The drive on a two-lane highway north from Pahrump goes though small towns and ghost towns that tell the region's history: Crystal, Rhyolite, Goldfield, Alkali.
Rhyolite is more than anything else a testament to the transitory nature of human institutions and the slow and eternal power of the earth to reclaim its land. All that is left of a big general store is its front edifice with a sign saying the owners promoted the store's expansion with a dance party that included a band.
After gold was found in this part of Nevada, the town expanded until it had a union hall, banks, a stock exchange, a large number of saloons, an opera house, two churches and a train station.
Now a couple cars were parked along the blacktop that ended at the town, the desert air was clear and cool. It was quiet. Only the facades were left of a few buildings, crumbling into the sand and brush.
On a work trip with Western bureau chief Chris Marshall intended to firm up Courthouse News access, we next stop by the court in Goldfield where the clerks have been helpful. On the verge of becoming a ghost town, most businesses in this town with a population of 225 are closed and only the fire department's building is freshly painted.
After a day of desert driving up Highway 95, we arrive at the Travelodge in Hawthorne, across from the El Capitan casino. In the parking lot of the two-story motel are mud-covered Ford Raptors.
Talking the guys gathered around the trucks, they turn out be organized by an outfit called Baja Raptor Run, this time driving the dirt roads of Nevada instead of Baja.
It reminds me of the trips my family took in a Land Rover down into Baja so I ask some questions. They said the cartels keep to themselves and their only trouble comes from national guard members looking to pad their incomes. One trick by guard members manning a checkpoint is to tell tourists that they need a vehicle import license which is not true in Baja. "Baja is a free zone," said one of the group's leaders.
It convinced me I needed to go back.
Leaving the off-roaders, we walked through the El Capitan to get to the restaurant. Only a few people are gambling in the vast, dark room. An island bar has a couple people playing on bar-top screens.
We sit in the generic, brown plastic booths of the restaurant for a meal of steak and fries with a glass of wine. A couple of the booths are filled with older couples who look like they are here, like we are, simply because the casino is also the local restaurant.
Afterward, Chris stays on at the island bar. The bartender didn't charge him for his beers, so he gave the man a twenty, and stayed there for a while watching folks go by. He said it was clear they were locals who stopped to talk to friends. The casino, with its red, blue and green lights and dinging machines, functions as the village square in this desert town.
The next morning, following the work purpose of the trip, we head over to the Mineral County courthouse. It is the only - truly the only - court in the United States where there is no way to review the new cases and rulings. They are all in practice sealed.
It has to do, not much surprise in it, with the e-filing software bought by the court.
We ask for the clerk but court is held every other Thursday and this is that day. So she is in the courtroom where we wait. The prosecutor drinks a bottle of Coke and is addressed from the bench by his first name.
The hearing involves a parolee who has found religion after a life history of drug use. A face lined by hard times and the scourge that has sucked his life away, he speaks in a rough voice with emotion welling up and taps his heart as he tells the judge about his love for the Lord. He is allowed to extend his parole and remain in housing run by a church.
We stay on to talk with the clerk for this county of 4,500 souls. She tells us she herself cannot find new cases and cannot identify the first case filed this year.
The bureau chief and I are then standing outside in the parking lot and the judge, a former prosecutor, is on his way out. He stops to talk.
After traveling here from Los Angeles, in my case, and San Francisco, in the bureau chief's case, to try in person, we cannot break the lid over the new cases. We remain locked out. The clerk said she would work on it.
Source: Courthouse News Service
