By Pat Trevino

There’s no reason anyone in DeWitt County should walk into the polls uninformed. Every election season, we hear the same promises about “running a clean race,” but the smear campaigns always seem to arrive right on schedule — and this year, they’re already getting ugly. Politics can bring out the best in people, but it can also bring out the worst. I learned that lesson long ago, and I was reminded of it again yesterday morning.

I woke up to a phone call from someone asking me about a story they saw in the Victoria Advocate. They were upset, confused, and wanted my thoughts because the article involved a family member of mine — accused of a crime that never happened. For a moment, I couldn’t even speak. It’s a strange kind of shock when you see a loved one’s face tied to something false, something ugly, something that spreads faster than the truth can catch up.

It took time to sort out what was going on. I had to track down the details, find the source, and understand how the misinformation started. Eventually, I learned the truth behind it — and no, I’m not going to name names. Let people wonder. Let them see that even ordinary families can be blindsided by rumors, jokes taken too far, or people who think politics is entertainment. But I will say this: when someone puts your family member’s photo next to a crime they didn’t commit, it stops being a joke. It becomes a warning.

And that warning took me right back to 1990.

If memory serves me correctly back then, DeWitt County elections were still run through the County Clerk’s office. Early voting wasn’t common yet, and most people cast their ballots on Election Day. Results were posted on tally sheets taped to the courthouse door. It was a slower time, but not a simpler one.

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My friend Sally Rodriguez convinced me to help in the sheriff’s race that year. Neither of us were political people — not even close. She was managing Pizza Hut, and Mr. John Cuellar, a longtime DPS officer, was one of her regular customers. I was a young mother taking a few courses at Victoria College. We weren’t part of any political machinery. We were just two women who believed a good man deserved a fair chance to serve his community.

We ran a clean campaign. No tricks. Just handshakes, conversations, and honesty. We even hosted a political rally and invited other candidates to take part. Political candidate and attorney Jeff Dietz was there, candidates David Ruiz, and Eugene Denson also attended the rally. I had invited District Attorney Wiley Cheatman, but in true old‑school Cheatham fashion, he declined.  Since I was charging a small fee to help cover costs, he didn’t want anyone to misread his participation.

I didn’t know Mr. Cheatham very well at the time, but for those who may not remember Cuero’s history, he was the attorney who tried the Veteran’s Land fraud case at the center of Ken Towery’s investigative series — the reporting that ultimately earned the Cuero Record the Pulitzer Prize in 1955.

I learned what kind of man he truly was years later when I worked at the Victoria County District Clerk’s Office. Two judges were talking in the law library, not paying any attention to me shelving books nearby. They were upset with Cheatham because he had refused to “help out” one of their buddies whose son had gotten into trouble. They had called him expecting a little leniency — judge to judge, favor to favor. But Cheatman flat‑out refused. He wouldn’t bend the law for anyone, and in that moment I understood why he had been so cautious about attending our rally. That moment showed me how careful he was about avoiding misunderstandings.

That moment told me everything I needed to know about Wiley Cheatman. He was a man of character, the kind who didn’t bend rules, didn’t trade favors, and didn’t let anyone pull him into situations that could be misread. Back then, even a hint of misunderstanding could follow a person for years, especially in a small community. And that is why his decision to skip our rally made sense to me later. People trusted him because he kept a strict line between his public duties and anything that might look like political involvement.

I know I’m going a little off topic, but I wanted to share that story with y’all because it speaks to the kind of people who stood around us during that campaign — honest, principled, and unwilling to compromise their values.

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At the rally, we had live music, and our special speaker was Roy Benavidez — Cuero’s hometown hero, a man whose courage is etched into American history. South Texas Sheriff, Brigido Montemayor, stood with us too. People attended that rally because they believed in Mr. John Cuellar’s character. They showed up because they trusted the kind of man he was and the kind of sheriff he would have been.

And he was winning. We felt it. Voters told us. The momentum was real.

But then came Election Day.

Word reached us — through my mother, Esther De Los Santos, who knew just about everyone in town — that several people had received phone calls accusing Mr. Cuellar of some kind of malicious impropriety. A lie. A smear. The kind of thing designed to poison a person’s name when there’s no time left to defend it. Many people who knew him personally were able to dismiss it immediately, but we later learned that some voters who had planned to support him changed their minds because they didn’t know him well enough to see through the lie.

Sally and I felt sick. There was nothing we could do. No rebuttal. No correction. No chance to set the record straight. The votes were already being cast.

When the tally was posted at the courthouse, he lost by sixty‑five votes.

I remember staring at that sheet of paper taped to the wall, realizing how fragile truth can be in a heated race — and how quickly a lie can spread when someone wants it to.

That memory came rushing back to me this morning as I tried to untangle a false accusation tied to someone in my own family. Different decade, different situation, different technology — but the tactic was identical. A lie dropped into the world with just enough force to create confusion, shock, and doubt. It reminded me how quickly a rumor can travel and how easily a person’s name can be dragged into something they had nothing to do with. And it reminded me, too, how important it is for people to slow down, ask questions, and look for the truth before believing the worst.

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Today, we have more tools than ever: online records, public meetings, candidate forums, and access to information that didn’t exist in 1990. Yet misinformation spreads faster than ever. The technology changed, but the tactics didn’t.

So as we head into this election season, I want to encourage every voter in DeWitt County that your best chance of getting the right people in office is to be an informed voter.  Don’t let blind loyalty cloud your chances of a better future.  Smear campaigns are exactly that — smears — and they can be horrendous weapons that ruin reputations and mislead communities.

Most people carry a cell phone everywhere they go. Before believing a rumor or repeating a lie, take a moment to look it up. Your phone’s browser can give you access to public records, reputable news outlets, and factual information. A few seconds of checking can prevent a lifetime of damage. And if you choose to use AI, this is the moment it can actually help — not to replace judgment, but to give you a place to start. It’s a tool, nothing more, and certainly not as frightening as some might think.

We owe it to ourselves, to our community, and to the future of Texas to vote with clear eyes and steady judgment. Elections should be about choosing leadership — not surviving smear campaigns.

And if you ever doubt how important your vote is, remember this: I once watched a good man lose by sixty‑five votes. And yesterday morning, I watched how easily a lie can find its way to your own front door.

October 5, 2026, is the last day to register to vote. Before Election Day arrives, take a moment to confirm your registration with a trusted source like VoteTexas.gov.