Targeting a law critics chide as dated and weak, Sen. Patty Murray has introduced legislation that would strengthen the 1970 law governing workplace safety.

The bill, called the Protecting America’s Workers Act, addresses regulatory gaps that The Center for Public Integrity has highlighted as part of the ongoing series Hard Labor.

“This legislation is a long-overdue update to the [Occupational Safety and Health] Act, and a good step towards making workplaces safer and healthier across America,” Murray, a Democrat from Washington state, said in a statement. Ten other Democratic senators have signed on as co-sponsors.

Similar legislation has died in previous years amid opposition from industry groups. The Chamber of Commerce and the National Association of Manufacturers did not respond to interview requests Thursday.

The bill would give the Occupational Safety and Health Administration more powerful enforcement tools.

Currently, an employer whose willful violation of the law leads to a worker’s death faces a misdemeanor and a maximum six-month prison sentence. A person could face twice the prison time for harassing a wild burro on public lands. Murray’s bill would make knowing violations that lead to a worker death a felony, punishable by up to 10 years in prison.

The legislation also would increase civil penalties, which have not been changed since 1990. OSHA is one of few federal agencies excluded from a law that allows fines to rise over time with inflation.

MT. CARROLL, Ill. — Will Piper and Alex Pacas were being buried alive.

It was July 28, 2010, just before 10 a.m., and the young men strained to breathe as wet corn piled up around them in Bin No. 9 at the Haasbach LLC grain storage facility. A co-worker, Wyatt Whitebread, had already been pulled under.

The ordeal in Bin No. 9 played out over 13 hours as hundreds of townspeople maintained a vigil outside. In the end, Whitebread, 14, and Pacas, 19, were dead. Piper, 20, avoided suffocation by inches.

Whitebread, compact and athletic, was happy to have summer work. Pacas, slight and musical, was an aspiring electrical engineer just days away from returning to classes at Hamilton Technical College in Davenport, Iowa. He’d started at Haasbach the day before.

“He prayed for his life,” survivor Piper said of Pacas’s last moments. “He said all he wanted to do is see his brothers graduate high school. And then he spouted off the Lord’s Prayer very quickly, and shortly after that one last chunk of corn came flowing down and went around his face.”

The three had been hired to keep corn flowing in the bin, one of 13 in the Haasbach complex on Mill Road in Mt. Carroll, population 1,700. They’d been sent in with pick axes and shovels that morning to break up corn piled 10 to 24 feet high in the bin and knock clumps from the walls. No one had told them they needed to wear safety harnesses — stored in a red shed nearby — to keep from sinking.

“I had no idea that someone could get trapped and die in the corn,” Piper told investigators with the Department of Labor’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration.

Grain storage in the United States is surging, in part because of the boom in biofuels. Yet at worksites, farmers and commercial operators keep making the same mistakes. Workers, some of them young, keep drowning in grain or getting hurt.

Should farms be regulated?

Corn storage on farms and in commercial structures doubled between 1978 and 2010, climbing from 5.4 billion bushels to a record 10.93 billion bushels, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

With growth has come tragedy: worker entrapment deaths in corn or other grains — wheat, barley, soybeans — hit a recent peak in 2010, a Center for Public Integrity-NPR investigation found. In at least 51 incidents that year, 26 bodies were recovered. More than two-thirds of the entrapments occurred on farms, as did four of six incidents involving workers under 16.

Commercial operations are overseen by the U.S. Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Most farms aren’t — but perhaps should be, some say.

“We’ve got farmers who are building more space and bigger space, and it’s going to cause more issues,” Jeff Adkisson, executive vice president of the Grain and Feed Association of Illinois, which represents commercial operators, said at a grain bin safety conference in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, last fall. “I think it’s time for industry, for government, for all of us to pause and have the conversation again about who is exempt and who is not exempt from some of the standards.”

Adkisson and others in the grain-storage industry have said for years that the bulk of entrapments occur on farms. This is based largely on the work of Purdue University professor William Field, who has put 70 percent of the incidents with reported locations on farms, 30 percent at commercial facilities.

But the Center and NPR found 60 fatal and five non-fatal cases in an OSHA enforcement database that were not included in Field’s studies. All occurred at commercial operations.

In response, Field redid his numbers. He found that 52 percent of the entrapments with known locations took place on farms, 48 percent at commercial facilities.

HINKLEY, Calif. – Ten days before Christmas 1965, Pacific Gas & Electric Co. station chief Richard Jacobs walked a half-block on a dusty road lined with scraggly creosote shrubs to check out a neighbor’s toilet.

Jacobs carried with him a secret, something he referred to as the “chromate problem.”

Starting in 1952, the power company began mixing a toxic form of chromium with water to prevent rust at a new pipeline pumping station in Hinkley, a remote desert community united by a single school and a general store. PG&E dumped the chromium-laced water into a pond.

Lately there had been reports of problems with the neighbors’ wells. PG&E had just drawn greenish water from one well and discovered high levels of chromium. Now, retired farmer John Speth was complaining of greenish deposits in his toilet bowl.

Jacobs took a look in the bowl but assured Speth that PG&E had nothing to do with it. “When I left Mr. Speth,” Jacobs later wrote in longhand, “he was satisfied but still concerned about his water.” Speth died of stomach cancer in 1974.

It wasn’t until Dec. 7, 1987 — 22 years after that visit to Speth’s house — that PG&E finally told the local water board that it had contaminated the underground water. The company claimed it had discovered the problem just one week earlier.

From here, the story is familiar to anyone who saw the hit film Erin Brockovich. The corporate polluter was taken to court. The victims got millions of dollars. Problem solved.

Sabrina Mislevy is tired of the odors, the way they “hit” her as she drives by the blue-tinted lake, the way they burn her nose. Like many of her neighbors, Mislevy has grown weary of living near the nation’s largest coal ash pond, Little Blue Run, which straddles the Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Ohio state lines.

In Little Blue Run and beyond, coal ash, waste from the production of electricity, has fouled water supplies and endangered public health. “We want action,” said Mislevy, of Georgetown, Pa., explaining why she has joined some 200 other area residents in launching legal challenges against FirstEnergy Corp., the owner of Little Blue Run.

Her community is just one across the country pursuing legal challenges against coal-ash ponds, landfills and pits — a grassroots onslaught stoked, in part, by slow regulatory action by the Environmental Protection Agency.

Last May at Little Blue Run, residents laid the groundwork for a potential citizens’ suit against FirstEnergy, sending a notice of intent to sue. Calling themselves the Little Blue Regional Action Group, they accused the company of operating its 1,000-acre ash pond “in a manner that may present an imminent and substantial endangerment to human health and the environment.” In December, residents sent another notice to FirstEnergy alleging “additional significant and ongoing violations,” including dirtying a creek that flows into the Ohio River with arsenic and selenium — toxic constituents found in coal ash.

A FirstEnergy spokesman, Mark Durbin, calls the residents’ claims “wholly without merit.”

The pending action and others come as the federal government weighs how to regulate coal ash, one of the nation’s largest refuse streams at 136 million tons a year. Two years after unveiling a plan to regulate coal ash disposal for the first time, the EPA has delayed the rules.

A group of House Democrats introduced legislation this week that aims to protect workers from combustible dust – a fire and explosion threat that has killed or injured hundreds in recent decades.

Last year, the Center for Public Integrity examined the toll triggered by recent preventable tragedies – and the political and bureaucratic forces that impeded greater protection from a hazard recognized for more than a century. Workers across a range of industries face dust dangers from materials as varied as sugar, coal, wood and plastic.

The federal Occupational Safety and Health Administration began the process of issuing a rule to address the hazard in 2009, but its progress has stalled.

The new bill, announced Thursday, would compel the agency to issue interim protections within a year and set deadlines for finalizing a permanent rule.

“While OSHA has taken some limited steps to protect workers and property from combustible dust explosions, the widely recommended protections necessary to prevent these explosions are caught up in red tape and special interest objections,” Rep. George Miller, the senior Democrat on the House Committee on Education and the Workforce, said in a statement announcing the bill’s introduction.

In September 2010, scientists at the Environmental Protection Agency came to a startling conclusion: Even a small amount of a chemical compound commonly found in tap water may cause cancer.

The compound, hexavalent chromium, gained infamy in the Oscar-winning film Erin Brockovich, based on the David-vs.-Goliath legal duel between desert dwellers in Hinkley, Calif., and Pacific Gas & Electric Co. The film ends in Hollywood fashion, with the corporate polluter paying $333 million to people suffering from illnesses.

But in real life, the drama continues. More than 70 million Americans drink traces of chromium every day, according to the Environmental Working Group, a nonprofit research organization.

And now, more than a decade after the film, EPA scientists cite “clear evidence” that the chemical compound, also known as chromium (VI), can cause cancer. The federal agency was poised to announce its findings in 2011, a step almost certain to trigger stricter drinking-water standards to prevent new cancers and deaths.

The chemical industry’s trade association and chief lobbyist, the American Chemistry Council, urged the EPA to wait for more research, a common practice to delay action on toxic chemicals. However, Vincent Cogliano, the soft-spoken head of EPA’s chemical-assessment program, rebuffed the powerful group, writing in an April 2011 letter that “strong” new research was already available.