A life spent telling stories, with plenty more to come

That it had been 48 years to the day since I entered the Army. I took my first plane ride that night, from Detroit to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. As the plane took off for basic training, the new inductees could see much of Motown aflame in riotous convulsions from that night’s assassination in Memphis of Martin Luther King Jr., the man who told the people of the Motor City they could make it into a showplace, where fairness for all won out.

Less than six months later I was in Vietnam, writing stories for military publications about the men fighting there.

How life happens: On the recent day when I was told I could write a column that throws a spotlight on the people and issues of Southern Nevada, I heard from my daughter in Flint, Michigan, the place where my wife and I grew up. No, Cameo said, she still couldn’t drink water from the tap or take a shower at home because the water remains toxic.

For the last year, she and her husband have driven 20 miles each morning, often in snow, to take a shower outside the city limits at a friend’s house. Media attention and the indictments of government officials have yet to change anything.

Though I spent 10 years with the Review-Journal before leaving for grad school and VISTA in 2014, it’s reasonable for readers to want a better sense of who I am.

My working-class parents stretched their dollars. I learned how painful that can be on my fourth birthday, when my family — Aunt Berniece put up most of the money — bought me a bike. I wasn’t yet tall enough to see over the seat of a 24-inch bike, but they bought it for me anyway, reasoning that it would last longer. Almost immediately after Aunt Berniece lifted me onto the seat, I fell onto the cement driveway. Mother screamed louder than I did. X-rays at the hospital showed my arm had broken in three places. It took dad months to pay off the medical bills.

I’m not cynical enough to believe hell is paved with good intentions, but I do know they can hurt like hell.

I don’t appreciate the abuse of power and trust. Way back in 1975-76, when I was at the Columbus (Georgia) Enquirer, reporter Jim Houston and I learned that inmates at the Muscogee County Jail might have died as a result of not receiving needed medications. We sued to get access to reports.

Though a district judge concurred with the sheriff that the reports were investigative files and did not have to be released to the public, the Georgia Supreme Court overturned the decision, ruling in a precedent-setting case that investigative files from concluded cases were public record. Unfortunately, the files I had sought had been “lost” and were never found.

Abusing power and trust is exactly what Dr. Dipak Desai did with his patients nearly 10 years ago. I was part of the RJ investigative team that documented why he belonged in the slammer — where he now resides after being convicted of murder and other charges — for unsafe injection practices at his endoscopy clinic.

I remember how then-Las Vegas Mayor Oscar Goodman, a former attorney for the mob, was the only official who had enough guts to step up and shut down Desai’s operation.

How life happens: So many of my 68 years — more than 40 of them spent in print and TV journalism or public affairs — seem like a blur. I remember how astounded I was to meet Dr. Dale Carrison, a former FBI agent who became a doctor in his 50s, who’s still hustling around the UMC emergency room he directs in Michael Jordan tennis shoes, looking for the next patient to treat.

So what can you expect in the space allotted to me? Issues, including crime and punishment, will be addressed. Maybe my master’s degree in criminal justice — my thesis was on parents of murdered children — will at least help me ask good questions. I’ll introduce you to people who are making a difference, for good or ill, in our town.

People like Harry Mills, the former Las Vegas High School football star who recently was voted into the Minot State (North Dakota) University Hall of Fame. Now a Republic Services sanitation worker, he wants to keep this city clean.

People like Lilith Tonapetian, an Armenian immigrant who’s turning out fine young fine classical musicians at her Renaissance Music Academy in Henderson. Or it could be Comprehensive Cancer Center’s Dr. Fadi Braiteh, whose work in clinical immunotherapy trials already has saved lives thought lost.

Or it could be you, the individual who has yet to let people know your secret for making the world a better place.

Paul Harasim’s column runs Sunday, Tuesday and Friday in the Nevada section and Thursday in the Life section. Contact him at pharasim@reviewjournal.com or 702-387-5273. Follow him on Twitter: @paulharasim