The Associate (20 page)

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. 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 Fabergé 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. When Joan handed it back, she tried to smile, but her lips just twisted and she choked back another sob. Flynn touched her shoulder again.

“Hang in there, Joan. The case will be over in a day or so.”

“I’ll try,” she said, then smiled bravely and walked away, leaving Aaron Flynn very much relieved.

By the time Flynn arrived at his office it was 5:30 and his secretary was gone. Flynn was taking his trial materials out of his briefcase when Melissa Arnold knocked lightly on the office door, startling him.

“Sorry to frighten you, Mr. Flynn,” Melissa said in a mocking tone. She leaned her hip against the doorjamb. “I believe you wanted to discuss the preparation of a daily transcript of Lester Dobbs’s testimony.”

“Yes, I did, Mrs. Arnold,” Flynn answered nervously. He found it impossible to maintain his composure when he was alone with Gene Arnold’s wife. “Why don’t you shut the door and come in.”

“Preparing a daily transcript is hard,” Melissa said as she crossed the room. “I’ll have to work late and it’s such lonely work.”

“Maybe I can help you solve that problem,” Flynn said.

Melissa pressed against him and silenced him with her lips. Flynn grabbed the hem of her skirt and hiked it up until he had his hands on her silk panties. Moments later they were on the couch ripping at each other’s clothes.

In closing arguments, Aaron Flynn played up the deal Dobbs had cut with the district attorney. The man was basically walking away, Flynn told the jurors. He was even out of jail pending sentencing on the attempted kidnapping count, which was the only charge the state was going to bring against him. But even though the jury knew Dobbs had a motive to lie, he seemed to be telling the truth and Paul McCann had no alibi for the time of the kidnapping. Two hours after they retired to deliberate, the jury was back with a verdict of guilty on all charges, including the charge of murder.

McCann didn’t take the verdict well. He broke down. He screamed and cried. He swore he was innocent and that Dobbs was lying. Flynn promised to fight his case all the way to the United States Supreme Court if necessary. The appeal he promised would begin as soon as Melissa Arnold, the court reporter, prepared the transcript of the case.

But that never happened. One week after Paul McCann’s trial ended, Melissa Arnold disappeared.

Someone was knocking on Martin Alvarez’s bedroom door. He sat up groggily and stared at the clock on his end table. It was 2:30 A.M.

“Señor Alvarez,” a man called out. Alvarez recognized the voice of one of his guards.

“Come in.”

A barrel-chested young man entered the bedroom.

“What is it?”

“Señor Arnold is here.”

“What does he want?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but he’s very upset.”

“All right. Take him to my office, and see if he wants something to drink. I’ll be right down.”

The day after his arrest, Lester Dobbs had led the police to Patty Alvarez’s grave in the desert. Martin was home when he got the news that Patty was really dead. He had identified the body, returned to his hacienda, and remained there, leaving only to attend Patty’s funeral and Paul McCann’s trial. Several friends had tried to pay condolence calls, but Martin had turned them away. This was different. Gene Arnold was more than Martin’s lawyer. He had worked for Martin for peanuts when Martin was nobody. He had always been there for him when times were hard.

Alvarez dressed quickly. When he walked into his office he found his friend and lawyer pacing back and forth, his cheeks tear-streaked and his hair uncombed.

“She’s gone,” Gene said.

“Who’s gone?”

Gene slumped on a chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Melissa,” he moaned.

Gene Arnold was five eight, balding, and had the start of a paunch. He was not much to look at, in other words, which made his marriage to Melissa Arnold so surprising. He had met her during a deposition in Los Angeles, where she was working as a freelance court reporter. According to Gene, she had just left a terrible marriage. He had been pulverized by her looks and had proposed after one date. They married at a wedding chapel in Las Vegas and honeymooned at Caesars Palace.