Recruitment was a procedural move

She called it recruitment because “argument” wasn’t accurate and “concern” was too flattering.

Recruitment was a procedural move. It looked like conversation, but it functioned like tasking: a vague prompt, an implied obligation, and a quiet transfer of labor.

It usually entered the room the same way.

“I read something. I don’t know if it’s true, but…”

The words were innocent. The subtext wasn’t.

Take this. Carry it. Resolve it.

She had played the role for years. The attentive partner. The competent one. The person who could turn uncertainty into a plan. She didn’t even notice when she did it. Her body did. Her breath would shorten. Her chest would tighten. She’d start building a case.

And then she’d find herself in court, defending a position she never volunteered to hold.

—

First hearing.

He calls while she’s trying to wind down. His tone is casual in the way casual can be when it’s a preamble.

“So. People are getting stopped at immigration. Americans. They show up and the agent says their passport was reported stolen.”

Her mind stands up before she does.

Objection, she thinks automatically. Hearsay.

Out loud she says, “Where did you read that?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. It happens.”

The witness is vague. The allegation is broad. The implication is sharp.

She starts the closing argument anyway, because that’s what she does: she tries to end uncertainty by providing facts.

“That would be in the system. Mine hasn’t been reported stolen. Also, I’m not traveling for months, and I enter through Amsterdam, but if my connection is tight I can stay in transit—”

He doesn’t acknowledge her facts. He doesn’t say he heard her. He simply introduces the next exhibit.

“Yeah but Amsterdam is a mess. Weather. Flights canceled. People sleeping on the floor.”

She feels the shift—court becomes treadmill. The docket never closes; it just adds cases.

She tries again, faster.

“That’s now. I’m not leaving now. Months from now. And transit means—”

“And also,” he continues, smoothly, “they’re cracking down on—”

She is on her feet without deciding to stand. Pacing. Arguing. Clarifying. As if clarity were a lever that could stop a moving belt.

She attempts a boundary like a motion from the floor.

“This isn’t working for me.”

He blinks. “What? I’m just talking.”

She repeats herself—once, twice—trying to make the court recognize her motion. The judge never bangs the gavel. The case keeps running.

After the call ends, she’s left with the familiar residue: the exhaustion of having done work that wasn’t received, the shame of having argued for a verdict no one asked for.

—

Second hearing.

Same opening line. Same casual tone.

“I read something. I don’t know if it’s true, but…”

Before the words can form the full allegation, she notices the first cue: the request for her attention. The implied summons.

She doesn’t reach for the law books this time.

She names the procedure.

“Counsel,” she says, calm, “are you asking me to research that?”

He pauses. “I mean… I just thought you should know.”

Objection, she thinks. Non-responsive.

She keeps it in Adult. In court, you don’t debate a non-answer. You redirect.

“I’m not taking that on,” she says. “If you want to know, you can look it up. If you’re asking me to change my plan, ask directly.”

His voice tightens, not angry, just disoriented—as if the rules have changed mid-trial.

“Why are you being like this? I’m just saying.”

She feels the old reflex rise—explain your tone, prove your love, soften the boundary until it’s negotiable. The familiar impulse to become the good witness.

She doesn’t.

She issues the only motion that matters.

“I’m not doing hypotheticals. I’m focusing on my health.”

He starts another sentence—another exhibit, another pivot, another case.

She doesn’t let it enter the record.

“Do your own discovery,” she says, and ends the call.

No argument. No defense. No closing statement.

She sits down. Her chest loosens. Not because the world is suddenly safe, but because the court is closed.

The relief is not relief from danger. It is relief from role.

For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t have to win a case to deserve peace.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc&Co