Last month, the Las Vegas Stadium Authority gave the Las Vegas Raiders another $75 million in public money—this time for a plaza outside a stadium that is only six years old. That’s some serious bling for a post-pandemic baby, and it brings the running total of public funds handed to Allegiant Stadium to roughly $725 million. The whole thing took ten minutes. Let me set the scene, because the details matter. The meeting was scheduled for 3 p.m. on a Wednesday—a fantastic time if your job is attending public meetings, and a terrible time if you have, say, a job. The location was listed as the Las Vegas Convention Center, South Hall. Technically, that satisfies the legal requirement to tell the public where its government is meeting. Practically, it’s like telling someone to meet you “somewhere inside the airport.” South Hall is more than a million square feet, with two floors, giant parking lots identified by color codes, tons of rooms, and no obvious signage directing anyone to the Stadium Authority meeting. I decided to go anyway. Here’s the funny side story: I had been sedated early that morning for a quick medical procedure and had the rest of the day off, so this was the perfect afternoon to gleefully watch what responsible stewardship of $75 million in public money looks like. I was the last person through the door at 3:04 p.m., after stumbling around looking for the meeting. The room was nearly empty. Four reporters, some R&R Partners people (if you know, you know), and Raiders representatives were there. Also, one guy sat by himself in a rumpled suit jacket, surrounded by a stack of papers he was frantically shuffling through. Security guards were present, and they outnumbered the board members. Actually, only one board member was physically present: Steve Hill, the LVCVA CEO and Stadium Authority chair. The rest were on a giant monitor, many with their video turned off. Hill was already talking—about how wonderful the Raiders are for Las Vegas, how Allegiant Stadium generates billions in “economic impact,” and how tourists mostly pay the room taxes, so is it really public money anyway?
Now, as expected, nobody on that board challenged the numbers—even though, as stewards of public money, that is exactly their job. Nobody asked whether the “economic impact” studies Hill mentioned were independently verified (doubtful), or whether economic impact considers any degree of economic loss to a community as an offset (it doesn’t). Nobody asked whether the Raiders actually needed the money, or whether they were threatening not to do the work if they didn’t get the free dough. But maybe most importantly, not a single steward of public money asked whether $75 million could creatively be used in a different way to accomplish something else that directly benefitted the public more than kicking in about half the cost of a new plaza. Nobody, as far as I could tell, even looked uncomfortable given the optics. And some pretty prominent people are on that board: casino executives, former elected officials, union leaders, developers, construction people, UNLV facilities people—people who presumably know how to ask difficult questions. Yet they didn’t. Hill finished his pitch. He pre-emptively explained that the other obvious use of the funds—paying down the bonds the people are on the hook for—was a passive use that held little return on investment. He basically said the plaza qualifies. The plaza is useful. The Raiders and Allegiant Stadium have been good to us. Then Hill moved for a motion to approve. Instantly, the rumpled guy with the papers stood up. “Doesn’t the public get an opportunity to talk?” A prolonged, uncomfortable silence followed, despite everyone knowing exactly what was unfolding. Eventually, someone explained that public comment had already occurred, and that another opportunity would come after the vote. The man looked confused. He said he had been there at 3:01; he’d had trouble finding the room. Could he speak before the vote? “No.” The board voted unanimously. Then it was time for the second public-comment period. The rumpled man got up again and unloaded. He rattled off receipts with big numbers. “The Raiders are owned by billionaires whose wealth has only grown. The franchise and their owners have exploded in net worth since coming to Las Vegas.” And it’s true: when discussions about the move began, the team was valued at roughly $1.5 billion. Today, it is worth north of $10 billion. Allegiant reportedly pays $25 million a year for the stadium naming rights. It’s the most profitable stadium in the U.S. A steady, loud beep repeated—his time was up. He asked a final question: “Why can’t they pay for it themselves?” No one answered. Non-response is a protocol that has been adopted at most public meetings, though it’s not legally required. I think it’s rude.
I had assumed there would be a dog and pony show—some economic impact numbers, a few glowing remarks about the Raiders, and then a unanimous vote. Indeed, a lot of that happened at the last meeting at the end of August, despite it not being on any agenda as a voting item. But then it all started to seem like a playbook so effective that the perennially losing Raiders team should figure out how to adapt it to the football field. Here’s the plan: bake free-spending discretion into enabling legislation like so many whisked Easter eggs. Later, upon the private request of the billionaires who benefit, present a one-sided retread of a questionable economic theory when no one from the public expects it. Move super quick to implement the spending. Make it convenient for the stewards of public funds to show up, even remotely. At the same time, make it difficult for members of the public to show up, even remotely. Maneuver unanimity behind the scenes so there’s no discussion. No wonder, unlike other self-described first-class cities, we don’t have a single, effective watchdog group challenging the potential misuse of public funds. But on this day, what we did have was a lone member of the public. This citizen who reads agendas. This citizen who gets lost in the convention center and still shows up. The citizen who wants to know why billion-dollar corporations need public money. The citizen who believes that “technically allowed” and “actually a good idea” are two different things. And so, inspired—and admittedly still coming off propofol, and despite having absolutely no intention of speaking—I got up, too. Not in opposition, as the paper of record later misinterpreted, but with a pure desire for more transparency and discourse. In the fog of anesthesia, I think I made three points.
First, accessibility and public options to participate in or even view this meeting are indefensibly lacking. Livestream it like all the other agencies. Second, if the money has to be spent on stadium-related infrastructure, why doesn’t this incredible assembly of Vegas’s best and brightest get creative? Build campus-adjacent affordable housing for stadium workers. Improve transit to the stadium. Lower ticket prices. Third, what exactly does oversight mean if the team proposes the project and gets to select its contractors? Open, competitive bids are the way, baby! Then the meeting ended. Ten minutes. Afterwards, I said to one of my reporter friends, “That may have been the fastest $75 million giveaway in history.” Now, to be fair, I don’t blame the Raiders for asking. It was set up as theirs for the taking. They’re called the Raiders for a reason. No, I point my finger at the Legislature, which created a system where all sorts of public funds can be used on all sorts of wild things without ever having to show a hard economic return on investment to the citizens who live here. And whatever your view on whether the Raiders and Allegiant deserved this extra money—because you believe that all the goodness that flows from them wouldn’t have happened but for our generosity with public funds—the most telling question still remains: Why didn’t the Stadium Authority require the plaza to be included in the original stadium plan, where the Raiders had to pay? Why is the public paying for the “oops, we forgot the patio” phase? Where is fiduciary duty?
I think oversight of any public spending group—be it the Stadium Authority, the LVCVA, or the Governor’s Office of Economic Development—means asking hard questions before the checks get written. And sometimes the hardest question is the simplest: Is this the best thing we can do with public money? Because Las Vegas is facing plenty of needs that don’t come with luxury suites. People can’t pay for medicine or stable and affordable housing. Our education system is struggling. A mental health crisis looms. Water isn’t infinite. Electricity isn’t cheap. You know all the rest: we’re at the bottom of the good lists and the top of the bad ones. It’s been decades, and this discretionary slush to billionaires hasn’t moved the needle at all. I want somebody in the room willing to ask the inconvenient questions. Someone with a little more clout than me or the rumpled man. Because if nobody asks the questions in public, then “public oversight” becomes a very fancy phrase for helplessly watching somebody spend the public money like a misguided and infallible Santa who places the needs of corporate toymakers over the true spirit of the task.
On the drive home, I kept thinking about what could have happened if someone on that board had simply said: “Let’s slow down. Let’s ask the team to open its books. Let’s see if naming-rights revenue can cover this. Let’s talk about whether the plaza actually benefits the public or just the people who can afford to walk into a stadium.” None of that happened. Instead, a roomful of powerful people gave away money they don’t have to raise themselves, in a meeting they didn’t have to attend in person, using numbers no one had to verify. If that is how we define public oversight, we are fooling ourselves. The rumpled man was not fooled. I was not fooled. And neither should you be. The Raiders likely don’t need another $75 million. The people of Las Vegas definitely need a lot of things. But the people who hold the public purse strings seem to have decided that the most creative, responsible, and urgent use of public money is a pretty patio for a billionaire-owned team in a stadium that is already the most profitable in America. That is not stewardship. That is a gift. And it was wrapped in the flimsy paper of economic-impact studies that no one in the room had the nerve to unwrap. Until the people in charge start asking hard questions in public, we’ll keep getting the same script: free-spending discretion, rushed votes, hard-to-find meetings, and no real answer to the simplest question of all. Dayvid Figler is a criminal defense attorney, freelance essayist, and former host of the City Cast Las Vegas podcast. He received the State Bar of Nevada’s Medal of Justice in 2019 and publishes a Substack that muses about all things Las Vegas.