Phillip Margolin - The Associate

McCann picked me up in his van real early. We drove out to this spot in the desert where there’s this big outcropping of rock that Mrs.

Alvarez always passed and we parked the van behind the rocks so Mrs.

Alvarez wouldn’t see it.” “What happened next?” “We waited until Mr.

McCann said he saw her coming. He had binoculars, but even I could see the dust. So we put on our ski masks and took out our guns…”

“Who supplied the guns?” “Mr. McCann.” “Go on.” “The plan was that Mr.

McCann would jump out and wave his hands to stop the horse. Then I’d grab Mrs. Alvarez and tie her up. Only, it didn’t work that way. Mr.

McCann was standing out there waving and she did slow down. Then something spooked her and she spurred the horse and tried to ride past us. Once she took off, that would be that. And that’s when Mr. McCann done it.” “Did what, Mr. Dobbs?” “Shot the horse. BAM! It was like in the movies. The horse was up on its hind legs, pawing at the air. It was almost like slow motion that horse rearing up, the blood pouring out. It paused up in the air for a moment, then took two steps back and toppled over, right onto the rocks and right on top of Mrs.

Alvarez. “I just stood there watching. I couldn’t believe it. The shot was real loud, like a thunderclap. Then there was a dull thunk when Mrs. Alvarez’s head hit the rocks and a thud when the horse came down on top of her. When I heard the thunk I knew we were in big trouble.

Right away I was thinking that she was dead, and I was right.” “What did Mr. McCann do after he shot the horse?” “He just stood there like he was paralyzed. I did, too, but I recovered after a moment. The first thing I did was ask him why he did it, but he was just staring.

I don’t think he planned shooting the horse. I think he just did it on the spur of the moment.” “What happened next?” “I ran over to Mrs.

Alvarez. She was a mess. Her head was mashed between the horse and the rock. Mr. McCann staggered over. He could barely keep his feet. He tried to ask me if she was dead, but he couldn’t say the word.” “What word is that?” “ ‘Dead.’ He just couldn’t say it. So I said it for him. As soon as I did he just sat down in the dust and started talking to himself.” “What did he say?” “ ‘Oh, God, oh, God.’ He said that a few times and ‘What are we gonna do now?’ I told him we should get the fuck-uh, get outta there.” “Did he agree?” “No. He put his hands over his ears and told me to shut up so he could think. I said, ‘Fine,’ but I was plannin’ to take the van if he didn’t move soon. Then, just as I was getting ready to go, he did something that surprised me.” “And what was that?” “He took out his cell phone and made a call.” “Mr.

Dobbs, until this point how many people did you think were involved in the kidnapping?” “Two. Me and him.” “Did you discover that there was a third person in on the plot?” “Yes, sir, but I don’t know who it was, because I only heard Mr. McCann’s side of the conversation and he never mentioned a name.” “Please describe the phone conversation to the jury.” “It was short. First, he said everything had gotten…”

Dobbs paused and looked up at the judge. “Uh, can I use the F-word, Your Honor?” “Accuracy is very important, Mr. Dobbs,” Judge Schrieber replied. “Please make sure that you use the exact words that you claim the defendant used.” “Okay,” Dobbs said, turning back to the jurors.

“He said everything had gotten fucked up and he explained about having to shoot the horse when Mrs. Alvarez tried to escape. Then he listened for a while. Mr. McCann had his mask off by then and I could see him turning red like he was being chewed out. After a minute I heard him ask what he should do. He nodded his head a few times, then hung up. I asked him who he was talking to, but he said it was none of my business. I said it damn well was because I was an accessory to this whole thing, including Mrs. Alvarez being dead. That’s when he told me the plan.” “Which was?” Ramon prodded. “To pretend she wasn’t dead. To bury the body and demand the ransom anyway. He told me that was the only way any of us would get any money.” “What did you say to that?”

Dobbs shrugged. “I said, ‘Okay.’ I was in it for the money and Martin Alvarez wouldn’t know his wife was dead. What difference would it make?”

Court broke at five when Lester Dobbs finished his testimony.

Aaron Flynn said a few words to his client and packed up his papers while the guards took Dobbs back to the jail. After law school, Flynn had received no offers from the firms and government offices in Phoenix and Tucson. Desperate for work, he had applied to the Laurel County District Attorney’s Office on the day a deputy DA resigned. Two years later Flynn left to set up a solo practice in a shabby storefront office a few blocks from the courthouse. He scraped by, paying the bills by taking anything that came in the door, until Paul McCann came along. McCann planned to turn land on the outskirts of Desert Grove into a housing development called Sunnyvale Farm and he put Flynn on retainer to deal with his legal affairs. Flynn thought that McCann would be a constant source of easy money, but he was soon spending all his time on McCann’s problems. First there were labor troubles, then Flynn had difficulties obtaining permits from the county supervisors. He was perplexed until someone let slip the fact that Martin Alvarez was interested in the land upon which McCann was building. Within months McCann was on the verge of bankruptcy and he blamed Martin Alvarez for his problems. When the FBI cut a deal with Lester Dobbs for his testimony, no one was shocked when he named Paul McCann as the man who’d hired him to help kidnap Patty Alvarez. As Flynn was getting ready to leave the courtroom, Paul’s wife, Joan, an anorexic woman with pale skin and jet-black hair, approached him.

Flynn suspected that her physical appearance and high level of anxiety were the direct result of living with his client. She had filed for divorce twice, backing out when Paul promised to be faithful and stop beating her. Joan worked as Gene Arnold’s legal secretary and it was her salary and savings that were paying Flynn’s retainer. “Mr. Flynn,” she asked nervously, “can I speak to you?” “Of course, Joan.” “What did you think of Dobbs’s testimony?” “Tough to say,” Flynn said, hedging. He had learned that honesty was not the best policy with Joan. She was as fragile as a Faberge egg. Since her husband’s arrest she had bitten her nails to the quick and developed a nervous tic in the corner of her left eye. “You don’t believe him, do you?” Flynn put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Paul swears he’s innocent, Joan.

I’m his lawyer.” The answer seemed to pacify her. If she realized that it completely evaded her question, she didn’t call him on it. “I’ll be a witness, won’t I?” she asked for the millionth time. “Of course.”

“He was fishing. I saw him leave before dawn. He had all of his fishing gear in the van.” “That will help Paul for sure,” Flynn told her in a soothing voice. “And the lab found nothing in Paul’s van that showed that Mrs. Alvarez was ever in it.” The ransom money had not been found either. And the tracks on the logging road were from a stolen car that had been abandoned several days later in another county. “I’m afraid, Mr. Flynn. I don’t know what I’ll do if Paul is sent to prison.” She looked away. “He’s not easy to live with. You know he’s hit me and he’s cheated on me. You know that.” “I know, Joan.” “But he can be so loving.” The way she said it made Flynn feel that she was trying to convince herself of the truth of what she was saying as much as she was trying to convince him. “The night he proposed, he drove me out to Bishop’s Point. We were alone. There was a full moon and the stars filled up the sky. He said he wanted to stay there with me forever. I believe he meant that. We would have been okay if we could have just stayed there.” Joan’s shoulders shook as she sobbed. Flynn wrapped her up in a hug. “Now, now,” he said before releasing her. He held out a handkerchief so she could dry her eyes.