Predictive Funneling: The Art of Asking Questions to Which One Already Knows the Answers

A Simple Fellow’s Field Manual for Documenting Institutional Obstruction

I am not a clever man.

I want to be very clear about this, because what follows may give the mistaken impression that I possess some sort of scheme, or training, or mental apparatus beyond that of a reasonably alert raccoon. This is not the case. I am, at best, a simple fellow who has spent an inordinate amount of time standing in front of locked doors reading laminated signs.

Any insights contained herein were not devised intentionally. They were procured the way one procures trench wisdom, by stepping repeatedly on the same rake and eventually recognizing the rake.

Still, over time, I have developed what one might generously call a methodology for dealing with institutions that do not wish to be helpful. It does not require a law degree. It does not require cleverness. It does not even require confidence. It requires only patience, politeness, and a calm acceptance of the fact that the person you are speaking with will obstruct you, and that this obstruction, once properly documented, is the actual product you came to obtain.

I call this Predictive Funneling.

I did not call it that until recently, when I realized that unnamed things sound unserious, and institutions respond better when you give your fumbling around a title.

The Foundational Observation

Here is the thing about institutions, the individuals who staff them, and the policies they keep laminated behind the counter:

They will obstruct you.

This is not conjecture. This is not a pessimistic worldview. This is not cynicism. This is simply pattern recognition. It is as reliable as gravity, as predictable as a middle manager who says “circle back,” and as inevitable as the fellow at a dinner party who insists you really need to hear about his cryptocurrency portfolio.

They obstruct not because you are wrong, but because obstruction is the safest available behavior. It preserves hierarchy. It creates distance. It minimizes risk. It also allows everyone involved to go home at five.

So the question is not how to avoid obstruction.

The question is how to capture it.

And the answer, I have found, is questions.

Not accusations. Not demands. Not speeches. Not righteous fury. Those are amateur tools.

Questions.

Small questions. Polite questions. Questions a simple man might ask if he were merely attempting to understand how things work, and not, say, building a record.

Questions to which one already knows the answers.

The Initial Approach

Let us imagine, purely for instructional purposes, that you possess evidence of crimes. Let us imagine that you have attempted to submit this evidence through the appropriate channels, and that the appropriate channels have demonstrated a touching commitment to not looking at it.

Now let us imagine you encounter a public official on a platform designed for “community engagement,” and you ask a question.

Not an allegation.

A question.

“How about estate fraud?”

Three words. No adjectives. No accusations. Just a category of crime, politely placed on the table like a small, harmless insect.

Now here is the key thing. You are not asking because you do not know. You are asking because you want to see which way the fellow turns.

There are, in my experience, only two possible directions. Help or obstruct.

They never choose help.

This is excellent news, because it simplifies the process considerably. You need not prepare for competence. You need only document the obstruction they were always going to deploy.

The Opening Maneuver: Framing the Citizen

In my hypothetical, the public official responded to my innocent question about estate fraud by asking whether I meant elder abuse.

This is what I call the Opening Maneuver. It is an attempt to seize the frame. To subtly place the citizen on the defensive. To suggest, without stating outright, that perhaps the citizen is not merely asking about crime, but flirting with committing one.

I had not said elder abuse. I had said estate fraud. These are different words. They are spelled differently. They refer to different statutes. I learned this distinction early in life, when adults explained that words are not interchangeable just because they feel similar.

But he brought it up anyway.

Unprompted.

This is a gift.

Because now, without any effort on my part, I have documented that the official’s first instinct, when addressed by a citizen, was to imply potential criminality on the part of the questioner.

I did not react. I did not bristle. I did not perform outrage.

I said, “No, I think it’s fairly clear that’s not what I was asking about. The words were estate fraud.”

Simple. Calm. Factual.

And I continued.

The Educational Phase

Public officials enjoy explaining things. They enjoy demonstrating their command of the apparatus. They enjoy clarifying matters for the confused citizen who has wandered into their domain without a map.

Let them.

Ask questions that invite explanation. “What would that crime be called?” “How would one prove it?” “What determines the charge?”

They will answer. They will clarify. They will explain. And in doing so, they will confirm precisely the elements you need confirmed, on the record, in public.

In my hypothetical, the official explained that the conduct I described could constitute theft by embezzlement.

He volunteered this.

I replied, “Excellent.”

Just that.

“Excellent.”

Because it was.

The Redirect Apparatus

At this point, the institutional machinery begins to hum.

“You would have to report that to law enforcement.” “We cannot take complaints directly.” “That would be handled elsewhere.”

This is the Redirect Apparatus. The bureaucratic equivalent of a shell game. The crime is acknowledged. The evidence is hypothetical. The responsibility is always just down the hall.

In the past, I might have argued. I might have insisted. I might have become vexed.

Now I simply close the door being offered.

“I understand the complaint process. But you indicated that evidence determines charges. I am not asking you to take a complaint. I am asking whether I can show you evidence. I have documentation that the police department threatened me with arrest for attempting to submit this evidence. If they will not view it, to whom should it be shown?”

Notice what has happened.

I used his own explanation. He said evidence determines charges. He is responsible for charges. I have evidence. The syllogism is unremarkable.

The redirect no longer works.

Another door must be tried.

The Excuse Carousel

Now come the justifications.

“I cannot give advisory opinions.” “I cannot be both a witness and a prosecutor.” “That would be inappropriate.”

Each excuse is offered as though it were a brick wall. Each turns out to be a curtain.

When the witness excuse appeared, I took the liberty of asking whether he was referring to Rule 3.7, which governs attorneys acting as advocates at trial.

There was no trial. There was no case. There was not even a charging decision.

So I asked, politely, whether submitting the evidence to a deputy might resolve the concern.

This is what I call a Courtesy Trap.

If he says yes, he admits the solution was always available. If he says no, the rule was pretextual.

Either answer documents obstruction.

The Moment of Clarification

Eventually, you arrive at a point where all doors have been tried and closed. The pattern is unmistakable. No one will view the evidence. No one will take responsibility. The system functions perfectly, provided nothing ever needs to be examined.

This is when you name the issue.

Not as an accusation.

As a question.

“If the police department will not view the evidence, and your office cannot or will not, then the practical effect is that no one in the county will, and constitutional protections can be suspended at discretion. Is that your office’s position?”

This question is carefully constructed. It names no villains. It alleges no intent. It simply describes the outcome and asks whether the institution owns it.

Whatever the response, you now have clarity.

The Exit Line

I concluded the exchange with a simple sentence.

“Thank you for the education. This has been enlightening.”

On the surface, this is courtesy.

Underneath, it is an acknowledgment that the lesson has been learned, the mechanism observed, and the record secured.

The Principle, Restated

Institutions believe they are the cat.

They possess titles. Authority. Letterhead. The quiet assurance that people like you are manageable.

They believe you are the mouse.

Your task is not to correct this belief.

Your task is to let them act accordingly, ask questions, and document everything.

Because the cat never realizes it is not the cat until the trap has already closed.

At that point, gravity handles the rest.

The American Gadfly is a simple fellow who studies institutions, obstruction, and the curious ways authority behaves when asked to explain itself. He is not clever. Any constitutional violations he documents are stumbled upon accidentally, usually while attempting to operate a doorknob.