They call it "jail night" - a couple of dozen lawyers from the Public Defender's Office file into the county jail's visitation room.

One by one, they check the list to see where they're supposed to be. They sit, chat, read newspapers, and review cases while they wait for their clients.

The inmates file in from a holding area, dressed in tan or orange jumpsuits, and take their seats across from their attorneys. Most appear grateful, some even relieved, for the opportunity.

Jail night was started more than 20 years ago by then-Public Defender Ed Nowak as a way to make sure that clients in the county jail get to see their attorneys. It's helped the jail staff - since the attorneys come in together, there isn't a large, constant stream of public defenders coming to visit incarcerated clients. It's also helped the attorneys - in a few hours one evening a week, they get to meet with multiple clients.

The night doesn't always run smoothly, however.

Amanda Oren, an attorney in the City Court bureau, comes in late. She plops a pile of files on a deputy's desk and explains that she was stuck in a trial that ran past the visit's 5:30 p.m. starting time. After she vents, Oren makes her way over to the station and meets with a client, who - for reasons unknown - is clearly aggravated.

This is the life of Monroe County public defenders: juggling overwhelming caseloads and hectic schedules while straining to provide effective representation for the indigent clients that become their responsibilities. They are, literally, the last line of defense.

"Are clients getting adequate representation now? Yes. Are clients suffering? Yes," says Public Defender Tim Donaher. "And that sounds inconsistent, and it is. Because if you're asking me: are we not making mistakes in individual cases because of caseloads, I would lie to you if I said 'No.'"

The Public Defender's Office handled 12,046 City Court cases last year, up from 10,165 in 2007. The city Police Department's Zero Tolerance initiative contributed to the increase, say some public defenders, and the higher caseloads strain both the City Court and felony bureaus. As a whole, the Public Defender's Office handled 27,870 cases in 2008, including Criminal and Family Court matters.

City Court attorneys like Oren each handle more than 1,000 cases a year - a mix of misdemeanor and violations. The American Bar Association says that attorneys should not handle more than 400 misdemeanor cases each year, and Oren figures she's easily doubling that. The other bureaus in the Public Defender's Office significantly exceed national caseload standards, too.

For most of her clients, Oren takes the cases from arraignment through completion - whether it's a plea, trial, or dismissal. Attorneys in the Public Defender's Office work in rotations, that way they can take a case from start to finish with the same judge.

During February, Oren's cases were still in early stages, though she had trials left over from another rotation to complete. She's through with any new arraignments for a few months and is beginning to take pre-existing cases through motions and hearings, gradually moving them toward trial or some other resolution. On the schedule it's called Part 2, and Oren says that it's the busiest part of her six-month rotation.

During this stage of the cycle, Oren spends much of each typical day in the courtroom, though she does spend the odd day in her office. It's common, she says, to come back and find 40 to 50 messages waiting on her machine.

"You come in from court and you check your messages and you try and call the fires that have to be put out," she says. "And then you just try to get to people."

She also tries to go through her files to take note of what happened in court that day, which can take another couple of hours, and she has to pull out her files for the next day's cases. Thirteen-hour days are not uncommon for Oren, who often works weekends and holidays, too.

Oren has a backup attorney who's helping by clearing out Oren's voice mail and by drafting motions. The backup is saving her to some extent, Oren says.

"It's still not enough," she says. "There's not enough that the backup can do. It just keeps coming."

The workload strains the attorneys and frustrates clients. Clients may call their attorneys and be greeted with full voice mailboxes because 50 people called before them and the attorneys have not had a chance to check messages.

Public Defender Donaher says it's a numbers game. The assistant public defenders "work their tails off," he says, but because they have so many cases, they have limited time to spend on each one.

"They want to do this work, they realize the importance of this work, and they want to be effective advocates for their clients," he says. "But they're placed in a situation - because of the numbers of the caseloads - that they get very, very frustrated because they know there's only so many hours in the day and they can't do everything for everyone."

Idealism, driven by a sense of fair play and not naiveté, pushes attorneys like Oren through the long hours and crushing caseloads.

Oren practiced civil rights law before joining the office and she sits on the board of the New York Civil Liberties Union. Being a public defender is about protecting individual rights, she says, as well as protecting the Constitution and the justice system.

"We have a Constitution for a reason; it's meant to protect all of us," she says. "And that means everybody - poor, rich, everything. And if we don't, then what are we left with? And then what keeps it from happening to you? We're kind of the check in the check-and-balance system."

That check and balance role was on display during a recent criminal contempt trial. Her client was accused of violating an order of protection, though the client says that she wasn't even there at the time of the alleged incident.

The testimony is a little confusing and Oren convinces the judge to break for lunch before closing remarks. Oren dashes out of the courtroom to outline what she'll say.

Later, the jury hands up a not guilty verdict.

"I think we do a great job for our clients, given the challenges we have," Donaher says.

It's Friday afternoon and Oren is in her office, working on motions. She has folders spread across her desk, with a few resting on a row of files, on office furniture, or on anything else that comes close to a flat surface. On the floor are four boxes of files - all cases scheduled for motions in March.

Another box sits on a shelf - that one's full of cases for trial.

From the spread on her desk, Oren pulls out an assault case and says that she might ask the judge to suppress the defendant's statement to police, or if she feels that the police complaint isn't up to snuff, she may ask for a dismissal. And in this particular case, the injuries sustained by the alleged victim may not even be enough to justify the charge, she says. Too, the alleged victim doesn't want the case to go forward, she says.

"A lot of the assaults and things like that are domestic or are people that know each other and then later they're like, 'Oh, Ok, never mind,'" she says.

Oren doesn't have court today, so she has an opportunity to tackle the work on her desk, though she does plan to spend an hour out of the office to review the tape of a 911 call for one of her cases.

But there are interruptions: a client calls and Oren puts him on hold so she can dig out his file.

The client is facing a criminal mischief charge based on allegations of property damage. He's been offered a chance to plead to a reduced charge and he would have to make restitution.

Oren says that she'll talk with her clients about the circumstances of the cases, what the prosecutors are going to have to prove, and whether the clients think the alleged victims will show up in court. If an alleged victim doesn't show up to testify, then the case could be dismissed.

A lot of Oren's client meetings happen by phone.

"That's really what you have time for, when you're calling someone at night or whatever," she says.

But she'll try to arrange an office visit if a client really wants to meet or if she's preparing a witness for trial.

Another way is to meet with clients at the courthouse, before appearances.

The atmosphere in the courtroom is frantic. While the private defense attorneys walk around with one or two file folders under their arms, Oren walks in with an armload, contained in two accordion files, and sets them on the table. She quicklydisappears into a back room with the assistant district attorney, and when she reappears, she announces: "Anybody that needs to speak with the public defender, I'm outside."

A few clients follow her out.

This continues as cases are called - Oren meets with clients in the lobby or in a back room. When she finishes the meetings, she comes back to the table to wait for one of her cases to be called. At one point, after she re-enters the courtroom from the lobby, she sets her pile of folders down and they immediately spill on to the floor.

Among the clients that she'll represent today is Yolanda Hill, a Rochester mother accused of lying about her children's residency so that the children could attend Greece schools. Oren has Hill on a probation violation warrant.

Another client, after talking it over with Oren, decides to accept a plea bargain. His other option was to go to trial and a jury would have been selected that afternoon.

"I just give them the pros or cons about why they should or shouldn't take it; that kind of thing," Oren says.

New York's legal community has been discussing the systemic flaws in the state's indigent defense programs for decades. Various legal groups, as well as a committee convened by former Chief Judge Judith Kaye, have recommended that the state provide, at a minimum, full funding for public defense, as well as caseload standards and oversight.

In 2007, NYCLU filed a lawsuit calling the current system, in which the state requires counties to provide and fund public defense services, unconstitutional.

"Counties are struggling very much to be able to provide right-to-counsel services," says David Carroll, director of research for the National Legal Aid and Defender Association. "And I think it's very clear that it's the failing of the state that forces counties to triage justice in the ways that you're probably seeing in Rochester."

Thirty states provide full funding for their public defense systems, Carroll says, and three provide 80 to 90 percent of it. The most successful systems - Oregon and Massachusetts are examples - also adhere to caseload standards, Carroll says.

Carroll hasn't studied Monroe County's office, but when clients see a stressed public defender's office, they may be more likely to take a plea, regardless of guilt, since they may not have confidence in overworked attorneys to win a trial, he says. That can also, he says, leave perpetrators on the street.

"I think that once people see the degree to which the American value of fairness is being triaged, that a groundswell forms," Carroll says.

And that may encourage the State Legislature to act on the issue.