I used to write coverage opinions on boiler-and-machinery policies. In other words, some contraption or other would break down -- for example, a boiler at a plant where they process 10,000 turkeys a day into, y'know, turkey parts and turkey bologna and so forth -- and the insurance company wanted to know if their policy really covered the loss, and if they had to pay. The boiler is easy, but other claims are more dicey.
Those of you who read my stuff know, nobody ever has to ask me to 'splain what I mean. And even back in them days, I wrote clearly in what they call "Plain English for Lawyers". I also thought it would be helpful, since we were giving advice on claims worth hundreds of thousands of dollars or more, that I would give some odds, like I"d say "if you deny this claim and the insured files a lawsuit, I estimate you'd have a 75% chance of prevailing in the action".
Sometimes my writing style was a real benefit. Within the first six months after law school, I wrote a summary judgment motion that won a $5 million case, by explaining an insurance policy in language that an 8th grader could understand. Having worked for a federal judge, I knew most of them didn't have a clue about industrial property insurance.
But the managing partner in my office (small regional office of a national firm) couldn't stand the way I wrote coverage opinions on those damned boiler-and-machinery policies, and he was right. He'd tell me never to give odds, and to write mushy and incoherent legalese that never came to any conclusion.
Why was he right? Because the mid-to-upper level insurance guys fell for it every time. They'd read my stuff and they'd be able to understand it perfectly, so they'd think what I'd done was simple and they weren't impressed in the slightest. Then they'd read my boss's shit, and they couldn't understand a word of it, so they decided he was a freakin' genius 'cause he was so much smarter than them.
