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.
I am sitting in the war room, trying to guess what time of day it is and what the weather is like. Have I been here for an hour, or is it closer to lunchtime, and a brief respite from the monotony of document review? Is it a beautiful day outside, or is it dark and rainy? There are no windows in the room, so these details can be elusive. I will myself not to look at the clock, anticipating the pang of disappointment that comes with knowing just how many hours lie ahead. A moment later, I give in: 10:30. I sigh and turn back to my computer.
A week into the document review, my days have taken on a deadening sameness. I go to the office. I plow through documents. Ben Gay applies healing ointments to his joints; Mr. Potato Head samples from each of the major food groups. At some point, Elisa comes in to verbally abuse one or more of us. When she leaves, no one can get back to work until the nature of her bitchiness and the ridiculousness of her review protocol have been thoroughly deconstructed. These sessions seem almost necessary, a way to cleanse the collective palate of something bitter and distasteful.
They are also, sadly, the moments when the occupants of our forgotten room seem most alive, and when I catch flickering glimpses of the lawyers many of them are, or have been. In the process of discrediting Elisa and her somewhat arbitrary choices, the reviewers defend their judgment calls, piece together strategic arguments, and display a practical command of litigation that seems far greater than that of our young overseer. Still, these attempts at legal discourse invariably remind me of law school, when people immerse themselves in the painfully earnest discussion of substantive issues, with no sense for how ultimately unimportant their opinions are.
I try to remind myself that this is work, and — while far from ideal — it is better than the alternative … or at least more lucrative. But it’s hard for me not to think about document reviews I did as an associate. Although they could be tedious or frustrating (or tedious and frustrating), they often felt more like a blitzkrieg than a prolonged occupation. It was different when I was immersed in a case, faced with a deadline, and anxious to see what the documents would reveal; I remember the purposefulness of turning my attention to the task at hand, the measurable sense of progress, and the feeling of dorky satisfaction that came from seeing the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
This assignment has none of those features. Elisa has given us almost no background information; without a feel for the context of the case, I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about whether I’ve missed some crucial nuance. I can recognize names, but I still have no sense of the people they belong to. And while I — like many lawyers — have indulged in the fantastic notion that my hours of scut work will pay off with a Perry Mason moment, I don’t even know enough about the case to picture the eventual cross or deposition during which the important documents will be brandished at a blanching witness.
More after the jump.

Continue reading “Notes from the Breadline: Comes a Time (Part IV)”

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.
This column is a continuation of last week’s column, which you can read here.
After the departure of Elisa — who, I now have it on information and belief, is a bitch — I have the distinct sense that I have been sent to my room. “Go to your room!” I imagine her screaming at a petulant child, “and don’t come out until you’ve reviewed 68,000 documents!”
I want to ask one of my new colleagues for some guidance — an insider’s view of what to expect, and how things work in this strange ecosystem — but I am reasonably certain that my inquiry will be futile, since none of them can hear me: they are all wearing headphones. Even the carpal tunnel guy has retreated to the auditory solace of his own world, and is bobbing his head gently while he applies something pungent to his visibly swollen joints. I watch him pull a tattered plastic shopping bag out from under his desk and rifle through a collection of tubes, bottles, and jars, one of which he finally selects and opens, filling the room with the smell of menthol. I wonder if he is going to apply it directly to his forehead.
I start to flip through the review protocol, which seems inordinately complicated. The document tags appear to have been created by several different people who were not in the same room at the same time. Like anything produced by multiple lawyers (with multiple egos), it looks like the product of a stubborn refusal to compromise. Perhaps it will make more sense once I start reviewing actual documents, I think, opening the database. I am hoping that the fine points of the “review tool” will come back to me quickly.
Instead, looking at the screen in front of me, I am flooded with the memory of a case I worked on a few months before I was laid off. For a moment I am back at my desk in my old office, talking to the client on the phone about what we need to identify in the documents. I want to laugh at the absurdity of revisiting the nuances of Kroll Ontrack the way some people remember the details of an old relationship. In this scenario, Kroll would be the ex-boyfriend, which, I suppose, is not so far-fetched given how much time I spent with it.
Kroll would be a bad ex, I muse. Remember that restaurant we didn’t go to? The time we didn’t go for a walk together? Remember when I marked that document “privileged,” and then someone else marked it “non-responsive”? Remember how hard we didn’t laugh? I’m sorry we had to break up, Kroll, but you never wanted to do anything but talk shop and stay in on weekends. Yes, I remember when you said I’d be back, and I guess you were right. But I want you to know that I saw other documents — lots of other documents — while we were apart.
More after the jump.

Continue reading “Notes from the Breadline: Comes a Time (Part III)”

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.
This column is a continuation of last week’s column, which you can read here.
When Olivia tells me that she may have a “possible” document review on which I could “potentially” be staffed, I don’t really believe her. In fact, I have the same feeling I get when I read the spam in my Gmail inbox. I’ve won £1,500,000,000? An undisclosed sum from the Loteria Espana, or perhaps De Lotto Netherlands? It sounds nice for a moment, until you realize that it’s bullshit. The promises of the British Lottery, the “Microword Corporation,” and Mr. Van Curtis of the Delta Lloyd Bank are illusory, gigabytes of sounds and fury, signifying nothing. Likewise recruiters, who often make it sound as though the fabulous job they are describing is yours for the taking — a done deal! Then you never hear from them again.
So I am surprised when Olivia calls me back a few days later to tell me that the “possible” document review has actually materialized. “How would you,” she breathes, pausing dramatically, “like to be staffed on the project?” Something about her delivery makes me wonder if she once dreamed of being a game show host, and has stood before her bathroom mirror telling imaginary guests that they will be going on a four night, five day trip to … Aruba!! I feel as though I should jump up and down and scream, clapping my hands. Instead, I tell her that I would be delighted to work on the project.
“That’s great!” she effuses. She gives me some minimal information about the project (a large pharmaceutical case) and the pay ($30 an hour for the first forty, and around $35 thereafter), then tells me a little bit about the firm, using the most generic terms possible. The people who work there, she says, are “just really nice,” and “a pleasure to work with.” She thinks I’ll “have a lot of fun.” In addition, she adds, the firm sometimes hires temps for full time positions. She says this as though she is telling me that, if I am really good, I might get ice cream at the end of the day.
“Really?” I say. “How often does that happen?”
“Oh, from time to time,” she answers. “It has happened.”
I do not jump up and down and scream when we get off the phone, but I have to admit that I am excited. Though the pay is modest at best, $1200 a week is more than I’m making now. And if the gig lasts for two or three weeks (Olivia’s estimate), I’ll have at least $2400 (or more, if there’s overtime) to throw at my bills.
But I also have some concerns. Read about them, after the jump.

Continue reading “Notes from the Breadline: Comes A Time (Part II)”