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
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
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