The Unseen Scar: A Gambler's Decades-Long Battle Against Nevada's Infamous Black Book

For Ronald Dale Harris, the "Black Book" isn't just a list; it’s a living, breathing shadow, an unseen scarlet letter he’s carried for nearly 34 years. Imagine, if you will, living under a perpetual ban, forever marked by past transgressions, particularly in a state built on the glitz and gamble of its casinos. At 78 years old, Harris, his voice perhaps a little wearier but still determined, is now making a final, heartfelt plea to the Nevada Gaming Commission: Please, set me free from this public shaming. He argues, and one might understand why, that this lifetime exclusion from every casino in Nevada has transformed into a punishment both cruel and decidedly unusual.

You see, Ronald Harris isn't a stranger to the darker side of Lady Luck. Back in the mid-1980s, he made headlines – the wrong kind, unfortunately – for a series of rather ingenious cheating schemes. First, a keno game in 1986; then, just a year later, a roulette table. It wasn’t a small-time affair, no, but rather elaborate setups designed to fleece the house. And for that, the Nevada Gaming Commission, without much hesitation, branded him with the ultimate pariah status for anyone in the gaming world, formally known as the "List of Excluded Persons" but universally, infamously, called the Black Book.

But what, precisely, is this Black Book? Well, it's more than just a registry. It's a vigilant gatekeeper, a tangible manifestation of Nevada’s unwavering commitment to the integrity of its gaming industry. Those whose names grace its pages – and they are few, mind you – are deemed individuals with criminal backgrounds, unsavory reputations, or, like Harris, a proven track record of cheating. To be on it means you are strictly forbidden from even stepping foot inside a licensed casino in the Silver State. Period. No exceptions. It’s designed, quite simply, to keep the bad apples out and protect both the casinos and, crucially, the public’s trust.

Harris, though, isn't dwelling on the details of his past escapades, at least not in a defensive way. He describes his actions from those years as a "sickness," a compulsion, a dark chapter in a life he has, he claims, since profoundly changed. "It’s a different world now," he might have said, implying a maturation, a deep regret. He presented his case to the commission, not with defiance, but with a surprising vulnerability, stressing that he's older now, presumably wiser, and certainly no longer a threat to anyone’s roulette wheel. He simply wants the "scarlet letter" lifted, a chance, perhaps, for some measure of peace and a recognition that even in a place obsessed with perpetual consequences, redemption could, maybe just could, be possible.

Yet, and this is where it gets tricky, the Gaming Commission isn't exactly in the business of handing out pardons, especially not for a lifetime ban. Their perspective, understandably, is rooted in the long-term protection of the industry. Removing someone from the Black Book isn't viewed as a mere formality or a reward for good behavior. Oh no. It's a deeply significant decision, one that, in their eyes, could potentially send the wrong message. The criteria for removal are incredibly stringent, focusing on whether the original grounds for exclusion still exist, if the individual poses a future threat, and the applicant's overall conduct since being listed. They want to see undeniable proof, an ironclad assurance that the integrity of gaming won't be compromised. It’s a high bar, truly.

And let's be honest, getting off the Black Book is about as rare as hitting the jackpot on your first spin. The historical record, for what it’s worth, tells a stark story. The commission has removed only a handful of people in its entire existence, and often under rather unique circumstances. In truth, the last person to be removed, Fred R. Doumani, Sr., was taken off posthumously. Posthumously! That fact alone underscores just how seriously, and perhaps how permanently, this list is intended to operate. So, Harris isn't just fighting a system; he's fighting history, and a prevailing sentiment that once you're in, you're in.

So, where does that leave Ronald Harris? And, for that matter, where does it leave us, grappling with questions of justice, punishment, and the elusive concept of redemption? Is there a point where a past crime, no matter how egregious, can finally be considered "paid in full"? Or does the imperative to protect an entire industry trump the individual’s plea for a clean slate, even after three decades? You could say, honestly, that this isn't just about a man and a list; it’s a profound meditation on second chances, and whether, for some, those chances ever truly run out, or are simply never offered.

The commission will weigh Harris’s plea, his age, his alleged transformation, against the solemn duty to uphold Nevada’s gaming standards. It's a delicate balance, and one that, one suspects, will be decided with immense caution. But whatever the outcome, Ronald Dale Harris's story serves as a potent reminder that in the glittering, ephemeral world of Nevada casinos, some shadows, once cast, can linger for a very, very long time indeed.