Bareback on a Unicorn

By Alan Hilfiker

Dale Petersen is a respected, reliable trusts and estates attorney practicing in Southwest Florida. His idyllic world is shattered when a notorious drug lord, J. Esteban Morales, is executed by a gang in the streets of Miami. Decades earlier, when Dale was a Peace Corps volunteer in Guatemala, he knew Morales as a counterpart and trusted friend. Now, fatefully tasked as executor of Morales’s estate, Dale is in control of a vast, illicit fortune. As he works to carry out Morales’s uncharacteristically charitable wishes and impassioned plea for redemption, he gradually becomes entangled in a web of intrigue involving promises, secrets, and deception. Ultimately, he is forced to confront challenges to his integrity and ethical convictions. Will Dale uphold his character as an esteemed, reputable attorney? Or will he lose himself, forever altered by the complexities of morality, transgression, and temptation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elmcroft Publications
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662939532

Book preview

Chapter One

Dale Petersen sat at his desk slowly stirring his coffee. It was a Saturday morning just after 6:30. Just after Starbucks had opened.

It was his favorite time of the week. No one else in the office. There would be no phone calls. No interruptions. This was a time to catch up on the stack of wills and trusts he’d placed on his credenza for weekend review.

Most people looked to the weekend as a chance to get away from the daily grind of the job. For Petersen, Saturday morning was his most productive time of the week. A time to get caught up.

Before settling into work, he spread out the newspaper on his desk and kicked off his loafers, enjoying the cool sensation of his bare feet on the parqueted office floor. It was part of his Saturday morning ritual: Starbucks and the Naples Daily News (or Daily Snooze, as locals called it) before tackling the pile of wills and trusts.

First, he checked to see how the Tampa Bay Rays had done the night before. Three zip over the Yankees. Wow! At Yankee Stadium, no less. Maybe there’s hope yet, he thought, and checked to see who the Rays played next. Petersen then returned to the front page. The lead story was about a sunken Spanish galleon discovered off the coast of Jamaica. The ship, Isadora, had gone down in the summer of 1587. It had sailed from the Yucatan and reportedly was laden with Mayan gold and other treasures in its hold—now in the hold of the sea.

Fascinating, he thought. That should make for some interesting claims.

Then something else caught his eye, a story just below the fold: Port Royal Man Gunned Down in Miami. That’s pretty bizarre. He was a Naples trusts and estates attorney, his curiosity was piqued and he wondered if it was one of his clients, someone from his stable. After all, there is nothing like a new, big estate to rev up the practice.

Petersen homed in on this article. It wasn’t long, but what it said captured his attention. Thoroughly.

Miami, May 6, 2016 – In a brazen daylight attack, a Naples man was gunned down late Friday afternoon just after leaving the Atlantic States Bank and Trust Company in a hail of gunfire that shattered bank windows and sent customers and bank employees diving for cover.

No one was hurt but the dead man, described as a well-dressed gentleman in his early sixties. Police reports say he was shot at least six times from a car parked outside the bank. He was identified as J. Estaban Morales of Naples. Bank employees said just moments before he was shot he had accessed his safe deposit box and had left the bank carrying an expensive-looking briefcase.

Miami-Dade Police Lieutenant Frank Dominguez speculated the motive for the killing apparently was revenge and not robbery. The killers had stalked Morales, waited in their car illegally parked outside the bank, and then gunned him down as he walked past. Morales’ wallet containing more than $10,000 and an expensive wristwatch were left on his body, but the killers, according to witnesses at the scene, drove off with his briefcase.

Aleides Rivera, the manager of the bank. . . .

J. Estaban Morales. Hmm, that name rings a bell, Petersen thought. He immediately put down the paper and went to his filing cabinet. The damn file’s probably in storage by this time. And sure enough, that was the case.

Son-of-a-bitch. Sometimes, we’re just too efficient for our own benefit. I’ll have to wait until Tuesday, I guess. Melanie can request the file from storage first thing Monday. I suppose they can special order it. Nah, why spend the extra money to special order it? It’s probably not our guy anyway. The name’s intriguing though. The last name sounds familiar. Worth a shot. But don’t get your hopes up.

With that, Petersen went back to his desk. He cut out the article on Morales and stapled it to a sheet from his yellow legal pad. He put the paper in an unmarked folder, which he left in a bare spot on the credenza behind him.

Over the credenza hung a picture of Petersen as an eight-year-old. He was with his father at a shooting range and they were proudly holding rifles on their laps. Each was smiling broadly. Petersen had revered his father and those times spent with him were treasured moments. Particularly at the range where his father had taught him marksmanship. But it was more than marksmanship; his father had instilled life lessons. Lessons like always striving to do better, like never being satisfied and always insisting upon improvement. Goals that Petersen respected but often didn’t quite achieve.

His father had been a decorated World War II hero. He had held off an entire squadron in a small French village known as Annouville from a church belfry—single-handedly picking off the Nazis one by one as they tried to retake the village. His father’s skill and valor enabled Army medics to evacuate twenty-one GIs who had been wounded in the initial fight to take the town. Later, the doctors said that seventeen of those GIs would have died had the medics not been able to get them out when they did.

His father’s Bronze Star award for heroic achievement was mounted in the same frame next to the picture.

Petersen often looked at the photo and the medal.

Today, he studied them once again. Feeling their strength. Their weight.

Then Petersen turned and gazed reflectively out his window at the Gulf of Mexico, again slowly stirring his coffee. The spoon made soft tinkling sounds on the sides of his mug. The coffee generated deep, dark swirls as Petersen stirred.

Petersen did not see the coffee swirls, the vortex they made. He simply continued stirring and gazing out his window.

* * *

The following Tuesday morning, as soon as Petersen’s 10:30 client left, Melanie, the firm’s receptionist, handed him the Morales file. It had just been delivered from Iron Mountain, the file storage company.

Petersen brought it back to his office. He set it on his credenza and resolved to look at it before lunch. Before he could sit down, however, Donna, his secretary, entered and handed him a small pink piece of paper marked URGENT. It was a message advising him that Mrs. Quigley had called. Donna said she sounded rather distressed.

It’s about the fixtures in her powder room. She says they need to be replaced and the condo association says they can’t get the same ones she now has. She’s freaking out that the replacements won’t match what she has in the rest of her unit and she says that’s totally unacceptable.

For that she calls her lawyer?

Yep. She says you can do anything.

Yeah, right! What if I tell her to replace all the fixtures throughout?

I asked her that and she says that’s unacceptable, too. Too expensive.

So she wants to engage a five hundred dollar an hour attorney to solve a plumber’s two hundred dollar total charge, including the house call.

She knows you’ll go easy on her for a small matter like this.

Okay, I’ll call her right away, Petersen sighed. What he didn’t say was: Yeah, you’re right. She always gets a break and it’s my fault, I’ve spoiled her. Oh well . . . on to plumbing fixtures.

And that’s how it went for much of the day. Finally, at 5:20 that afternoon, Petersen found a chance to swivel in his chair, pick up the Morales file and untie the cords of the Redwell folder.

Then it started to come back to him. A tall, well-dressed Latino, quite handsome, with slicked-back dark hair, hints of gray and a thin, pencil-line mustache. The file listed an address on Crow’s Nest Lane in Windjammer Estates, but a note stated he was the owner of a lot in Port Royal where he planned to build. Petersen remembered him saying he had done quite well—he didn’t say at what—and that he wanted to have Petersen handle his estate.

Petersen recalled asking why Morales had chosen him.

You don’t remember, do you? Well, I can’t blame you. It was a long time ago. I know I’ve changed since then. And back then, I went just by my first name. But anyway, let’s just say you helped me out once and I’ve never forgotten it. I couldn’t possibly forget. When I moved to Naples, I saw your name in the program of the Arts Center. I’m an opera lover now. You’re on their board. You’re listed as their legal counsel. And so here I am.

Petersen skimmed the file, took a breath, then looked through the file more comprehensively. There was a sealed envelope stapled to the inside front cover. It was marked:

S.D. box key. Open only with my permission.

Dated April 2, 1999 for DFP.

Petersen opened the envelope. Inside was a smaller red envelope containing a single safe deposit box key. Attached to the red envelope was a typed note.

If anything happens to me, you will be contacted by my faithful housekeeper, Manuela Perez. You should go to Miami and open my safe deposit box. I will leave a letter of instructions and other things for you inside. It is at Atlantic States Bank and Trust Company, 800 Brickell Avenue, Miami, Florida 33131. The contents are quite voluminous. The duplicate key to the box is enclosed. You will need a large briefcase, perhaps two. Thank you once again for your help.

Yours faithfully,

Jesus Estaban Morales

The name Perez rang a bell. Petersen turned back to his desk and looked through the day’s unanswered telephone messages. The fourth one was from M. Perez. He noted the 305 area code. Miami.

Then he picked up the small, red envelope.

* * *

Eight days passed before Petersen could get over to Atlantic States Bank and Trust Company in Miami. First, he had to clear his calendar of appointments. More significantly, he had to get Morales’s will admitted to probate and himself appointed as Morales’s personal representative, the counterpart of an executor under Florida law. Once he had his Letters of Administration—the probate court’s certification of his appointment as personal representative—he would be authorized to open Morales’s safe deposit box. That, plus Morales’s death certificate and, of course, the key to the box.

So it was on a Wednesday afternoon, nearly two weeks after Morales had been gunned down, that Petersen was on Alligator Alley heading toward Miami. He was in no particular hurry; cars and trucks—even pickups pulling large boats—whizzed past him. On almost any other day Petersen would have been out in the passing lane in a hurry to get through the Everglades. But today he was in a pensive mood. The thing that perplexed him was why Morales had selected him to be his personal representative. After all, Morales was only a part-time resident of Naples and he presumably had many more connections in Miami. And, of even greater curiosity, what were the instructions in Morales’s safe deposit box? What was he getting himself into?

Morales had left a typical pour-over will, the type commonly recommended in conjunction with a living trust by most estate planning practitioners in Naples. Pour-overs provide that any assets remaining in the deceased’s name after the payment of debts and taxes be delivered to the trustee, who acts like an executor and carries out the main functions of settling the estate. The living trust specifies how the estate is to be distributed, legacies, beneficiaries, and other details. The trust itself is not part of the probate court file—not subject to public inspection—and, therefore, its provisions remain confidential.

Morales’s living trust simply provided that the successor trustee—Petersen—was to distribute assets to beneficiaries referred to in a separate signed document executed by Morales in his own handwriting. It had been witnessed and notarized and would be secured in the safe deposit box. The living trust set forth that the distributions were to be solely at Petersen’s discretion and not subject to review by any court or challenge by any third party.

What will the separate writing say? Petersen thought. Who are the designated beneficiaries? How much money was involved? Was the separate writing in compliance with Florida law? Is this anything I want to get involved with?

As he walked from the parking lot to the bank, Petersen noted the windows that had been shot out twelve days before. One was still boarded up and workmen were replacing another as he walked by.

Inside the bank, Petersen presented his papers to the safe deposit clerk. She raised her eyebrows when she saw the name, J. Estaban Morales, on the death certificate and the official court papers. Petersen noted her reaction; and, trying to make light of the situation, he said, I guess he caused some excitement around here recently.

The clerk, a woman named Rosella, told him that several bullets had penetrated the bank and struck the wood paneling just above the tellers’ windows. Everyone—customers and employees—had panicked, but fortunately no one inside was hurt.

A lot of screams and palpitating hearts, she said. And one teller who banged her head ducking down behind the counter. Poor Mr. Morales, she added. What a tragedy. Such a nice, polite gentleman he was. So kind and soft spoken. He always gave the most to the charitable drives we sponsor here from time to time. He even pledged $10.00 per mile for each of us who walked in the March of Dimes walk last month. Imagine that! Ten dollars for what’s normally ten cents a mile! I guess he had a different understanding of a ‘dime’. I certainly hope they catch the men who did it.

* * *

Box 460 was a small and flat. It was approximately three inches high, twelve to thirteen inches wide, and perhaps eighteen inches long. The kind that could store unfolded legal documents. Petersen was surprised; he had expected something much larger. After all, the note Morales had typed seventeen years earlier advised him the contents were voluminous and he would need a large briefcase, perhaps even two. Something must have changed. Well, at least I’ll be able to fit the contents in one of these briefcases, he thought, wondering if he wouldn’t look a little foolish carrying two.

When he opened the box, Petersen found three manila folders. The one on top contained a handwritten letter to him from Morales. At first, Petersen only skimmed the letter the way one does with mail from an unfamiliar source. It took just a few lines, however, for him to slow down and more carefully absorb each word.

April 5, 1999

Dear Dale,

Based upon my recent visit to your office, I do not believe that you recognized me and therefore you cannot know the impact that you have had upon my life.

I can’t blame you for not recognizing me. It was quite some time ago when we knew each other, and it was under completely different circumstances. Besides, my appearance certainly has changed. My face required significant reconstruction and plastic surgery after my accident. Furthermore, I did not wish to refresh your recollection when we met as it would have raised too many questions. So, I will do so now in this letter.

The events I describe occurred many years ago, on August 27, 1980. And they occurred far away from Florida and far apart from what are now our comfortable lives. You simply knew me by my given name, Jesus, which for business reasons I no longer use. I cannot remember if you ever knew my last name, Morales, as last names were not necessary in those days and in those circumstances.

I was twenty-six when we first met and, as I recall, you were about twenty-two. You were a Peace Corps volunteer at the Finca del Huerfano orphanage in Guatemala. I had been one of the orphans there myself; but when you and I met, I was a laborer there. As you hopefully will recall, we became quite friendly. One night, after a bit of tequila, we vowed our friendship would be a lifetime bond, that we would be brothers in spirit if not in blood. It was a betrothal of sorts, a pledge of loyalty and a melding of our souls. We also pledged that if one of us ever needed help, the other would come to his aid no matter what.

We had no money and we didn’t care. Later, of course, that would change. At least for me. I remember well how we would drink together and talk. Man, did we ever talk! Into the early morning hours. About all manner of personal, soul-searching things . . . what we wanted our lives to be . . . how you had just graduated college and were planning on going to law school after the Peace Corps, and then go into practice, most likely with your father in Naples. I talked about how I would like to continue my education and perhaps even go to college myself. I am pleased to say that I did when I got to Miami a few years later.

I hope you have not forgotten what you did for me the evening of August 27th that summer. I know I never will. It would be impossible for me to forget the horrible events of that evening—at least those up to the time I lost consciousness. Nor can I ever thank you enough for what you did for me afterward.

You saved my life, my brother. Not my so-called Guatemalan friends, men I’d grown up with, who lived with me at the orphanage, went to school with and later worked with at the farm. They would have left me lying there in the parking lot for dead. In fact, one of them later told me he thought I already was dead when you came out of La Casa Diablo, as I believe the bar was called. You remember that awful dive we’d go to, the only one in the village? You saw me lying there on the dirt of the parking lot, hemorrhaging from the machete wounds. My so-called friends afterward told me that everyone believed there was no point in even trying to help me, let alone drive forty-five miles to the hospital in Santa Elena in that decrepit old VW van to try and save me. But you, Dale, you applied a tourniquet to my arm and stopped the bleeding there. There was nothing you could do about the side of my head and the slashing of my face. But, with the help of one of our coworkers, Navaro Salazar, you loaded me into that old, beat-up VW van the Finca had and drove off.

Navaro told me all of this after he came to work for me. How you were the only one who gave me a chance, how you had to plead with Navaro to help you. The others were afraid of Renato and his gang who nearly murdered me, scared they might return and take it out on them. But you were not afraid. Or, if you were, you overcame any fear.

So, my brother, I owe my life to you. What you did for me and why, I cannot fully comprehend to this day.

Often, I have asked myself this simple question: would I have done the same for you? And often I have answered: I doubt I would have, despite our pledge to one another. I doubt that anyone would have done so. That is, anyone but you.

It is for this reason, as well as our pledge, that I am asking you now to do one more important thing for me. You are the only person I have met in my entire life I know I can trust. You are the only one who has proven worthy of my trust. So, I ask you for one more service. In the event of my death, I ask that you be my Trustee and carry out the wishes I have expressed in the folder that accompanies this letter.

I have many amends to make for things I have done since those days at the Finca del Huerfano when we were young and innocent. You saved my life once; now I ask your help in redeeming it.

Everlasting in your debt,

JEMorales

Jesus Estaban Morales

When he finished reading the letter, Petersen put it down and stared for the longest time at the little room’s plain blank wall in front of him.

Several minutes later, he opened the second folder.

The second folder contained a handwritten journal of sorts: dates, amounts of cash, surnames—mostly Hispanic—payments and balances due, with cumulative totals of accounts receivable and deposits made. Occasionally, a crude black line had been drawn through a name and the balance due either marked Settled or crossed off. Totals for the column were listed at the bottom of each page and the pages were inserted in reverse order chronologically. That way, Petersen conjectured, Morales could open the journal to the most recent statement of his accounts.

The last entry was dated March 29, 2016 and the cumulative total of deposits was $263,758,000. That, presumably, was the total of Morales’s accounts. Anything less than $1,000 apparently wasn’t worth counting.

Again, Petersen stopped and gazed at the wall.

Finally, he opened the third folder. The outside was labeled Instructions. It had originally been dated April 1, 1999, but that date was crossed off and another date, September 26, 2003 had been handwritten underneath. That date, too, was crossed out and a third date written under the second. That date was March 23, 2005, apparently the last time Morales updated his instructions.

The instructions were clear and straightforward.

My dear brother whom I trust, please do the following on my behalf:

1. First, please establish a trust for the Finca del Huerfano in my name and yours as follows:

a.) The money I have saved and which is held in various accounts—which I will explain later—is to be the principal of the Finca del Huerfano Trust.

b.) Please invest these funds. For the time being, I have simply maintained them in cash equivalents so they will generate some income. I would like for you to distribute the income to the Finca del Huerfano to be used for its general purposes and benefit, but I ask that you check with, and personally visit, the Finca periodically to be sure the funds are being spent wisely. Principal may also be spent for worthy purposes such as improvements to the structures, needed vehicles and equipment, computers for the children, and medical needs, such as a clinic, etc.

2. Ensure that funds are not used for excessive salaries or perks for the administrative personnel. You, as a man of the world, surely know that graft, corruption, greed and temptation exist everywhere, but it is particularly strong and thriving in my native country. Hopefully, however, not at the Finca del Huerfano. Nevertheless, be strong as I know you are and ask questions, tough questions. I do not want the Finca to receive more than it needs. If the funds we will be providing are excessive, they will lose their incentive to work hard, make the farm productive and raise funds on their own.

3. If you believe the circumstances are such that the funds cannot be used by the Finca as you and I knew it when we were there, and your belief is well justified and corroborated, then you may keep the funds for your own personal use as a reward for saving my life.

4. Also, please give to Navaro Salazar the sum of Twenty-five Thousand Dollars US ($25,000). Navaro has worked for me for many years following our days at the Finca. He has been a faithful and loyal employee. He is employed at a hospital in Guatemala City. His contacts at the hospital have been extremely helpful in my business.

5. I have set up three accounts for you at the Barfield Bank and Trust Company in the Cayman Islands. My contacts there are Mr. J. Albert Harrington, President and Ms. Constance W. Peters, Vice President. These accounts are just the starting points of the financial arrangements I have constructed so that my funds will be kept secret and so that the authorities who track the flow of significant funds these days will not be able to trace mine. I am telling you this because I know you are my lawyer and that you will be honor-bound to keep the information I impart in the strictest confidence.

6. There is one other item to note. It pertains to the island country of Dominica. Dominica will issue passports to people for a fee. If you ever need a new passport, say, if you need to change your identity for some reason, Dominica may be able to assist.

7. All my financial records are in the safe deposit box in the Barfield Bank; and, as I have said, you will have easy access to this box as a designated officer of the LLC that I have set up. You will find the LLC papers in the safe deposit box.

8. Barfield Bank has your pertinent biographical information, namely a copy of your driver’s license and your social security card. I took a photo of these on my cell phone when I was in your office. In that regard, may I suggest that in the future you be more careful where you hang your jacket—or perhaps that you not keep your wallet in your jacket. This information really was quite easy for me to obtain and I assume it could be for others as well.

In conclusion, as I mentioned in my letter April 5, 1999 to you, I have many amends to make and much to atone for. I am trusting that you will help me to do so.

Yours forever grateful,

JEMorales

Jesus Estaban Morales

March 23, 2005

P.S. For your expenses, I am providing you with $5,000,000 in cash, held in a second safe deposit box in Atlantic States Bank and Trust Company in Palm Beach. This fund is unrestricted and to be used at your discretion. The box is in our joint names so, if anything happens to me, you will be able to access it. The key to this box is in the attached envelope. Your signature on their records is not really yours, of course. But it is a close facsimile, forged based upon your signature on your letters to me.

JEM

After carefully placing the three folders in his briefcase, along with the envelope containing the key to the second safe deposit box, Petersen took the empty box out to Rosella. He signed the paperwork to release the box and terminate the contract.

He thanked Rosella once again and turned to leave. Before he left the bank, however, he phoned his office and told Donna to cancel his appointments for the next day, that he had an urgent matter to attend to in Palm Beach and wouldn’t be in until late in the day, if at all.

But Mrs. Richards called and says she has to see you first thing in the morning tomorrow. Something about a unitrust someone wants to create for the benefit of the Arts Center. She’s meeting the donor at noon.

Tell her she’ll have to wait. No, we can’t tell her that . . . tell her I’ve got to be out of town but I’ll call first thing in the morning, Petersen responded.

* * *

Petersen headed north on I-95 toward Palm Beach. The traffic was ferocious, much worse than in Naples. Even during The Season.

He got as far as the Hallandale Beach exit and decided to pull off and get a motel room for the night. He needed to collect his thoughts.

* * *

The following morning, Petersen drove to Palm Beach. He stood, briefcase in hand, at the doors of the Atlantic States Bank and Trust Company when it opened at 9:00.

Sure enough, the safe deposit box was stuffed with Benjamins, in neatly bundled packs of $100 bills. Petersen had never seen anything like it. This only happens in the movies, he thought.

There was too much cash for Petersen to fit in the one briefcase he’d brought. He was glad the second briefcase was in his car. He closed the box, went out to his car and returned with the second oversized briefcase. What had been an embarrassment to him the day before clearly wasn’t an embarrassment today; it was a necessity.

Petersen sat a full twenty minutes in his car before turning on