Murder-for-hire plots can make for strange bedfellows.
Arthur Aslanian was a real estate developer who lived in a mansion and dropped in on his kids’ scout meetings. Sesar Rivera, his handyman and concrete polisher, smoked meth. But a kinship grew between them. Aslanian gave Rivera work and lent him money; Rivera, who has since gotten clean, was going to become a father.
Litigation is the price of admission in real estate, and Aslanian occasionally complained about his legal ordeals to Rivera. One day, after a bruising session in court battling a tenant, Shahram Elyaszadeh, he allegedly confessed to Rivera that he wished he could get rid of the guy.
It may have been a throwaway comment, but Rivera took it literally, according to court transcripts, depositions, sentencing documents, copies of covert recordings and conversations with criminal defense experts.
Around that time, Gaspar Pacheco was released from prison. A former employee of Rivera’s, Pacheco was an admitted gang member and repeat felon. They were friends “from the streets,” Rivera later said.
Pacheco needed money. One day, he offered to kill someone for Rivera. It’s unclear which came first — the unsolicited offer, or Aslanian’s revelation — but Rivera soon put the two together.
More than once, Rivera and Aslanian, minus their phones, walked up to the roofs at job sites and speculated about murdering Elyaszadeh. Later, they added a second target: Mark Young, a bankruptcy attorney who had represented Aslanian in his battle with Elyaszadeh and then threatened to sue the developer over $260,000 in unpaid bills.
Rivera showed Pacheco a photo of Young, and a price was set: $20,000. Pacheco wanted half upfront, but Rivera told him that Aslanian would pay when the job was done.
In April 2022, the plan, which did not result in a hired hit but did upend the lives of three men and rocked the Los Angeles real estate community, was set in motion. After a sting operation by federal agents, Aslanian is behind bars awaiting sentencing, found guilty on charges that could carry up to 80 years in prison. He maintains his innocence and is seeking an acquittal or a new trial. That request will be heard on Aug. 28.
There’s no good way to explain why someone like Aslanian would resort to murder. His greed, frustration and impatience appear to have collided with his vassal’s financial desperation and the need to show loyalty. The result: a half-baked plan that took on a deadly life of its own.
Benjamin Brafman, a criminal defense attorney who is not involved in the case but has represented high-profile clients such as P. Diddy and Martin Shkreli, said he found it hard to imagine how Aslanian might mount a successful defense.
“Once you cross the line and you want somebody murdered, nothing makes sense,” he said.
The tree of life
Arthur Aslanian was born in Hollywood in 1969 to Vram and Janet Aslanian, Armenian immigrants from the village of Tsaghkaber. They were part of L.A.’s tight-knit Armenian community, and Aslanian went on to become a prominent patron, “always the one attending to the wounds, helping the sick, wiping tears, apologizing when wrong, and healing relationships,” his wife wrote in a statement supporting her husband’s bail bid. He also gave back to his parents’ homeland, helping to fund a medical nonprofit that installed cochlear implants in hearing-impaired children.
“Recently, he spent so much time and effort trying to save a redwood tree in our yard, claiming that this tree still has life in it,” his wife wrote.
He lived in La Cañada Flintridge, a wealthy enclave just outside Pasadena. When the property last traded hands, it was assessed at $3.7 million. He owned several apartment buildings across the San Fernando Valley, including properties in Sherman Oaks, North Hollywood and Studio City.
“Once you cross the line and you want somebody murdered, nothing makes sense.”
Some tenants called him a “slumlord.” He has appeared as a defendant either personally or through one of his businesses in more than two dozen lawsuits.
In 2015, Elyaszadeh met the developer who later tried to kill him. As a mortgage broker, he was coming off some of the hardest years of his life. He had lost millions during the Great Recession, wrecking his credit. He stood to lose his parents’ home in Brentwood, which he had owned since 1994.
At the last minute, his friend David Zarad took control of the mortgage, allowing Elyaszadeh to make payments through him while his parents stayed in the home. A few years later, though, Zarad sold the home to Aslanian, ending his arrangement with Elyaszadeh.
Aslanian then moved to evict Elyaszadeh’s parents, kicking off a six-year legal battle. It cost Elyaszadeh $750,000 in legal fees to fight him off, but he emerged victorious through an unusual maneuver. In his mail, he found a letter from the mortgage lender that would flip the whole case: Aslanian had defaulted on the loan. Elyaszadeh contacted the lender and bought the note himself. He had gone from being prey to predator.
The case was settled in 2021, with Aslanian left owing hundreds of thousands of dollars in default interest and legal fees.
The stool pigeon
On July 28, 2022, Pacheco was arrested for being a felon in possession of a firearm. It was his third arrest in 45 days, but this time, he had an out: He had secretly recorded a call between himself and Rivera that month, and he offered to turn cooperator.
The LAPD brought in agents from the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to vet him. They signed Pacheco up as a cooperating witness that day.
On Aug. 2, Young, the bankruptcy attorney, was trying a case in Alhambra when his wife, who doubled as his office manager, told him a federal agent needed to see him.
Young went straight from court to the bureau’s office in Glendale. Agents began asking questions about Aslanian. After Young confirmed that he recognized the developer in a photo, he asked what was going on.
The color drained from his face as agents told him he was the intended target of a hit. Do not tell anyone beside your wife, they warned.
Young and his wife booked a hotel room, where they spent three mostly sleepless nights. When they returned home, agents from the bureau told them they thought the threat was contained, but that was small comfort. They barred their sliding glass door with pipes and installed a $10,000 security system.
Young’s assistant, Hallie Brown, had been with him when he visited the bureau office. She kept visualizing that something would go wrong, that the protective net would fall apart. That she’d come to work and Young wouldn’t be there.
Pacheco was wearing a wire when he and Rivera met on Aug. 10. Aslanian’s focus had shifted to Elyaszadeh, just as the feds had pulled Young into the fold.
“He says he’d rather bump that guy off than the other one,” Rivera told Pachecho, who reminded him that Aslanian had already lost the lawsuit against Elyaszadeh.
“He don’t give a fuck,” Rivera replied. “He still wants to. What he says is that it’s because he’s a piece of shit.” Still, Rivera did not give the order — Aslanian wasn’t quite ready to act.
The equivocation made Pacheco antsy.
“Does he want this shit done or what?” he asked Rivera again, on Aug. 19.
“Yeah,” Rivera replied, saying he was having trouble getting in touch with Aslanian but would go about getting the final OK.
That evening, Rivera sent Pacheco a screenshot of Elyaszadeh’s Facebook profile.
Endgame
On Aug. 24, the plan crossed a Rubicon. Pacheco introduced Rivera to a man he said was a sicario, or hitman, from Mexico. The man, who in fact was an undercover agent, would kill Elyaszadeh for $20,000. He wanted half the money upfront, along with a gun and a rental car.
That evening, Aslanian and Rivera met in a parking lot behind Skinny’s Lounge, a North Hollywood dive bar. They talked for about 25 minutes; Rivera relayed that the sicario wanted a down payment, but that he found the guy sketchy.
After the meeting, Rivera called Pacheco. Aslanian, he said, wanted to postpone the murder for a couple of months and might contact somebody else to do it. Still, Rivera sent Pacheco $98 over Cash App — gas money for the supposed sicario to get to and from Mexico.
Bureau agents were concerned. If Rivera brought in someone else, it would complicate the plot and could endanger Young. Two weeks after Rivera put the plan on ice, Pacheco asked him to meet for a concrete polishing job. When Rivera arrived, he was arrested. Agents told him that if he helped them, they would make it known to the court. He signed the cooperating witness agreement.
(Photo courtesy of ATF; United States District Court, Central District of California)
Agents told Rivera to call Aslanian and request a meeting about the murder.
Around 11 a.m. the next day, Aslanian texted Rivera to come to Sunrise Ford in Hollywood, where he was having work done on his truck. Rivera arrived 15 minutes later. Agents photographed the meeting from afar.
The men began talking about the plot, and there was some confusion over who would be murdered. First, Aslanian asked if it was “Santa Clarita” — Mark Young. No, “Westside” — Elyaszadeh — was first, Rivera responded. “Oh, Westside? OK,” Aslanian said.
The hitman wanted $200 for a rental car, Rivera said, but the only cash Aslanian had on him was rent money he had collected from his tenants, which he worried would have his fingerprints on it. He told Rivera to switch the bills out at a check cashing place before paying Pacheco.
He was also concerned about the rental car. “That’s crazy. They’ll know who it is,” Aslanian said. Still, he decided to move ahead.
“After today, we don’t talk about it ever again,” Aslanian said. “It just happens and I’m surprised.”
Kodak moment
In the photograph, Elyaszadeh lies in a field, a bullet hole the color of wet concrete just below his temple. A bloody rose blooms across the collar of his white dress shirt.
But soon after the photographer captured the scene with a Polaroid, Elyaszadeh stood up and walked away. It was a ruse, cooked up by bureau agents and makeup artists to convince Aslanian the hit had been successful. The agents wanted to see how he would react — would he be glad the job was done, or horrified that a hypothetical had gone too far?
“By showing him a picture of a dead man, we figured we would find out exactly, yes, is this what he wanted or, no, he didn’t want this,” the investigation’s lead agent later testified.
They had even used a film camera, as Aslanian had been clear with Rivera that he didn’t want phones present — after a fire at one of his rental properties, authorities had looked at his cell phone records to see if he was near the building at the time of the blaze.
On Sept. 15, Rivera and Aslanian spoke on the phone.
“Westside is done,” Rivera said. He asked Aslanian to meet outside of the hospital where his girlfriend had gone into labor so he could show him the photo.
They talked briefly about fatherhood before Rivera turned the conversation to “the homie” — Pacheco — which had been the previously agreed-upon code that they would be talking about the murder.
Aslanian led Rivera over to his truck and took his cell phone out of his back pocket. He opened the bed of the truck. “Put ‘em in here,” he said and told Rivera to put his phone in it. He then patted Rivera down for a wire, but didn’t feel the one he was wearing.
Rivera showed him the Polaroid.
“That’s him, man. That’s him,” Aslanian said. “He took a picture with a Polaroid camera. You’re kidding me.”
“Fucking shred it,” Aslanian added.
Agents from the bureau raided Aslanian’s home, and he was arrested at his office that afternoon. Agents found more than $50,000, a little more than $100 in Armenian cash and an unregistered “ghost gun” with ammunition. A lawyer for Aslanian later claimed it was a “relic gun” that was “a gift from a soldier that fought in the war.”
Aslanian was jailed almost the entire time between his September arrest and the start of his trial in late June. He pleaded not guilty on all charges.
When he was arrested, his community jumped to his defense. Sixteen people pooled $1.9 million to bail him out. Aslanian petitioned monthly to be released on bond, but the judge declined because of the severity of the allegations and the weight of the evidence. An appellate judge who briefly approved the deal before it was overturned by a circuit court called it the largest bail offer he had seen in 20 years on the bench.
Pacheco and Rivera wrestled with the weight of what they had done. On May 2, having already attempted to kill himself, Pacheco went off the grid. “Good luck finding me, ’cause [I] ain’t never coming back,” he told his bureau handler. “I’ve lost pretty much everything.” As of the beginning of the trial in June, agents still hadn’t found him.
“By showing him a picture of a dead man, we figured we would find out exactly, yes, is this what he wanted or, no, he didn’t want this.”
Rivera, who is now out on bond awaiting sentencing in September, pleaded guilty to several of the charges against him.
In between the arrest and the trial, Rivera further complicated the story, saying that he had hired people to set fire to an L.A. building Aslanian owned. Aslanian bought the 10-unit, bungalow-style building on Hartsook Street in 2018 for $5 million. In 2021, he filed plans to demolish it and build a seven-story, 138-unit project in its place.
On March 18, 2022, there was a fire at the property — the same fire that led investigators to pull his cell phone tower data — and shortly after, he filed an insurance claim (which was denied). During his interview with an insurance investigator, Aslanian said he was under contract to sell the property for $13 million, with a provision that it be empty, but that there were three or four tenants still living there.
Rivera testified against Aslanian, but told the jury he was doing so under duress. He said he still thought of the developer as a friend who came through for him.
Aslanian’s defense attorney Michael Freedman, meanwhile, questioned the reliability of the two men.
Pacheco had six felonies under his belt and had put agents on the trail just as he was facing new felony charges. Rivera used drugs. They never used the words “kill” or “murder” in their taped discussions, the attorney argued, just coded language like “bump off” and “take care of.”
After a six-day trial, the jury found Aslanian guilty on all five counts — three related to the arson, two to the murder for hire.
Aslanian filed for acquittal or a new trial. His attorney argues that the government’s evidence was insufficient and that the jury was not given a clear explanation of what the presence of an informant means to a case.
“The only agreement between Rivera and Mr. Aslanian occurred after Rivera was arrested by law enforcement,” Freedman wrote in the filing. “A defendant cannot conspire with a government informant.”
With a jury’s decision against Aslanian, Freedman will need to successfully argue that the process itself was flawed, that the government, the jury and the prosecution all made mistakes. It’s a tall order. In its motion for acquittal, the defense made clear that it plans to emphasize what it views as a lack of evidence presented surrounding the three arson charges. Arson cases are notoriously difficult to prosecute.
“So much of what arson investigators testify about as opinion evidence is based on junk science,” said Dick DeGuerin, an attorney who has represented some of America’s most famous accused criminals, including Robert Durst and cult leader David Koresh.
Still, DeGuerin said that appeals like this are common, but successful appeals are not.
“It never ceases to amaze me,” said Brafman, “how many murder-for-hire cases end up with the people involved finding a putative murderer who happens to be an undercover police officer.”