Courtesy of Vicki Bates
Nevada Assembly Sergeant-at-Arms Robin Bates, who dedicated his life to Nevada, died from COVID-19 on Feb. 1, the first day of the Nevada Legislature.
Sunday, March 21, 2021 | 2 a.m.
CARSON CITY — Inside Nevada Assembly Sergeant-at-Arms Robin Bates’ professional persona lived an inner child capable of plotting and executing elaborate practical jokes.
Once during a session, Bates spotted legislative staffers outside his office and approached to say, “Next Wednesday is ‘bring your pet to work day,'” colleague Mary Matheus fondly remembered.
Bates told the giddy staffers that a lawmaker was even bringing his pet monkey. They would also bring their animals, they told him, excitedly walking away down the hallway.
Bates had successfully pulled off another prank.
“And Robin stood there for a minute and he said, ‘I guess I better go get them,” Matheus said. “He could tell you something and he had a very deadpan serious way of telling you something that you would believe.”
Bates, a revered public servant who dedicated his life to Nevada, who enjoyed saying “early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable,” died from COVID-19 on Feb. 1, the first day of the Nevada legislative session. He was 68, six days shy of his next birthday.
“Robin Bates was certainly the heart and soul of the Assembly,” Assembly Speaker Jason Frierson told the Sun. “The voice that you hear when we are about to convene is his voice, he was classy and professional ... he was also kind and really wanted to reflect a good face to the public of our institution. So, he set the tone for us being respectful and professional, but still kind and classy.”
In a true testament to his dedication to the job, a sick Bates — infected and weakened by COVID — still held virtual meetings with his staff two weeks before the session.
Former schoolteacher, warden
Bates started his law enforcement career with the Nevada Department of Corrections, where he retired in 2001 as a warden at the Warm Springs Correctional Center.
He briefly tried his hand as a substitute teacher before joining the sergeant-at-arms office at the Nevada Assembly. He was also a parole board hearing officer for five to six days a month.
“He wasn’t the sort to stay retired,” said Vicki Bates, his widow. “He liked working, he liked the mental stimulation of it, he liked the camaraderie of it.”
The sergeant-at-arms oversees “decorum and order” on the Assembly floor, monitoring the behavior of lawmakers and attendees in the building. “It’s not something that you frequently have a problem (with),” Matheus said. “But when it happens it has to be dealt with quickly and efficiently.”
Bates professionalized the office and knew how to spot stress in his colleagues, telling them to “make sure to stay hydrated and take a walk,” Matheus said.
When he had to give someone a talking, he would simply say, “just don’t do it again,” she recalled him saying.
“He took this job and the institution very, very seriously, but was probably more fun than anybody you would ever meet or work with,” she said.
Glen Whorton, president of the Nevada State Prison Preservation Society, met Bates in the 1970s while both worked for the department of corrections. Eventually they became inseparable best friends.
For Bates, serving and protecting the community was “always uppermost in his mind,” Whorton said. “He cared about people. Frankly … in the business we were in, if you don’t like people then you’re going to be a very unhappy person. He was there every day to make sure that things were done properly, that people were safe ... he was a servant of the people.”
Both friends followed similar professional paths and were each other’s supervisors at one point at the department. Both also worked toward designating the Nevada State Prison in Carson City a historical landmark.
As a prison official, Bates would testify in front of the Legislature, Whorton said, noting that he would overprepare, being thorough in his presentation, anticipating all questions.
In the 1980s, Whorton said, Bates led a team that modernized the agency, computerizing an information system, essentially bringing the department to the “20th century,” he said, adding that the efforts were lauded by the U.S. Department of Justice.
“He was very much a perfectionist,” Whorton said. “He was very much prepared for anything he ever did.”
Testing positive for COVID, twice
Early in the pandemic, Bates expressed to his wife fears that the coronavirus would kill him. The fear led them to becoming vigilant in following safety protocols “because he didn’t think that he would survive it if he would catch it.”
He wound up testing positive twice.
The first case in July produced no symptoms. The second case in January was a different story.
His condition deteriorated and he was put on a ventilator. At one point he was transferred from Carson City to Renown Regional Medical Center in Reno.
Hospital visit restrictions were lifted four days before he died. His wife said she “didn’t realize how bad he was until I was able to go visit him.”
The family was able to say their goodbyes.
Matheus said the death was sudden and unexpected. After all, two weeks earlier they were in a staff meeting hammering out session plans.
“It was heartbreaking,” said Frierson about the phone call informing him Bates was gone. “We had hoped that he would bounce back.”
Once visitor restrictions are lifted at the Statehouse and Bates’ loved ones can be present, lawmakers plan to honor him for "what he meant to this body,” Frierson said.
Whorton said the impact of pandemic-driven isolation makes realities feel unreal. “Even today it is hard to believe that he’s gone ... I know it’s true, but even so, it’s hard to accept.”
'Just a real good guy'
Vicki Watson was waitressing at Dutch Mill Coffee Shop in Carson City one day in 1975 when a couple of high school friends brought someone along: Bates.
Soon, the two ran into each other at a community dance. Things advanced from there. They talked, dated and married the next year. Robin was 23, and Vicki, 20.
These days, Vicki Bates is trying to learn how to stop turning to talk to her husband of 44 years when she reads or sees something she knew would interest him. She will remember how he was such a tender man, who loved children and animals, who would squirm if either was harmed in a movie.
“It’s something people have to go through, dying is part of living,” she said. “You’re always going to lose people eventually, and it’s no fun, but you just get on with it. It’s all you can do ... you really don’t have a choice, you know?”
They raised two sons together, Matt and Scott.
“He was just a good guy. He did the best job he could at everything he did, was a hard worker, but very devoted family guy,” she said. “He was just a real good guy; he was one of the good ones.”
