Cedarville sits at the south end of Forsythe County, Georgia, about 40 minutes north of Atlanta on a Saturday with no Falcons traffic, 25,000 people, two stoplights you can name from memory. A police department of 41 officers, 14 patrol cars, one mounted unit, and a chief named Sterling Howerin who's been doing the job since 2018. That last one is me. I came up through Atlanta PD in 1992, six years on patrol in zone 3, moved to Forcy County Sheriff in 2001, made detective in 2006, ran major crimes for 9 years, came to Cedaril as deputy chief in 2015 and took the corner office in 2018 when Chief Easterling retired to a farm outside Calhoun. My wife Margarite passed away in 2019, brain aneurysm.
She was 47. She was making coffee. She set the mug down. She sat at the kitchen table. She closed her eyes.
She never opened them. The paramedics worked her for 19 minutes. The neurosurgeon at North Fulton told me at 3:00 in the morning that there had been nothing for him to fix. I drove home at sunrise and sat in the garage and looked at the rusted out 1968 Ford Mustang fastback she'd bought me at Barrett Jackson in Scottsdale two years before. She'd handed me the auction paddle and said, "Sterling, we're buying it.
Tate is 12. The two of you need a project. " He had been 12. He's 19 now. He starts at the University of Georgia in 2 weeks. We worked on that car together for 4 years in our old garage in Roswell, sanding, welding, rebuilding the four-speed, dropping in a fresh 289 V8.
The pearl white paint was hers. The cherry red interior was Tates. The brass dash plaque with the date November 18th, 17 for my two favorite men was hers, riveted onto the glove box four months before the aneurysm. I sold the Roswell house in 2023 because I couldn't sit on her porch swing anymore. I bought a four-bedroom in Brierwood Glenn Estates in Cedar Veil.
New construction, brick, pine straw beds, a twocar garage. I painted myself the color of a Coca-Cola bottle. I didn't tell anyone in Brierwood Glenn that I was the chief. I wear jeans and a UG cap on weekends. I drive a 2014 F-150 with the original tailgate dent from a Lowe's parking lot.
I keep my badge in my glove compartment. The Cedar Veil PD station is 15 minutes east. None of the new neighbors recognized me, and I didn't see a reason to introduce myself with a title. I'd come to Brierwood Glenn to be quiet. Margarite was a quiet person.
I was trying to be more like her. Hadley Lockwood introduced herself two weekends after I closed on the house. She drove a pearl white Mercedes GLE, the same color as the Mustang in my garage, which she would later tell me was providential. She brought a key lime pound cake from the public's bakery on a flowered porcelain plate. She wore a coral blouse and white capries and gold sandals.
She told me she had been HOA president for 9 years and that we just love welcoming new families to Brierwood Glenn. I thanked her. I took the cake. I told her my son and I would enjoy it. She didn't ask what I did for a living.
She did ask twice about the car in my garage. The first time I told her it was a rebuild project I'd done with my son. The second time I told her it wasn't for sale. She smiled the way some women smile when they've already decided you're going to change your mind. 3 weeks after the pound cake, Hadley's son walked into my garage uninvited.
I was changing the front sway bar bushings on the Mustang. The garage door was up because Georgia in late August does not negotiate temperature. A muscular kid in white tennis shorts came up my driveway, stopped at the open bay, and said, "Whoa, is that a 68? " His name was Bryson Lockwood, 19, tall, blonde, the kind of boy who walks into rooms expecting people to look at him. I told him it was. I told him I was busy.
He stood at the edge of my driveway for nine more minutes asking me what year the rear end was and whether the carburetor was original. I gave one-word answers. He left. That evening, Hadley sent me a text. Sterling Bryson is obsessed with the Mustang.
He turns 19 next month. Whit and I would love to talk about a fair purchase. Could we come over Saturday? I wrote back. Not for sale.
Thank you for the cake. She wrote back 9 seconds later. Sterling, every car is for sale. Let's just have a conversation. I didn't reply.
She came to my door anyway on Saturday morning with wit. He was bigger than I remembered. Mid-50s, salt and pepper, polo over khakis. He had the wide, calm handshake of a commercial real estate developer who's used to closing deals at the country club. He told me he'd be willing to write a check that day for $25,000.
I told him the car wasn't for sale. He raised it to 35. I told him it wasn't for sale. He paused. He nodded slowly.
He smiled the way men smile when they're about to start charging interest. Well, Sterling, we respect that. We sure do. But we wanted to put a fair number on the table while we could. They left.
Witz Pearl White Range Rover backed slowly out of my driveway. Hadley waved out the passenger window. The first violation arrived in my HOA portal 3 days later. Vehicle covered in excessive dust. Visible from street.
Violation of community appearance standards. Fine. $200. The photograph attached was taken at 9 in the morning. The Mustang was in my closed garage. The dust was a single thin film visible through a window because I'd been driving the F-150 instead.