Illegal Procedure, a Legal Thriller

By Jon Niemeyer

Illegal Procedure is a legal thriller in the spirit of Grisham and Turow, but with a spiritual twist, similar to Robert Whitlow’s recent novels. The story touches upon timely legal issues such as insider trading, sports agency law, NCAA violations, murder and deceit. Two young lawyers at a large, top-notch Cincinnati firm are burned out and seeking to escape being “chained to the billable hour”. Only one, Stan Jefferies, finds a way out, beginning his own sports agency practice, while his best friend Ryan Simmons hunkers down and works even harder to succeed at the firm.

Initially, things appear to be a smashing success for Stan, as he draws upon his contacts and relationships with his alma mater Ohio A&M, a college football powerhouse, to snag as clients two potential top 10 picks in the upcoming NFL draft. But, how is he bankrolling his plush new offices and staff of attorneys?

Ryan, desperate to appease his young family's desire for more of him, blindly follows Stan into his new practice. Initially, Ryan is elated to once again be the husband and father God called him to be, but his newfound life is crushed when another lawyer turns up dead, and he is unexpectedly arrested for murder and insider trading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Niemeyer
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476367316

Jon Niemeyer

Jon Niemeyer is the chief legal officer of a Fortune 500 company based in Cincinnati, Ohio. Jon earned an undergraduate degree from the University of Kentucky in Political Science, and graduated from the University of Kentucky College of Law, where he was admitted to the Order of the Coif honor society and served on the editorial board of the Kentucky Law Journal. He has served on various boards and committees at his church and with other charities in Cincinnati, and has coached his kids’ teams in basketball and football. Jon resides in Cincinnati with his wife and two children, and is an avid skier, runner and UK sports fan.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE.

Tuesday, April 7, 2014 — Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky Airport

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Ryan Simmons, newly minted sports agent, partner at Jefferies & Simmons, Attorneys at Law, and recommitted Christian, departed the plane at the Greater Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky airport and looked forward to seeing his family in Cincinnati, his home. He had just had a wonderful weekend at the NCAA Final Four in Atlanta with his gregarious partner and best friend Stan Jefferies.

The gate was jammed with people. Ryan strained his neck to see what was causing the backup, and was greeted with quite an unusual sight for the relatively sleepy Delta hub in the Cincinnati airport. There were Boone County Sheriffs, Cincinnati Police, Northern Kentucky/Greater Cincinnati Airport Police, Kentucky State Police and what looked to be FBI agents eyeing all of those departing the flight.

Although there had been an increase in airport security due to the 9-11 terrorist attacks in 2001, Ryan was curious what warranted such a show of force. As Ryan approached the top of the ramp, the throngs of law enforcement personnel converged on him, quickly placed handcuffs on him and read him his Miranda rights.

Mr. Simmons, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . . ., said a gruff and disheveled plain clothes detective. New York accent. FBI?

What! Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke?, demanded Ryan.

No one spoke to Ryan further, and he quickly realized that this was real — and serious. He’d been arrested by the calvary. Feds, not just locals. But why?

As he was led through Concourse B to the tram, people openly ogled his entourage. He’d never felt as guilty and judged at any time in his life. He walked with his head down and his arms cuffed behind him for what seemed like hours. These people didn’t know him, but the stares pierced through his soul. He was obviously guilty of something serious — otherwise he wouldn’t be handcuffed and accompanied by a veritable cornucopia of cops from every jurisdiction imaginable.

He felt violated, and tried in vain to keep his poise. He couldn’t hold it together as a stray tear seeped from his left eye. He couldn’t reach his shoulder to wipe it away, and it only added to his shame. He vowed not to permit another to drop. They had broken him with this perp walk through the airport.

Abby, his soul mate, confidant and wife of seven years, and his two beautiful kids were waiting in the baggage area for Ryan to return. Josh and Erika were ready to bound into their father’s arms, but instead they were greeted by the sight of Ryan being whisked quickly out to a waiting convoy of black Suburbans with tinted windows with dozens of marked cars as bookends.

Ryan, no! What is happening! Why are they doing this? screamed Abby, as they hauled Ryan away. Ryan was speechless, but managed finally to blurt out, It’ll be ok, honey. I’ve done nothing wrong. Please tell the kids Daddy has done nothing wrong!

Ryan bit his lip and grimaced at the thought of his family viewing such a grisly scene. Abby, crying in disbelief, scampered after, with their sobbing kids in tow.

Daddy, Daddy, pleeeasssee, come back! Let my Daddy go!, screamed Erika, and then silence engulfed Ryan as he was shoved into the back seat of one of the Suburbans and the reinforced steel and bulletproof door slammed his life shut.

CHAPTER TWO.

The Cincinnati municipal detention center was on the corner of Broadway and Central Avenues, just North of the major business district. Ryan had had a rough afternoon. He’d been fingerprinted and processed and allowed a phone call. He called his partner Stan out of instinct, but realized quickly that the phone call was wasted. Stan was in Atlanta until Wednesday.

He thought of calling Abby, but knew she was likely already in the detention center, waiting for the opportunity to bail him out. Her mobile phone would have no coverage in the building — it was a fortress. Instead, he buffered the questions of the FBI and Cincinnati P.D. alone. Heck, he was a lawyer. He could handle it.

The authorities were not happy and the questioning was intense. These guys were pros, and they wore Ryan down. After all, he was a corporate lawyer, not a criminal defense attorney, and he was only 32 years old — wet behind the ears. He was an easy target.

The lead investigator was an FBI agent named Gil Rodriguez. Agent Rodriguez was 55 years old, 22 of them spent with the FBI, and was built like a 20 year-old Olympic gymnast. He was only about 5’9" tall, but Ryan thought he could have manhandled anyone in the room — maybe all of them.

His hair was dark brown and cropped short, and his square jaw betrayed his military training. He was intimidating and practiced in the craft of interrogation, and Ryan was struggling to hold his own. And, after two hours of Ryan’s denials mixed with silence, Rodriguez was losing his patience with this young corporate lawyer.

He left his seat opposite Ryan and stepped back from the table. Rodriguez started to pace slowly around the room, including behind Ryan, which unnerved him. He hadn’t raised his voice over the last couple of hours, but his queries were direct and firm.

Mr. Simmons, again, I know you weren’t in town, but we have a dead attorney on our hands here. You knew her well — you worked with her at your former law firm, Alexander, Trimble & David. She had both paper and electronic stock transfer records in her apartment and on her work and home computers, and on her iPad and iPhone opened in your name, using your social security number. Then she turns up dead when you’re conveniently out of town.

We checked the stock records, and we found that these accounts clearly traded on material nonpublic information about a dozen or so AT&D public company clients, morphing just $100,000 into a $2.7 million cash horde in just three months. My God son. How do you explain this?

Ryan was fatigued. He was famished. He longed for Abby’s soft touch, her sweet voice. He thought of his mother. He felt like a lost child. Please someone, somewhere. He wanted out. His eyes darted around the room. This cannot be happening. He tried to calm himself. He took three deep breaths and regained a bit of his mettle. He was innocent. He had nothing to fear. This has to be a mistake. $2.7 million?

A deep, powerful and reassuring voice resonated through the small room — peace. Ryan spun his head around and saw nothing. He was alone. He bowed his head and closed his eyes tightly. He prayed again — then the voice once more — peace, peace be with you Ryan. Ryan knew he wasn’t imagining the voice. It was real, at least to him. He felt warm, reassured, calm. He looked at his hands. He’d stopped shaking. His breathing was measured. He swallowed hard.

Hello, Simmons? Snap out of it. Answer me, demanded Rodriguez.

In a measured but still shaky voice, Ryan addressed the imposing group of officials which surrounded him. Mr. Rodriguez, I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I’m answering all your questions truthfully. If my answers aren’t sufficient, then I will be happy to remain silent until I can secure counsel. I’m speaking freely because I have nothing to hide. As I’ve said, I had a purely working relationship with Megan Kraft. I’m very very sorry and saddened to hear about her death, but I simply didn’t have anything to do with it. I have no online trading accounts. I have no stockholdings other than mutual funds for my kids’ college funds and my 401(k) fund. You simply have the wrong guy. I don’t know what else to say.

Rodriguez slammed his open hand on the aged oak table, bent over and scowled at Ryan.

That is crap Simmons. Crap! You’re lying to me and wasting my time here! These answers suck! I’m going to give you a few minutes. I’ll be back. You think about your fate young man. You’d do yourself more good to come clean.

Ryan was shaking once again after Rodriguez and his team departed the interrogation room in a huff. There were no windows, just the standard two way glass, the ancient oak table and three chairs. Ryan knew he was being watched. He bit his lip to keep the tears from flowing once again.

Just when his life was real again, just when he recaptured his family and became a father and husband again, now this. He felt helpless and alone, and he was tired of the questions. He thought of Josh and Erica and his eyes welled up with tears again. But, Rodriquez and his posse were watching him, and he held himself together.

To beat this thing, he knew he’d have to morph his fear into anger, or at least indignation. He needed to focus. Ryan closed his eyes, tipped his head and prayed silently for strength. Toward the end he repeated over and over to himself — I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

He heard it once more — peace — and the warm stillness overcame him again, and he decided at that point to proceed with steely resolve — to tuck away his emotions and instead rely on his intellect and his faith. The room then seemed distant to Ryan, as if he were viewing the setting from behind the two-way mirror; like he was watching himself on film. He could feel his heart beating steadily, but at a rapid pace. He was ready.

Rodriguez returned fifteen minutes later, and his face revealed severe agitation. However, Ryan surmised it was an act. Why would he believe Ryan, an attorney, would crack in the first interview?

Mr. Simmons, are we ready to pick this up once more?, glared Rodriguez.

No, Mr. Rodriguez. I’m done here. I refuse to answer any further questions until I secure legal counsel.

Rodriguez wasn’t surprised. He frankly was amazed Ryan had endured as much as he had without requesting the presence of his attorney. Fine Simmons. We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Better move fast. Rodriguez spun around and marched out, followed by his minions, none of whom had yet to speak.

CHAPTER THREE

Ryan was led to his cell by a huge woman who had handled detainees much more dangerous and experienced with this walk than Ryan. She eyed him curiously, as if he were not welcomed or expected, but said nothing. She pointed to an 8’ by 8 room with a toilet, a sink and one bunk and motioned him in. She slammed the massive steel door shut behind him with a dense thud.

He had a 4 inch by 24 inch slit of a window through which he could see the Cincinnati business district. He’d worked in two of those buildings since graduating from law school seven years earlier. But, he’d never even been in the courthouse in downtown Cincinnati, let alone the detention center. Corporate lawyers didn’t venture into this world. It was so foreign to him, yet so real, and now so cold.

He knew Abby would bail him out soon enough, so he plopped onto his bunk and buried his head in his pillow. He was determined not to crack, but to pray, as he waited out this nightmare. As he began to pray in earnest, his mind drifted back just a few months prior. Back when he had drifted from his faith, from Abby and from his kids. He’d almost lost everything. And just when he’d regained it all, and recommitted his life to his marriage, to his family, and first and foremost, to Christ. . . . was it all to be lost once again?

CHAPTER FOUR

September 22, 2013 — Ryan’s Home In Madeira

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I can’t do this anymore Ryan. I just can’t, cried Abby. You said you’d be home three hours ago. Another dinner wasted. Another night the kids waited up for daddy. You promised Josh and Erica you’d be home. You were going to teach Josh to ride his bike. He’s crushed. Abby’s eyes bulged with water, and one stray tear trickled down her left cheek.

Ryan’s eyes, as usual, darted away. Ryan, please listen to me? Do you care about me? Our children? We don’t even know you anymore. I’m not sure Erica has ever known you, she pleaded. I want my husband back. The kids want their daddy.

His head down, exhausted, Ryan spoke more to the kitchen floor than to Abby. Look Abby, I’m tired. I’ve worked fourteen hours today and billed thirteen. The last thing I need is this grief. I’m trying to hold things together. You try being me. Ryan didn’t raise his voice in the least. He was playing Abby for some sympathy, as if she had any left.

Ryan, you’re doing this for you, not for me, not for Josh and not for Erica. This is all about your ego, your ambition. Don’t get me wrong. I want you to be successful. I want you to love your work, and I appreciate your hard work for our family, but we have no life. I married my best friend, and what we have now is just a shred of that relationship. What do I have to do to convince you to leave that sweatshop? I’ll get a job; we can downsize, anything to get you out of there, pleaded Abby.

Ryan shook his head and walked away. Abby sprinted upstairs crying. Ryan shrugged it off and walked into the kitchen. Months earlier he’d chase her upstairs, pleading with her to understand his predicament. He didn’t want to work so much, but he had no choice. Abby had heard it all before, and he didn’t even make the effort anymore.

Where did things go so wrong? His marriage was falling apart. His life was spinning out of control. The only constant was work. He knew he was a heckuva good attorney, and he enjoyed his craft. Was that so wrong? Although he saw a lot of truth in Abby’s words, he remained steadfast in his belief that he was working 80 hours a week for his family. Abby and the kids would have it all, not the uncertain and wanting childhood he’d lived. They wouldn’t struggle financially; they wouldn’t borrow to go to college; they would go to the best schools and live in safe suburbia. Ryan was providing the American Dream to his family, and all Abby did was complain.

Ryan wandered into the kitchen. He opened his newly installed wine cellar/fridge, popped the cork on a $40 bottle of California chardonnay and poured himself a sizable glass. He leaned against his new cabinets and surveyed the room. The kitchen had just undergone a gorgeous remodeling job, all due to Abby’s efforts. Ryan was home so little that he rarely even saw a contractor on the project. The kitchen had just miraculously morphed, little by little,