The Old Blog in the Desert

Written by a Gentle Observer with a Pen, a Chair, and a Good Deal of Curiosity

The Nevada Legislature’s 2025 session is like a poker game in a saloon where every man has a bluff and every lady–an Ace in her garter. In the democratic dance hall of Carson City, lawmakers are swapping their spurs for pens as they attempt to rope in a wild herd of issues—from sneaky rental fees to black-market marijuana, prescription drug profiteering, and even the prospect of a state-run lottery–which stumbled out the door before the band could strike a chord.

Take Assembly Bill 121, for instance. Introduced by Assemblymember Venicia Considine, a Democrat out of Las Vegas, it’s aimed at pulling the curtain on what she calls “predatory” rental practices. It seems too many Nevadans sign leases under the impression they’re renting a room and end up financing a spaceship, complete with “smart” thermostats and Wi-Fi they didn’t ask for.

She wants every cost laid out plain as day–before tenants get hoodwinked into handing over deposits for conveniences they can’t decline. The landlords ain’t keen on red tape–though they say they admire “transparency,” so long as it don’t come with an invoice attached.

Then there’s Assembly Bill 203, which aims to hogtie the illegal cannabis trade, especially the shady sidewalk sellers working like old-time snake oil men. Lawmakers say the black market’s sucking $242 million out of legitimate coffers–money meant for education and public safety.

Tourists lured in by cheap thrills may not realize their “bargain buds” are sometimes spiced up with more than THC. The new bill hands more power to the Department of Public Safety and nudges regulators to find clever ways to draw users into the legal fold. One such idea—to deliver cannabis directly to Strip hotels—ran afoul of federal banking laws and the ever-watchful eye of Nevada’s gaming giants, who’d rather avoid running afoul of Uncle Sam.

Speaking of gaming giants, the idea of a state lottery, Assembly Joint Resolution 5, quietly keeled over in the hallway, done in by missed deadlines and powerful casino interests. Nevada remains one of only five states without a lottery–and judging by the influence of the Resort Association, it’ll likely stay that way till slot machines grow legs and start buying scratchers themselves.

Meanwhile, the healthcare industry is pouring money into lawmakers’ campaigns faster than whiskey into a miner. Over $1.7 million in contributions have flooded into campaign coffers–most of it from hospitals, insurers, and Big Pharma.

The motive? A seat at the table while legislation brews to cap drug prices, regulate pharmacy go-betweens, and split the state’s Department of Health and Human Services in two like a poorly cooked roast.

Critics call these bills everything from misguided to downright ruinous. Supporters, on the other hand, say it’s high time someone stood up to the pill profiteers.

As these dramas unfold, it’s clear Nevada’s lawmakers aren’t just passing bills—they’re wrestling leviathans, each more slippery than the last. Renters want fairness, tourists need safety, patients desire care, and corporations demand profit. Somewhere in the middle lies the truth—or at least a compromise wrapped in red tape and signed in triplicate.

In the Silver State, progress never rides in on a white horse. It usually arrives dusty, delayed, and clinging to the back of a tired mule.

While I ain’t one to speak ill of a man doing his job—when a fella like Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford sets up a website to collect grumblings and bellyaches over Social Security and then has the gall to call it a crusade for commoners, well, I reckon we’ve wandered clean off the trail of common sense and into the thornbushes of political grandstanding.

Puffed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving Eve, Mr. Ford launched a shiny new webpage so Nevadans could report any hiccups or hangnails they experienced with their Social Security checks. It ain’t a fix-it line, nor is it meant to smooth the road for folks needing their funds.

No, sir—it’s more like a suggestion box nailed to a lawsuit waiting to happen as Ford’s sayin’ it’ll get used in “future litigation,” which sounds like he’s fixin’ to sue the federal government before finding out if there’s anything worth suing over.

But Ford didn’t stop there. He rolled up his sleeves, squared his jaw, and declared, “I will not allow the Trump administration to destroy a safety net…”

Well, bless his heart. Ain’t it like a politician to go hollerin’ ‘fire’ when someone lights a match to read the fine print?

Let’s get something straight: the Trump Administration is trying to fix a leaking boat, not sink it. With a federal bureaucracy bloated like a cow filled with green apples, some trimming’s bound to rattle a few folks who’ve grown fat on inefficiency. Trump’s reforms to Social Security aim to bring modernization and fraud prevention—noble aims if ever there were—and not, as Mr. Ford would have you believe, the dismantling of civilization as we know it.

Ford even took issue with the closure of a Las Vegas field office and called it a “disastrous” move. But lo and behold, the Social Security Administration said, “Whoa there, partner—we haven’t permanently closed a single local office.”

That’s right–no permanent closures, just a bit of reshuffling in the name of good governance.

The SSA’s also rolled out new phone policies to keep scammers from suckin’ funds outta Uncle Sam’s wallet. Folks now have to prove who they are either online or in person. Sure, it’s a tad inconvenient for those who still holler into rotary phones or live five hours from the nearest fiber-optic cable, but the alternative—rampant fraud—isn’t any better.

Still, Ford’s more interested in lawsuits than solutions. He’s got a whole cabinet full of‘em—suing over birthright citizenship, public health grants, even Elon Musk. I don’t know what Elon did to Nevada, but I reckon Mr. Ford’s got a dartboard with Musk’s face next to his “Sue Trump” calendar.

And yet, Ford insists, “I am not afraid…” Well, maybe he oughta be—of wasting taxpayer dollars on political theater while the folks back home want their checks to arrive on time and their country to work as promised. There’s a chasm between standing up for citizens and showboating for the next election cycle.

The truth is that the Trump Administration is doing the heavy lifting that previous ones were too timid to attempt. Reforming Social Security and other federal programs isn’t an act of cruelty it’s an act of necessity. And it’s about time someone did it.

So Mr. Ford can collect all the complaints he wants, but he’d do well to remember that whining ain’t policy and grandstanding ain’t governance.

Written in spirit, if not whiskey

Nevada has done what any seasoned card player would do with a losing hand–bluff confidence and hope the other fella folds. The state’s unemployment rate, that old tick on the thermometer of public misery, has eked its way down from 5.8 percent to 5.7 percent.

A cause for celebration, perhaps — if one were to cheer a leaky lifeboat just because it’s only taking on slightly less water.

Meanwhile, the Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation–a name so long it might be mistaken for a railroad–reports that fewer folks signed up for jobless benefits last month, down a modest 1.1 percent. That sounds promising until you learn the state shelled out $44.9 million in March to the unemployed–a jump of $4.6 million, or 11.5 percent, from the month before.

Fewer hands held out, but each seemed to be grabbing more.

Las Vegas added 600 jobs–not enough to fill a casino lounge on a rainy Tuesday. Reno did slightly better with 800 new positions–proving once again that the Truckee River runs with a little more hustle than the Neon strip. However, Carson City lost 200 jobs–possibly chasing after a tumbleweed.

The state’s most booming sector was leisure and hospitality, which conjures images of bellhops and blackjack dealers reporting for duty–2,000 new positions appeared like a magic trick. The finance and trade sectors dropped by 1,000 and 900 jobs, respectively–which might explain why your local bank teller looks more nervous than usual.

Altogether, the labor force swelled by 4,095 souls. Of these, 4,730 found work–either legitimate or imaginative–and 635 went back to the waiting room of economic purgatory.

Now, if you look across the fence, you’ll see that other states are doing their fancy stepping, too. Of all places, Idaho strutted to the top with a 2.7 percent employment growth. Utah followed at 2.0 percent.

Meanwhile, Nevada’s annual growth waddled in at 0.6 percent — half the national pace. Las Vegas posted a paltry 0.1 percent increase from March 2024 while shedding 2,900 resort and 2,800 restaurant jobs like an old dog losing fur.

But don’t despair entirely. Construction is booming in the desert, with 6,000 new jobs springing up like cacti in a storm, perhaps heralding new hotels, bridges, and a large lemonade stand.

So here we are, a state with less joblessness, more payouts, and all the peculiar arithmetic that makes the economy feel tragic, comic, and strange enough to be true.

Embedded with the Marines. Fallujah. November 2004.

My notebook’s a fucking mess, sweat-soaked, dirt-ground, my camera’s dented, lens scratched. I write quickly, snapping the shots, hands unsteady.

At the Firebase—our base camp—things go wrong fast. Deliveries quit. No water, no supplies. The local nationals, those who hauled for us, cooked for us, they vanished.

Then their heads come. In bags. Dropped at the gate like a dare.

“Holy shit,” I say to Martinez, hunkered near me, rifle slack. “How many heads you reckon?”

“Don’t know, man,” he says, eyes flat. “I’m just waiting for the mission. Wondering why the water truck’s AWOL, why I’m stuck with this scratch-off phone card, an hour and a half for the goddamn morale phone.”

He’s young, still floating in some dream. Me too, pen and paper, trying to see all of it.

Big things are moving—but I’m low-level, out of the loop. No briefing comes. The information doesn’t trickle down. It sits, heavy, untold.

What would they say anyhow? “Hey, boys, if you’re asking where the help went, their heads are chopped off, stacked at the front door.”

Days drag, then the shit gets real. November 7, the night before the push, the platoon commander strides in, face hard as concrete.

“Write your death letters,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, skin crawling as I recall those long-forgotten memories.

Martinez says, “You fucking kidding me?”

He’s got a girl back home, parents too. He writes: “I fought for my country, my team. I love you. I miss you.”

The same to his folks—motivated kid shit, 18 years old, all bravado. He hands the letters to the commander, folded tight.

I write my death letter, beginning with “Dear Mary.” That’s as far as I get before tucking it into my pants pocket.

“A writer, with nothing to say,” I chuckle.

November 8, 0200, 0300, we stage. Load the 7-tons, big diesel hulks, loud, clumsy. They smoke cigarettes, light discipline loose on base, the ashes falling in the dark.

Ten minutes from the DVD player, the shitty chow, the slab called a bed, into hell. Our drive’s dead quiet, pure black, JP-8 fuel thick in my nose.

The truck rumbles–it shakes my bones. You feel it, the silence, the bond with no words.

No category holds it. Only this does–this moment, these men.

We hit the Cloverleaf, the highway ramps twisting outside Fallujah. Streetlights burning yellow. Gunshots crack—our guys shoot them out. 5.56 takes more than one shot–not clean like the movies. Then black, still.

The team leader jogs up. “Overwatch and push,” he says.

Martinez, point man, head on a swivel, no destination, laying intel back—where’s the enemy, what’s alive, whose dangerous.

The battalion’s four companies strong. I’m with the main thrust, with other units on the edges funneling in.

We reach a building on the outskirts. We hold Overwatch.

Humvees roll in—Mark 19s, .50 cals, 240s bolted to Mercedes jeeps. They L-shape, covering the grunts bounding forward, place to place, trained tight. Clear the city, they say.

It’s 0700, 0800, day just cracked. Sun’s creeping up, air’s foreign, sharp, quiet. Too quiet. Beautiful, almost insane.

Then, a jeep vanishes. Blown up, right there, fire and metal gone. “Holy fuck,” I breathe.

No child’s timeout, no break. Gunshots sputter, random.

Ground elements hustle. No martial law, no stability—just fighting.

There are no plans that I can spot. Spaghetti at the wall–toss it, and see what sticks.

“Push, establish Overwatch,” they tell us again. We do.

I’m on a rooftop, close to rear security. Watching the narrow stairwell.

Shots ping—the wall splinters near my head. “Fuck,” I yell, dropping lower.

They’re firing, engaging armed shapes, doing the job. But I’m stuck near an open doorway on the ground floor as shots zip all around.

I duck again, relearning fast. My ancient training is like a shadow, yet still solid.

Cold War moves fail here—urban tangle, kill houses, tunnels, rat lines, loopholes bored through walls. They shoot and run while overhead never sees them.

Later, I find Martinez. He lights a cigarette, his face hollow, smoke curling. He never used to smoke, but now.

“Taco Bell,” he says. “Crunchwrap Supreme, first stop out.”

Brooks, blood crusting his cheek, snorts. “You’ll puke it up, kid.”

Laughter, as I write it up and snap a frame of the flare of his match.

Doc Hayes drags in a wounded Marine, face locked tight. I get that, shutter clicking.

I see it, smell it, feel it. Never shake it. Never will.

The Marines push, and my notebook full, camera scarred, telling it true as they clear this hell, house by house, soul by soul.

If you’ve never seen a smoke signal rise over the Capitol dome, you ain’t never watched a Nevada politician try to fix a problem he just found out he helped create. The Secretary of State, Francisco Aguilar, descended upon Carson City with a host of handlers, assistants, and earnest expressions to listen.

Which, in political arithmetic, is worth about as much as a gold rush after the gold is gone.

Let us not be unfair. Mr. Aguilar, a man of commendable shortness and uncommonly clean boots for a politician, came to meet with Nevada’s tribal communities—not to sell them snake oil, mind you, but to hear their woes about that most elusive creature–the vote. It’s strange how voting, a task no more complicated than licking an envelope, becomes a quest of epic proportions when conducted across tribal lands.

Stacey Montooth–a name as solid and reliable as tufa– explained that many Native citizens must drive an hour and a half to vote. That’s an hour and a half one way, mind you—not including the time spent waiting in line behind a rancher, two Jehovah’s Witnesses, and that fellow who thinks every election’s rigged unless his cousin wins.

To fix this, the State did a marvelous thing–it launched what it calls the Effective Absenteeism System for Elections—EASE–for short and not by coincidence. The contraption allows tribal citizens to cast votes from the comfort of their homes—or at least the nearest broadband signal strong enough to load a webpage without collapsing from exhaustion.

Sixty-one voters from eleven tribes used it, which may not sound like much, but out in the windy West–that’s a landslide.

They also set up three new polling stations, bringing the total to twenty across tribal lands. The act, which required at least four meetings, five press releases, and one ceremonial ribbon-cutting, led to a 36 percent increase in tribal voter turnout.

Politicians, ever fond of a good number that makes them look busier than they are, pointed to this with wide eyes and thunderous declarations.

“It was an aha moment,” Mr. Aguilar proclaimed.

And what a sound an “aha” makes echoing through the marble halls of bureaucracy! It is, in fact, the sound of a man discovering that Native Americans also wish to vote—something any schoolchild with a history book could’ve told you.

Ever eager to show his sincerity, the Secretary has launched a listening tour among all 28 tribes, bands, and colonies in Nevada. It will require a vast supply of folding chairs, maps, coffee, and patience. But if democracy must travel by horse cart and iPad, then so be it.

Lastly, in the name of “voter roll integrity,” which is to say, pruning the names of those who moved, died, or wandered off—Mr. Aguilar inactivated some 37,000 voters and removed 160,000 registrations statewide. It startled the local press, who had assumed voter rolls were as eternal and unchanging as the Sierra Nevadas.

All told–the endeavor is admirable, though I daresay if politicians had to ride a mule for three days to cast their vote, we’d see reform faster than a gambler folding on a bad hand. So, how many politicians does it take to send a smoke signal?

Just one—provided he has a camera crew, a publicist, a well-placed quote about democracy, and a Wi-Fi signal strong enough to carry it to Twitter.

By Your most obedient and occasionally horrified servant, scribblin’ from the edge of perdition

If you’ll pardon an old feller a few lines of printed astonishment, let me tell you–the world’s gone clean slap-dab mad, and Nevada’s holdin’ the wheel.

One needn’t look farther than Carson City for proof, where a calm afternoon turned to a dusty gunfight right out of a dime novel. It began plain enough—as a deputy strolls over to a parked car in a casino lot, likely expecting no more trouble than a cigarette flicked the wrong way.

But lo! Inside that infernal metal carriage sat a gentleman, age thirty-five, with a stack of sins long enough to fill a preacher’s sermon—Arizona had his name in bold print for violating parole, aggravated assault, and such.

Our fugitive—like many fools before—chose to flee. And in that famous Nevada style, he didn’t just run–he also turned, displayed a pistol like he was auditioning for a tragedy–and met his end in a flurry of bullets.

No one else was hurt, save the cause of civil peace and maybe a few windows. Deputies, for their part, are now seated gently on administrative leave while the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office pieces together the ruin like hens scratching at dried corn husks.

Meanwhile, in that low-swinging basin of sin called Las Vegas, a man by the name of James Mosqueda—chemist, craftsman, and methamphetamine merchant—has been ushered into prison for a generous stretch of five years, with an encore of four more under the keen eye of the law.

Mr. Mosqueda, using a 3D printer, managed to build an arsenal of ghost guns and machine doodads, all without the courtesy of a license. Between September and November of ‘23, he hawked these wares like a snake-oil man at a traveling fair—multiple 9mm pistols, a .45, and enough meth to fuel a Nevada county fair.

Now, if that don’t frost your mustache, try this–Douglas Day, a seventy-two-year-old devil disguised as a kindly photographer, was plucked from his unholy darkroom on April 16th, charged with ten counts of child pornography. His enterprise, “Top Gun Images”—which sounds less like a family portrait shop and more like a bad joke—has been under the spyglass of lawmen for 17 months.

Turns out, this gray-haired ghoul had more than photos in his files. With a $2,000,000 bail tag, he won’t be snapping graduation pics.

And lastly, we turn to the fallen flower of Las Vegas politics–Michele Fiore, once a City Councilwoman, then a Justice of the Peace, now a cautionary tale told in whispers and frowns. In October of last year, she was convicted on six counts of wire fraud and one of conspiracy, having misdirected funds meant to honor dead police officers.

They say she could face up to 140 years in a federal dungeon, though she swears her lawyer was a nincompoop and is suing for a second spin of the legal wheel. The Elites call her a disgrace, while her fans call her a martyr.

So here we are, ladies and gents–bullets in the parking lot, untraceable weapons printed like newspapers, ancient perverts behind cameras, and public servants picking their teeth with the rule of law. Ain’t it grand?

By the dusty gauge of desert justice—and perhaps the dawdling rhythm of bureaucracy—two years is a mighty long time to wait for a man accused of murder to get clapped in leg irons. But lo and behold, the long arm of the law, slow as it may be, has proven it still knows its way ’round the border and back again.

Oswaldo Natanahel Perez-Sanchez, the man fingered for the brutal slaying of young Tabatha Tozzi in Las Vegas, has at last been yanked from his hidey-hole in Sonora, Mexico, where he’d been living under a borrowed name and likely hoping the world would forget him. The world did not.

You might ask, what does a man do after he shoots his girlfriend in the head during a domestic spat? If you’re Perez-Sanchez, you steal a car, vanish like a puff of smoke in a thunderstorm, and hightail it to Mexico with all the arrogance of someone who thinks accountability is a myth.

He fooled just enough people to stay one step ahead of the law for a while. But justice, as the old saying goes, may be blind–but she listens real close—and in this case, she had help from a chorus of law officers, federal agents, and Mexican authorities who were good and tired of his charade.

The Fiscalía Unidad Especializada en Aprehensiones, with a hearty assist from the Mexican Marines and other investigative forces south of the border, scooped him up in Ciudad Obregón. While not shouted from rooftops—the arrest was echoed in headlines and confirmed by the FBI, DEA, and about half the alphabet soup of law enforcement agencies that had kept his wanted poster tacked to their mental bulletin boards.

Las Vegas Metropolitan Police, never one to ignore a good piece of collaborative triumph, extended their thanks to all who helped track the fugitive down—from the U.S. Marshals in Nevada and Arizona to the Customs and Border Protection’s Special Operations folks out of San Diego. They’ve now got him in hand, and while he faces charges in Mexico first, his northbound trip for an American reckoning is reportedly already on the books.

Back in Las Vegas, where the shadow of this tragedy has hung like a stubborn dust cloud, the news came with a complicated blend of relief and grief. Tabatha’s family—led by her heartbroken mother, Regina Lacerda—has never let up.

Regina, a woman whose strength could probably shame a cavalry charge, has fought to keep her daughter’s memory from fading into a cautionary tale.

“She told me she was afraid,” Regina once said, “Afraid he’d hurt himself. I asked, ‘To himself or you?’”

Her daughter never got the chance to answer. On April 22, 2023, Tabatha called her mother, panicked and desperate.

Regina tried to get to her. She was minutes too late.

Though not hers to bear—it has hung heavy on her ever since. Since that day, she has spoken to news crews, organized rallies, and lit candles under the stars—all in memory of a daughter who was only beginning her life when it got cruelly ended.

Tabatha Tozzi was 26 years old when she died. Friends described her as warm and generous, the kind of soul who could charm a thunderstorm into holding off until you made shelter.

Her “Tabby Tribe”—a circle of friends and family that grew into a movement—never let the world forget her. They held vigils, called for justice, and promised this would not be one of those cases that cools in a drawer until the paper yellows and the names get misspelled.

Perez-Sanchez is also now under investigation in connection with another woman’s murder—this one discovered just days ago in Culiacán. If true, it paints a picture of a man who did not go quietly into exile but carried his violence with him like a worn-out suitcase.

He now awaits proceedings in Culiacán’s Aguaruto Penitentiary, and his journey back to Nevada will begin soon enough. There, he will face charges in a courtroom that will likely be filled with the faces of the “Tabby Tribe” and led by a mother who never stopped fighting.

Almost exactly two years since her death, on April 24, a memorial will be held for Tabatha at Craig Ranch Regional Park. It won’t be a quiet affair, but then justice never is.

It’s loud, messy, and often arrives late to the party. But when it comes, it kicks the door in.

And sometimes, that’s enough to make the desert breathe easy again.

By an Old-Fashioned Observer of Common Sense and Uncommon Nonsense

It has been my lifelong observation—born of long years loafing along muddy riverbanks, dusty roads, and under canopies of Redwood trees—that when a fellow calls himself a Republican but starts acting like a Democrat in church clothes, the only suitable word for him is RINO, and that is the very species our tale concerns. One Governor Joe Lombardo of Nevada, a man whose collar is plenty stiff but whose spine seems less so, has taken it upon himself to write a letter—not with quill or gumption, but with the sort of soft ink that runs when trouble comes—to President Donald J. Trump, imploring His Excellency to lift tariffs on lithium.

Before I go any further, let me set one matter straight as a rowboat’s keel–President Trump did not impose tariffs to make life hard on Nevadan miners or hinder the blessed miracle of American invention. He did it to put a boot to the backside of China–and perhaps a few Wall Street crooks besides, who have long made a game of gutting the American economy like a catfish on a Saturday night.

But what does Governor Lombardo say? He says Nevada is “uniquely positioned” to lead in energy innovation.

That sounds mighty fine on a stump speech, and it might even fetch applause in a Reno cocktail hall, but it carries no water when it comes to loyalty. You see, it’s one thing to believe in energy progress, but it’s another to believe Nevada deserves a special exemption just because ol’ Joe Lombardo slapped a bumper sticker on his car that said Trump 2024.

That’s not statesmanship—that’s horse-trading.

The good Governor complains that lithium is getting dug up in Nevada, sent to Canada and Mexico for refining, and then hauled back into the United States like a long-lost cousin at a family reunion, only with a hefty import fee. He moans that these tariffs, designed to keep China from licking the cream from America’s plate, make it hard for Nevada companies to compete.

Well, I ask you—who told them to ship their raw lithium out like bootleg whiskey instead of building a smelter in the land of sagebrush and sage advice? President Trump didn’t. He’s been hollering for American industry to come home since he rode down the golden escalator.

And now this Governor, who calls himself a Republican, wants to cut a side deal? Why? ‘Cause Nevada’s got lithium deposits? So do other states. They just ain’t whining about it. Lombardo wants the President to make an exception—for his state, his donors, and his idea of the future.

That’s not federalism. That’s favoritism.

Let me tell you something I learned from an old mule driver on the banks of the Klamath River: “Any jackass can pull a cart downhill. It takes a team to pull it up.”

President Trump is trying to pull America back uphill. It ain’t easy. It ain’t polite. But it’s necessary. And the last thing he needs is some high-polished RINO tossing rocks in the road because he figures Nevada ought to ride in a carriage while the rest of us walk.

If Governor Lombardo wants to get remembered as more than a man with a letterhead–he’d do well to start standing for the tariffs and building American refining in Nevada–where the dirt’s still rich with promise, and the people still know what hard work is. But if all he wants is an exemption for himself and his backers, then I say he ought to trade that elephant pin for a donkey tail and get done with it.

As for President Trump is doing what few men dared—put America first. And no letter from a tariff-fearing RINO in the desert ought to change that.

By a Humble Chronicler of Political and Societal follies while scribblin’ in the margins of modern America

Now, I ain’t one to go around insultin’ folks outright — but there’s a peculiar and persistent sickness creepin’ through the grand halls of our federal judiciary, and pardon the expression, it smells suspiciously like self-importance, fermented in a cask of bureaucratic boloney and served with a dash of sanctimony.

Let us look no further than the silver-shined bench of the Honorable–at least in the title–Judge Gloria Navarro, who — in her wisdom loftier than Mount Olympus and twice as cold — decided that a gentleman by the name of Adrian Arturo Viloria Aviles, 29, of Venezuela, deserved a reprieve from deportation. Why? Well, Your Honor wasn’t satisfied with sendin’ him off without a parade and a monogrammed invitation to the asylum line.

Now, this Mr. Viloria Aviles — he was plucked from the Utah roadside like a weed by Immigration agents, who say he’s a member of that cheery little outfit known as Tren de Aragua, a gang more fond of violence than a cat is of mischief. The man says he’s no such thing, and he’s got tattoos to prove otherwise — although one’s a dragon, which seems about as helpful to his case as a skunk is to a perfume contest.

The Trump administration, not one to tarry when the opportunity arises to pack a criminal’s suitcase, reached for the Alien Enemies Act — a relic of war and worry not often pulled from the shelf. That law, dusty and draped in martial solemnity, allows the swift removal of certain foreigners in the event of wartime danger. Venezuela ain’t invaded us — not yet anyway — but Uncle Sam felt the occasion still warranted a good spring cleaning.

But Judge Navarro, perhaps eager to remind us all who sits behind the black robe and gavel, slammed the brakes on that train, declaring that Mr. Aviles must get the luxury of due process, paperwork, and all the ceremonial folderol of the American legal machine. Why, he was bounced like a ping-pong ball between detention centers in Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas faster than you can say habeas corpus, and Judge Navarro seemed mighty cross about that.

Now, I don’t suppose judges are entirely unnecessary. Some of ’em serve like good watchdogs — loyal, alert, and with just enough bark to scare off the mischief-makers. Sometimes, a courthouse canine starts barkin’ at the postman and lettin’ the burglars in for tea. Judge Navarro’s order to halt deportation, prompted by a few civil libertarians and the ever-compassionate ACLU, falls into this category.

And what of due process, you ask? Well, it is a noble idea. So is a gold-plated outhouse–but one ought to ask if it’s necessary for every tramp with a tattoo and a tale of woe to receive the full brass band of American justice. ‘Specially when the only evidence he ain’t dangerous is his say-so and the inability of the government to explain itself–which is, regrettably, a chronic ailment in federal offices.

Meanwhile, in Lovelock, Nevada, the same government had no problem deportin’ one Federico Garcia-Cegueda, a Mexican feller convicted of murder and sexual assault, which sounds like exactly the kind of individual we should be fast-tracking to the nearest border crossing. But that case didn’t require a judge’s high horse or the rhetorical somersaults of the ACLU–no, sir–he was out the door with less ceremony than a telegraph operator on payday.

So here’s the rub–if we can’t deport gang members without a federal judge climbin’ up on a soapbox to mis-recite the Bill of Rights like it’s bedtime in kindergarten, then perhaps we ought to rethink who’s wearin’ the robe and who’s runnin’ the circus. For my part, I’d like to remind Their Honors that laws ain’t made for judges to admire like a peacock preenin’ in the mirror. They’re to protect the people who follow them–and that means keepin’ the criminals out, even when they wear tattoos shaped like birds and dragons and swear up and down they’re as innocent as lambs in spring.

So to Judge Navarro and all her robed brethren–kindly climb down from the ivory pedestal, wipe the ink from your spectacles, and remember that the good people of this Republic expect justice, not indulgence.

The wind cut sharp across the valley, rattling the bare limbs of the cottonwoods and driving the cold deep into the bones. Helen Dyer stood in the doorway of her cabin, a Henry rifle resting easy in her hands. She was a slight woman, but there was steel in her spine, and her eyes—blue as the Nevada sky—meant business.

A year had passed since George rode out that winter’s morning and never came home. She and the boys had searched nearly a month before they found him–lying cold in a lonely draw, his Winchester still in his hands. The tracks told the story—a group of riders, half a dozen or more, had ambushed him.

Bushwhacked–as straightforward as that. Helen buried him where he fell.

That spring, she taught the boys to shoot. “A gun’s no good if you don’t know when to use it,” she told them, “but when you do, you’d best not miss.”

Days later, as the dust cloud on the horizon grew, she reckoned they’d find out if those lessons had taken hold.

The riders came slow, five of them, their mounts lathered from the climb out of the valley. The leader, a rangy man with a scar cutting through his bristly beard, pulled up short.

His name was Jasper Cade, a known troublemaker out of Winnemucca.

“Mrs. Dyer,” he called, touching his hat in mock courtesy, “seems a shame, a woman an’ two young’uns trying to hold a place like this. We figure you’d be better off in town, where there’s folks to look after you.”

Helen’s hands never left the rifle. “We’re doing just fine, Mr. Cade. You’d best turn around.”

Cade chuckled. “Now, that ain’t friendly. Truth is, we ain’t askin’.” His men shifted in their saddles, waiting for the word.

Helen’s finger rested along the trigger guard. “You get off my land, or I’ll put you in the ground.”

The men hesitated. Something in her eyes gave them pause.

Finally, Cade shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you’ll wish you listened.” He turned his horse, spitting into the dust. “See you soon, Mrs. Dyer.”

The barn turned to flames that night, the dry timber catching fast. The boys ran out with buckets, but Helen stopped them. “A barn can be rebuilt,” she said. “We can’t.”

They watched it burn, the light flickering against the cold hills.

At dawn, they took their places—Helen at the cabin window, the boys on the porch with their rifles steady. They didn’t wait for the riders to dismount.

When Cade and his men arrived again, grinning like wolves, Helen’s first shot shattered the morning stillness. Cade never got his hand to his gun.

The Henry slug hit him high in the chest, knocking him backward off his horse. Then her boys opened up, their Winchesters spitting fire.

One man fell hard from his saddle, another groaned and sagged forward, his horse bolting. A third slumped sideways, dead before he hit the ground. The two still in the saddle wheeled their mounts, one gripping his bleeding arm, and galloped for the ridgeline.

Helen stepped onto the porch, chambering another round. The bodies lay sprawled in the dust, the horses snorting nervously.

She watched the two survivors disappear over the rise, then lowered the rifle.

“They won’t be back,” she said.

She was right.