by Steve Alten
“Is that how we determine whae’s innocent an’ whae’s guilty these days? By their barrister’s appearance?”
“This isn’t a game, Angus. Max says the Cialinos are pushing for the death penalty.”
“A’ men die, Zachary. Funny though, how I’m the one facin’ the death penalty, an’ ye’re the one whae’s feart. They can only hang me once, but ye’ll die a thoosan’ deaths afore they put me six feet under.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Bollocks. I can smell the fear crawlin’ in yer belly like I can smell my ain farts.”
“What have I got to be afraid of?”
“I think we baith ken the answer tae that. Seventeen years is a long time tae keep somethin’ tucked inside ye.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Angus, but I moved on long ago.”
“Have ye? Then why have ye no’ gone back tae the Sargasso?”
“Expeditions cost money, and no one’s interested. I’d go back in a heartbeat, but—”
“Butts’re for crappin’. Maxie’s done some checkin’. The Royal Navy contacted ye six weeks ago, interested in financin’ a voyage tae locate thae Bloop thing-a-mah-jingies. Word is they offered ye a research vessel an’ another sub, but ye turned them doon.”
I ground my teeth, confronted by the truth. The Royal Navy had tried to contact me, but I had refused their calls, still struggling with my hydrophobia. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ll go back to sea when I’m good and ready.”
“No ye willnae. The longer ye wait, the harder it’ll be. Look how long it’s been since ye returned hame tae yer auld man.”
“First, Scotland’s not my home, at least not anymore. Second, you’ve never been much more to me than a sperm donor. I was always your runt, the disappointment God gave you to carry on the Wallace name. You want to give me one final lecture before they hang you, go ahead, it’s your time, your dime.”
“So ye think yer auld man’s guilty, is that it?”
“Honestly, Angus, I don’t know what you’re capable of anymore.”
That stung, I could see the hurt in his eyes.
“Zachary, I ken ye’re ashamed o’ me, but as far as these charges, I didnae dae it. Johnny C. an’ me were pals. Sure, we had words, just as we aye had, but whit happened wis an accident. No matter whit ye may think o’ me son, I’m no’ a murderer.”
Son. I couldn’t ever remember him referring to me as his son.
“What is it you want?”
“Nothin’ more than yer support. The morn, when I walk intae that courtroom, it’d make me proud tae have both o’ my laddies by my side.”
Maybe it was fatigue, but when he got choked up I lost it, too, the tears streaming down my cheeks as I embraced him through the bars. “Okay, Angus, I’ll be there.”
Chapter 7 Quotes
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My wife and I were returning to Drumnadrochit from Inverness, driving along the old narrow road near the seven-mile stone. As we passed Aldourie Castle, she suddenly shouted at me to stop, claiming she saw an enormous black body, rolling up and down in the water. By the time I pulled over, all that was left were ripples, but you could tell something big was out there. Moments later, a huge wake became visible, caused by something moving just below the surface. The wake headed toward Aldourie Pier, then its source submerged, showing us two black humps, one after the next. It rose and sank in an undulating manner, circled sharply to port, then disappeared.
—JOHN MACKAY, MARCH 1933 (FIRST MODERN-DAY SIGHTING SINCE SAINT COLUMBA)
Chapter 7
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Inverness, Scottish Highlands
Scotland
7:15 A.M.
I WOKE UP SCREAMING, limbs quivering, my boxer shorts and T-shirt drenched in sweat. For a terrifying moment, I wasn’t sure where I was, and then the empty hotel room yawned back at me, the television still displaying BBC2 from the night before.
You’re okay ... you’re okay ... you’re okay ...
I kicked off the blankets, stripped off my soggy undergarments, and climbed into a hot shower.
A furious banging on the outside door forced me to abandon the shower prematurely. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I left the bathroom, dripping wet. “For Chrissakes, hold on—”
It was the manager, accompanied by hotel security. “Everythin’ a’right here, sir?”
“Uh, fine. Is something wrong?”
The security man pushed his way in. “Some o’ the guests reported hearin’ an awfy scream. Said it sounded like someone wis bein’ stabbed.”
“Stabbed? Oh, uh, sorry, that must’ve been the television, you know, one of those American shows. Woke me up as well.”
The manager seemed relieved.
Security continued searching for a body.
“Morning.” Max entered, dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and matching tie, his spiked hair slicked back, the mascara gone. “There a problem?”
“They heard someone screaming. It was just the television.”
“Course it was. Don’t say another word.”
“Nothin’ here,” the security man announced. “But if it happens again, I’ll write ye up for disturbin’ the peace.” He shot me a look, then pushed his way out the door, followed by the manager.
“Wanker. He’s not even a real bobby.” Max pushed me towards the bedroom. “Get dressed, little brar, the High Court awaits.”
* * *
The High Court of Justiciary is the supreme criminal court in Scotland. Because the only purpose-built High Courts are in Edinburgh and Glasgow, all murder trials taking place outside these cities are held in Sheriff Court buildings. Inverness Castle accommodated the High Court in Inverness, providing its own unique medieval setting to the proceedings.
There were two prosecutors: Mitchell Obrecht, a tall, stocky man with light brown hair that formed an imposing “V” shape on his forehead, and his assistant, a short-haired blonde in a navy business suit named Jennifer Shaw.
Angus was dressed in an old brown wool suit, seated in the dock, an area behind the prosecutors. Max was at another table, facing the judge’s bench. Fifteen jurors were seated in the jury box, three police constables at their posts, one by my father. The rest of us—reporters, family, friends, and the nosey—were packed into rows of wooden benches at the rear of the courtroom.
Johnny C.’s widow, Theresa Cialino, an athletic-looking beauty with long, wavy auburn hair, sat three benches ahead of me, an angel tattoo exposed on her left shoulder blade. By the way her dark brown eyes kept focusing on Angus, I felt certain they’d been lovers.
At 9:03, the Clerk of the Court signaled us to rise.
“The High Court of Justiciary is now in session, Lord Neil Hannam presiding.”
The judge, a short, fit-looking man with olive-tan skin and dark, slicked-back hair, took his place behind his bench, nodding to his clerk to continue.
“Case number C93-04, Angus William Wallace versus Her Majesty’s Advocate in the case of murder in the first degree. The accused has entered a plea of not guilty.”
“Lord Advocate, your opening remarks.”
Mitchell Obrecht stood and faced the jury. “On February 15 of this year, the accused, Mr. Angus William Wallace of Drumnadrochit, met with the deceased, Mr. John Cialino Jr., of Cialino Ventures, London, on the grounds of the soon-to-be-opened Nessie’s Retreat and Entertainment Center. Her Majesty’s Advocate shall show that Mr. Wallace had owned some of the acreage along Loch Ness and had sold it to Mr. Cialino’s real estate firm for development some eighteen months prior.
“At approximately four-thirty that evening, no less than a dozen people witnessed Mr. Wallace and Mr. Cialino engaged in a heated argument, which ended when Mr. Wallace struck Mr. Cialino directly in the face with his fist, sending him caroming seven meters into the unforgiving six-degree Celsius waters of the Loch. If Mr. Cialino was not dead when he struck the water, then he drowned minutes later. The waters surrounding Urquhart Castle a
re in excess of two hundred meters, and it is doubtful we’ll ever find the body.
“Her Majesty’s Advocate intends to prove that Mr. Wallace is not only guilty of Mr. Cialino’s murder, but that the act was premeditated, murder in the first degree.”
Murmurs filled the courthouse as the prosecutor returned to his seat. I watched the faces of the jury, and from what I could tell, they were buying what Obrecht was selling.
Now it was Max’s turn.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my client, Angus Wallace, admits he was arguing with his friend and one-time business partner, Mr. John Cialino Jr., on that tragic 15 day of February last. He confesses that yes, he did strike his friend, much as one might strike a mate in a pub over a pint of ale. But Mr. Wallace did not kill John Cialino, neither by accident nor intention, for Mr. Cialino was quite alive after he hit the water. We intend to prove that Mr. Cialino’s death was, in fact, caused by his own negligence, and not by the hand of his friend, Mr. Angus Wallace.”
The judge made a few notes, then turned to his Court Macer. “You may call the first Crown witness.”
“The High Court calls Mr. Paul Garrison of Las Vegas, Nevada to the stand.”
A middle-aged American with light brown hair, graying at the temples, entered the witness box and was sworn in.
Jennifer Shaw questioned him from her seat. “Please state your full name and occupation for the record.”
“Paul Garrison. I work for a large, high-end resort casino located in Las Vegas, Nevada.”
“What brought you to Scotland last February, Mr. Garrison?”
“Vacation mostly. Nice of you to fly me back like this.”
“Were you at Urquhart’s Castle on the evening of February 15?”
“Uh, yes ... yes, I was.”
“And what did you see?”
“Well, it was winter, so it grew dark pretty fast. Looking over from the ruins, I saw that big silver-bearded guy—”
“Let the record show Mr. Garrison has identified the accused.”
“Right, that’s him. Anyway, I saw that guy with the silver beard punch the other little guy—”
“Mr. Cialino?”
“Right, Mr. Cialino, right in the face. Anyway, this Cialino guy stumbled, then took a nosedive right into the Loch.”
“No further questions.”
The judge turned to Max. “Mr. Rael, your witness.”
Max looked up from his notes. “Mr. Garrison, from your vantage, were you able to see Mr. Cialino as he fell?”
“Yes.”
“Did you actually see him hit the water?”
“I saw the splash, but the drop’s too steep.”
“So you never actually saw him in the water?”
“No. Like I said, the angle was wrong, me being close to the castle tower. With that drop, you’d have to be right near the edge to see straight down into the water.”
“So then, you had no way of knowing if Mr. Cialino was still alive after he fell into Loch Ness?”
“Yeah, I mean no, there’s no way I could see him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Garrison. No further questions.”
And that’s the way it continued for the entire first day. The prosecution would present its eyewitnesses, and Max would establish that none of them actually saw John Cialino in the water after Angus had hit him.
At 4:22 that afternoon, the prosecution rested. Max would present his defense on Monday.
Reporters hustled to transmit their stories.
The best was yet to come.
The Diary of Sir Adam Wallace
Translated by Logan W. Wallace
« ^ »
Entry: 17 October 1330
Three weeks have passed since I came upon the care o’ the Chivalric Military Order o’ the Temple o’ Jerusalem, the Templar name havin’ been discarded, so I’m telt, since the massacre under Phillip the Fair. The Priest Knight, MacDonald, claims bloodlines goin’ back tae Saint Columba himsel’, an’ his healin’ ways offer me little doubt. The fever is gone, an’ I am beginnin’ tae feel like mysel’ again. Guid news, I’m telt, as I will need my strength against whit lies ahead.
Entry: 22 October 1330
A long day has come an’ gone, the night settlin’ in ower oor arbor. A tempest wind whips the flames o’ oor fire, causin’ it tae dance, makin’ it difficult tae write, but I am determined tae complete the entry.
We had set oot on foot frae the Moray Firth jist afore the dawn, eight Templars, mysel’, an’ the Bruce’s sacred casket, hung safely roond my neck. For hours we followed the River Mess as it wove its may south, but by midday, the mountains had risen along either side o’ us. The goin’ got awfy rough, but ne’er had I seen such a bonnie sight. Hills once emerald were dyin’ intae golds an’ reds an’ purples, an’ I could smell the winter in the air. The river thickened along a bend an’ MacDonald pointed out the very spot where Saint Columba wis said tae have saved a Pict warrior frae one o’ the beasts we noo sought.
I remained a disbeliever.
By last light we completed oor day’s march, comin’ tae the banks o’ a narrow channel that widened along the mooth of Loch Ness. Twis the first time my eyes gazed upon its dark waters, which ran tae the horizon as far as I could see. The sky wis heavy an’ grey noo, an’ thunder shook the valley roond us. Seekin’ shelter, MacDonald instructed we make camp in the forest awa’ frae the shore, lest the dragons surface an’ become curious.
The Templar’s talk o’ dragons, at first jovial in nature, has begun tae unnerve me a bit in these ominous surroundings. Though I still refuse tae believe, the blade o’ Sir William shall remain close by my side as I sleep.
Chapter 8 Quotes
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The general proportion that (Nature) must obtain between certain groups of animals is readily seen. Large animals cannot be so abundant as small ones; the carnivora must be less numerous than the herbivore; eagles and lions can never be so plentiful as pigeons and antelopes; the wild asses of the Tartarian deserts cannot equal in numbers the horses of the more luxuriant prairies and pampas of America. The greater or less fecundity of an animal is often considered to be one of the chief causes of its abundance or scarcity; but a consideration of the facts will show us that it really has little or nothing to do with the matter. Even the least prolific of animals would increase rapidly if unchecked, whereas it is evident that the animal population of the globe must be stationary, or perhaps, through the influence of man, decreasing.
The general proportion that (Nature) must obtain between certain groups of animals is readily seen. Large animals cannot be so abundant as small ones; the carnivora must be less numerous than the herbivore; eagles and lions can never be so plentiful as pigeons and antelopes; the wild asses of the Tartarian deserts cannot equal in numbers the horses of the more luxuriant prairies and pampas of America. The greater or less fecundity of an animal is often considered to be one of the chief causes of its abundance or scarcity; but a consideration of the facts will show us that it really has little or nothing to do with the matter. Even the least prolific of animals would increase rapidly if unchecked, whereas it is evident that the animal population of the globe must be stationary, or perhaps, through the influence of man, decreasing.
—ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE, “ON THE TENDENCY OF VARIETIES TO DEPART INDEFINITELY FROM THE ORIGINAL TYPE”, 1858
Chapter 8
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Inverness, Scottish Highlands
Scotland
MAX DROPPED ME OFF at the hotel lobby after the first day of Angus’s trial, but I was antsy, and in no mood to stay in my room. Despite being convinced of Angus’s guilt, this was the first time my father had ever acknowledged me in a positive way, dissolving years of anger. A well of emotions filled my soul, sobered only by the skeptical, analytical left side of my brain, which kept screaming at me to leave Scotland immediately, warning me that allowing Angus back into my heart was like putting out fire with gasoline.
Stop thinking wi
th your left brain. Give the man a chance to redeem himself.
I should’ve known better.
With a long weekend ahead, I decided to rent a car and reacquaint myself with the Highlands, hoping to track down Finlay “True” MacDonald, my boyhood friend from Drumnadrochit. The transportation plan changed slightly when I passed the motorbike rental.
I was not a biker, having ridden a motorcycle less than half a dozen times, but something about being in the Highlands on the open road tugged at me. Twenty minutes later, I was motoring out of Inverness, the twin cam engines of a Harley-Davidson Softail rumbling between my legs as I wove south through bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Caledonian Canal, heading for Loch Ness.
There are two roads that encircle the Loch. General Wade’s Military Road is the less traveled, a single-lane tarmac that follows the eastern banks of the Ness. As it reaches Fort Augustus at the Loch’s southernmost tip, it connects with the A82, a busier two-lane highway that completes the circle along the western shores.
As Drumnadrochit lies on the western bank, about a third of the way down, I settled on the A82.
Rush hour traffic opened as I cleared the canal’s swing bridge and accelerated up the asphalt hill, heading toward mountain country. A cold wind whistled through my helmet, Lord Burton’s Estate a mere blur on my left as I approached Loch Dochfour, a man-made waterway that had raised Loch Ness nine feet when the canal had first been built.
I slowed, downshifting as I rolled through the sleepy villages of Dochgarroch and Kirkton, then opened her up again as I raced past a roadside farm. The thunder of the Harley’s engine scattered geese and chickens and echoed along the mouse-gray rock face that rose majestically on my right. At the foot of these mountains was the Caledonian forest, appearing to me now as a continuous wall of evergreen. Glistening below and on my left were the lead-gray waters of Loch Dochfour.
After a few minutes, the man-made waterway all but disappeared as it bent away from the A82 to the east, narrowing again into the River Ness.
I passed a car park for the Abban Water Fishery, a small stocked waterway where True MacDonald and I had often fished. My mouth watered at the thought of grilled rainbow trout, the memory fading quickly as I was forced to refocus in order to maneuver around a dump truck hauling gravel.
