by Steve Alten
* * *
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 are 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
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
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 with 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.
The Harley spewed blue exhaust as I roared past the overloaded vehicle and headed for the outskirts of Lochend, the northernmost beginning of Loch Ness.
Looming ahead, stretched out before me like a dark serpent, was the infamous waterway. I had to slow, the dark beauty of the Loch and its rising mountain walls too mesmerizing not to admire.
Beep! Be—eep… beep!
The dump truck was right behind me, its grille threatening to bounce my motorcycle off the side of the road.
Shifting gears, I distanced myself from the threat, then swerved off the A82 into a roadside parking area, known in the Highlands as a lay-by.
I shut off the engine and listened to the Great Glen breathe in between passing cars. I inhaled the moisture of a freshly rained-upon spruce forest and smelled the presence of Loch Ness's acidic waters in the valley below.
The ghosts of my childhood whispered in my head, beckoning me to the ancient shoreline.
Leaving the bike, I made my way down a rock-strewn path until I reached a pebbled beach.
The Loch was calm, its black surface reflecting an overcast sky. Across a half-mile stretch of water, through rolling wisps of fog I could see Aldourie Castle perched along the opposite bank—the exact spot where Angus had lectured me so long ago.
Calm yourself; Zack. There's no dragons or monsters in Loch Ness, there's only Angus, still screwing with your head.
I stared at the three hundred year old chateau. Situated on four hundred acres of forest and grassy knolls, Aldourie Castle was like a vision out of Camelot. Long abandoned, rumored to be for sale, the baronial mansion was known for its many Nessie sightings and had once hosted the premiere party for Loch Ness, a movie starring Ted Danson and Joely Richardson. I had enjoyed the flick, up until its fairy-tale ending, which featured Nessie as a pair of friendly plesiosaurs—exactly the kind of rubbish that kept most reputable scientists away from the Loch.
Tea-colored waters, stained brown by an overabundance of decomposing vegetable matter, lapped at the gravel beneath my hiking boots. Overhead, a slit of sun peeked through the ceiling of clouds. The view was breathtaking, the mountains rolling away to the southwest—
—as subliminal dark, underwater images flashed in my head, replaced by a sickening rush of fear that sent my stomach gurgling.
They were the same mind-flashes I had experienced in South Beach, and, unnerved, I backed away, then hurried up the path to the lay-by. It was all I could do to keep myself from retching.
Easy, Zack. It's just a lake. It can't hurt you if you don't go in.
My hydrophobia said otherwise.
I took several deep breaths, then staggered to the Harley. Climbing back on, I started the motor and gunned the engine, continuing south along the busy two-lane highway toward Drumnadrochit.
The cold mountain breeze whipped through my clothing, doing little to soothe my frayed nerves. Seventeen years may have passed, but the drowning incident of my childhood still haunted me.
I rode on for another three miles, then forced myself to steal a quick glance at the Loch as I passed Tor Point. It was here that the eastern shoreline receded, doubling the Ness's width to a full mile. It would remain that wide until the waterway reached Fort Augustus, another twenty miles to the south.
It was almost eight o'clock, yet the evening summer sky was still bright as I passed the hamlet of Abriachan.
Fifteen minutes later, the A82 curved away to the west as the Loch's shoreline opened to Urquhart Bay. Another mile and the waterway was gone, replaced by a small cemetery and the river Enrick.
Crossing the Telford bridge, I followed the road into the village green of Drumnadrochit.
I was home.
Chapter 9 Quotes
My wife and I were driving on the southeast side of the Loch, between Dores and Foyers. It was an overcast day, maybe four in the afternoon, when we spotted this huge animal, slithering across the road about 200 meters ahead of us. The body was 1.5 meters (5 feet) in height, and I estimated its length at 7-9 meters (25-30 feet). Its color could be called a dark elephant grey. We saw no tail, but later concluded that the tail must have been curled around alongside. It did not move in the usual reptilian fashion, inste
ad, its body shot across the road in jerks. Although I accelerated towards it, it had vanished by the time we reached the spot.
—MR. F.T.G. SPICER, LONDON, 22 JULY 1933
Chapter 9
Drumnadrochit, Scottish Highlands
Scotland
Seventeen years… and the village hadn't aged a day.
Drumnadrochit is the first in a series of Highland communities that push west from Loch Ness's Urquhart Bay up the River Enrick and into Urquhart Glen, Glen Affric, and Glen Cannich.
To the two hundred thousand tourists who visit Drumnadrochit each year, the town is the epitome of Highland commercialism, bustling with hotels and guesthouses, European bed-and-breakfasts, tubs of colorful flowers, friendly people, restaurants and bars, quaint shops, and private mountain lodges that overlook the Loch. More important, Drumnadrochit lies near Castle Urquhart and its mysterious deep- water bay, making it the Loch Ness monster capital of the world. The village is home to two competing Loch Ness Monster exhibits, and now John Cialino's soon-to-be-open resort.
To the 813 residents who depend upon tourism to earn their wages, Drumnadrochit is six months feast and six months famine, a pattern that follows the extremes of tourism and the length of its days. Because the Highlands are located so far to the north, summer days at Loch Ness can run from three in the morning until as late as eleven at night. Conversely, midwinter days are reduced to six-hour slots, from nine-thirty in the morning to only three in the afternoon. Living in Drumnadrochit was like living in Alaska, only with more moderate temperatures and less snow, old world charm and nosey neighbors, everyone seeking a livelihood among some of Mother Nature's greatest works.
To a young Zachary Wallace, growing up in a Highland village so far from civilization meant antiquated textbooks, third-run movies, wrath-of-God sermons, and closed-minded teachers. It meant excessive schooling in farming and the ways of crofting, and hanging out at the petrol station with friends. It was stealing the gnomes from old lady Dougall's garden and living in a place few outsiders could spell, let alone pronounce, and its isolation from the rest of the world seemed to impose a ceiling on my ability to garner knowledge about the rest of the world… at least until I was old enough to sneak bus rides into Inverness.
