The Old Blog in the Desert

How the Lawmakers Struck It Rich

Now, I reckon no soul alive would be startled to hear that Nevada politicians have a powerful affinity for money, but in the 2024 election cycle, they went at it like prospectors with a brand-new claim. In a record-breaking spree of financial affection, donors heaped a staggering $17.3 million upon the state’s legislators, with the gaming industry sitting comfortably at the top of the contributor heap.

One might think the politicians had struck silver on the Comstock again, but it was just good, old-fashioned influence peddling.

The Democrats, who control the Legislature as a man might control a stubborn mule—with some difficulty and a great deal of persistence—hauled in more than two-thirds of the plunder. Yet, curiously, when the dust settled, the median Republican legislator waddled away with a slightly fatter sack of coin than his Democratic counterpart.

Perhaps it was that peculiar law of nature where a fellow with less always seems to end up with more–if only to keep things entertaining.

This avalanche of lucre buried the prior record of $13.1 million set in the 2022 midterms, which was a humbler time, back before everyone got it into their heads that a two-thirds supermajority would be a fine thing to have for shoving laws past the governor without so much as a “by your leave.” As it turned out, that effort didn’t quite pan out, and so we remain blessed with at least a little bit of political disagreement, which is more than can be said for some other places.

The gaming industry, always a stalwart friend to those needing campaign assistance, accounted for nearly 14 percent of the total haul, with real estate barons and labor unions nipping at its heels like a couple of hungry coyotes. And while Nevada law politely insists that no one donor may bestow more than $10,000 upon a single candidate, corporations, being clever creatures, have devised a charming workaround known as “bundling.”

It is a process whereby money—like water in a sieve—somehow finds its way through several separate but eerily similar contributors, all belonging to the same fine folks.

Indeed, half of the entire $17.3 million came from a mere 76 donors. It, of course, is the sort of democracy where every man has a voice, provided that man also has a well-stocked vault and a willingness to spend.

Among the most successful fundraisers were the leaders of the political herd: Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, who coaxed $1.3 million into her coffers, and Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager, who wrangled a tidy $970,000. Over on the Republican side, Assemblyman P.K. O’Neill brought in over $700,000, proving that even those in safe seats see no harm in fortifying their castles.

As for the industries spreading the wealth, unions were particularly generous to Democrats, while gaming and real estate showered favor on both parties, with a distinct inclination toward those with enough influence to matter. The marijuana industry, once an outcast from polite society, doubled its generosity to Democrats and nearly decupled its gifts to Republicans, proving that political friendships, like good whiskey, tend to mellow with time.

And so, the grand game of influence in Nevada rolls on, much like the roulette wheel—random to the uninformed but with outcomes as predictable as sunrise to those who understand the odds. In the meantime, keep your wallets close, your wits closer, and your expectations—well, best keep them modest.

There is, no doubt, a kind of genius at work in the machinery of government—whether it be of a divine or infernal nature is open to debate. In the grand arithmetic of justice, one might reasonably expect that the names appearing on an official ledger of persons under investigation would, at the very least, correspond with the number of heartbeats among the accused.

But such expectations would be misplaced in this age of enlightenment, where the wheels of inquiry neither halt for common sense nor distinguish between the quick and the dead. The University of Nevada, Las Vegas, found itself in the curious position of explaining that one of the three professors named in a federal investigation into Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs had been quite dead for more than a year.

Professor Patricia Navarro Velez, who departed this world—felled by a gunman on the very campus she once called home—was nonetheless summoned, posthumously, into the great tribunal of bureaucracy. A spokesperson for UNLV, who must have delivered the statement with the wearied expression of one explaining arithmetic to a brick wall, confirmed that Navarro Velez had been one of three professors named in the Department of Education’s probe.

The other two, while maintaining a more conventional claim to life, were also no longer affiliated with the university. Whether the investigators knew that their quarry had long since gone beyond the reach of subpoenas and cross-examinations was left unsaid.

The investigation, part of President Donald Trump’s broader efforts to excise DEI initiatives from educational institutions and government agencies, targeted the professors for their involvement in the PhD Project—a DEI program dedicated to increasing diversity in business academia. Founded on the belief that the presence of minority faculty members in business schools would create a more inclusive environment, the PhD Project has spent decades recruiting and mentoring individuals from underrepresented backgrounds, guiding them toward doctoral degrees and careers in academia.

Perhaps fearing further scrutiny from an authority untroubled by such trivialities as the passage of time, UNLV affirmed its commitment to equality while declining to comment further on the investigation. Upon being confronted with the spectacle of one of its late members getting held to account, The PhD Project issued a statement reaffirming its mission of mentorship, inclusion, and broadening talent pipelines—though it is unlikely they anticipated having to defend the reputations of those who had long since left earthly matters behind.

Whether the federal investigation will trouble itself with the inconvenience of mortality remains to be seen. One might suggest a séance, should the investigators be so determined to have Navarro Velez answer for her supposed transgressions.

But perhaps, in time, common sense will make a quiet return, slipping past the sentinels of red tape and whispered bureaucracy, reminding all involved that the dead rarely answer letters of inquiry—no matter how determined the government is to correspond.

Nothing quite stirs the blood like a bit of excitement in a gambling house, and the good people at Circus Circus in Las Vegas had more than they bargained for Saturday evening when a fight broke out and was promptly inflated into a full-scale gunfight by way of a panicked phone call. The Las Vegas Metro Police, ever eager to keep things lively, arrived in force only to discover that no bullets had flown, though plenty of people had bolted for the exits, making a great commotion. Not a single injury, aside from wounded dignity and trampled egos, was reported.

Meanwhile, in the Northern reaches, folks at the Nugget Cas

ino in Sparks had a more sincere bit of trouble. At the most ungodly hour of 5 a.m. Sunday morning—when men are either winning big, losing everything, or finding some other way to ruin their lives—a pair of armed gentlemen found themselves in a violent disagreement.

Multiple gunshots rang out in the hotel lobby, sending one fellow, aged 35, into the hands of the hospital staff, who did their best to patch him up, but to no avail. His mortal account was closed not long after.

The other participant, a sprightly 19-year-old, fared better, arriving at the hospital under his power with less grievous wounds. Investigators surmise that the two were engaged in what the law might call an “altercation,” which, when translated from legalese, means that they both thought themselves the better shot and set about proving it.

The outcome suggests that, at best, only one was correct.

Authorities assure the public that this was an “isolated incident,” which, in these parts, generally means that no respectable citizens were involved and that everyone else may continue their revelries undisturbed. Nevertheless, anyone who witnessed the shootout or knows something the police ought to know is encouraged to contact the Sparks Police Detective division or leave an anonymous tip with Secret Witness—assuming they are not otherwise engaged in dubious dealings.

Pahrump’s Misused 9-1-1

The good people of Nye County have taken a newfound fancy, dialing 9-1-1 for purposes as varied as social calls and imaginary home invasions, much to the chagrin of Sheriff Joe McGill and his band of long-suffering deputies. In a modern marvel of miscommunication, the emergency dispatch lines have been ringing off the hook with requests that range from bewildering to the outright absurd.

“This month alone, we’ve had no fewer than half a dozen emergency calls where the only emergency was our deputies’ blood pressure rising upon arrival,” Sheriff McGill lamented.

The sheriff, a man of patience but not infinite supply, explained that while his department is happy to assist in genuine distress, routine misuse of 9-1-1 has become a rather irksome drain on resources. In the grand spirit of generosity, callers get four or five free warnings before they receive the dubious privilege of a stay in the county jail.

“We don’t want to discourage folks from calling when they actually need help,” McGill said. “But when we receive six calls from the same house about imaginary intruders, we have to draw the line somewhere. Unfortunately, some of these cases involve mental health issues or a bit too much of the local moonshine.”

One especially enterprising fellow is in the habit of calling dispatch repeatedly just to bid them a cheerful “hello,” a practice which, while perhaps demonstrating good manners, is still grounds for an arrest. Another citizen, whose commitment to wasting taxpayer dollars was admirable, dialed 9-1-1 while standing in the presence of two uniformed deputies already addressing his loud music complaint.

For those who feel compelled to summon law enforcement over matters that fail to meet the threshold of an actual emergency, the sheriff’s office kindly suggests using their non-emergency line at 775-751-7000. Should one persist in ringing 9-1-1 with imaginary crises or late-night pleasantries, they may face a gross misdemeanor charge, which, in simple terms, means up to a year in jail and $2,000 lighter in the wallet.

The lesson here, dear citizens, is that while the fine people of Nye County law enforcement will always be ready to answer a call for help, they prefer that such calls contain at least some semblance of reality.

Reno/Sparks Being Gouged

Gas prices are doin’ a waltz—one step forward, two steps back, and a little twirl to keep folks dizzy.

The learned scholars at GasBuddy tell us the national average has settled at a respectable $3.02, while the distinguished minds at AAA insist it’s $3.078—though on this point, a man might flip a coin and be just as well-informed. Meanwhile, Nevada, that land of sagebrush and slot machines, has seen its prices tumble a whole eight cents in the last week to $3.65—hardly enough to make a man whistle, but at least it’s movement in the right direction.

Yet, while the Silver State begrudgingly inches toward affordability, the fine citizens of Reno and Sparks remain hogtied and helpless at the mercy of highwaymen disguised as gas station proprietors, still forking over $4.09 per gallon. One could forgive another for wondering if these oil barons are filling our tanks with liquid gold or some French perfume.

But no, it remains the same old gasoline, now seasoned with an extra dash of daylight robbery and no police report.

It was one of those short, pointed conversations you can only have in a saloon in Virginia City—where the whiskey is old, the walls are older, and the stories older still.

I had just settled into a deep and meaningful relationship with my Old Fashioned when she strolled in like she owned the place and took the stool beside me. The other three stools were as empty as a politician’s promise, but she picked the one next to me for reasons known only to herself and the Almighty.

“What’cha drinking?” she inquired, in that manner folks have when they fully intend to order the same thing no matter what you say.

I told her.

“Think I’ll have one too,” she decided, which saved her the burden of making a second decision the same day.

The bartender set to work, and silence settled in like an old dog at a warm hearth.

Now, I can’t say why I said what I said—perhaps it was the whiskey talking, or maybe it was just me listening to bad advice from my brain—but out it came, plain as day:

“So, wanna have the night of your life?”

She smiled the kind of smile that suggests amusement and replied, “No.”

I took a measured sip of my drink, nodded sagely, and returned, “Oh, good. That makes two of us.”

And just like that, the ice cracked, the dam broke –and for the next couple of hours–we talked like two old souls who had forgotten to meet sooner.

The Churchill County Sheriff’s Office is seeking the public’s help to find Nancy Griffiths. Her family reported her missing on January 10.

Investigators believe she may be in the Reno/Sparks area and possibly in the company of an unidentified male. Her vehicle, a gray 2016 Toyota Corolla with Nevada license plate 042H66, was discovered in Fernley and returned to her family.

Anyone with information about Griffiths should contact the Churchill County Sheriff’s Office at (775) 423-3116.

When Criminals Get a Cloak of Invisibility

In Nevada, if a man commits a crime and happens to be in the country illegally, the authorities believe his identity needs guarding with the same zeal as a treasure map.

The Nevada Department of Corrections and the Metropolitan Police Department are blacking out names like a gambler hiding his last nickel, all in the name of “privacy.” Yet the public, the taxpayers who foot the bill for these misdeeds, might have a different notion of what should be in the dark.

While the Department of Corrections had no trouble providing this information back in 2019—revealing a score of illegal repeat offenders—they’ve now developed a peculiar sensitivity, handing over a list of nearly 700 prisoners with all names redacted. It’s as if the ink ran dry on every name but not on the crime, and even more curiously, at least 137 of the inmates had prior felonies before their latest incarceration.

Las Vegas police, on the other hand, took the high road of bureaucratic doublespeak, denying the request outright and claiming they don’t have “a responsive record.”

The Department of Corrections justified its new approach to secrecy by citing two Nevada Supreme Court cases. They claim these rulings support personal privacy rights extending to convicted criminals.

For them keeping score, the Nevada taxpayer is now shelling out about $35,000 per inmate per year—amounting to roughly $24 million annually for these particular prisoners with immigration holds. It’s an expensive tab for folks whose identities we’re not allowed to know.

With the Trump administration emphasizing the deportation of criminal illegal aliens, people need to know whether Nevada officials are cooperating with ICE or working against it. But those questions, it seems, are inconvenient for some.

Henderson and North Las Vegas have no trouble releasing information on inmates handed over to ICE. Meanwhile, Las Vegas police continued to claim they don’t track such things, leaning on a federal law that allegedly protects the confidentiality of deportable aliens.

It is like admitting that something is amiss in the grand machinery of Nevada’s justice system. And as history shows, those invested in a broken system often prefer the public stay blissfully unaware.

If lawsuits got outlawed tomorrow, the legal profession would go the way of the dodo, and the news industry would have to do honest work. Alas, that day has not yet arrived, so the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals found itself knee-deep in a dispute over Nevada’s latest election law—a law meant to keep election workers from being harassed but now accused of muzzling the good, honest citizens who merely wish to glare at them in a particular tone.

Las Vegas attorney Sigal Chattah, speaking for a handful of plaintiffs, asked the court to scrap the law, citing fears that election observers could get prosecuted for crimes they had not yet committed. The lower court had already ruled that this was a problem left to the imagination, but pressing on, arguing that the law was so worded that a poll watcher could get tossed in the hoosegow for raising an eyebrow too forcefully.

To make her case, she pointed to a 2020 tweet by Attorney General Aaron Ford, wherein he warned that anyone engaging in voter intimidation would face prosecution. Chattah claimed it was proof that Ford desired to lock up those who asked an election worker any question, questioning anything.

The judges were skeptical.

Judge Eric Miller, perhaps hoping for a tale of wrongful imprisonment over a stern look, asked for an example of what conduct might get an observer into trouble. Chattah suggested that election workers, being delicate creatures, might misinterpret a “tone.”

Judge Roopali Desai, seemingly unimpressed with the specter of wrongful arrests over vocal inflections and errantly raised eyebrows, asked for something more concrete. Once again, Chattah brought up Ford’s tweet, the legal equivalent of a lucky rabbit’s foot.

The judges then turned their attention to Governor Joe Lombardo’s presence in the case, questioning with the exasperation of schoolmasters forced to correct a particularly enthusiastic student. Drawing on nearly two decades of prosecutorial experience, Judge Johnnie Rawlinson

pointed out that a governor cannot command district attorneys like a general ordering a charge.

Judge Miller took it a step further—if Lombardo lacks the power to enforce the law, the plaintiffs may have about as much business suing him as they do suing the mailman. Chattah conceded that this was “possibly” a valid point.

The state’s attorney, Laena St-Jules, representing Lombardo and Secretary of State Cisco Aguilar, also received her share of grilling. Judge Desai, eager to test the bounds of the law, asked if an election observer who so much as mentioned filing a lawsuit could be charged with intimidation.

St-Jules assured the court that Nevada had not yet reached the point where thoughts were criminal. But Desai pressed on—since the law lacks a definition of intimidation, how could anyone be sure where the line was?

St-Jules insisted that the long-settled meaning of intimidation did not include threats of litigation, though it seemed clear that if there were a legal argument, someone would be willing to have it.

With all arguments aired and no fists thrown—though perhaps a few eyebrows raised—the judges declared the matter submitted for their wisdom. Now, the state of Nevada waits.

If the court upholds the law, election workers will remain safe from aggressive tones. If the plaintiffs win, the case will head back to the district court, where it will get examined again, proving once more that if lawsuits were to vanish, lawyers would have to do honest work.

Nevada’s Latest Budgetary Jamboree

Nevada, ever a pioneer in getting the short end of the stick, has found itself awash in a mighty heap of cash—some $870 million, to be precise—courtesy of the opioid reckoning. The windfall–wrung from the trembling hands of big drug companies after their enthusiastic peddling of despair, was meant to mend the broken, patch the wounded, and, one supposes, buy a mountain or two of Narcan.

But if history has taught us anything, it’s that when politicians get their paws on a pile of money, their sense of direction becomes as reliable as a drunkard in a dust storm. With its unerring instincts, the legacy media is pounding the governor’s door with accusations of fiscal mischief as Attorney General Aaron Ford’s handling of the money remains a mystery wrapped in an enigma and stashed in a government office somewhere.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, that great oracle of doom and statistics, has reported that while opioid deaths fell nationally by nearly 24 percent between 2023 and 2024, Nevada boldly bucked the trend with an 11.3 percent increase. That makes it one of only five states determined to prove that misery loves company, as nearly 1,500 souls perished from overdoses in the 12 months leading up to October, and a solid 969 of them were due to opioids.

Despite this bleak landscape, the state’s two-year budget proposal has raised the hackles of opioid advocates, who claim that $10 million of the settlement funds are getting used in a way that defies the very agreements designed to keep the money from being frittered away on the general slush of government spending. It’s not the first time a financial windfall got into the darkened depths of government.

One need only look back at the tobacco settlement funds, which, rather than fighting the very industry that sickened millions, found their way into a college scholarship program and a grab bag of general healthcare spending. Lessons learned? Perhaps not.

Under the 2021 law governing Nevada’s opioid funds, the money is supposed to be strictly devoted to abating the opioid crisis—no exceptions, no diversions, no cleverly worded budgetary sleight-of-hand. Yet, advocates have flagged some eyebrow-raising expenditures: $5 million tucked into Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF), $2.5 million for extended foster care, and even $85,000 for minority health office staffing. Worthy causes, no doubt, but precisely how these expenditures abate an opioid crisis remains a riddle for the ages.

However, the bespoken $10 million could buy about 700,000 doses of Narcan, the life-saving drug that reverses overdoses. Instead, some of that money is going to upgrade a maximum-security youth facility–because nothing says opioid relief quite like sturdier prison walls.

During a recent budget committee hearing, Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager grilled officials on how moving the opioid money into TANF squares with the spirit of the law. The answer, given with the usual bureaucratic aplomb, boiled down to a vague assertion that the funds would support families affected by substance abuse—how, exactly, was left to the imagination.

Chief Deputy Attorney General Mark Krueger, tasked with ensuring these funds get properly used, did his best to assuage fears but acknowledged that if the money strays too far afield, there could be repercussions. And yet, if history is any indication, consequences for misappropriating such windfalls tend to be as rare as a politician declining a campaign donation.

As lawmakers trudge forward, poring over budget sheets and legal agreements, one thing remains certain: the $870 million meant to heal a wounded state is slipping through the cracks. Whether it will be spent on addiction recovery or swallowed whole by the endless hunger of government bureaucracy remains to be seen.

If the past is any guide, we may look back on the settlement, wondering not where the money went but why we even expected it to get properly used.