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Notes from the Breadline: I Have My Freedom, But I Don’t Have Much Time (Part II)

Notes from the Breadline Roxana St Thomas.jpgEd. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email, at roxanastthomas@gmail.com, or find her on Facebook.

This is the second part of a two-part column. Check out the first part here.

As if the fruitless job search were not enough, there are also a host of other matters to attend to in my remaining days, which are passing quickly. I need to figure out unemployment, COBRA, what will happen to my 401(k), and whether to continue my life insurance. Clients have to be dealt with, cases must be delegated, and files need to be put in order. For better or worse, I do not have many cases to wrap up, but I worry inordinately about the few that are left.

I worry, for example, about Mr. Rodriguez, an incredibly sweet man who insists on calling me “Miss Roxana.” The matter we have been handling for him threatened the survival of his family’s business, but when I last met with him — the day before I was laid off — I told him I thought we were close to a resolution. I know that another lawyer will do a good job of handling his case, but I can’t help but worry that my unexplained departure will rob him of some peace of mind. I don’t know what to tell my clients and co-counsel; since I am trying to play nice, I feel that I should be sensitive to the “message” the firm wants to convey. They haven’t announced that they are doing layoffs, so I am faced with an unpalatable choice: either tell people myself (and reveal the dirty secret of our economic infirmity), or disappear without a trace (leaving the clients and attorneys with whom I work to wonder whether I did something to precipitate my sudden exit — for example, fucking up a case, like theirs).

In one of my cases, discovery is set to begin just after I am laid off. It seems like a logical time to pass it on to someone else, who will be able to revel in the joy of interrogatories and discovery demands long after I am gone. I relate this to the partner, and ask him whether he wants to talk to the client about the situation before I explain to them that someone else will be playing the part of Roxana from now on. Although it’s a tiny matter, worth $100,000 at best, he tells me that he’ll be handling it himself. Clearly, times are tough.

That night, I also think about the client, with whom I have a good relationship. Why shouldn’t I be straight with him? Why should he have to wonder whether his case was in good hands? And why should I have to slink away without an explanation, as though I did something wrong? The next morning I email the partner to tell him that I’d like to talk to the client, explain my departure, and say goodbye. A few hours later, I have heard nothing in response, so I call him. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” the partner says breezily. “I talked to them already.” I ask him what he said. “I told them that you decided to ‘move along,’ if you know what I mean,” he answers.

No rest for the recently unemployed, after the jump.

No, I think, I don’t know what you mean. His answer rubs me the wrong way, and I have an urge to call the client and tell him that, as it happens, I did not “decide to ‘move along,’” and, as a matter of fact, that I was let go because the firm is a sinking ship that can’t afford to pay its associates. I refrain, but the incident leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

But I have little time to stew. As the clock ticks down, I am pelted with a steady stream of requests for meetings, memos, timesheets, and other nuisances. I grow increasingly resentful; I am trying to look for a new job, and with each passing day I care less about the firm’s administrative needs. I didn’t ask to be laid off, I tell Giovanna; why do I have to spend so much time making their lives easier?

Among the things that I do care about is insurance, or, specifically, making sure that I have some. As I enter the final week, I still have not spoken to the woman who handles benefits, notwithstanding a concerted effort to do so that is beginning to resemble stalking. I call, I email, I stop by her office… and yet, she eludes me. Finally, I manage to make an appointment to see her on a Friday afternoon.

When I get to her office, she is on the phone. Although she assumes an authoritative tone when I walk in, it is clear that she is talking to a friend. “I’ll, um, touch base with you later about that, um, matter we discussed,” she says to the person on the other end, as though unaware that the sudden, overly formal recitation of non-sequiturs translates almost literally into, “and then, I was like, “Omigod, you did NOT say that!” Irritated, I have the urge to remind her that, if she really wants to pretend to be immersed in work, the “minimize” function on the computer can make zappos.com virtually invisible to the naked eye.

I sit down across from her and she begins to hand me forms: my 401(k) can stay where it is, she tells me (to which I can’t help responding that it has no place else to go), and, if I choose, I can continue to pay for my own life insurance. Then she hands me the COBRA election form. “COBRA is going to be $798 a month,” she tells me calmly. I feel something snap, and the rest of her words blur. “That’s ridiculous,” I interrupt. “I can’t afford that.”

“Yeah,” she says blandly. “We have an expensive health plan.” Are there any other options? I ask her. Is there anything that someone with no income, which will be me in a week’s time, can do to stay insured? I know that I am being obnoxious, but I pummel her with questions anyway. “I really don’t know what to say,” I tell her finally, and can almost see her thinking, “I wish!” I snatch the forms from her and walk out of the office.

This is the moment that I shift perceptibly, and gracelessly, from denial to anger. At first I am angry at myself for thinking that I could expect anything from these people, and for believing, even for a split-second, that if I showed enough decorum and diligence they might be inclined to cushion my fall. Then I am angry at them, for throwing me — us — out, in the worst market in recent history, like moldy cheese. I get it! I feel like screaming; you don’t need associates to work on the cases you don’t have, and you want to cut your losses before the partners’ precious distributions start to shrink. But the firm is not going under tomorrow; they did not have to pile us up and set us adrift, like dead Vikings. Actually, I think, dead Vikings fared better: at least they were sent to their next destination with booty.

Although I know that I am not capable of engaging in rational discussion, I storm up to the assignment partner’s office. I don’t care how uncomfortable I make him; I want him to look me in the eye and tell me that the firm stands by its decision to let us go with a mere two weeks to prepare. I want him to hear himself say something so patently ridiculous. Mostly, I want him to feel as bad as I do right now. Two weeks ago, I had a career. Now I have no job, no way to support myself, and health insurance that I won’t be able to afford.

Alas, the assignment partner is not in. I stalk down the hall to the department’s chair’s office; she is not there either. I go back to my office and slam the door, seething. I start to compose an email; if I can’t make them uncomfortable in person, perhaps I can do so via BlackBerry, while they are sitting in a deposition. If nothing else, I can enjoy the perverse thrill of interrupting a good game of Brick Breaker.

I have a sudden flash of clarity, during which I question the wisdom of dashing off an indignant e-mail that I will be unable to retract later if I think better of it. I should count to ten, or wait a day, or do something calm and measured, I tell myself. But the thought is fleeting; I am too angry to care. The need to express this kind of animosity is like taking a shit; if you don’t do it, you’ll explode, even if the product of your relief is something you would never want to put in your pocket.

I write the partners an email in which I tell them exactly what I think and what I want from the firm. I reread it when I am done, softening its sharp edges and emphasizing my plea for a little more assistance, a little help with my COBRA payments, a little more time to look for work. Then I send it and leave the office. What can they do? I think. Fire me?

Anyone who has worked at a law firm has experienced the BlackBerry’s insidious shackles: no matter where you are, what you are doing, or how important it is, technology has given partners the power to reach through cyberspace and deliver a (typically ill-timed) electronic bummer. Out on hike? Attending a baby shower? Watching a rare solar eclipse? The blinking red light on your BlackBerry is there to remind you that your after-hours freedom is merely illusory. When they want something from you — whether substantive input on a brief or help faxing a document — they will fire off an email faster than you can say “I’m on vacation in the backcountry.”

These rules, however, do not seem to apply if you (the associate) are waiting for an answer about a matter of some significance to your non-firm life; the response to my email is radio silence. Over the next few days, I busy myself doing a dozen other things: trolling through job listings online, signing up with legal temp agencies, and, somewhat guiltily, looking forward to some of the non-economic aspects of unemployment. For the past few months, “work” has been defined by the grinding stress of trying to wring as many billable hours as possible (or at least reasonable) from each assignment, wondering when the axe would fall, desperately looking for jobs that might offer more stability, and regretting the skills I never developed and practice areas I know nothing about. Since I got laid off, it has been a stressful flurry of exit planning and non-stop reconnaissance for the next place to land. Though I dread being unemployed, I will not miss the anxiety-ridden process of confronting my barren timesheets or occupying the strange netherworld between current and former associate, an artist’s rendering which might be called, “Bitter Associate in Sneakers Filling Dumpster.”

Still, my thoughts return repeatedly to whether the firm will throw me a buoy, even for a little longer. For a variety of uninteresting reasons (none of which have to do with overspending), I do not have a huge cushion of savings, and I know that if my joblessness goes on for an extended period of time I will not be able to afford health insurance. I am fully aware that being laid off carries with it the rebuttable presumption that one will not have these things, but I can’t help feeling hateful about it. Employment at a law firm is colored by (at least the veneer) of gentility; whether it is reasonable or not, the experience lulls you into believing that, as a trained professional, hard worker, and keeper of confidences, you will not be valued one day and kicked to the curb the next. Neither does it prepare you to cheerfully accept the fact that the firm will probably spend more on holiday entertaining than it would cost to buy an new organ. It has probably never occurred to the members of the management committee, since none seem to have an actual heart.

Finally, after several days, I get a response to my e-mail. “Roxana, we ran your questions up the flagpole,” it begins. I am already annoyed; I sent them requests for help, not a fucking flag. “Unfortunately, we cannot extend your employment or offer you any benefit commensurate with employment. We can, however, provide access to voice mail and email for an additional month, and your firm bio may remain on the website. Also, we can provide feedback on how to enhance the presentation of your resume, and direct you to recruiters who may be able to help you with your job search. Of course, these allowances are not to be construed as creating an employment relationship with the firm beyond the date of your separation.” As if to offset its coldly transactional message, the e-mail ends, “We wish you good luck!” No emoticon, probably, I think, because they couldn’t decide between a frowny-face (Bummer! Hope you don’t get sick or have other costly medical needs!) and its smiley counterpart (You may not have insurance, but you can get firm-wide emails for another whole month!!)

As soon as I finish reading the email, I call my friend Bo. “Why don’t cannibals eat laid-off associates?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why?”

“Too bitter,” I tell him. I am definitely in stage two.
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Roxana St. Thomas is a laid-off lawyer living in New York. You can reach her by email, at roxanastthomas@gmail.com, or find her on Facebook.

Earlier: Prior installments of Notes from the Breadline

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