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Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Delonte West Explains What Happened the Night He Got Arrested With a Small Arsenal

Posted By on Wed, Sep 21, 2011 at 3:30 PM


Everyone remembers the Desperado Delonte episode. Mr. West, one of the most colorful, talented, and enjoyable members of the Cavaliers at that point, the guy who rapped at KFC and wanted his donuts, was pulled over before the 2009-2010 season near D.C. on his motorcycle. He happened to be carrying a shotgun, a knife, and a couple of other guns at the time.

The following season, West didn't speak to the media. Not once. He was guarded by the organization and his teammates as he dealt with his legal issues and his mental illness (bipolar disorder).

Now, for the first time, Delonte talks about that night in an interview for a quite fabulous piece in Slam Magazine. He explains as only Delonte can.

Tucked away in his fully finished basement, West’s studio is his sanctuary. Off limits to children, the sparsely furnished wood paneled room is his home within his home. All of that’s why he thought it was the perfect stash spot. Everything was fine—the guns remained safely hidden—until, on the night of September 17, feeling unusually tired, West went to his bedroom pretty early, took his nightly dose of Seroquel (a drug that treats bipolar disorder) and got in bed. Shortly after falling asleep, he was startled awake by shouting.

“Ma Dukes came running upstairs into my room, cursing me, saying she wanted all these MFers out of my house,” recalls West. “I came to like, What’s going on? I was already on my Seroquel trip. A few of my cats had found some stuff in the studio and they were living the whole gangsta life thing—guns in the air and this and that,” continues West. “And I said, ‘Oh my God. What the fuck are y’all doin’ in here? Y’all got to go. Momma ain’t on that. Kids are running around upstairs. It’s time to go.’”

Gassed up from the commotion, West decided it would be prudent for him to relocate the guns to an empty house he owned nearby. So, with his other vehicles blocked in by guests’ cars, and expecting it to be a short trip, he haphazardly loaded up his Can-Am and placed the weapons in a Velcro-type of bag—“not a desperado, hardcase, gun-shooting-out-the-side type case”—and set off.

“I’m on the Beltway, cruisin’,” West says, voice high, emotional and inimitable. “Soon I start realizing I’m dozing in and out. I open my eyes and I went from this lane to that. I’m swervin’, and by the time I wake up, I’m about three exits past my exit.

“There’s this truck flying beside me—” West pauses; this next part is crucial—“and I’m scared to death. So I seen an officer coming up and I try to flag him down. I pull up next to him. He slows down and I get up in front of him. I tell the officer I’m not functioning well and I’m transporting weapons… The rest of the story is what it is.

“I’m not proud of it,” concludes West, “but it looks way worse than it was.”

And Delonte isn't looking for sympathy, in case you were wondering. “Print this: I ain’t lookin’ for no nipple to cry on. I’m just saying what it is. Hopefully, one day people won’t look at me as the boogieman.”

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