the heat.”
One hundred miles from their old apartment near downtown Los Angeles–and a world away from the amenities of civilization most people take for granted–Manuel Diaz and his family have cast their lot with a band of hardy, luckless pioneers seeking una vida mejor, a better life, in rugged land bought from millionaire developer Marshall Redman.
Promised a piece of the American Dream through their purchase of raw desert parcels, many families have received nothing but headaches and heartbreak: hardpan existences no better than those they left behind in rural Mexico.
The Diazes are among the up to 250 Redman customers and their families who survive in plywood shacks and tin-can trailers scattered across the vast Antelope Valley, enduring the harshest High Desert extremes–most without utilities.
Many have discovered that they do not hold title to their property and may never be able to obtain it. Others have learned that such comforts as switch-on lights and a telephone can only be had at a prohibitive cost. Although government was slow to take effective action against Redman, it has been quick to move against his customers–forcing some to tear down substandard structures or move trailers.
After years of investigation, Redman was charged May 14 with grand theft and other crimes. The developer pleaded not guilty and is out on bail. If convicted, he could serve eight years in prison.
Over 16 years ending in 1994, Redman sold land through several firms he controlled to Spanish-speaking families from blue-collar Los Angeles neighborhoods. The hard-earned monthly payments of $250 to $500 were collected from maids, cooks and stable hands. Authorities said the money provided Redman with a lavish lifestyle: A posh home in Beverly Hills, a Paris condominium and pricey additions to a $500,000 art and sculpture collection.
Now, in return for their money, sweat and trust, about 1,500 Redman customers and their families in three counties are in land-sale limbo, swept up in a sophisticated $20-million scheme authorities have called a “classic Western land swindle.”
Investigators say the Redman sales were among the state’s most disturbing real estate rip-offs in decades. They say that using official-looking documents and a misleading sales approach, the developer and his agents methodically targeted a niche market of new Americans, many of whom–because of language and cultural barriers–were thought to be too timid to ask hard questions or too distrustful of authorities to report their suspicions.
“There is incredible moral outrage to what this man did,” said Pastor Herrera Jr., director of the Los Angeles County Department of Consumer Affairs. “He took advantage of an entire class of people, working-class families without established credit, making a joke of their dream to become self-sufficient on their own piece of rural land. What he gave them in many cases was nothing but worthless dust.”
Over a period of months, the 67-year-old Redman has repeatedly refused to be interviewed.
“Marshall Redman is not a crook,” said his attorney, August G. Carloni. “He did some things that might not have been consistent with the law, but it’s a matter of interpretation. He’s concerned about the people. He wants them to get their bargain. Who knows, in another time, maybe Marshall Redman is a hero.”
From 1978 to 1994, advertising on Spanish-language radio and television, Redman sold about 2,500 undeveloped properties in Kern, Los Angeles and San Bernardino counties–most for prices from $19,900 to $39,900.
Buyers were promised that beautiful suburbs–featuring parks, churches and stores–would soon surround parcels that, years later, remain sun-bleached desert outposts.
Few customers got what they paid for, according to a six-month Times review of hundreds of documents and more than 100 interviews. Many received no title insurance or title search. Nothing was recorded. Parcels were sold with no legal access–many for 10 times what Redman paid for them.
Some properties were zoned not for home building but exclusively for business or industry, prosecutors allege. Authorities say Redman and his agents sold land he didn’t own–in one case, in the middle of a freeway. Sometimes, prosecutors allege, they sold the same parcel to more than one buyer. Part interests in larger tracts were also sold, leaving buyers to unknowingly share land with strangers.
The tangled ownership situation has had its most immediate impact on that most basic of desert needs: water.
In north Los Angeles County, some Redman customers have been denied access to county water wells because officials contend that the residents cannot prove ownership of the land on which they live.
In general, landowners pay $45.60 for six months of water access. For others, officials of Los Angeles Waterworks District No. 40 have tough news: To get water, they must pay tens of thousands of dollars to extend a main to their property.
Water department engineer Henry Roediger said customers should have known about water before buying. “You’re not entitled to hook up to the water system without paying your fair share,” he said. “I feel bad because lots of people out there can’t afford to do that.”
Residents without water hookups borrow from neighboring ranchers.
While denied such government services, some Redman customers continue to pay taxes on land that prosecutors now say they may not own. The developer had said that part of their monthly payments covered property taxes.
The plight of the High Desert refugees perhaps has been most visible to officials in public education.
A Lancaster school principal estimates that at least 100 students in north Los Angeles County live in shacks and dirt-floor camper shells bereft of utilities–many in the tiny Hi Vista area, a stone’s throw from the San Bernardino County line.
Not all can hang on. Eastside Elementary School Principal James King has watched sadly as the children of Redman customers suddenly vanish–their parents giving up and moving away after failing to find jobs in the lean desert economy.
To lend a hand to those who are left, he requires new teachers to visit the homes of Redman customers. Families also are visited regularly by a Spanish-speaking aide.
Teachers assign less homework in winter, when days are shorter and children without electricity are quickly left in the dark. Some instructors allow children to finish homework at recess.
“It breaks your heart,” said teacher Isabel Fike, who has taught several of the Diaz children. “In cold weather, many kids come to school smelling like campfires because that’s how they get warm in the morning. Others smell even worse because it’s often too cold to wash their clothes.
“I had no idea people still lived like this.”
A Powerful Pitch–and No Down Payment
For Lorenzo Chamorro, the best part of the Redman sales pitch was the ride in the developer’s sleek new Mercedes-Benz.
Sinking into the soft leather seat as the car eased along a dirt road 25 miles outside Palmdale, Chamorro relished this special showing of the land Redman said had been “chosen especially for him.”
The former El Monte gardener had heard the radio ad in 1978. Caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the San Bernardino Freeway, he was struck with a desire to break free from the city grind. He called that day.
He was invited to a seminar near downtown Los Angeles where he and scores of others were shown images of what their lives could become: There were slides of lakes, malls and new subdivisions.
As business boomed, Redman held the seminars every three weeks. He advertised in newspapers and on local Spanish-language television, the commercials often running during breaks in classic Mexican movies. The early ads showed a grandfatherly gentleman promoting land in “El fantastico Valle del Antilope!” Children ran through alfalfa fields, and customers offered testimonials.
For many buyers, the ads evoked the rural lifestyle of their ancestors: High Desert hectares, 2 1/2 acres on which to build a homestead for extended families, a ranchito replete with chickens, pigs and goats.
Redman’s pitch was powerful: By signing a long-term purchase contract, those without credit could become instant landowners as easily as they could rent an apartment–even “sin enganche,” without a down payment.
Buyers were bused to the Antelope Valley, past the Palmdale reservoir and busy commercial rows. Each trip featured a break at a McDonald’s. There were chests of cold soda for the women and children, and beer for the men.
Chamorro recalls he had doubts. But the fast-talking salesmen were so persuasive, the pictures they painted of the land so pretty that Chamorro said he began seeing them. It didn’t hurt, he said, that each time he finished a beer another cold can was pressed into his hand.
Others recall being given the hard sell. Redman spoke no Spanish, but he hired a team of translators to make his sales. They were not licensed to sell real estate yet were paid on a commission basis, according to court documents.
Buyers were assured that they could build homes or move trailers onto the land–no permits needed, prosecutors allege.
“People were told anything and everything,” said Betty Stark, an investigator for the Los Angeles County Office of Consumer Affairs. “As long as the sale was made.”
Decisions were made on the spot. Several customers told authorities that they signed without reading the papers because they trusted the salesmen. Some sales documents were in Spanish, but in hundreds of cases, according to court records, the portions of the contracts provided by Redman’s firms used English to describe details of the purchase.
Deals were often sealed with a handshake, and pictures were taken of the proud new property owners. For many, the satisfaction didn’t last.
* In 1980, Rogelio Gurrola paid $6,900 for a parcel he later found was owned by Southern Pacific railroad. He sued and got his money back. Redman’s lawyers said that Gurrola was mistakenly directed to the wrong land.
* With the help of parishioners, the Rev. Pedro Herrera built a Pentecostal church on land bought from Redman in 1985. Eight years later, an Alhambra schoolteacher, surveying 80 acres he inherited from his parents, was shocked to find Herrera living on the property.
The chagrined pastor knows he must move. “Every day, I wait for them to push me off the land I thought was mine,” he said.
* In 1992, Juanita Ortiz and a companion died of asphyxiation in a house without utilities, after a propane lamp leaked deadly carbon monoxide. Buying the land from Redman in 1985, Ortiz was assured that utilities would come one day.
“They told her that civilization was coming, so she decided to move in and wait for it,” said her daughter, Maria Jimenez, who lives in East Los Angeles. “I worried about her. But I couldn’t take electricity to her.”
* Manuel Roman was so happy with his land that he and his family agreed to appear in Redman’s television ads. Now, after years of being shuffled from parcel to parcel, his ownership status in doubt, he considers himself a victim.
“They used me,” he said. “They used my wife and my kids. It hurts. Because I acted in good faith, I trusted them. Now Marshall Redman has lost my trust.”
Authorities say the developer’s strategy was based on an assumption that few buyers would move to the land immediately.
“Redman knew those who did relocate would just go ahead and build without permits, just like back home in Mexico,” where zoning restrictions, particularly in rural areas, are rarely enforced, said Kern County Deputy Dist. Atty. C.M. “Bud” Starr II. “Without applying for permits, most buyers went undetected.”
Those who complained after they were denied permits or cited for illegal structures were moved to other land–some as many as six times, Starr said.
For years, Chamorro took his wife and children on Sunday outings to view the property for which they paid $88 a month. Finally, tired of high rent, afraid his teenage son would be seduced by gangs, he decided in 1992 to move to the desert.
But when a Redman salesman escorted him to his land, Chamorro was shown a strange parcel.
“We had an argument right there in the car,” Chamorro recalled. “He was pointing to a pile of rocks and I said, ‘No way. That’s not the land I bought.’ Suddenly, he sped off quickly to another site, pointed and said ‘There! There’s your land!’ “
The San Bernardino wrecking yard supervisor said: “It wasn’t my land. But it was better than nothing. So I took it.”
He moved a trailer onto the land and built stalls for cows and pigs. After 15 years, Chamorro paid off the debt and received a deed in 1993.
He considers his problem solved. But when informed that Redman has been accused of supplying some buyers with erroneous grant deeds, his mouth dropped. Chamorro has not yet paid for a title search to ensure that the land is truly his.
“He wouldn’t do that to me,” he said of Redman. “Would he?”
Back in Business After Tip of a Lifetime
The ads touted Redman’s 30 years of experience selling Antelope Valley land.
Born in Los Angeles, the Pepperdine alumnus started selling High Desert parcels in 1959.
But in 1973, he lost his broker’s license for illegally subdividing land.
Then, in 1978, records show, he got the tip of a lifetime: A friend at a Spanish-language radio station described an untapped Latino market–people looking to escape cramped city apartments for wide-open spaces.
Redman was back in business.
Working through teams of “translators” to make sales for the three firms, he earned enough within five years to move into a $720,000 Beverly Hills home. Redman brought on his son, Jeff–an avid surfer with two years of college–to handle subdivision work and help conduct seminars.
Former employees describe the developer as a personable, cultured man with a passion for tennis and bridge. At his Santa Monica Boulevard office, he enjoyed expensive Cuban cigars and often preferred wearing shorts to suits.
From 1987 to 1993, records show, he, his wife and their two children took $7.5 million in salaries and perks from his three companies–Marshall Redman & Associates, Redman Investment Co. and Del Sol Properties Inc.–purchasing luxuries including a $30,000 country club membership, according to court records.
Meanwhile, authorities were watching. The Redman sales triggered more than 100 inquiries and complaints to state and local agencies.
Prosecutors in Los Angeles and Kern counties, alleging that the scheme was based on misrepresentation and unfair business practices, filed a civil lawsuit in 1994 to stop the sales, untangle land titles and recoup millions paid by buyers.
But authorities had little clue just how far-reaching the developer’s sales were: Within a week after news of the civil suit, Los Angeles County consumer affairs investigators received 1,000 letters and 400 calls from customers.
Redman settled the civil suit last year without admitting any wrongdoing. He agreed to pay $580,000 in penalties and surrender his companies to a court-appointed receiver. Within months, he vacated his office and sold his Beverly Hills home and the Paris condo. He now lives in a Wilshire Boulevard high-rise.
Despite the receiver and the criminal charges, government efforts to make Redman customers whole largely have failed.
In November, receiver Donald W. Henry, the man hired to oversee the cleanup, was fired amid allegations including incompetence and is under federal investigation for his receivership activities.
Henry repeatedly has refused to comment.
Just three of 1,500 customers of Redman firms have received clear title through the receivership, said new receiver Richard Weissman. A partial inventory also shows at least 600 parcels with legal problems. About 750 Redman buyers have stopped making payments for fear of throwing good money after bad.
The developer’s firms owe $7 million to banks and other creditors, making it unlikely that all who have claims will recover their investments. Authorities say it will take years to settle the ownership issues, and longer before any refunds could be given.
Weeks before his arrest, Redman was busy hatching other moneymaking ideas. He recently applied for a license to sell commodity futures and is again buying Antelope Valley property under his new Bella Vista Land Co.
Attorney Carloni explained his client’s newest real estate venture: “Marshall Redman is doing what Marshall Redman knows best.”
Patience Reaps Only Bitterness and Struggle
For Manuel Diaz, the dream did not come cheaply.
The 39-year-old Jalisco native cleaned corrals and did odd jobs for two years to make the $300 monthly payment on his land’s $29,900 purchase price–while waiting for promised improvements that never came.
For their money and patience, the Diazes have reaped only bitterness. And struggle.
Without electricity, Maria Diaz drives 20 miles a day for the block of ice that keeps her family’s perishables cold. When the summer winds blow, she cannot keep the sand and dust from coating everything inside the tiny trailer.
But the family endures, proud of its oddly beautiful expanse of scrubland.
Still, 13-year-old Adam swallows his pride when explaining to fellow students that his family lives in a place without heat, lights or running water.
Manuel Diaz is strangely serene in his High Desert purgatory–even on nights when fuel for the lantern has dried up.
“Still, the moon is bright,” he said. “Cold or hot, I sleep well without all the noise from the city, the helicopters and the sirens. I know my children are safe here.”
Two years ago, Diaz stopped paying on his land when he learned of problems associated with Redman’s sales.
Is he a legitimate landowner or an illegal squatter?
Diaz can only wonder as he watches for the pickup truck he imagines will arrive one day, stirring up dust devils along the dirt road, carrying the order that will drive him from the land.
“If the man comes and shows me the papers to prove the land is not mine, then we will go,” he said, herding a pack of goats that drank from a rusty bathtub. “We will pack up our things and we will leave this place.
“But until that day comes, the land belongs to me.”
