Now, I’ve been witness to a good many absurdities in my time—boats that couldn’t float, politicians that couldn’t spell, and even a preacher who swore off lying but only on days ending in “y”—but I confess, few things tickle the ribs and wrinkle the brow like the doings of one Judge Erika Ballou of Las Vegas.
The esteemed servant of the law—whose robe is mink and conscience lined with rubber—has once again found herself staring down the business end of the Nevada Commission on Judicial Discipline’s gavel. Six new charges have been lobbed at her ladyship like rotten cabbages at a bad minstrel, and from the sounds of it, this ain’t her first performance.
The judge who once treated the internet to a soaking-wet glimpse of herself cavorting in a hot tub with public defenders–where the law was about as present as the moon at high noon under suspicion for ignoring not one–but two direct orders from the Nevada Supreme Court. That’s like telling your commanding officer, “I’ll get to it after my foot massage.”
But worse, because in this case, the Supreme Court didn’t take kindly to being treated like a valet.
The dust-up began with the case of one Mia Christman, who, after participating in a spree of villainy back in her salad days at eighteen, pled guilty to two felonies and was carted off to prison. That was in 2017.
But in 2021, Judge Ballou decided the state had seen enough of Ms. Christman and set her free, tossing out her conviction like last week’s fish.
The higher court hollered in protest—not once but twice—and like a mule wearing earplugs, Judge Ballou paid them no mind.
It prompted the Commission to accuse her of “total disregard for binding higher court authority,” which is a fancy way of saying she don’t care what the rules say, she’ll do what she pleases. Add to this her refusal to schedule a timely interview with the Commission–which had to subpoena her like a misbehaving nephew–and the stew gets thicker.
Let us not forget her previous run-in with the ethics watchdogs over social media posts—including one where she appeared to favor tossing out any case where the accused hadn’t yet warmed a jail cot and another where she invoked anatomy in such a way as to leave old ladies fanning themselves and judges reaching for the bourbon. District Attorney Steve Wolfson, who by now probably keeps a folder labeled “Ballou, Oh Lord Not Again,” has called her behavior “egregious,” and is urging the courts to pull her off all criminal cases before she turns jurisprudence into a comedy revue.
Judge Ballou, once a stalwart public defender for fifteen years, now stands at the edge of judicial ruin, with her fate dangling like a cat over a rain barrel. Her term doesn’t expire until 2027—but at the rate she’s collecting complaints, she may not make it to the end of 2025.
If the law is a solemn institution, Judge Ballou treats it like a springtime frolic. And if there’s any justice left in the dusty deserts of Nevada, perhaps someone will remind her that a robe is not a shield, a bench is not a throne, and a judge is not above the law—no matter how good the hot tub feels.
The Old Blog in the Desert 