OPINION

OPINION | MASTERSON ONLINE: To the county line

The year was 1980. I was 34 and wrapping up a seven-year tenure as executive editor of the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record daily newspaper and looking forward to joining the Los Angeles Times as a staff writer.

My fulfilling stay in the Spa City where my parents and parents-in-law also lived and daughter Anna was born had been packed with fulfillment, adventure, controversy and a motivated staff that became accomplished at exposing the underbelly of this community with such a wild and woolly history.

Among our many stories shedding light on injustices and corruption in the criminal justice system were more than a handful about a one-term sheriff at that time. Those revelations included him letting inmates free on weekends (even transporting them to other cities) without informing the court and his tendency to place bets at the highest-dollar windows at Oaklawn Park.

He was, let's say, not all that appreciative of our attention to his performance in office or, for that matter, my abilities as an editor.

On the morning we packed ourselves, both children and our schnauzer into the car, I decided to stop by the paper and bid final farewell to the newspaper staff.

Turned out, I'm glad I did; might even call it a GodNod. Our phone had rung about 9 the night before. An anonymous caller warned me the sheriff blamed me personally for losing his bid for re-election and was going to be waiting for me the next day on the highway as we departed.

In the caller's words: "He's mad as hell and wants to get the final say as you're trying to leave, so be careful."

I'd taken his warning in stride, largely dismissing it ... until.

Glancing out the paper's front window into the lot where we'd parked that morning, I saw the sheriff's chief deputy walking around our car, peering inside and at one point even kneeling down as if he was inspecting something closer to the ground.

One reporter even commented, asking why he, of all people, would be at the paper examining our car.

At that point, with the voice of the previous night's caller still ringing in my ear, I wondered what I might do to ensure we wouldn't suffer the fate he'd described.

Suddenly it dawned on me. I called Captain Gene Donham. He was the Arkansas State Police troop commander in Hot Springs, a stocky, good-natured man cut from the same rugged cloth of a John Wayne.

Explaining the telephone warning and chief deputy's presence at our car, I didn't need to ask. He told me to wait; he'd be there within five minutes.

Sure enough, the captain, with his lieutenant in the passenger's seat, pulled into the lot and parked near the front door. Outside, he told me to stay right on his tail as he escorted us to the county line. I asked the staff photographer to follow to capture on film whatever might occur.

And as our caravan pulled away, I began to feel a bit sheepish, as I wondered if I'd been overreacting to that anonymous call and the deputy's menacing presence outside the paper.

We headed out across the bridges over Lake Hamilton with no problem. But not long afterwards we saw a sheriff's patrol car speeding toward us. That was followed by another, then a third. "Woosh, woosh, woosh"; they were all in a line.

Looking ahead toward Donham's cruiser, I saw him glance into his rear-view mirror and give a wave as we connected visually in an understanding of what we'd just witnessed. Those sheriff's cars had been waiting until being summoned back after it became obvious we were being escorted.

The captain pulled over several yards past the Garland County sign, making certain we'd departed the sheriff's jurisdiction. I climbed out and joined Gene as the photographer captured that moment with the county sign as a backdrop.

I'm still not certain 41 years later what might have happened if the captain and his lieutenant had been unavailable that morning. I suspect it would have been ugly and unpleasant. But thanks to them, we didn't have to endure a different outcome.

Gene Donham has long since passed. But his legacy lives on in my heart and mind as a man of integrity and courage who made a positive difference in one young family's lives.

Below harder!

So there I sat in the eye doctor's treatment chair undergoing the tests they give to check how well we detect the world around us. "Which slide is clearer, one or two?" Most over 50 likely know the drill.

At one point when fog from my breath began blocking the lens I heard Dr. Ken Hubbard say, "Pull your mask down, blow your nose."

So I took out a tissue, slipped my mask down and was about to oblige when he interjected.

"Uh, no, no, Mike, I mean pull your mask down below your nose."

Ahh, the joys of miscommunication that arise in our English language.

Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly how you want them to treat you.


Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at [email protected].

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