In three decades as a daily newspaper columnist, I stopped counting the hours I sat in Las Vegas courtrooms watching defendants grind their way through the local justice system.

I was usually waiting, often impatiently, for a specific case that I’d planned as grist for the next column. Over time, however, I learned to appreciate the rhythm of the daily docket, when defendants in their jailhouse garb are present to learn the latest development in their case.

Trial dates are set, motions are made and early discovery information is exchanged in a time-tested process that’s occasionally interrupted by outbursts from attorneys, judges and the defendants themselves. A majority of cases never reach trial, but are hashed out between busy prosecutors and buried public defenders.

The process runs professionally in most courtrooms, so much so that it’s almost possible to forget that some of the accused face the possibility of spending the rest of their lives in prison.

The faces of most defendants themselves are impassive as they are reminded in certain terms of the hole their lives are in. Behind each mask is its own story, one that often includes poverty, physical abuse, drug use and mental illness. It is a reminder that the state, at its best, has always been challenged to balance justice with mercy.

Of all the characters in this play, my favorites were the public defenders. But then I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog. The PDs came to court with stacks of cases, worked the defendants’ gallery for brief but important private conversations with clients, and negotiated with the state in real time. It was not a job for the timid.

It’s a world that multigeneration Nevada native and former Reno public defender Gabriel Urza knows intimately and brings to life with impeccable precision and authenticity in his new novel The Silver State. He tells the story of young public defender Santi Elcano, whose professional ideals are sorely tested in the morally ambiguous reality of attempting to find justice for the troubled souls whose lives and deaths haunt the system that purports to represent them.

Santi is mentored by cynical and savvy office veteran C.J., who knows the system and works its angles while avoiding its pitfalls. With wisecracks and shortcuts, she attempts to school her charge and tries to toughen him up. Early in the mentorship, which includes ample study in local saloons, Santi reflects, “C.J. smiled in that way of hers that I would become so accustomed to — that smile that betrayed nothing, conveyed neither information nor emotion.”

Santi appears on his way to becoming a career public defender, but then the case of Michael Atwood gets in the way. Convicted of a brutal murder of young mother Anna Weston on slight evidence following a hurried police investigation, Atwood is facing the death penalty when he reaches out from prison after eight years in a letter to his former attorney Santi. As Santi and C.J. investigate, they begin to think Atwood just might be innocent.

Urza is a seasoned writer who also teaches the craft at Portland State University. His writing is filled with literary gems, realistic dialogue and well-honed observations about Reno and the Truckee River that roll through it like an artery all the way to Pyramid Lake. It’s a terrain the author knows well, and it shows whether Santi is running along the river through Idlewild Park, drinking in a Midtown dive or hearing the iron doors clank behind him as he makes a client visit to the Nevada State Prison in Carson City. When he writes that the late-night lights of downtown Reno “glitter like flakes in a gold pan before me,” they glitter for the reader as well.

Although readers can’t help being reminded of the best of John Grisham, The Silver State is more than a legal thriller. While the legal battles go on in court, the greater battle goes on in a young attorney’s head as his eyes are opened to realities not taught in any law school. The troubled soul of the justice system is revealed as it truly exists.

This is a story filled with ghosts and sorrows — the kind that haunt those with a conscience.

In addition to being a helluva read, by the end, you may find yourself thinking about the nature of justice, and whether it’s attainable in a fallible system that’s the only one we have.

John L. Smith is an author and longtime columnist. He was born in Henderson and his family’s Nevada roots go back to 1881. His stories have appeared in New Lines, Time, Readers Digest, Rolling Stone, The Daily Beast, Reuters and Desert Companion, among others.