“Bend down,” Lisa tells me as we cruise past a pickup truck at a deserted Garden Grove park about 10 p.m. Her twin sister Teresa crouches in the trunk of our rented Ford Fusion and I’m in the back seat with a notebook. Tonight I’m riding with bounty hunters — you know, like Duane “Dog” Chapman. They carry no guns. But they’re willing to pepper-spray or taze unwilling fugitives, tackle men three times their size and, some nights, slap them in girly PINK handcuffs.