Phillip Margolin - The Associate

He was a big man who dressed in loud clothes and sported gaudy jewelry. He wore his styled hair a little long, left his mustache a trifle bushy, and exposed his curly black chest hair whenever possible. Most men thought he looked tacky, but a certain class of woman found him irresistible and he did nothing to discourage their advances. “Mr. Dobbs, how are you employed?” Ramon Quiroz, the Laurel County district attorney, asked his star witness. Ramon wore an ill-fitting brown suit. He was short, fat, and laid-back. He was also extremely tough to beat in court. The question about employment proved to be a stumper for Lester Dobbs, who stared at Ramon the way he might if the prosecutor had asked him to explain quantum mechanics. Dobbs fidgeted in the witness chair and looked uncomfortable in the cheap blue suit that Quiroz had purchased for him. “I ain’t employed right now,” Dobbs answered after a lengthy pause. “That’s true, Mr. Dobbs,”

Ramon agreed with admirable patience, “but before your arrest you did work, did you not?” “Sure.” “Well, then, why don’t you tell the jury what kind of work you performed.” “I worked construction for Mr.

McCann,” Dobbs answered, nodding toward Aaron Flynn’s client. At the mention of his name, the defendant reluctantly shifted his gaze from Melissa Arnold’s breasts and focused his attention on his chief accuser. “What exactly were you constructing?” “Sunnyvale Farm.”

“Which is?” Ramon prompted. “A housing development. We was building forty-three homes, or was supposed to before the money run out.” “How did you learn that Mr. McCann’s project was in trouble?” “He told me.

That’s why we did it. For the money, so’s he could pay off his creditors and keep the project going.” “Objection,” Aaron Flynn said, rising to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Dobbs,” Judge Schrieber lectured, “please listen carefully to the question and only answer what you are asked.” “Jurors,” Schrieber continued, “please ignore everything Mr.

Dobbs said, except his statement that Mr. McCann told him that the Sunnyvale project was in trouble.” “Mr. Dobbs, you are an ex-convict, are you not?” Ramon continued. “Yes, sir. Several times.” “Did Mr.

McCann know this?” “Oh, yeah. That’s why he thought I’d help him, because I’d been in prison. He said he needed someone with criminal experience.” Flynn objected on the grounds that the answer was not responsive and the judge lectured Dobbs again. Dobbs didn’t appear to be bright enough to understand what he was doing wrong. If the jurors suspected the same thing, they might also conclude that Dobbs was too dumb to make up his testimony. “Mr. Dobbs, why don’t you tell this jury how you came to be involved in the kidnapping and murder of Patty Alvarez.” “Okay. Best I recollect, it was one evening in April,” Dobbs said, turning toward the jurors. “I was sittin’ at the bar in the Red Rooster Tavern, mindin’ my own business and drinkin’ a beer. Mr.

McCann come in the tavern. Next thing I know, he’s askin’ me if I’d like to join him for a beer in a booth.” “Was it unusual for you and Mr. McCann to have a drink together?” “Yes, sir, it was. In fact, this was the first time I’d ever talked to Mr. McCann, except on the job, and then it would be about problems on the site, stuff like that.”

“What did you two talk about?” Ramon asked. “Nothin’ much, at first.

Sports, the weather.” “Did the conversation turn to Sunnyvale at some point?” Dobbs glanced over at McCann. He looked as if he was embarrassed that he was testifying for the state. “Mr. McCann told me that Sunnyvale might not get built. There was money owed or some such.

If he couldn’t come up with it, the project was doomed. That’s how he said it, ‘doomed.’ ” “What did you say to that?” “Well, I was wonderin’ if I’d lose my job, because it paid pretty good. Mr. McCann said everyone would lose his job if he couldn’t pay off the loan. Then he asked me about the prison. Which one I’d been in, whether it was hard to be inside. It caught me by surprise, because he just jumped from one subject to another without no warning.” “Did you tell him about prison and what you did to be sent there?” “Yes, sir. He seemed right interested. Especially when I told him that I’ve been in for aggravated assault and armed robbery.” “Now, just so the jury will know, those were two different convictions?” “Yes, sir.” “And you’ve also been convicted of assault twice where you didn’t go to prison.”

“I got probation on that.” “Okay. Now, what happened after you told Mr. McCann all about prison?” “Nothin’ then. We just drunk some more beer, talked about some fight. Mike Tyson, I think. Then he looked at his watch and said he had to go. And he did.” “So, the defendant didn’t mention anything about Mrs. Alvarez?” “Not till the next time.”

“And when was that?” “About three days later. I was walkin’ to my car after work when Mr. McCann stopped me. He asked me if I was interested in making some extra money. I said, ‘Sure.’ He said to meet him in the parking lot of the Red Rooster at ten. I thought I misheard him, so I asked him if he’d said the parking lot. He said this was a private matter and he didn’t want no one to know we was talking.” “What happened in the parking lot of the Red Rooster?” “Mr. McCann drove up and told me to get in this car he was driving. It wasn’t his normal one, which is this bright red sports car. This one was black, a plain old Ford. Anyway, I got in and he drove me out into the desert where it was only the two of us and he asked me what I would do for fifty thousand dollars.” Several jurors turned to look at each other and there was murmuring in the back of the courtroom. “What did you answer?” “I thought he was kidding, so I joked back that I’d do most anything. Then, just in case it wasn’t a joke, I told him I wouldn’t kill no one. That’s when he asked if I would commit a crime short of murder and I asked him what he meant.” Dobbs took a sip of water before turning back to the jury. “Mr. McCann told me that his company was in big trouble, but he had a foolproof way of fixing up his problems. He asked me if I’d heard of Martin Alvarez. I said, ‘Sure.’

Everyone in Desert Grove knows who he is. Mr. McCann said that Mrs.

Alvarez-Patty, he called her-was the light of Mr. Alvarez’s life and that he would do anything to protect her from harm, including paying over a large sum of money that could be used to keep the Sunnyvale project afloat. I asked how much money we was talking about and Mr.

McCann said that Martin Alvarez could part with one million dollars without batting an eye.” “What did you tell the defendant when he said this?” Ramon asked. “I said, in that case, I was gonna want more than fifty thousand to help.”

Desert Grove was baking and the ancient air conditioner barely stirred the air in the courtroom. The judge called the morning recess and most of the observers filed out to get a cool drink or wash their faces in the rest room, but Martin Alvarez did not move. Soon he was alone in the front row staring hard, first at Dobbs, then at Paul McCann. Ramon Quiroz saw what was going on. He leaned across the low railing that separated the gallery from the judge and attorneys and whispered something to Alvarez. When Quiroz was through talking, Martin stood and left the courtroom. When court resumed, Dobbs testified that Paul McCann knew that Patty Alvarez loved to ride in the desert and that she rode in the morning before the heat of the day. According to Dobbs, McCann planned to ambush her out of sight of the hacienda. Alvarez would be tied up, blindfolded, and taken in the back of a van to the basement of an abandoned house in the next county. The plan called for Dobbs to baby-sit Alvarez while McCann negotiated the ransom. Nothing went the way it was supposed to. “Mr.