Author: Tom Darby

There is a peculiar way of handling justice up in Storey County, and if you ain’t familiar with it, let me explain: it’s a system so finely tuned that the innocent can be locked up before they’ve finished explaining themselves while the guilty strut about unbothered, tipping their hats to the sheriff as they pass.

Take the case of Melanie Lindsley, who, upon seeking protection from her soon-to-be ex-husband, Bryce Lindsley, was suddenly acquainted with the inside of a jail cell. You might reckon this was because of some compelling evidence against her, but you’d be sorely mistaken.

No, Melanie’s misfortune came courtesy of the Storey County Sheriff’s Office and District Attorney Anne Langer, who have turned the scales of justice into a most amusing seesaw—one that only tips in favor of whomever they please. Melanie, armed with sworn statements, evidence, and the testimony of multiple witnesses, reported nine years’ worth of stalking, harassment, and violence at the hands of her husband.

According to any reasonable observer, this would warrant an arrest. And it did—only the arrest was hers. Bryce Lindsley, meanwhile, who by the sheriff’s admission meets the legal criteria for stalking and harassment, remains as unburdened as a coyote with a chicken coop key.

You might think that once her felony charges got dismissed—on account of being built upon a foundation of thin air–it would be all over. But no, dear reader, that would imply a desire for fairness in Storey County, and there is little evidence to support such a notion.

Instead, DA Langer has elected to pursue a misdemeanor charge against Melanie with the enthusiasm of a hound on a butcher’s trail. Some say this is because she aims to preserve her perfect conviction record, but I suspect she merely enjoys a good lost cause, provided it ruins the right sort of person.

And what of Sheriff Michael Cullen? A man elected on the promise of reform appears to have misunderstood his role, thinking “reform” meant refining the art of indifference. His office, fully aware of the laws, has opted to ignore them, proving that legal statutes in Storey County have all the weight of a feather in a strong breeze.

Meanwhile, Judge Eileen F. Herrington, in keeping with the local tradition, denied Melanie’s most recent attempt at a protection order—despite the evidence, despite the police report, despite common sense itself.

“This is not just about me,” Melanie has said, and she’s right.

It is about every woman who has sought justice only to find herself staring at it from behind iron bars. It is about every victim forced to prove their suffering while their abuser enjoys the comfort of impunity.

In a move that might make even the most seasoned politician raise an eyebrow, Nevada Assemblymembers are asking Governor Joe Lombardo to give a second chance to those unfortunate federal workers fired by the Trump administration. The request comes in the form of a letter penned by Speaker Steve Yeager, Speaker Pro-Tempore Daniele Monroe-Moreno, and Assembly Majority Floor Leader Sandra Jauregui, which, if nothing else, is proof that some things in politics never change.

In their missive, these fine folks express concern for the state’s 20,000 federal employees who’ve found themselves without a paycheck, let alone the healthcare that often comes with the job. The trio, no doubt acting out of genuine concern, suggest that the Governor might take a page from the playbooks of states like Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New Mexico, who have already taken it upon themselves to reabsorb the displaced workers into state roles.

Now, we find that Lombardo is not one to bow to the demands of the Legislature. His office responded faster than a jackrabbit running over asphalt on a hot day, reminding everyone that Nevada has been the picture of economic prosperity—if you consider leading the nation in employment growth and adding over 30,000 workers to the labor force a sign of success.

And while the Governor didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for the federal employees in question, he did encourage them to get in line like everyone else and apply for state employment, where they can continue serving the state in a manner that, no doubt, will make them as useless as they were in their previous jobs. Lombardo’s camp also took a moment to remind the Legislature that their job is to pass laws, not to grandstand for the political spotlight.

Maybe we all just started hiring each other.

No Real Danger Found

Dusty as Dayton may be, and where the biggest threat to one’s peace of mind is the occasional tumbleweed drifting by, an incident has stirred the pot. A young scholar, perhaps influenced by too many adventure novels or an overactive imagination, found themselves with a “kill list”—the sort of thing one would expect from a villain in a dime-store novel, not a student on a bus.

Wednesday morning, the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office came to investigate a report of this list, discovered, of all places, on a school bus belonging to the Lyon County School District. The authorities, ever vigilant, quickly tracked down the young person responsible for the list, and following a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart, they came to a conclusion that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud–the child has no access to a firearm and posed no immediate danger to the good people of Dayton.

The LCSO has assured the public that while the investigation continues, there’s no need to be alarmed—just a case of youthful folly and imagination running wild. Of course, as is often the case in these matters, the investigation involves other children, and so, much like a good mystery novel, some details remain behind closed doors.

After this brush with the law, one can only hope this youngster will channel their creativity into something more harmless—perhaps a list for better things, like a wish list for more homework.

A Grand Exchange of Leprechauns

Ever the land of bold enterprise and creative economics, Nevada has set its sights on a new and exotic trading partner: Ireland. Yes, that misty emerald isle where poetry flows like whiskey and the cows outnumber the citizens.

Speaker Steve Yeager and Assemblymember PK O’Neill, struck by a fit of international enthusiasm, are championing a bill to create a Trade Commission between Nevada and Ireland, a venture no doubt inspired by a late-night reverie over a pint of Guinness and a map of the Atlantic.

The grand aim of the Commission is to cement relations between the Silver State and the Shamrock Shore.

According to Yeager, AB160 is an “incredible opportunity” to “expand trade, create new business partnerships, and create jobs for Nevadans.” One might pause here to ask what exactly Nevada and Ireland have to trade, but such questions only dampen the spirit of progress.

For his part, O’Neill is as equally enthused, calling the legislation a “smart investment” for Nevada’s future. It suggests that Nevada’s economy—built upon gambling, mining, and the occasional alien conspiracy—was in desperate need of Irish intervention.

Perhaps the Commission will ensure a steady flow of stout and storytelling to Las Vegas while guaranteeing a robust supply of slot machines for the pubs of Dublin. It is a bold stroke of statesmanship, a bridge of commerce spanning the Atlantic.

And if nothing else, it will ensure that Nevada and Ireland remain forever linked, if only in the bewildered musings of those trying to figure out what they have to offer one another.

Ain’t this a curious tale straight out of a dime novel—except it’s all too real. Picture this: a fella by the name of Jairo Paredes-Cota, a 41-year-old teacher with a rather unsavory reputation, was apprehended by U.S. Marshals and ICE on Thursday in Reno as if he were a runaway horse caught in a corral.

The man, a fugitive wanted down south in Mexico for some awful deeds involving a young one—something about a teacher at the Indigenous Community University in Sinaloa misbehaving—was nabbed without so much as a squawk on East Plumb Lane. Paredes-Cota’s legal troubles, however, don’t stop with his alleged misdeeds in Mexico.

Oh no, indeed.

Paredes-Cota, the upstanding citizen that he is, got hisself expelled from the United States for violating immigration laws. But somehow, like a bad penny, he managed to turn up in Reno, leaving law enforcement scratching their heads.

It was the Mexican authorities who, after some time, called in the U.S. Marshals for help back in February, pleading for assistance to bring this errant soul to justice. And wouldn’t you know it? The long arm of the law came through once more.

Of course, we have the always-eloquent Nevada Attorney General, Mr. Aaron Ford, stepping forward with his two cents. Now, Mr. Ford insists that Nevada has no illegal alien problem.

“No sir,” he said.

According to his estimation, the folks crossing borders to come here are “hardworking family people” who “contribute to Nevada’s economy and society as a whole.” An optimistic view of things, if you ask me.

He seems to have a penchant for defending the less savory elements that wander across our borders. Meanwhile, U.S. Marshal Gary Schofield, a man with a keen sense for justice, made a statement worthy of a hero’s ballad.

“This arrest reflects our commitment to protecting victims and removing dangerous individuals through strong collaboration across the state.”

Strong words. One wonders if Mr. Ford, in all his wisdom, would care to weigh in on this collaboration.

The U.S. Marshals are always looking for tips and are eager for anyone with knowledge of the whereabouts of wanted criminals to come forward. They’ve even made it easy for you with a nifty hotline at 1-800-336-0102, or you can send your whispers over the web at www.usmarshals.gov/tips.

As it stands, Mr. Paredes-Cota is sitting pretty in ICE custody, awaiting his return to Mexico. It’s safe to say his run from justice is over—for now, at least.

It was inevitable, I suppose. You don’t dive into the shark-infested waters of journalism without expecting to come out a little chewed up, and this time, I got the treatment: a pink slip, a half-debouched editor howling in some ancient, forgotten dialect, and an office chair sailing through the air like a demented frisbee.

Fired. No golden parachute or farewell parade—just a swift boot from Rat-Face, the rodent they called an editor. Ol’ Rat-Face, his mustache that drooped like a dead thing by noon, had it in for me from the get-go. It wasn’t just professional friction; this was personal—a vendetta, a seething, verminous hatred.

It started with petty stuff—files disappearing, corrections showing up like unwanted guests in my copy, my assignments handed off to some snot-nosed kid whose writing was as compelling as watching paint dry.

Then it got ugly.

My paycheck? Evaporating faster than sweat in Death Valley. Rat-Face thought $160 a week was too much; he cut it down to $100 like it was nothing.

“You understand, right?” he said, preening that pathetic mustache.

“Yeah, I understand you’re a goddamn lunatic,” I shot back, slamming my hands down on his desk.

Rat-Face just blinked–those soulless little eyes of his. “We all make sacrifices for the paper.”

I went over his head, taking it to the real bosses. “We’ll get back to you tomorrow,” they said, with the sincerity of used-car salesmen selling you a lemon.

Tomorrow never came. Instead, three hours later, Rat-Face storms in, frothing like a rabid weasel.

“You think you can go over my head?” he screeched, his mustache dancing like a mad puppet. “You think you’re better than me?”

“I know I am, Rat-Face,” I said, lighting a cigarette for dramatic effect.

It escalated. I threw something out on social media—a harmless gripe, a whisper into the digital void—but Rat-Face, the vigilant rodent, pounced. He fired me on the spot. “Bad optics,” he said, suddenly playing the PR game like he wasn’t just a barely literate editor.

So there I was, a week and a half later, driving through my old beat, flipping off the billboards, reliving the whole circus in my mind. Some stops were nostalgia, others a reminder of the madness I was leaving behind.

I pulled into a gas station where the attendant looked like he’d been mummified mid-shift, his eyes like marbles in molasses. “You look like a man on a mission,” he mumbled, handing back my change with the enthusiasm of a stoned sloth.

“I just got fired from the worst newspaper in the country.”

“Sounds like freedom to me.”

I thought about that as I gassed up, staring at the sun-cracked asphalt, waiting for it to swallow me up. The air was thick with the buzz of the absurd.

My next stop was the diner–a place stuck in time since Eisenhower was in office. The waitress, who probably served during Prohibition, dropped a cup of coffee in front of me that could double as engine oil.

“Ain’t seen you in a bit,” she said, under her towering beehive.

“Got canned. Rat-Face finally gnawed through my last nerve.”

She smirked. “That little man’s been scared since you walked in. Heard he nearly wet himself when you lit that cigarette.”

“I like to think I left a mark.”

I chugged the coffee and hit the road, the taste of freedom and failure mixing like a Molotov cocktail at the end of the world in my mouth.

If there’s one thing a ballplayer hates, it’s scraping by on a narrow margin. The Douglas Tigers must have had that thought in mind when they took the field against Fernley on Thursday, leaving no doubt as they ran roughshod over the Vaqueros in a blistering 12-2 victory.

The Tigers’ bats, which had been relatively tame in their previous outing, erupted in this contest, pounding out runs with a vengeance. Titus Gocke manned the mound with the confidence of a seasoned gambler holding a full house, striking out seven over five innings while allowing no earned runs.

Meanwhile, Colt Cummins made himself right at home on the basepaths, reaching safely in four of his five plate appearances, belting a triple, knocking in a run, and scoring twice—the most runs posted since last April. Not to be outdone, Jared Peters kept pace, crossing home plate twice and reaching base in four of his five trips.

With this triumph, Douglas extends their record to 2-0, while Fernley, now stuck in the mud of a three-game losing streak and sitting at 1-4-1. The Vaqueros, desperate to turn their fortunes, will need to tighten their defense, as they’ve been giving up an average of 8.7 runs per game—hardly the kind of generosity that wins championships.

Next up, Douglas looks to keep the good times rolling against McQueen at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday. Fernley, meanwhile, has a date with Wooster at 10:00 a.m., where both teams will be searching for redemption.

The Wooster Colts, who are none too pleased after being trampled 12-2 by Damonte Ranch in their season opener, now saddle up for a road showdown against Fernley. History is not on their side, as the Mustangs have run them down in their last eight meetings.

Still, Wooster showed some life at the plate, with four players notching hits. Chris Ballard and Malik Vaden made their presence known, each scoring a run, with Vaden flashing some speed by swiping two bases.

Still licking its wounds from its latest thrashing, Fernley needs some fight to break free from their slump. The last time they locked horns with Wooster, the Vaqueros came up short in a 4-3 heartbreaker.

With this latest tilt set on their home turf, Fernley will be banking on a little home-field magic to right the ship.

Nevada’s Storey County is the runt of the litter in size, yet the Reno Tahoe Industrial Center (TRIC) houses some of the largest manufacturing outfits this side of the Rockies. And now, it seems, the county wants more than a handshake and a shiny new fire truck when the next big fish swims into its waters.

That’s the spirit behind Senate Bill 69, a proposal to put local governments in the loop when corporate giants come knocking. Storey County lobbyist Will Alder insists it’s high time the county finds recognition for something beyond its “hokey Western” charm.

“Nevada is advanced manufacturing nowadays,” he proclaims as if trying to talk some sense into those still picturing nothing but tumbleweeds and saloons.

The bill’s origins trace back to the Great Tesla Land Rush of 2014 when the state rolled out a billion-dollar welcome mat in tax incentives, property tax modifications, and who-knows-what-else. In return, Storey County received, in Adler’s words, “a fire truck.”

Not exactly a king’s ransom. So, when Tesla returned for another $330 million in tax breaks three years ago, Storey County decided not to be caught napping again.

“We have semi-trucks, they weigh more,” Adler points out, discussing the deep deliberations that ought to happen before a company moves in.

This time, Storey County struck a deal with Tesla to help foot the bill for reinforcing roads—a rare instance of corporate cooperation rather than a government scrambling to play catch-up.

Under Senate Bill 69, a county representative would finally have a proper seat at the table rather than being the cousin nobody remembers until the will gets read. As things stand, counties are given a mere 30-day notice before a major project barges in, kicking up dust and demanding infrastructure.

That, Adler argues, is no way to plan for the future. Of course, not everyone is keen on this newfound county empowerment, and soon, the opposition will have its say before the Senate Committee on Revenue and Economic Development.

Whether this bill passes or gets shuffled into the grand legislative junk drawer remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure—Storey County may be small, but it’s learning how to throw its weight around.

Silver City’s Most Delicious Auction Returns

On the evening of Friday, March 14th, at precisely 5:30 p.m., the citizens of Silver City—those with good taste and those with merely large appetites—will assemble at the historic Silver City Schoolhouse at 385 High Street to engage in a spectacle that combines high-stakes gambling, culinary mastery, and the noble art of charitable giving. For the fifth consecutive year, the Silver City Preservation Society, a group dedicated to preserving civilization in this remote outpost, will host its Annual Pi Day Pie Auction.

For those unfamiliar with Pi Day, get enlightened. Pi (π) is that mysterious and interminable number, beginning with 3.14 and meandering into infinity, much like an old-timer telling a story with no apparent end. It is a mathematical curiosity for the higher purpose of celebrating that most perfect of foods—the pie.

At this event, dozens of pies—sweet and savory, large and small, round and–well– round—shall be auctioned. The finest bakers of the Comstock have been laboring day and night to produce these marvels of flour, butter, and ingenuity. Those who know the Comstock know this–there are bakers in these parts who could make even a hardened prospector weep for joy at the mere scent of their crusts.

It is not some dreary, dignified affair where people whisper their bids in hushed tones—oh, no! It is a live auction, where the strong of heart and deep of pocket go head-to-head in a battle for supremacy, waving their hands and hard-earned dollars in the air with reckless abandon.

It is a contest of wit, will, and appetite, and it moves with the speed of a riverboat poker game about to be broken up by the authorities. Within two hours, the pies are gone, the money raised, and the town left in sleepy satisfaction.

All proceeds from this noble exercise in indulgence go to the Silver City Preservation Society, a fine institution that maintains the old schoolhouse, fosters community planning, operates a volunteer library, and brings forth a variety of cultural, educational, and artistic endeavors, all aimed at keeping Silver City from sliding back into the wilderness. So, Bring your wallets, appetites, and best poker face because bidding will be fierce, fortunes will be made and lost, and waistlines will vary.

Bid high, bid often, and—beware of that one pie that always goes for an outrageous sum. It is said to possess near-mystical properties or an ungodly amount of butter.

It appears that Attorney General Aaron Ford’s roster of “upstanding citizens” has gained yet another sterling member, one Rodrigo Valdovinos-Hernandez—who, now that the law had some say in the matter, ought to be somewhere south of the Rio Grande, rather than gracing the fair streets of Las Vegas with his continued presence.

Mr. Valdovinos-Hernandez—also known as Rodrigo Tejada-Valdovinos, or simply Rodrigo Valdovinos, for those who enjoy variety in their aliases—was discovered last May by ICE officials, no doubt in the middle of his industrious contributions to society. They found him thanks to the fine efforts of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, who had arrested him on state charges, presumably interrupting some noble enterprise.

It was not Mr. Valdovinos-Hernandez’s first uninvited stay in the United States. No, he had already been escorted out of the country twice—once in September 2009 and again in November 2012.

Yet, like a homesick tourist with an unfortunate sense of direction–he kept finding his way back. One might think that after two formal goodbyes, he would take the hint. However, persistence is a virtue.

His time in the U.S. has not been without its adventures. With three felony convictions under his belt—including attempted burglary and possession of a stolen motor vehicle—one might suspect that he harbors a fondness for other people’s property. Despite these minor legal inconveniences, he managed to secure yet another guilty plea, this time for the crime of simply existing where he ought not.

After a leisurely 18 months in federal custody—an all-expenses-paid retreat, courtesy of the American taxpayer—he will be freighted back to whence he came.