Justice on the Installment Plan

JNow, it may strike you as downright peculiar that in a city proud of its laws, its Capitol dome, and its well-swept front steps, the business of justice is done with less public show than a magician at a church picnic. But in Carson City—the land of sagebrush and sleepy courthouses—only one of 479 criminal cases last year made it to trial.

That’s not a typo, friend. That’s one, as in singular, lonesome, and about as rare as a politician who answers a yes-or-no question.

According to the latest reckonings, 99.49 percent of criminal cases in the capital got tidied up with plea deals in 2023—no trial, no jury, no highfalutin speeches about justice.

A signature here, a nod there, and back to business. Even across the rest of the Silver State, where numbers already lean toward the pragmatic over the poetic, Carson City stands out like a jackrabbit at a turtle race.

Take the tale of a woman who, in January 2024, was strangled by her then-boyfriend, a fellow named Arnold “Franky” Flores-Estrada, and the whole act was caught in glorious, unblinking 4K. Now, if justice were a clear-eyed mule, this man would’ve had his day in court, facing the full weight of the law.

Instead, the charge got dropped to a misdemeanor. Why? Because plea deals don’t like messes, and trials are expensive.

It wasn’t Franky’s first rodeo, either. His previous rough handling of a partner got swept under the legal rug, sealed tight like a whiskey barrel, and never brought up when he came around the second time.

His punishment? Thirty days in jail—served on weekends, like a part-time job. When he needed an extension on his sentence, the court granted it.

Meanwhile, his victim had herself a hard row to hoe. She tried to stop Franky from collecting his firearms—fearing, perhaps sensibly, that he might not use them for duck hunting—and the prosecutor threatened her with false imprisonment.

Reports of him violating a protective order were left to wither like tumbleweeds in the wind. And when the woman went to collect court records, she was turned away by folks who claimed they’d never heard of her—though she was the one getting strangled.

Now, there’s a law on the books in Nevada called Marsy’s Law, promising protection from harassment, timely information, and a place at the table where justice gets served. But the law, it seems, has no teeth—more like dentures left in a glass. Violations get shrugged off, and victims get left with little more than a court transcript and a sense of being had.

Then there’s the business of bail. Franky, having some money–or knowing someone who did–paid his way out with a ten-thousand-dollar check that later became five. He skipped the hearing, setting limits on his freedom. No questions asked.

Meanwhile, the Nevada Pretrial Risk Assessment—an oracle that reads numbers but not threats—declared him low-risk, like a drizzle on a cloudy day. Never mind the prior charges or the court extensions lost in the shuffle.

So here we sit in a town where crime dramas on television promise trials, justice, and solemn reckonings—but in real life, justice is processed faster than canned peaches at a factory. Victims watch as abusers get weekend jail and sealed pasts while they navigate a maze of clerical errors and unreturned calls.

Hopefully, her story kicks up enough dust to make folks take notice. She wants reforms, not revenge—a system that respects victims, not just the convenience of the docket. But until that day comes, Carson City’s courtroom remains more mirage than monument where the only trial anyone’s sure to face is the trial of being heard.