On a hot and steamy Wednesday morning, clouds begin building over the mountains as Ward 1 Councilwoman Janet Moncrief approaches City Hall. It's her first City Council meeting since being indicted on five felony charges, and melodrama can't be far behind.
Dressed in a cream suit—a color that has practically become her uniform since she was unexpectedly voted into office—the somber-looking councilwoman stirs memories from the days of her presumed innocence, when she was campaigning as Nevada's "Angel of Mercy," or dressed in white, riding a white horse. But today, the sky is darker, her mood stormier, and she has a black shirt under her suit, one that's short enough to expose glimpses of her tanned belly as she stands for the ceremonial matters of the council meeting, handing out awards to a local youth track team. And there, sitting front and center to see it all, is former Ward 1 City Councilman Michael McDonald.
McDonald, subject of the G-Sting probe, a former cop turned big consultant, was unseated last year by the then-unknown Moncrief. And now he sits, the man who accused her of illegal campaigning, watching. His dark suit contrasting with her light one, McDonald leans confidently back in his seat, his formerly frosted hair back to a grown-out fluffy brown, resting directly in front of the mayor. Next to him is his former aide, Rick Henry.
"It's really remarkable what has taken place since the councilman has left," quips the mayor. "Mr. Henry has grown hair and Councilman McDonald's has been bleached again."
This is met with har-hars and chuckles, and Moncrief looks like her face is about to crack as she struggles to force some kind of grin, and eye contact with her nemesis. The attempt is brief.
McDonald waits for the prayer and pledge, watches as the citizen and employee of the month are smiled upon and the young athletes in the crowd are given a few rounds of applause. Then the ceremonial part of the meeting ends and the item that he's come for slides through the consent agenda (the city will enter into negotiations with Omega Development LLC, for which he's here lobbying for the sale of 2.81 acres of land near Hualapai Way and Gilmore Ave.). Then he makes the rounds, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, hugging the employee of the month, smiling the polished politician's grin he's long perfected, connecting with former constituents and former council members and staff in ways the councilwoman doesn't. It's a charisma she's not exactly attempted.
While he's schmoozing, she takes her seat, glancing at her computer screen and occasionally out at the audience. As the meeting progresses, she rarely speaks more than required. "Vote for approval following staffs' recommendation," she mutters more than once, in a disinterested monotone, and interacts little with her fellow officials. But maybe there's hope. For many of our cherished local politicians, a hint of corruption is just the launching pad for their careers. And if the public won't allow her to remain in office, she can always become a consultant.