Sebastian Telfair, a guard for the Boston Celtics, was arrested last night for second-degree possession of a weapon--a felony--after police found a loaded .45-caliber handgun under the seat of his 2006 Land Rover.  According to police Telfair was cooperative, and several officers described him as "a gentleman".  Boston Herald.

Sebastian Telfair

I was motoring with my gentleman's gentleman--Al Eden Fuentes--on the Bronx River Parkway at four o'clock in the a.m. this morning, when an annoying sound began to pierce through Henry Purcell's Dido and Aeneas, which emanated from the CD player of my Land Rover. 

"Al," I said to my front-seat mate, Al Eden Fuentes.

"Yes, Sebastian?"

"Do you hear a sort of high-pitched whiny noise?"

Maria Cristina Kiehr

"Other than Maria Cristina Kiehr?"

My homey is an unforgiving critic of the current crop of ancient music sopranos, but I pressed on.

"Yes--not a woodwind, either."

"I'm sorry--I couldn't hear you over the gunfire."

"I believe what you are hearing is an E above high C played on the siren of a Westchester County police car," he said before turning back to his Schwann catalog to look for a recording o####lauzonov saxophone quartet that Sean "Puffy" Combs had borrowed from him and subsequently lost in the VIP room of Brooklyn nightclub.

I looked in my rear view mirror and Al, or Eden, or Fuentes, was right.  I saw the flashing blue light atop one of those dreary domestic vehicles that suburban police insist on driving!

How declasse!

"You don't think they're interested in me, do you?"

"You are going 77 in a 45 mile per hour zone."

"Then perhaps I should stop," I said, more to myself than to Al Eden since his nose was buried in the index.  "Is it 'G-L-A-U' or 'G-L-U-A'?" he asked.  I've always believed he has a mild case of lysdexia.

Anton von Webern:  He's not Glauzonov, but then neither are you.

"'G-L-A-U' I said as I pulled off onto the shoulder of the motorway, and stopped the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the Westchester County policeman said as he approached the car.

Westchester County home

"Good evening to you," I said.  Nice fellow.  You do tend to get a better sort of public servant in Westchester County.  After all, with Rye and Scarsdale within our borders, we're one of the wealthiest zip codes in the nation!

"I'm going to ask you gentlemen to get out of the car," the gendarme said.

"My pleasure," I said, but Al Eden just sat there.  He had given up on the Glauzonov, and was thumbing through the society pages of Town & Country.

"You have the right to remain silent--like John Cage."

"Sir," the officer said when he saw Al Eden wasn't moving.  "Would you please get out of the car."

"That's better," Fuentes said.  "You didn't say 'please' the first time."

So there we were, our hands on our heads, while Westchester County's finest searched through my car.

"Look out," I said as the policeman put his hand under the front seat.

"What for?"

Lethal Weapon

"I may have thrown an empty Perrier bottle under there," I said.  "I wouldn't want you to cut yourself."

Imagine my surprise as, instead of the familiar green bottle that contains refreshing, naturally-carbonated mineral water, the officer pulled a .45-caliber handgun from beneath the leather seat!

Handgun, versus canvas and leather sporting clay bag.

"Is this yours?" he asked.

"Doesn't look familiar," I said.  "I favor sporting clays to snuffing out someone who disses me with a Saturday night special.  Al," I said to my sidekick, "is this yours?"

"Is it a Beretta S682 Gold E sporing rifle?"

"No," the cop said.  "Looks to be an M1911 Colt."

"Hmph," Fuentes sniffed.  "I would never own such a gun."

"All right, can I see a driver's license?" the fellow asked me.

"Certainly," I said, reaching for my wallet.

"Hold it," the police officer said.

"What's the matter" I asked, a bit disappointed by his peremptory tone.  I had thought we were on our way to becoming friends!

"Turn around and put your hands against the car."

I did as I was asked, and the fellow patted me on the right buttocks, where I keep my wallet.  Can't say I didn't get a certain tingle from the sensation, but he was all business--just my type!

"All right, you can take your wallet out," he said.

I started to thumb through my many credit cards--Brooks Brothers, Lord & Taylor, Tiffany's.

"I can't seem to find my license, but I have a perfect explanation," I told the policeman.

"What's that?"

Brooks Brothers:  "I'm sorry--we don't allow your kind to shop here."

"I don't like a bulging wallet to break the line of my pants," I said, feeling certain he would understand.  "I try very hard to keep in shape."

"I'm going to have to cite you for gun possession, driving without a license, operating an unlicensed motor vehicle and speeding," he said.

"This is dreadful," I told him.  "I've lived a blameless life except for that time I tried to bring a Smith & Wesson handgun in a pillowcase on the Portland Trail Blazers plane."

"What kind of pillowcase?" Fuentes asked.

"Laura Ashley Cotswold pattern."

Laura Ashley sheets and pillowcases.

"What was the thread count?"

"500!" I replied with pride.

"Oo-ee!  That was one bad-#### pillowcase, man!"

"Guys, if I can get you to focus for a moment," the policeman interjected.

"You didn't say excuse me," Fuentes said, a bit sharply I might add.

"What?" the policeman asked.

"You interrupted us but you didn't say excuse me."

"Sorry--excuse me."

"That's better."

"Now," the officer continued, "you have the right to remain silent, you have the right to court-appointed counsel if you can't afford a lawyer, you . . ."

"Officer," I said with a tone I hoped he would perceive as simpatico.  "If we're convicted, we'll have a right to appeal, n'est ce pas?"

"That's correct.  Why do you ask?"

"I may be fat, but Telfair's too short!"

"Because, as #### Motta, coach of the Washington Bullets said in 1978 when his team was up 3-1 over the San Antonio Spurs, 'The opera ain't over 'til the fat lady sings!'"

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman