It had to happen sooner or later, what with the ethics complaints filed against her, the distance she seemed to keep from fellow council members, and, of course, the leadership of Mayor "Whack This Guy" Goodman as a political role model. It was just a matter of time before Councilwoman Janet Moncrief snapped. And Monday, at her first Ward 1 neighborhood meeting of the season, you can practically hear the creaking sounds through her stylish tan-and-brown-striped sweater as she nears the breaking point.
It starts like you'd expect any neighborhood meeting to start. There are concerns about rodents in the Scotch 80s; annoyance/acceptance of a coming street closure; expected complaints about the "serpentine" of Alta; and observations about the treatment of the rich vs. the not-so-rich in the community. Aside from the rodents, nothing seems terribly interesting, except the way Moncrief deflects questions and explanations to city staff and seems to take an overly defensive stance at many of the comments thrown at her. She's yet to develop a political game face. And when a city official addresses residents' concerns, she stands directly behind him, as though shielding herself from her constituents. Or shielding them from her.
A tension takes root when a nicely dressed woman in a black-and-white-plaid jacket explains to the councilwoman that she's concerned with her inaccessibility. Her voice and mannerisms are slightly shaky, but the woman, Jennifer Norrin, is encircled by women nodding in agreement; she acts as their spokesperson. Moncrief directs her to call her office and set up an appointment, giving no indication that she recognizes the woman, but stating that she'll meet with anyone who wants to set up an appointment. (This is met by laughter, including a few chuckles from this reporter, who knows full well that the councilwoman won't just meet with anyone.)
The tension continues to mount as the neighbors begin discussing the hot topic of the day: gating the Scotch 80s. Some want it, others don't, and quite a few nearby houses will be left out of the gate (and have been left out of discussions) because they don't fit into the neighborhood boundaries that were established years ago. So a few of the citizens are hurling mild insults ("You put a gate in front of my house. I don't want to live in Vietnam. Who died and made you king?"), and there's a clear sense of dissatisfaction in the room. All building toward something.
A man stands up to ask Moncrief a question. It's Jeff Frischmann, the husband of the plaid-jacketed woman, and he wants to know what to expect in the future with the Charleston Interstate 15 interchange. Moncrief explains that it's a Nevada Department of Transportation issue, not a city issue, and tries to move on. "So you haven't done anything," the man says, adding, "so you haven't done anything."
That does it. Her face grows taut, as though pulled by forces beyond her control. Will this be the moment?
"I will also, um, I wasn't going to say this, but when you tell my staff that you're going to 'take them outside,' that—." She stops. Frischmann looks confused; he's not sure whether she's talking to him. Moncrief is looking at Norrin.
"What?" Norrin stands up, bewildered. "I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"
Moncrief turns away. "Anyone else?" she says, sharply, hoping to move on.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa," Norrin says. "Councilwoman Moncrief, I beg your pardon. This accusation is not correct. Would you please clarify that?"
Moncrief doesn't acknowledge her. The crowd is getting restless. "I did not hear her say that threat. And I'm curious as to whether anyone else did," demands one resident, from the back of the room. "I didn't hear that," someone else pipes up. "No," can be heard coming from at least a dozen of the 100 or so residents in attendance. Heads are shaking. Brows furrowed. Because she hadn't said it.
"No, this was a phone call to my liaison," Moncrief explains.
Norrin asks for an explanation. She's confounded. Moncrief says that she can meet with her afterwards to talk about it, then goes on an uncharacteristically energetic tirade about how she'll meet with anyone, and how she doesn't care about their economic situation, she's there to help. It's too much for Norrin and her husband to take. They bolt.
Outside, smoking cigarettes to calm their frayed nerves, the two are in awe, practically speechless about the gall of the councilwoman. Norrin finds her words soon enough.
"When I was a little kid, I couldn't get in a fight. 'Take somebody outside'? I have no idea what she's talking about."
She's quickly joined by three neighbors, also disgusted. "I think it's rude, unprofessional and very dangerous to just go off the cuff like that," says one neighbor. "She's the sane one," says another, referring to Norrin. "She's the one keeping us grounded." They cluster around, supportively, as she fumes.
"I'm appalled," Norrin says. "I just can't believe—I found that humiliating."
After he's calmed down, Frischmann goes inside to address the councilwoman. He later recounts the experience in a telephone interview. "I told her I was offended by what she said," Frischmann explains. "She got right in my face and told me she would have the marshals take us out."
While he's in there he learns that the "threat" was overheard at a meeting, not over the phone. Norrin traces back, trying to make some sense of the accusation. She says she met with city staff and the councilwoman's liaison. Moncrief couldn't make the meeting, so they went on without her. Norrin says the meeting was heated at parts, discussing the Scotch 80s gating issue. She says in trying to lighten the mood she may have referenced a catfight, or that they could all be out in a parking lot.
"But I laughed when I said it," she says. "It wasn't in a threatening manner."