Paranoia ruled, recalls Craig Zerouni, as takeover lawyers picked over the bones of his small niche company and staff waited for calls that never cameWe spent the next two days finely parsing every nuance of every sentence uttered by any interviewer

Until very recently, I was employed by a very small (10 people, more or less) software company. We sold a decidedly niche product, which was very expensive - a single copy would set you back $9,900 (€9,794).

We had several peripheral competitors - that is, companies that made consumer products that could, at a pinch, substitute for our industrial-strength one. However, we had a single direct competitor. They resided across town and their product cost, surprisingly, $9,900. Who says life could not arise spontaneously when the universe is full of coincidences like that?

A few months ago, our competition was purchased by a large multinational technology company. And then, following a strategy that presumably made sense to them, the company came around and offered to buy us too.

Negotiations began. The multinational started by offering some pocket change and a year's supply of cling film. Our owner responded with a demand for the contents of the US Treasury, a helicopter and world peace. Then they groped toward a middle ground, which, in truth, was a lot closer to the cling-film model than the Treasury one.

This continued for about two months and, as it seemed that they were closing in on a deal, the lawyers got involved. Here is where America leads the world. To negotiate what became a 44-page document (itself ludicrously large for such a simple transaction), our company's legal representatives assigned four lawyers. Meanwhile, at the company looking to buy us, there were 14 lawyers working on the same transaction. That's 18 lawyers, or just over two pages per lawyer. It's twice as many people as we had employees in our company. Think of the time and money to be saved if they just got the lawyers to write the software directly.

This being a small company, we were all aware of these ongoing discussions. Yet it was still a surprise when we were told one morning that a deal had been signed. A company meeting was called to tell all of us how this would affect our jobs and our futures.

It was a short meeting - basically, we were all sacked. The other company had not bought our company as a going concern; instead, it had agreed to buy our technology, which meant a large amount of software source code.

This way it insulated itself from having to deal with our existing customers or with any outstanding liabilities that we might have had lurking someplace.

And why buy us at all? It seems that its goal was to get our product off the market, protecting its investment in our competitor. It also gave the company access to new programming talent.

Another meeting was scheduled, this time with representatives of the new owners. At this meeting, we were told, we would be given details of the takeover - of how they were going to decide which of us to rehire and which to let go. In fact, that meeting was also very short.

"Friends and customers are going to ask you what is going on," said the nice man from the big company. He wrote the words "No comment" on the whiteboard. "Your answer is 'no comment'." He pointed to the board for emphasis. Good thing I can read, or that gesture would have been lost on me.

"Next week we are going to interview everyone to see how you fit into our future plans. We'll do the interviews on Monday, and we should be getting back to you on Friday."

And that was basically that. He was gone, not quite in a puff of smoke, but close.

Soon after, we are all sent schedules for our interviews. These were constructed so that we spent 45 minutes with each of three different people, from three different areas of the big company, presumably to maximise the chances of them finding a fit.

On the appointed day, we arrived in staggered groups at a local hotel, chosen as neutral territory, and went through our respective interviews.

Then we came out and compared notes. Was salary mentioned? A good sign. Did they have some trouble understanding what you did for the current company? Uh-oh.

We spent the next two days finely parsing every nuance of every sentence uttered by any interviewer with any candidate, comparing notes, holding theories up the light. We did no work - all our time was spent in conjecture about who would be hired, and who not, and why.

On Friday, we were told that everyone would get a phone call between 11 a.m. and noon. So we came, we sat, and like hopeless romantics, we waited. Noon came and went, and then 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. and, more slowly, 3 o'clock. With each ring of the phone, we jumped, but it was only a pesky customer, or a curious spouse.

When at last they phoned, it was to say that they would phone between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. I once dated a woman who behaved like this, and I didn't like it then, either.

Eventually, the phones did start to ring, and with each new call, a job would be offered and the news would zip round the building like greased e-mail. As call after call was positive, we began to feel smug and secure. They were going to hire all of us. Of course - why would they not? And then the calls stopped.

Time passed, and as the paranoia grew, I started wondering why only the programmers had been called. This is beginning to look fishy, I thought. Then my wife phoned me from home.

"A woman called from [the company\]. She said she couldn't get through to you, because the switchboard was closed. She says they don't have anything to offer you right now."

The switchboard is not closed. We're all right here. The truth is that this woman - this highly paid "human resources" professional, with polyester power clothes pressed into hard creases - can't bring herself to phone me from several hundred miles away and say that they don't want to hire me. I've had 14-year-old girls ditch me with more style than this.

I report this to my fellow workers, and they instantly start phoning their home answering machines. Sure enough, we are being dis-hired remotely. Nobody gets a "Dear John" call directly. A few people never get called at all. One colleague eventually phoned the company, on Monday, to ask what was going on. He reported this exchange:

"Hi, you never phoned me. What's the deal?"

"Oh, uh, I sent you an e-mail."

"I never got an e-mail."

"Yes you did."

"Well I think I would know. I haven't received an e-mail from you."

"But you must have. Your name is crossed off my list."

No wonder these guys are so successful.

Epilogue: the big company has since contacted me to say it has another opening that they would like to discuss with me. I am outraged - who would deal with such people after treatment like this? I have booked my interviews for next week