Ed. 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), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

There was a time when, as working attorneys, many of us were accustomed to the ubiquitous presence of legal recruiters. Sometimes their calls were a benign nuisance — another voicemail message, another call you were too busy (or too uninterested) to waste billable minutes on. Other times, they served as a reassuring benchmark of one’s marketability — a valuable tool for underappreciated attorneys to gauge whether someone, at some firm, might want to woo them away to a place where “they don’t care about ‘face time,’” “associates have tons of autonomy,” and “they’re really concerned with professional development.”

Needless to say, we live in a different world. For the most part, the pursuers are now the pursued: most out-of-work attorneys I know would be delighted to talk to a recruiter, if only one would call. Unfortunately, however, the too-good-to-be-true positions — the nirvanas of work/life balance, substantive practice, and exciting, sophisticated cases — are even less real now than they were before.

Still, recruiters are a resilient lot, and they surface every now and then with the wispy promise of a job lead. One day in early spring I get an e-mail from one, who tells me that she saw my resume on one of the online legal job sites. She wants to know whether I am open to the possibility of temp work, or temp-to-perm contract work. If so, she says, she may have some opportunities to tell me about.

Roxana’s recruiter meeting, after the jump.

There was a time when working as a legal temp or contract attorney was thought to be, well, a bad career move. Then again, there was also a time when Howard Dean seemed like a viable candidate. In other words, things change, and the times … they are a-changin’. So, I tell her, permanent work would be ideal, but in the meantime I would certainly take temp or temp-to-perm contract work.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rings. “Hi Roxana,” the recruiter says breathlessly. She sounds like she has just run up a flight of stairs — or, I think, perhaps she is winded from the exertion of placing so many candidates in fabulous positions? It could be tiring work. She tells me that, while “litigation is not really moving right now,” she has some “interesting” opportunities from time to time. When can we meet in person? she asks, breathing heavily into my ear. Feeling vaguely dirty, I schedule a rendezvous (er, interview) a few days later.

On the day of the interview, I engage in a ritual that now seems oddly unfamiliar — blow drying my hair, putting on a suit and high heels, and (after some frenzied searching) locating an erstwhile lipstick. I feel as though I am getting dressed for a Halloween party. On the subway ride to midtown, I wonder whether I pass for someone who is going to work, or back to the office after a meeting. It has been so long since I had any such purpose that I am beginning to doubt my ability to play the part convincingly.

The recruiter’s office is in a modest building with an old, creaky elevator. I take it upstairs and find her company’s suite in the long, slightly shabby corridor. The receptionist — a boy who looks to be about twenty — greets me with the kind of overly courteous formality that can only be mustered by someone very young, and very new to the workforce. After a few whispered phone calls, he tells me that the recruiter, Olivia, will be with me shortly. “Can you fill out this application form, ma’am?” he says timidly. When I ask him for a pen, he blushes and stammers an apology. Although I appreciate his deferential kindness, I have the urge to pull him aside and tell him not to be so bashful. Cranky unemployed lawyers may seem like an intimidating lot, but in this market, I want to say, he could probably blow his nose on the application, hand the candidate a pile of peanuts to shell, and get back a completed form and a snack posthaste. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I sit down to complete the form, wondering when I became a “ma’am.” There are four chairs in the tiny waiting room, all of which are filled with people who, like me, seem somewhat overdressed for their modest surroundings. I finish my application quickly and try to study them discreetly. “So,” I have the urge to say, “what are ya’ in for?” Instead, I crane my neck to peek at what the woman next to me is scribbling on her application. I can’t make out the name of the firm written at the top of the “Employment History” section, but I can see that she has scrawled “LAID OFF,” in large caps, in the box marked “Reason for Separation.”

I look over at the man sitting to my right. He is dressed impeccably, in a luxuriously textured suit and Thomas Pink shirt with shiny cufflinks. He, too, has written “laid off” in the box on his form. The woman next to him, who has a dainty fragility that leads me to believe that she would make an excellent greyhound, also looks slightly out of place. She is a waifishly thin blonde wearing Prada shoes with large, shiny buckles which, I conclude, she probably needs for ballast so she won’t blow away when she goes outside. She is hunched over her BlackBerry, application materials spread out on her lap. Curious about what has brought her to our midst, I dig a piece of paper out of my bag and stroll to the trash can to throw it away, glancing at her forms as I do. I can make out the words “firm wide layoffs.” At least we have each other, I think.

The minutes tick by as I wait for Olivia. A woman with coppery red hair, presumably a recruiter, sits at one of the carrels in the reception area, talking loudly on the phone. “I’m tellin’ you, hon,” she says, in a husky Long Island accent, “I’m in the business twenty years and lemme tell ya: ya gotta give yourself time. You’ve only been looking for three months. Hol dawn.” She puts the caller on hold to address the receptionist, who has been standing politely by her desk, looking anxiously at the flashing hold button on his own telephone.

“It’s someone calling about the IP litigation job,” he says. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“They only want someone with experience,” the redhead responds. “Did you ask her if she has IP litigation experience?” The receptionist blanches, chagrined by his oversight, and goes back to his caller. A moment later, he is back. “She says she has patent prosecution experience,” he says. “Prosecution — that’s litigation, right?”

The redhead sighs. “No, doll,” she says wearily. “It’s not. And if she has to ask, then she doesn’t have it.” She goes back to her call. “Anyways,” I hear her say, “so ya gotta give yourself at least six months, and that’s in a good market. Ya know what I’m saying, sweetie? Ya gotta be patient.”

The receptionist returns to his caller. “Um, I’m sorry,” he tells her abashedly, “they’re really only interviewing candidates with, um, litigation experience. I’m sorry.” He hangs up. I can understand his confusion, at least; the image of a “prosecutor” conjures someone who stalks into court, the law on his side, to defend the rights of the downtrodden. Just not downtrodden patents. On the other hand, I think: have I inadvertently stumbled on an idea for the next Law & Order? I picture the opening credits for “Law & Order: PTO,” and imagine the narrator’s somber voiceover: “In the Patent and Trademark Office, intellectual property rights are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the patent examiners, who review databases for prior art and determine whether inventions meet requirements such as novelty and non-obviousness, and patent prosecutors, who prepare patent applications, handle pre and post-grant negotiations. These are their stories.” Maybe not.

Minutes — fifteen, then twenty — tick by as I wait for Olivia. I feel my irritation growing. Why do people think it’s okay to waste your time just because you don’t have to be at work? I wonder. My mind wanders. Would Law & Order: PTO be entertaining if people — inventors, patent examiners, trademark attorneys — were consistently killed off? What if the killers always used a different device or process, each of which would be novel and inventive? After nearly forty five minutes (during which I outline most of the pilot episode in my head), Olivia comes out of her office. “Sorry to keep you waiting!” she gushes breathlessly, offering me a limp hand. “I got sooo backed up.”

She leads me to her office which, though spacious, is furnished sparsely with a desk and one file cabinet. The room feels bare and echoey, and her desk is suspiciously free of clutter, which makes me wonder if she is, in fact, a lawyer. Poor desk, I think. It’s probably embarrassed by its nudity.

Olivia apologizes again for the long wait. “That’s okay,” I tell her. “You must be really busy.”

“Well,” she says, panting lightly, “as you may have heard, the market is really tight at the moment.” She catches my puzzled stare and turns red. “Of course you know that!” she backtracks. “I have a lot of people like yourself, with very impressive resumes, and unfortunately not a lot of firms are hiring at the moment. But,” she continues, “the good news is that we do have a few potential projects we’re staffing at the moment, and I would LOVE to possibly submit you for some of those positions.”

I find myself wondering if, perhaps, the job market is more dynamic than I thought. At the moment, there are no jobs. Does that mean that this industry-wide meltdown is a fleeting situation? That, momentarily, things will pick up? Moments from now, will some potential employers have possible jobs? I feel as though I am talking to a salesman, and I have a sudden urge to interrupt her, as politely as possible, to say “What the fuck are you talking about at the moment?” Instead, I force myself to smile as she walks me through my employment history.

She starts by asking me why I left my last job. “I was laid off,” I say, without hesitating. It strikes me that, at one time, I would have been mortified to say those words, and disconcerted by all that they implied. No more. Olivia looks at me sympathetically. “Basically everyone I work with at the moment has experienced something similar,” she says, breathing heavily. “It’s really tough.”

After a few more questions, she straightens herself in her chair and clasps her hands on her desk. There is an expectant pause, and she smiles broadly. I feel as though she is about to present me with a cupcake.

“Well Roxana,” she says slowly, as though she is describing awaits behind Door #2, “I would like to tell you about a very exciting project we have, possibly, at the moment. It’s a three month temp-to-perm opportunity at an IP litigation boutique, and definitely has the potential to turn into a full-time position.” She tells me that the work will be “substantive” (not doc review), and that the firm is looking for someone with IP litigation experience.

It sounds great … but I don’t have much IP experience, I tell her. “I think they would take someone with a really strong litigation background,” she says. “So I just need two writing samples from you as soon as possible. They want to move quickly!” Time is of the essence, she repeats: they want to make a selection about who to interview by the end of the following day. When Olivia bids me farewell, reminding me to send her the samples “right away,” I feel as though I have been sprung from starting blocks.

On the way home, I allow myself to think about the reprieve that a steady income — even a temporary one — would bring. I close my eyes, savoring the imagined relief, the feeling of weight lifting from my shoulders, the ease of being unafraid … if only for the moment. When I get off the subway, I race home, happy to pretend (for the moment) that I have a purpose. Less than forty minutes after leaving Olivia’s office, my writing samples are hurtling through cyberspace.

I do not hear from Olivia the next day, or the day after. Late that afternoon, I call her and leave a message, asking (in essence) whether the potential employer has any interest in interviewing me for the possible position. When my phone rings the next morning, I can tell, by the sound of the effusive respiration on the other end, that is Olivia. I suspect that she does not have good news.

“Roxana, hiiii,” she exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.” She is also sorry to say that the firm “decided to go with someone who had a lot of experience with IP litigation.” I am not surprised, but it is hard not to be a little bit disappointed. But Olivia has a consolation prize for me: a possible document review, which will probably be between two weeks and a month long, on which I could potentially be staffed.

“Would you be interested in that?” she asks.

“It’s not ideal,” I tell her, “but I think it would be great … at the moment.”

Read about Roxana’s “possible” gig, in the next Notes from the Breadline.
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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), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.

Earlier: Prior installments of Notes from the Breadline