Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, May 20, 1993 TAG: 9305200352
SECTION: NEIGHBORS PAGE: N-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: ALMENA HUGHES STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
"But who's counting?" he said recently, relaxing at his Northwest Roanoke home.
Ody, 70, said he joined the force in 1948, a few days shy of his 25th birthday, mainly because he needed a job. He was among only a handful of black officers, including Woodrow Gator, Lonnie Caldwell, Leon Lonnie Fields, Harry Stovall and Herbert Taylor. Today, there are 19 black officers on the force.
"Neither race really wanted to accept us," Ody said. "Some white people didn't like to see black policemen. But some black people didn't like us, either, because they thought we were Uncle Toms."
Ody wore plain clothes for about a month while waiting for his uniform to be made at the state penitentiary in Richmond. That was standard practice back then.
He patrolled on foot, confined to the Northwest and Northeast quadrants, where blacks lived and owned businesses. When he finally got a patrol car, it was a used 1946 Ford.
"When we first started driving vehicles, if we got a flat, they had this old wagon we called Black Tin Lizzy. They'd send a jack out, and we would have to change our own flat," Ody said.
Today's officers have got it made, he said.
"Our summer uniform was a long-sleeved, 100 percent wool shirt. Now, they have air-conditioned vehicles; they're wearing short sleeves, no field scarves and they can go bareheaded."
Ody and his cohorts made other sacrifices, too: working odd hours and being excluded from social events because they were lawmen.
"Sometimes, I think, people would be planning to do something that wasn't quite right - maybe gamble or sell drinks - and they just didn't want us around."
Still, Ody said, those were the good old days.
"At least human life had some value back then," he said. "Maybe the general public didn't like you, but they respected you."
He got calls involving fistfights, stabbings and even occasional shootings. But most incidents were not fatally violent.
"Maybe I had a false sense of security, but I never feared for my safety. I always thought that if I really got into trouble, somebody would come to my rescue - even some of the people that I had put in jail."
He said he tried to avoid confrontations, but sometimes he just couldn't. A run-in at work, after about 20 years on the force, may have changed his career's direction.
"I had a disagreement with a supervisor. I don't even remember what it was about now, but I quit the doggone job in the heat of anger," Ody said.
Police Chief M. David Hooper asked Ody to think about his decision for a few days before making it final. Shortly after he threatened to quit, Ody was transferred to the detective division. He's never been sure, but said he thinks his hasty action may have triggered the move.
His transfer coincided with black detective Paul Adams' promotion to sergeant and return to the uniformed division. Detectives James Pullen and Robert Foster, with whom Ody worked many years, are also retired, leaving no black detectives on the force right now.
"Years ago, blacks advancing in the department was out of the question," Ody said. "And I never really had a desire to be a supervisor simply because I knew that there would always be a certain amount of resentment."
The move to detective wasn't really a promotion; its biggest advantage was better hours, he said.
In his new position, Ody followed up reports filed by uniformed officers. He especially disliked homicide assignments, which required a lot of paperwork, following up on numerous dead-end calls and - most off-putting - attending the victim's autopsy.
"I used to hunt years ago," Ody said. "But there's a heck of a lot of difference in killing an animal and dressing it and looking at somebody being cut up."
He much preferred investigating malicious-wounding complaints, which remained his main job until he retired.
Ody said he'd always told his co-workers that he wanted no fanfare upon his departure. So on his birthday, Feb. 10, he suspected nothing as a fellow officer led him to a conference room that turned out to be filled with people and gifts.
He received 35mm film, VCR tapes and a 13-inch color TV to monitor his camcorder and help him pursue his photography/video-making hobbies. He also got to buy his Glock 23 semiautomatic service weapon - valued at around $400 - for $1.
He said he hopes the city will follow tradition and mount his badge on a plaque. He also hopes he'll be remembered for what he considers his greatest contributions:
"I always tried to create a positive image and to refrain from saying or doing anything that would cause criticism of me as a black officer or of the city of Roanoke. I always had the reputation of telling the truth when I testified on the stand. And I was always willing to help people or the force in any way that I could."
Habits become pretty fixed over 45 years and 28 days. So it's taking Ody a while to adjust to retirement.
He plans to take a photography course soon and to convert a porch at his home into a darkroom. Meanwhile, he's spending more time with Edna, his wife of 47 years.
He's sleeping a little later if he wants and shaving or not, depending on how he feels. He also looks forward to visits with his daughter, Shallina Michelle Sprattey; her husband, Dwight Sprattey; and their 10-year-old daughter, Sabrina, who live in Fort Wayne, Ind.
by CNB