The Three Evasions: A Field Guide to Answers That Aren't

Or, How to Know You've Won Before They Finish Talking

By Michael Kelman Portney

I have noticed something about questions.

Not all questions, mind you. Most questions are perfectly ordinary. "What time is it?" "Where did you put the remote?" "Did you eat the last of the hummus?" These questions get answers. Simple, direct, occasionally irritating answers, but answers nonetheless.

The questions I'm interested in are different. They're the ones where you can see, in the moment you ask them, something behind the other person's eyes shut down, like a shopkeeper flipping the sign to "Closed" just as you reach for the door.

These are questions the other person cannot answer honestly. Not "will not" in the sense of stubborn refusal. Cannot. Because the honest answer would be an admission against interest, a confession of incompetence, an acknowledgment that their position is indefensible, or simply the word "yes" when their entire strategy depends on never saying "yes."

I have asked many such questions. I did not set out to become a collector of evasions, but here we are. And after sufficient fieldwork, I can report that when a person cannot answer a question honestly, they do not have infinite options. They have exactly three.

They flee. They fight. Or they manufacture fog.

That's it. That's the whole taxonomy.

And once you learn to recognize which evasion you're witnessing, you will know—before they've even finished not answering—that you've already won.

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Evasion One: Flight

Or, The Curious Case of the Sudden Topic Change

The first evasion is the simplest. When faced with a question they cannot answer, some people simply leave.

Not physically, usually. Though I have seen that too. I once asked a question at a public meeting and watched a man develop an urgent need to visit the restroom from which he did not return for forty-five minutes, by which time the meeting had concluded.

More commonly, the flight is conversational. You ask about Topic A, and they respond by discussing Topic B. Not a related topic. Not a reasonable tangent. A completely different topic, introduced as though you had asked about it, which you had not.

You: "Are you in possession of the documents I sent?"

Them: "You know, the real issue here is the timeline of when these allegations first surfaced."

I did not ask about the timeline. I did not ask about allegations. I asked whether they currently have the documents I sent them. This is a question that can be answered with "yes" or "no" and perhaps a brief elaboration. It does not require a timeline. It does not involve allegations. And yet here we are, discussing neither possession nor documents but rather some other matter entirely.

The flight response is diagnostic because it reveals capacity to identify the danger.

A person who answers a different question is a person who understood the actual question well enough to know they couldn't answer it. They had to perceive the threat before they could flee from it. The very act of fleeing demonstrates comprehension.

This is useful information. They understood you perfectly. They are not confused. They are running.

What to do when you observe flight:

Return to the original question as though they simply forgot to answer it. Because, charitably, perhaps they did.

"I appreciate that context. But my question was whether you're in possession of the documents I sent. Are you?"

Delivered without irritation. Without accusation. Just a polite redirect, as one might offer to a colleague who got briefly distracted.

If they flee again, you now have two documented instances of fleeing from the same question. This is a pattern. Patterns are exhibits.

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Evasion Two: Fight

Or, How to Know Your Question Was Good by How Badly They Want to Hurt You

The second evasion is more energetic. Rather than flee from the question, some people turn and attack—not the question, but the questioner.

This is extremely informative. It is also, I confess, occasionally unpleasant to experience. But once you understand what it means, the unpleasantness becomes almost flattering.

If they're attacking you instead of answering, it's because they cannot answer and they cannot flee, which means they perceive you as having cornered them. People do not bare their teeth unless they feel trapped. A confident person with a good answer simply answers. Aggression is the tell of a person without options.

The attack can take many forms:

Credentialing: "Are you a lawyer? Do you have any formal training in this area?"

Translation: I cannot dispute your point, so I will dispute your standing to make it.

Motive-questioning: "What's your real agenda here? Why are you so obsessed with this?"

Translation: I cannot address your question, so I will suggest dark purposes behind your asking it.

Sanity-questioning: "This is becoming unhinged. I'm concerned about you."

Translation: I cannot call your question wrong, so I will call you crazy.

Tone-policing: "I don't appreciate your hostility. This is not a productive conversation."

Translation: I cannot object to your content, so I will object to your delivery, even if your delivery has been scrupulously neutral, which it probably has been, because you've read my other articles and you know the babyface position requires it.

Each of these attacks shares a common structure: respond to something other than the substance of the question.

They cannot say "No, Rule 3.7 does not need to comply with the 14th Amendment" because that's insane. They cannot say "Yes, you're right" because that's admission. So they say "Who are you to ask?" as though the answer to that question changes constitutional law.

It does not.

What to do when you observe fight:

Do not engage with the attack. This is crucial. The attack is an invitation to change the subject—from your question to your character. If you accept that invitation, you've done their work for them.

Instead, acknowledge minimally and return to substance.

"I understand you have concerns about my motivations. Setting those aside, my question was whether Rule 3.7 would still need to comply with the 14th Amendment. Does it?"

What you've done: Declined to defend yourself. Declined to argue about your credentials, your tone, your sanity, your agenda. Simply noted their concern and returned to the question they still have not answered.

If they attack again, you now have documented evidence that when asked a straightforward question about constitutional hierarchy, they responded with personal attacks. Twice.

This is the kind of thing judges notice.

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Evasion Three: Fog

Or, The Art of Answering Questions That Were Not Asked While Appearing to Have Answered the Question That Was

The third evasion is the most sophisticated and therefore the most dangerous. It is also, when you learn to see it, the most common.

Fog is the production of words that sound like an answer, feel like an answer, and take up the space where an answer would go—while actually answering nothing.

Fog comes in several densities:

Light fog: The Adjacent Answer

You asked Question A. They answered Question A-prime—a question similar enough to yours that an inattentive observer might not notice the substitution.

You: "Did you review the document before signing it?"

Them: "I take document review very seriously. Our office has robust procedures for ensuring that all materials receive appropriate attention before any official action is taken."

Notice what did not happen: They did not say yes. They did not say no. They told you about their general commitment to document review and their office's procedures. Very interesting. Not what you asked.

You asked whether they reviewed this document before signing it. That is a question about a specific person, a specific document, and a specific action. They answered a question about general values and institutional processes.

These are different questions.

Medium fog: The Procedural Deflection

Here the response acknowledges that a question exists while declining to answer it on procedural grounds.

You: "Are you in possession of the documents I sent?"

Them: "Any requests for information should be submitted through the appropriate channels. Our office will respond to formal inquiries in accordance with established policy."

Again, notice what did not happen: They did not say yes. They did not say no. They informed you of a procedure you did not ask about. You did not submit a public records request. You asked a direct question in a direct conversation. They responded as though you had misunderstood the rules of engagement.

You had not.

Heavy fog: The Word Salad

This is fog so thick that no meaning penetrates at all. It is the production of grammatically correct sentences that, upon inspection, contain no propositional content whatsoever.

You: "Wouldn't Rule 3.7 still need to comply with the 14th Amendment?"

Them: "Well, there are various considerations that factor into how rules of professional conduct interact with constitutional frameworks, and those considerations are weighed in context according to the specific circumstances of each situation, which is why these matters require careful analysis rather than bright-line determinations."

I invite you to read that response again and locate the answer to the question posed.

You will not find it. There is no answer in those words. There are words—many words, arranged in proper syntax—but they do not resolve to a truth value. They cannot be fact-checked because they do not assert facts. They are chaff deployed to confuse radar.

What to do when you observe fog:

Dissipate it by restating the question in its simplest possible form and noting that it has not yet been answered.

"I appreciate the context. My question is simpler: Does Rule 3.7 need to comply with the 14th Amendment? Yes or no?"

The "yes or no" framing is important. It makes explicit that you are asking a binary question and that you have noticed you did not receive a binary answer.

If they produce more fog, you now have documented evidence that a direct yes-or-no question about constitutional supremacy was met with repeated non-answers. This evidence speaks for itself.

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The Taxonomy in Summary

When you ask a question that cannot be answered honestly, you will receive one of three responses:

Flight is the topic change, the sudden tangent, the answering of a different question. Its translation: "I understood you and I'm running."

Fight is the personal attack, the credentialing challenge, the motive questioning. Its translation: "I understood you and I'm cornered."

Fog is the word salad, the procedural deflection, the adjacent answer. Its translation: "I understood you and I'm hiding."

All three share a common feature: absence of an actual answer.

And all three are diagnostic of the same underlying reality: The question was good. The question was so good that no honest response was available. The only options were to run from it, to attack the person who asked it, or to generate words that simulate an answer while providing none.

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Why This Matters

I am sometimes asked—usually by people who have not yet tried this—whether noticing evasions is simply a form of paranoia. Perhaps they really did want to discuss the timeline. Perhaps they really are concerned about your mental health. Perhaps the procedural information was offered helpfully.

Perhaps.

But consider the counterfactual. If they could answer your question, why wouldn't they?

If they reviewed the document, why not say "yes, I reviewed it"? Four words. Takes less time than a speech about robust procedures.

If Rule 3.7 does not need to comply with the 14th Amendment, why not say so? That would be a fascinating legal position. I would love to hear it argued. But they do not argue it. They produce fog instead.

The evasion is the answer.

When someone flees, fights, or fogs in response to a direct question, they are telling you—through their behavior rather than their words—that the honest answer is not available to them.

Believe them.

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The Collection Protocol

Here is what I do, when I notice an evasion:

First: I note the type. Flight, fight, or fog. This is for my own pattern recognition.

Second: I return to the question, politely, as though the evasion simply didn't happen. This gives them another opportunity to answer. Perhaps they will.

Third: If they evade again, I note that too. Now I have two data points. A pattern is emerging.

Fourth: At some point, if the pattern holds, I name it—not accusatorily, but descriptively. "I've asked this question three times and haven't yet received a direct answer. Is there a reason you're unable to answer it?"

This question is itself a trap, of course. The honest answer is "Yes, because answering would hurt my position." But they cannot say that. So they will evade again. And now I have documentation of an evasion about their pattern of evasion.

It's evasions all the way down.

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Closing

I did not invent evasion. People have been fleeing, fighting, and fogging since the first inconvenient question was asked in the first human conversation. Probably something like "Where were you last night?" followed by a sudden intense interest in the weather.

What I have done—what I hope this article helps you do—is recognize evasion when it is happening, categorize it, and understand what it reveals.

Because here is the secret that evasive people do not want you to know:

The evasion is the confession.

When they run, they are confessing they cannot stand their ground.

When they attack, they are confessing they have no defense.

When they fog, they are confessing the truth is not their friend.

You do not need them to admit anything. Their behavior admits it for them.

You just have to watch. And write it down.

The American Gadfly is a simple fellow who asks questions and documents what happens next. He does not claim to be clever, but he has become reasonably good at noticing when other people are trying to be too clever by half. His other work on Socratic method can be found elsewhere on this site, assuming he remembered to link it, which he probably forgot.