Outside The Box

Towns County captures the essence of rural America in the quiet allure of our rolling hills and inspiring mountain views. With a small population of just 13,000, it’s a close-knit community with a shared history of resilience connecting neighbors who truly know each other’s stories.

Yet, beneath this peaceful exterior, a troubling history emerges. It seems there is one unforgivable sin for anyone living here: getting elected sheriff.

A long history of misfortune for that office has prompted whispers of a “curse” among local residents since the 1970s. Over five decades, the men who pinned on the star have encountered profound misfortune: untimely death, federal imprisonment, ethical scandals, unfounded rumors, and indictments. While correlation isn’t causation, the recurrence invites reflection on how fate—or perhaps the weight of small-town expectations—can cast a shadow over those sworn to protect.

The thread begins on a chilly December night in 1974 with Sheriff Jay Vernon Chastain Sr., a dedicated public servant with deep ties to the community. Around 2 a.m. on Highway 76 near Hiawassee, he initiated a routine traffic stop on a vehicle driven by Roy Struben Lockaby. What followed was a sudden and senseless tragedy: Lockaby fired a shotgun blast into Chastain’s chest, killing him instantly. Responding officers returned fire, ending Lockaby’s life at the scene. In a county where violent crime was rare, Chastain’s death reverberated like a thunderclap, leaving a widow, children, and a community grappling with grief. His death was a somber reminder of the risks borne by those in uniform—and perhaps the first hint of a shadow over the badge.

In 1976, the office passed to Sheriff James “Jack” McKay, a familiar face who promised continuity and healing. Yet, McKay’s tenure fell under the shadow when federal investigators uncovered his role in a sprawling marijuana operation hidden in the national forest’s remote clearings. Over several seasons, McKay and accomplices cultivated more than 4,000 pounds of the plant, complete with irrigation systems and armed sentinels. The plot unraveled in 1981 after hikers, straying from the Appalachian Trail, encountered an aggressive guard who escorted them at gunpoint back to Highway 76. Their report to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation sparked a probe, which led to aerial photographs capturing McKay tending the fields with a tiller. Convicted in 1982 on conspiracy charges, McKay received a 25-year sentence, serving about a decade before parole. For a rural area reliant on trust, the scandal of betrayal exposed the vulnerabilities that can haunt isolated communities.

Towns County was shepherded into the new millennium by Sheriff Rudy Eller, first elected in 1996 on a platform that promised stability, but a 2007 incident tested his resolve. When a deputy fired department-issued rounds into a local resident’s home, Eller’s response drew scrutiny: he allegedly misled investigators, tampered with evidence, and influenced witnesses to alter accounts. The GBI’s inquiry led to his August 2007 guilty plea on charges of obstruction, false statements, and evidence tampering. Sentenced to five years (with parole after 18 months), Eller resigned, and the shadow grew longer. In the close-knit fabric of Towns County, where personal ties run deep, the case underscored the perils of personal loyalty overriding duty.

Hope returned with Chris Clinton’s 2008 election, as the former deputy pledged reforms to rebuild faith. Clinton oversaw a 30% drop in crime, implemented community programs like the Citizens Law Enforcement Academy, and secured departmental accreditation for the first time, joining the minority of Georgia sheriffs’ departments certified by the state. His background as a lifelong resident and musician added a relatable touch, and initiatives like the Empty Stocking Fund strengthened communal bonds.

Yet, even Clinton’s path bore the mark of the shadow. During a heated campaign, just months before his first primary victory, the Cedar Knob Fire erupted on November 9, 2007, on the mountain ridge overlooking his family’s Hog Creek Road property. Devouring 800 acres of forest, the blaze forced evacuations in the valley below, its flames visible from Hiawassee. Amid a severe drought—with no recorded rainfall for weeks and humidity dipping below 50%—officials attributed the fire to “natural causes,” suggesting a lightning strike. No evidence of arson emerged, but the timing and proximity of the fire fueled local speculation of resentment from factions opposed to Clinton’s election. Sheriff Clinton served for over 12 years, and in spite of his successes, his administration faced a relentless headwind of accusations and unfounded rumors in the style of what Zell Miller used to call “mountain politics.”

The pattern persists into the present with Sheriff Kenneth Henderson, elected in 2020 on a platform of steady governance. Thus far during his almost 5 years in office, crime has plummeted dramatically. Based on Georgia Bureau of Investigation (GBI) Uniform Crime Reporting data, total index crimes fell from 162 in 2017 to just 19 in 2024—an overall decline of about 88%. Violent crimes dropped from 31 to 10 (68%), and property crimes from 131 to 9 (93%).

In December 2024, a bizarre episode threatened this legacy. Responding to a deputy’s reported “ambush” (later alleged to be self-inflicted), Henderson clashed with a Hiawassee officer also at the scene. An investigation led to Henderson’s October 2025 indictment on seven counts and his suspension by Governor Brian Kemp. In this latest twist, the shadow manifests in a moment of unguarded judgment—a stark reminder of the human frailties that can undermine even the best intentions. As Sheriff Henderson awaits trial amid broader GBI scrutiny, the presumption of innocence guides our local discourse, with many residents voicing steadfast backing for proven leadership and the enduring trust in those who wear the badge.

Across 51 years, these events create an image of misfortune disproportionate to Towns County’s size and reflect the broader challenges of rural law enforcement: isolation breeding insularity, high stakes in tight communities, and the unyielding pressure of the badge, all of which take their toll on those who serve and the families who support them. As a community, we have weathered these storms with our deep-rooted sense of place, through memorials, reforms, and quiet vigilance. A friend who works in law enforcement says that a hundred “attaboys” can be canceled by one unguarded moment. And to paraphrase former Sheriff Clinton, history looks different to those who write, or indeed read about it, and those who lived it. As the next guardian steps forward, we pray that the shadow over the badge will finally be dispelled.