John Evrard
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The me-first atmosphere of Chicago in the 1980's, the strange but thriving locale of the London Insurance Market with its center at the world-renowned Lloyd's of London, a treacherous man-made lake in rural Arkansas--these are the primary settings for this novel of ambition, power, incompetence, and betrayal. Into this milieu the brilliant but flawed attorney David Tatersall thrusts himself. His goals are to succeed the iron-fisted Ford Sadler as their firm's chairman and to become the favorite of Derek Glanville, a man who loves bird-watching, poetry and the finer things, but is also the firm's dominant client and the current acknowledged "insurance genius" of the centuries-old London Market. Tatersall strives to reach these goals with his best friend and partner Jack Rogers at his side.
But Tatersall's plans and the firm itself are jeopardized when Sadler designates his own choice for successor, the scheming, bullying, obsequious Clifford Riggs, a move bitterly opposed by nearly all the other partners and ultimately by Derek Glanville himself. When Riggs bungles a major case from Glanville, who then pulls millions of dollars of business out of the firm, Sadler suddenly breaks down, and Jack Roger's own plans, which he conceals until the last minute, change drastically. Tatersall is stunned to discover that Rogers' designs no longer include him, although the two had worked closely together for over twenty years.
Through all of this Tatersall turns radically inward, and with the help of his confidant and lover Claire Loomis, he examines anew how human vanity can lead to self-deception and erode the closest of friendships. With Claire he comes to see that personal loyalties can blind good judgement, thrawt rational decisions and throw the lives of many bystanders into turmoil. He also learns that he must question the very foundations of professional commitment: the jobs, the choices and even the moral decisions that chart our career opportunities but also require us to dedicate the best years of our lives in ways we may later irrevocably regret.
John Evrard tells these interwoven stories of working lawyers and their clients as flesh and blood people, not as cardboard characters who happen to fit the stereotypes. He demonstrates just how difficult honest, effective lawyering can be, and he shows, even amid the triumphs and riches, the heavy price it exacts on body and soul.
For sixteen years, John Evrard practiced law with a major Chicago law firm. His cases took him to courtrooms throughout the United States as well as on assignments abroad. He has published numerous law reviews and other articles, and he has provided editorial assistance for several books on international and comparative law. In 1998, Evrard retired from his legal practice in order to devote himself full-time to writing. He is currently at work on several projects, including a novel tentatively titled Poisoned Water, a book of poetry, and a book on the international protection of human rights. Evrard lives in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, with his wife and two children.
Someone was trying to kick
down David's door. He was
shouting. David's watch said five
a.m. He believed it was Sunday morning. He lurched from his chair and staggered down
the hall, not sure if he was awake, absorbed at seeing the screws that held
down the lock now loosening from the door.
Then David recognized the voice.
It was Jack Rogers. He couldn't
count how many times Jack had disturbed him in the middle of the night. It was one of those things he'd gotten used
to as Jack's best friend, so he stopped trying to keep Jack away. But until now, Jack hadn't tried to kick
down his door. David told him to
wait. He would let him in. Two more tremendous slams like
boulders. He guessed Jack hadn't
heard. The screws pulled out. Suddenly, from the side that used to hinge,
the door creaked slowly open. Jack
stood there quietly in his raincoat. He
hadn't changed clothes since Friday and looked like he'd lived the last twenty-four
hours in a garbage dump. Smelled like
it too. He hadn't slept much either. His eyes were carbuncles.
"Come on in,
Jack." David said softly. Jack treaded silently past him into the
living room. David's neighbors called
the police and gathered in the hallway.
In their fuzzy shoes, terrycloth robes and curlers, they looked like
giant hairballs. Someone let the
officers in, and they were grumping up the stairs. Two of them. Much too
burly for a job like this.
The landlord followed them
from his garden apartment. He said
there's never been a disturbance in his building. Never.
David apologized to the
neighbors and told them and the police the noise was all his fault because he
was sleeping too soundly. Things would
be quiet from now on, he promised.
David had no idea how slurred his voice was. He also agreed to pay for the door Rogers had just
demolished. His look asked everyone if
they were satisfied. The cops were
easiest to convince. They passed around
the same look. David's neighbors
shrugged and went back inside. One cop
said to David to get him to bed, and the other said stay off the roads. They left.
Still wearing his raincoat,
Jack slumped in an armchair. A hissing
silence filled the living room. He held
his head in his hands, a melon on a pillow, his elbows on his knees.
David made coffee and sat
beside him. He thought: Old men before
our time. Both of us. Broken.
Profoundly older than true old men who are never broken. A couple of second-hand sofas consigned to
the basement.
The law partners tried to
talk as the sun rose.
