Author: Tom Darby

David McNeely, private investigator, just got told by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals that he doesn’t have a First Amendment right because he didn’t exercise it properly, even though nobody ever did say you had to wave a flag to keep your liberty from gettin’ stepped on.

See, McNeely’s name got dragged out into the open like a cat out of a burlap sack after a trackin’ device turned up on Reno Mayor Hillary Schieve’s car. The thing was stuck there without her say-so, and when the Sparks Police Department went sniffin’, they came up with McNeely’s name–then promptly handed it to the press like a prize squash at the fair.

They didn’t charge McNeely with anything, mind you–just had his privacy and professional reputation cracked open and aired like yesterday’s laundry. When he said, “Hey now, that ain’t right,” and filed suit, he figured the Constitution might have something to say about it.

It turns out–it did–but by judges telling him he misunderstood it.

Judge Larry Hicks tossed the whole shebang in May of 2024, saying McNeely didn’t correctly allege a First Amendment claim, didn’t have any real expectation of privacy, and hadn’t shown that the cops acted “outrageously,” because these days, publishing a man’s name without cause is just business as usual.

Hicks got hisself run over and kilt the same month and year while possibly jaywalkin’.

McNeely took it up to the Ninth Circuit, hoping someone there might squint a little closer. But no such luck.

The panel said he failed to allege “a cognizable legal theory,” and that he hadn’t shown a causal link between the City’s actions and any retaliatory motive–because, of course, if the City doesn’t admit to being vindictive, it must be entirely above suspicion. What they didn’t say, but might as well have, was, “You didn’t shout loud enough, Mr. McNeely, so your right to speak don’t matter. And since you didn’t tape a sign to your chest and parade through the town square, you don’t get to say your privacy was violated either.”

Now, far be it from me to call a judge blind, but it does make a body wonder–when did the Bill of Rights become a game of “Simon Says?” Is a man’s First Amendment only good if he does the paperwork right and presents it in triplicate?

McNeely’s crime wasn’t planting the tracking device—it’s assumin’ the Constitution worked without needin’ to shout into a bullhorn first. And, maybe thinkin’ a little too highly of a justice system that finds no offense in draggin’ a man’s name through the mud without proof or apology.

So, while City Attorney Wes Duncan crows about vindication and “nothing wrong” having been done, Mr. McNeely is left holding the bill–and the bitter knowledge that a right unrecognized by the court is just as useless as one written down.

Now, ain’t that a thing?

Here’s a curious thing–Mr. Aaron Ford, the Attorney General of Nevada–a state known for desert sands and silver mines has decided his grand duty is not to the folks who sent him to office–but rather to the delicate feelings of foreign trade partners and the poor, suffering Mandarins of global economics. He’s hitched his little wagon to a parade of twelve other state AGs to sue the Trump administration over tariffs.

According to Mr. Ford, the president has “overstepped his authority” by using executive orders to slap tariffs on foreign goods. He claims the tariffs will cost Nevada businesses $985 million.

That’s quite the sum—but I’ve yet to meet a lawyer who could explain economics without getting tangled up in his necktie. And I wager Mr. Ford couldn’t tell you the difference between a tariff and a tip at the blackjack table.

What’s more, the good AG seems to forget he ain’t the global comptroller—he’s supposed to be working for Nevadans, many of whom rather like the fella in the White House with the golden hair and the itchy tariff finger. Trump didn’t get Nevada’s electoral votes by accident, and if he’s charging the gates of China with a tax ledger and a battle cry, a fair number of Nevadans are cheering from the sidelines.

But no matter. Mr. Ford has it in his head that saving Nevadans from their own voting choices is his sacred duty. He’s marching off to court like Don Quixote with a copy of Mao’s Little Red Book in one hand–and a CNBC report in the other, tilting at windmills he doesn’t understand but is sure are dangerous.

So, let the lawsuit roll on. The courts will have their say, and the pundits will fill the airwaves like crows on a cornfield.

As for me, I’ll be out here in the territory, watching these fine gentlemen argue over who’s running the country while the country shrugs and gets back to work. Mr. Ford may be many things—an economist, he ain’t.

And the next time he gets the urge to save Nevada from the perils of prosperity, perhaps someone might remind him who he works for.

Pull up a chair and settle in for a tale as twisted as a mountain road in a spring thaw. It seems the Nevada Legislature, bless their bureaucratic hearts, has cooked up Senate Bill 420 — and while the number suggests something hazy and carefree, the bill itself smells more like a three-day-old fish stew simmering in the sun.

The grand piece of legislative embroidery aims to allow–yes, allow–the good folks of North Lake Tahoe to form what’s called a Business Improvement District, or BID. A BID, for those unacquainted with the alphabet soup of modern governance, is where businesses voluntarily assess themselves a fee for the sake of improving their patch of earth.

You heard right–they want to pay more–not to the state, mind you–but to themselves, so they can keep their storefronts tidy, their streets a little less dusty, and maybe even coax a few more tourists out of their Teslas and onto a local trolley. Now, if that all sounds reasonable enough, that’s where the catch comes in–they have to ask the government’s permission first.

In this age of liberty and lightbulbs, the tavern keeper and the t-shirt seller must tiptoe to Carson City like schoolchildren asking if they may stay after class to clean the blackboard. Forty businesses signed their names in support, like good citizens, with hats in hand, hoping the Senate Government Affairs Committee might grant them the solemn privilege of spending their money in their community.

It, dear reader, is a prime example of government overreach in its Sunday best. For what freeborn soul thought it proper that a business must gain approval from the high court of political desk-sitters to improve their neighborhood? If a man can’t fix his fence without filing a form in triplicate, then liberty is not a roaring fire but a sputtering candle behind a bureaucrat’s desk.

Incline Village and Crystal Bay–fine mountain towns where the air is sharp and the people sharper–want better transit, fewer fender benders, and a cleaner path out when the hills catch fire. They ain’t asking for a handout. They’re offering to roll up their sleeves and do the work–but they must wait on the almighty nod of folks who wouldn’t know a snow chain from a sausage link.

Mark my words–when a business must beg permission to help itself, the tail is wagging the dog, and the poor creature’s dizzy from spinning in circles. Let the shopkeepers run their shops, let the innkeepers keep their inns, and let government mind its own house before poking around someone else’s.

Tell your representatives what for — preferably before they pass another bill telling you how to tie your shoes.

Absenteeism, Federal Funds, and a Shrinking Washington

Now, I don’t pretend to understand all the goings-on of this great American experiment, especially when it comes to matters of money and government—which is to say, fraud and folly—but it strikes me as downright peculiar that Nevada, a state with its boots firmly planted in the dusty soil of self-reliance–or so it says–is whistling Dixie to the bank with a sackful of federal coin as the very hand that handed it out is gettin’ sawed off at the wrist.

You see, the Nevada Department of Education just got itself a shiny new federal grant—one of those highfalutin’ projects with a name longer than a preacher’s sermon–the Stronger Connections Technical Assistance and Capacity Building program, which sounds like it came out of a sausage grinder full of bureaucracy and good intentions. The aim? Reduce chronic absenteeism in the schools by 15 to 20 percent over the next three years, which, if successful, would still leave a good many seats cold and empty at roll call.

But here’s the rub, friend. While Nevada schools’re happy to be getting training, mentorship, and “Check & Connect” schemes—where some poor soul has to check in on young truants and connect with them like a telegraph operator in a thunderstorm—the Department of Education over in Washington is undergoing a slimming more severe than a politician’s principles after election day. Staff cuts, program consolidations, cuts so close they’ll raise gooseflesh—and yet the money flows like the Truckee River in springtime.

So what gives?

Well, let me explain in the plainest way I can–just because the federal Department of Education is shrinking like a wool sweater in a washtub doesn’t mean the spigot’s shut—at least not yet. The grant Nevada received was already baked into the budget cake some time ago, back when Congress was still pretending to like each other long enough to pass things.

These programs, you see, have long tails. Like an old mule, they keep working long after common sense says they should be at pasture.

Besides, when Uncle Sam decides to pass around a few gold pieces for something as noble as helping kids show up to school—well, no politician wants to be the fellow who says, “Let them stay home!” even if his other hand is busy dismantling the very agency that sent the check.

And I’ll wager another thing–Nevada, like most states, is glad to take the money while muttering about federal overreach, the way a hungry man gripes about the soup being too hot as he slurps it down. The state gets to wear two hats—one of the poor-country cousins, pleading for help, and the other of the proud pioneer, suspicious of Washington’s meddling.

So, while the boys and girls at the top trim the tree of federal education, the roots are still feeding the ground in places like Nevada—where the statehouse says times are hard, but not so hard they’ll say no to a few million in taxpayer generosity.

That, my friend, is the American way—complain about the barn while milking the cow.

Helmand Provines, Afghanistan, late 2006 with the Marines. My job was to go on mounted patrols with them, riding in MRAPs—big armored trucks meant to withstand blasts.

For a while, they worked. Then, the Taliban figured it out. They made bigger bombs.

IEDs were their weapon of choice, the cornerstone of their arsenal. They had only so many explosives, so they had to choose: one big bomb or many small ones.

If the Marines found the big one, it meant a few days of peace before the Taliban built another.

It was a war of patience, of deception. They studied us.

They knew what we were looking for. They knew how to hide things where we wouldn’t think to look.

But the Marines had the Kid.

The man wasn’t a kid. He was older than most Lance Corporals but younger than most Sergeants.

He was small, and at a distance, you’d think he was a teenager. Up close, you saw the lines on his face, the patchy beard.

He could have been 30. He could have been 50.

He didn’t know. He only knew he was born during Ramadan, sometime after the Soviets left, but he couldn’t say for sure.

We met him in the fields by his family’s compound. He walked up when he heard our convoy. He did his best to stare down the convoy.

The Skipper got out, uneasy about stopping but wanting to make an introduction. Hearts and minds.

He gave him a “salaam alaikum.” He didn’t smile, didn’t speak.

The Skipper put out his right hand, and he offered his left. That was an insult.

Left hand. Wiping hand.

The Skipper didn’t take it personally. Just laughed.

He looked at the Lieutenant, measuring. Maybe impressed or worried.

The Skipper gave him a pack of powdered Gatorade. He took it.

A week later, he came to the outpost with a sick toddler. The Corpsman mixed Gatorade with crushed Motrin.

The youngster got better. The Kid took note.

After that–he waited as we rumbled by. He heard the engines.

He ran out to meet us and said something simple, “Wazir Kalei busy today.”

It was understood–busy meant Taliban, meant bombs, meant death. The Marines listened.

For thirty-six days, there were no IEDs. Thirty-six days of the Taliban going mad, trying to figure out how they knew.

Command listened to their radio chatter. They thought the Americans had drones watching them.

They got desperate. Switched to ambushes.

The Marines were ready for those. They hit the Taliban hard.

They lost men. The Marines didn’t.

Then, one day, the convoy turned onto the familiar road and saw something small. Dark and out of place.

The point vehicle called it in. The Lieutenant asked for a better look.

The Lance Corporal in the lead gave the reply. “It’s the Kid.”

“Clarify,” directed the Skipper.

“It’s a kid,” he said again. “His head.”

The Taliban had figured it out. I don’t know how–none of us knew.

It could have been anyone giving them that intel. The villagers talked to the Marines.

The elders. The farmers.

But somehow, they knew. They knew it was the Kid.

Sometimes, I think about it, and I feel guilty, but not over the Kid’s death because I know that without him, we would be dead. And in some twisted, ugly way, that makes the Kid’s death acceptable collateral damage.

Now, if only what’s left of my humanity could believe that.

By Yours Truly, a Humble Observer of the Human Comedy

The great gears of federal injustice ground on for months, gnashing and hissing like a brokedown steam engine hunting to crush Michele Fiore, a woman of brass spine and no shortage of colorful flair. But when the gavel got raised to flatten her completely, along comes President Donald Trump with a pardon in one hand and a stick of dynamite in the other — and wouldn’t you know, he lit the fuse on the crooked business.

For those not keeping score, Fiore had the misfortune of entering public life with a sharp tongue, a set of cowgirl ethics, and a habit of saying precisely what she meant–qualities that do not endear one to the fork-tongued serpents of federal power. While serving on the Las Vegas City Council, she made some enemies–and not the polite kind you debate over tea.

In October of last year, a jury–handpicked under the watchful eye of the federal star chamber–found her guilty of wire fraud. Six counts, plus one of conspiracy, a word that always sounds suspiciously vague when wielded by bureaucrats with a thirst for scalps.

The case, in short, claimed she’d dipped into political pots and poured the contents into her garden. Never mind that the very foundation of modern campaigning is a web of winks, nods, and financial gymnastics; the difference is Fiore didn’t bow when Washington came knocking.

Despite her pleas of innocence, her call for a new trial was laughed out of court just last week–no surprise there. When you stand accused by the federal government, you might as well be arguing with a train–it won’t hear you, and it’s determined to run you down anyway.

Fiore’s downfall was less about dollars and cents and more about whom she backed and what she believed. She stood with Trump, stood with Bundy, and stood too tall for the folks who like their women quiet and their rebels dead.

The FBI–that proud institution that once surveilled Martin Luther King Jr. and now fritters away its credibility like a drunk gambler–decided Fiore needed humbling. So they stormed in with charges and press releases, leaking and spinning until they had enough smoke to suggest fire. But smoke ain’t fire, and today, the woman they tried to bury has been pulled from the dirt and dusted off by a presidential pardon.

She called it a vindication–and who’s to say it ain’t? She says her faith held firm, her truth was unshaken, and now her name’s been restored.

The Department of Justice should hang its head –but it won’t. The FBI will keep scribbling in its little notebooks, hoping the next target won’t bite back. And the press, who once fawned over Fiore when she made good headlines but turned on her like starved jackals when the script flipped, will now mumble about “accountability” while choking on the fact that the woman they called a crook walks free.

Mark this moment–it was not justice that saved Michele Fiore–it was prayer and the fact that the system’s broken, and Trump knows it all too well.

By One that Ought to Know

If you ever find yourself in Carson City on a Friday—heaven help you—you might think the State Legislature had packed up its wigs and gavels, boarded a stagecoach, and vanished into the sagebrush. The hearing rooms sit as empty as a church pew in a gambling house, the corridors echo with the distant hum of disinterest, and the only thing getting passed is time.

Now, let us not be hasty. There are laws to make, budgets to get balanced, and speeches to bloviate, but not on Fridays. At least not in the first two months of the legislative session when, by all accounts, the halls of government resemble a ghost town more than a capitol.

Senator Ira Hansen, a fellow from Sparks–with eight sessions under his belt and a disposition like a buckboard over a gravel road, was asked how much work gets done on a Friday. He didn’t mince words, “None. Almost none,” he said, with the candor of a man who’s seen a thing or two and has grown tired of seeing it again.

According to the good Senator, if the citizenry were the bosses and the lawmakers the help, there’d be a heap of pink slips fluttering through the air like autumn leaves. “You would fire us,” he said, “because we’re only working four out of the five days that you’re paying us for.”

And that’s before he warmed up.

And the records, alas, bear him out. Of 84 scheduled Friday committee meetings, 40 got canceled. That’s nearly half—a batting average that would have even the most hopeless baseball team blushing.

Now, lest you think this is all one-sided, we did hear from Senator Angie Taylor, a Democratic chairwoman of the Education Committee and, by her own account, no deserter of duty. She explained that sometimes meetings are scratched because legislators are still sweet-talking the stakeholders or waiting for the bills to roll like reluctant tumbleweeds.

“But when the bills are there, we’re there,” she insisted.

It’s a fine enough defense—provided the bills don’t know it’s Friday, too.

As for the pay, it’s $130 a day—a sum that might buy you a decent supper and a room above the livery stable–but which adds up when you multiply it by 120 days, especially if spending twenty percent of that time catching up on your correspondence from a fishing dock.

Senator Hansen invites one and all to visit on a Friday and witness the quietude firsthand. “Sit here for an hour,” he said, “and watch how much work is being done.”

The man should charge admission.

Senator Taylor, when asked point-blank if she ever took a three-day weekend. She said no.

She didn’t speak for the others, and who can blame her? In politics, it’s everyone for themself once voting’s done and the weekend’s nigh.

So whether this early exodus is a symptom of legislative inefficiency or simply the calm before the late-session storm, I leave it to you, dear reader. But if you plan to visit the legislature on a Friday, don’t forget to pack a book—and maybe a blanket.

The Silver State—grand, shimmering Nevada—is wearin’ a crown of tarnished tin, not gold, for she’s got herself the worst unemployment rate in all these United States. The number stands at 5.7 percent, accordin’ to some solemn scribblers over at DETR–that’s the Department of Employment, Training, and Reassurance, I reckon.

But before you go celebratin’–it’s a whole tenth of a percent lower than last month. That’s right—so slight you’d need a microscope and a prayer to see it.

Now, Nevada ain’t entirely alone in this plight. It got outpaced by the District of Columbia—our nation’s capital and a mighty fine place to misplace a dollar or two—where the unemployment rate is 5.6 percent.

So, at least Nevada can point east and say, “We may be broke, but at least we ain’t politicians!”

Reno, that jewel of the desert with more casinos than sense, came in at 4.7 percent. Carson City, ever the steady hand, is sittin’ at 4.5 percent, perhaps from all the legislative loafers finally countin’ for something. Elko County, bless its rural little heart, has the lowest number at 4.3 percent—proof that when there’re fewer folks to count, you can’t count many as unemployed.

But saddle up and ride down to Mineral County if you want a tale of woe–9.6 percent unemployment. That’s nearly one in ten folks kickin’ dust and cursin’ the sky. I don’t know what kind of minerals they’re diggin’ for there, but it sure ain’t jobs.

And then there’s Las Vegas, our city of sin and sequins, clockin’ in at 5.6 percent, where folks can lose their shirts in the casino or the job market—dealer’s choice.

So there you have it. Nevada’s got the worst jobless rate in the land, but don’t fret too hard—we’re inchin’ in the right direction.

Just don’t blink, or you might miss the progress.

Here’s a tale that’ll turn your coffee cold and make you swear off sightseeing by air. The federal folks—those good people at the FAA, who always seem to show up late with a mop after the milk’s already spilled—have poked their heads out from behind their desks and taken a hard look at our nation’s whirlybirds.

A January dust-up in Washington, D.C., between an American Airlines passenger jet and an Army Black Hawk helicopter turned tragic—snuffed out 67 souls and painted a grim reminder that the sky, unlike a Sunday picnic, ain’t a place for sloppy manners and poor directions. The FAA prodded at the incident like one does with an old mule using a stick, decided to let artificial intelligence root through its mountains of neglected paperwork and figure out where else folks might be dancing too close for comfort in the sky.

Wouldn’t you know, Las Vegas—a town known for gamblers and showgirls, not safety records—popped up on the radar. The FAA discovered that the helicopter operators and air traffic controllers were playing “Guess where I am” with no rules about who flies where or when.

Picture a barn dance where half the folks are blindfolded, and the other half are drunk—that’s about the airspace over Harry Reid International.

Acting FAA head Chris Rocheleau, someone who just remembered where he left his car keys, said they jumped in quickly. They started telling pilots where the other flying machines were, which you’d think would be standard procedure, not divine inspiration.

Lo and behold, the near-smack-ups dropped by thirty percent in three weeks. Miraculous, what a little common sense can do.

Now, there’s talk of expanding the watchdogging to places like Boston, New York, and Dallas—anywhere folks go up in the air hoping to come back down in the same shape. It seems Las Vegas was just the tip of the iceberg, or maybe the first hole in the block of Swiss cheese that safety folks like to yammer about.

Former NTSB boss Jim Hall said the helicopter tour business is an airborne circus—less about safety and more about thrilling Aunt Edna from Omaha. And while the FAA deserves a slow clap for finally doing something, it’s a sorry thing when it takes a pile of bodies to stir the regulators from their slumber.

Jeff Guzzetti, who’s seen his fair share of crash sites, said, “This was a real hazard.”

Now the FAA’s eyes are on places like Van Nuys and Hollywood Burbank, where the runways are so close you could pass a sandwich between departing planes.

In the end, Rocheleau summed it up like a man trying to plug a hundred leaks with one cork–flying is still the safest way to get around, but don’t go betting your luck. They’re trying to get smarter, use the data better, and do something when they find a problem.

Revolutionary, I know.

Aviation lawyer Robert Clifford, usually the FAA’s loudest critic, even tipped his hat. Said the feds might finally be doing what needed doing before that January tragedy made headlines.

So there you have it, folks. The sky’s still blue, the helicopters are still buzzing, and the FAA is, at long last, trying to herd those airborne cats with rules instead of prayers. And about time, too.

Now, I ain’t one to meddle in the affairs of courtrooms and city halls—except when they hand down justice the way a goose lays eggs– unpredictable, unceremonious, and sometimes a little soft in the shell.

News out of Washoe County has it that Mr. Christopher McDougal, the gentleman that ran down U.S. District Court Judge Larry Hicks in the bustling core of Reno last May, has now begun his penance. For taking the life of a man who had himself spent decades measuring out justice with a firm but even hand, McDougal got sentenced to spend thirty days in the county jail—a sentence shorter than some marriages and far less painful than a toothache.

Along with the jail stint, McDougal’s gotta perform 200 hours of community service, suffer through eight hours of traffic safety school–which is a punishment in its own right–and sit solemnly through a victim impact panel—likely full of tearful reckonings and the kind of heavy silences you can’t wriggle out of. Add to that a suspended driver’s license and a fine of $1,153, and you’ve got the full weight of justice resting on him like a featherbed on a sleeping cat.

Should Mr. McDougal, by mischief or misstep, fail to honor these conditions, he will face 180 days behind bars. Though I reckon, for now, he’s gettin’ the sort of second chance a fellow prays for when a mistake too great for comfort and tragic for remedy gets made.

The family of Judge Hicks offered thanks to the officers and attorneys who worked the case, calling the outcome a step toward healing. And perhaps it is.