Beneath the neon glimmer and the cacophony of slot machines, the shimmering heart of Las Vegas — affectionately known to tourists as “downtown” — has been the stage for a significant vote. On a crisp Wednesday, the decision-makers of this infamous city declared a unanimous move to expand the invisible yet consequential boundaries of its “order-out corridor.” This tourist district, an area beset by the temptations and excesses of urban revelry, is now a place where judges possess the power to exile individuals from its pleasures. Those convicted of misdemeanors within its confines may face a ban for up to a year—an alternative earmarked to avert the walls of a jail cell.
The genesis of this banishment zone dates back to last November, with most violations rooted in the vibrant hub of the Fremont Street Experience, which stretches from Main Street to the persuasions of Las Vegas Boulevard. The initial layers of this invisible wall encircled just Fremont Street, casting a sheath around The Strat’s soaring spire. Now, the embrace of this corridor has widened, swelling to envelop an additional expanse of 29 acres encircling the Plaza Hotel and Main Street Station.
Under the watchful gaze of law enforcement, those cast out by the solemn decree of the court, found trespassing within their forbidden confines, can be clutched by the arm of justice, warranted purely by their presence—not necessitating further acts of criminality.
City officials have been vocal in attributing a reduction in crime to the ordinance. Within the marbled halls of City Hall, a July presentation unveiled numbers that bore testament to this claim: 246 souls have been instructed to turn their backs on downtown life in the inaugural eight months since the law’s inception. Of those, a little more than 80 found themselves caged for defying the mandate. A mere nine, seemingly undeterred by iron bars, dared to transgress the order a second time.
The misdemeanors that often led to this civic banishment ranged from trespassing’s intrusive steps to clashes disruptive of the peace—each an echo of turmoil within the city’s relentless rhythm.
“This really is a critical first step for us and it is only to protect everybody, including law enforcement,” proclaimed Mayor Carolyn Goodman—a fervent champion of the original ordinance—during a gathering of the council back in November.
Yet not all gaze upon this unfolding tapestry of law with consensus. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) of Nevada, with the fierce tenacity emblematic of its mission, has raised its dissident voice against the corridor’s expansion, having already clashed with the city’s previous restraint zone encircling the dazzle of the Las Vegas Strip.
The ACLU’s legal blade has been unsheathed in the amicus curiae—a friend of the court—in support of one such exile, Ackeem Ramsay. His access to the Strip severed for pandering, the organization asserts that such banishment from public forums, even for felons, rends the fabric of the First Amendment.
Moreover, the ACLU’s critics see a grim targeting within these ordinances—a disproportionate impact upon the homeless, their counts swelling to hundreds, who often find themselves with nowhere else under the endless sky to lay their heads.
From the shadows of this glowering debate, the city watches. Its shimmering streets remain a magnet for dreamers and revelers alike, as the ordinance stretches its confines beyond the realms once reserved for those convicted of dealing in desires of the flesh or the fleeting high of substances. Now, an expanded battleground looms, where the rights of a city’s prohibition might meet the fervent defense of American liberties, and Las Vegas continues to play its eternal game of chance with the destinies of its people.
