The car crawls along. I’m coming up to a roundabout, and I want to know if the car is following me, so I drive around twice.
It’s a risk to keep driving in a sputtering car, but I have to make sure. I drive by all the exits on the roundabout, and fortunately the car behind me takes an exit.
I’m getting paranoid.
Annoyingly slowly, I make my way to my block. It’s light here and it feels a bit better. I park the car, put on my helmet, and walk into my house.
I’ve always said: He’ll get life, but I do, too. Though I don’t expect my life to last as long as his.
The Confrontation
I HAD BEEN TOSSING AND TURNING AND SWEATING ALL NIGHT. I FELT feverish and took some aspirin, hoping to feel better.
I knew it was tension that was making me sick. In a few hours, I would be in the same space with the contractor of my murder. How am I going to do this?
Normally a human being runs or fights when in acute danger. I couldn’t run, because the defense had a right to interrogate me, so I had to report to the judge. Fighting was impossible, because we were separated by glass and several clerks.
I had to calm down, control my anger, the way I’d been doing for two years, listening to his stories about extortion, threats, and the liquidation of Sonja, his denigration of Cor, putting down my mother, threatening the children—all those conversations that made my blood boil. In order to gather evidence, I had pretended to find what he said and did normal.
During the past two years, there have been moments when I was torn between my intelligence, ordering me to think ahead and wait for the Justice Department to take action, and my urgent desire to cut his throat then and there.
For years, I have listened to what he’d done to others or would do, and that alone made me furious.
Now it was about me.
How could I sit quietly in that worthless witness stand and answer questions as if he had not already ordered our killings? And not let on to him that I knew what he was up to with us, which would hamper the pending trial against him? I’d love to break through the glass wall to get at him and squeeze his throat. How was I to muster the strength to undergo this patiently?
I had to calm down before I got in the secure transport that would take me to De Bunker Courthouse. The only way not to flip out was to activate the survival mechanism from my youth and do what I did as a kid in overwhelming situations: I sat down “behind my eyes.” I was physically present but mentally absent, as if I had left my body and was looking on from a distance. This numbed the emotion in my body and made me feel safe.
In that state, I arrived, with Wout, at De Bunker, where we were seen first by the district attorneys. They wished me strength and were sympathetic to the insane circumstances under which I had to testify.
I asked them if the judge conducting the witness hearing knew about the order Wim had given from the ESP. She did. I felt relieved, because she, too, would understand how difficult it was for me to be here with him.
The judge came in. “How are you doing?” she asked.
That simple, personal question broke my defensive wall, and I started crying: “Not so good. It’s especially hard on the children.”
“Yes,” she said, “but you were expecting this, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “I knew this was going to happen—”
“But it doesn’t make it any better!” Wout interrupted us.
“Well, then,” she said, and her voice became businesslike as she continued, “what I really came for is to ask you to only answer the questions posed by Mr. Franken. That way we’ll move through as quickly as we can.”
It was the same as with my other hearing: before I even start, I’m being muzzled. I wanted to stand up for myself. I had been silent long enough, and I should be able to answer as I saw fit. But I couldn’t bear it now, not under these circumstances, not after this treatment. I felt the last bit of energy flow out of me. I was too tired to resist their ridiculous restriction. I would answer yes and no and wait out this misery, then go home.
I dragged myself upstairs to the witness stand. I felt his presence through the glass.
I cut myself off from my feelings and answered as briefly as I could, like a robot. I thought I’d finally satisfied the judge, but now Stijn Franken wasn’t happy. As in the earlier hearings, we talked about the recordings of Wim I had made.
Apparently a clip had been broadcast on the talk show Pauw, a clip the defense didn’t have.
“That’s possible,” I replied. “Maybe Peter’s got it, or Sonja?”
“But you were repeatedly asked, and you testified that you handed over everything?”
“Yes, that’s right, they asked, and I did testify that I’d handed it over. But that question was asked only to me, not to Sonja.”
That answer gave Stijn Franken a reason to request the judge to suspend my hearing.
Wout and I were sent downstairs, where we took a seat and waited. After nearly two and a half hours, the door opened.
“Please come with me for a second, Mr. Morra?” the clerk asked. Wout got up, surprised, and walked to the door.
“What about me?” I asked.
“Not you,” he said.
“Why not me? It’s my hearing, right? I’ve been here for two hours, and I can’t come? Listen, I want to know where I stand—I’m not going to wait any longer! Wout, you see to it that I get to hear what’s happening.”
But nobody told me anything. And again I was waiting in a locked room. I heard no one and saw no one. I was about to call 911 when I heard the sound of stumbling in the hallway. It sounded like my sister’s footsteps. I heard more footsteps. The door swung open and the judge came in.
All my pent-up emotions about my brother trying to kill me, sitting at home for months, the grief of the children, the concern for my mother, and the fact that I’d been locked up for more than two hours came flooding out and landed on her. “What is going on?” I asked angrily. “You lock me up for two and a half hours without me knowing where I stand!? That’s totally indecent. Couldn’t you have taken the trouble to tell me what was going to happen?”
“Sorry,” she said.
“‘Sorry’?” I raged. “You’re not pulling this on me again. I am a free witness, and I’m not going to be sitting in a locked room again. I’m leaving now.”
“Just wait a while longer,” she said. “I still have to question your sister in the next room.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes, and if this door is not open, I’ll kick it in!” I shouted, totally out of control.
The judge left the room, locked the door, and shortly after that, I heard Sonja scream.
Now my blood really started to boil. What was happening next door? The door was still locked. I couldn’t go anywhere, and I saw no other option but to draw attention by kicking the door forcibly. It worked. Within three minutes, there were three guards at the door. I knew them all.
“Take it easy, Astrid,” one of them said.
“I hear my sister screaming,” I said. “Where is she? We’re getting out of here. You are not going to terrorize her. First she’s been terrorized by him her whole life, and now by the Justice Department and the judiciary? It’s not going to happen! Box, we’re out of here. We quit!”
“No,” said a guard, “that’s impossible. We need to get the secure transport.”
“I don’t need transport. Open the door, we’ll get home by ourselves!”
Sonja came into the room where I was, totally upset. “They sealed off my house and want to search it as if I’m the suspect. Stijn Franken wants them to look for the recordings at my place. But I’ve told them a million times I’ve lost them.”
“What?” I say to the judge. “Have you lost your minds?”
“As, I’m out of here and I’m never coming back! He’s done it again. He is totally in control. He wants to kill us, but we are being treated as suspects.”
We understood there was very little s
ympathy for our situation. I had turned over some of the tapes to the Justice Department, but I had also given some to Sonja, and she’d lost them. Wim and his defense had demanded that the judge order a search of Sonja’s house, but we knew he was just trying to stall. Even if we’d had them, we’d of course never keep them in the house—something Wim had taught us! He knew that. Something else was going on.
I mentally rewound all the hearings of the past months. So far, not one single question had been asked about the crimes Wim was suspected of. It had all been about the years prior to the killings and about the tapes. They were getting nowhere fast. Several hearings had been canceled, one hearing ended halfway through at the request of the defense, and this hearing went no further than five questions about the tapes.
He was stalling!
He was such a brilliant strategist! He had lulled everyone to sleep, including me. He was making sure to divert attention from what was really happening, slowing down the case so he had time to whack us before we were able to testify before the judge. It had to be said: Wim, hats off to you! You are the man.
The next day I called Peter de Vries, who had appeared on that episode of the Pauw news show. Together we reconstructed where the USB stick with that particular recording was and handed it over.
Tired
I FEEL SO TIRED. I TRY TO RALLY, BUT THE PAST FEW DAYS HAVE SUCKED the life out of me. I am so sick of all this dictating my days, my life, and my mood. I miss my old life, which I have given up for this thankless task. I react irritably to everyone, but no one around me can help it, me feeling so down. I go to bed and hope to wake up in a different mood.
I dream that I’m being called and I hear Wim’s voice. He talks incoherently, almost gibberish, but he asks me nothing. Not to help him get out, nothing.
I wake up with a start, and the only thing I can think of is, I wish he were here and that everything was back to normal. I don’t want all of this. I can’t bear doing this to him.
How is it possible? He wants to kill me and I want to see him free.
I feel that I’m longing for death. This is no life. The burden is too heavy; it touches everything. Every time I go outside, I know it might be the last time. And at the same time, I know he will never go outside again.
Basically we’re both already dead.
The peace death would bring is tempting.
I’m trying to look for the little things in life that make it worthwhile, but today I can’t find any.
March 29, 2016
We talk to the police about the fiasco during the hearings, and I hand them the tape that I’d also given to the judge. I comment on the contents of the recording and play them some segments. The tape is a classic example of his extortion methods.
But what I’d really hoped for, looked forward to, was that they would tell me more about my murderer. I’d like to know where to look so I can take action myself. But they don’t want to say anything, and I respect that, obviously.
We talk about our hearings being canceled, and I ask the DA for the reason behind it. After a few minutes, I get my answer. The defense wants to postpone.
It feels like a slap in the face. I had thought the delay was due to them wanting to grant Sonja and me some rest after the nightmare of last time, but the delay was just another tactic at the instigation of the defense.
It feels like a race against the clock. It is killing me that they can’t or won’t see that this is Wim’s strategy. I’m beat.
March 30
My phone buzzes with a text message from Peter: “Three years and four months.” I was torn from sleep so I don’t understand right away. What is he talking about?
Then I get another message, from a colleague, with an image of clinking champagne glasses. Now it starts making sense: today was the verdict on appeal in the criminal case against Wim for threatening Peter de Vries. Initially he got off with three months, but now he gets three years and four months. Four months for threatening Peter, plus the completion of his suspended three-year sentence.
A justified sentence by the court, because he doesn’t deserve a suspended sentence; he would only use the freedom to extort again, and more severely. This is a big boost in these hard times. It feels as if the court is finally starting to understand what a manipulator Wim really is, how subtly he toys with the judicial system, how he always dictates everything in the end.
No Limit Soldiers
IT’S EIGHT FIFTEEN A.M. WHEN I GET A TEXT. IT’S THE POLICE, ASKING whether they can call me.
I text back, “Of course,” and wonder what’s going on.
“Good morning, Astrid.” I recognize the voice of one of the detectives.
“Good morning,” I answer.
“We’d like to inform you that we charged your brother this morning on suspicion of ordering your murder, Sonja’s, and Peter’s.”
I feel tears come to my eyes, and I can’t hold them back. “Okay,” I manage to say.
“We thought we’d better tell you in case there’s a leak.”
“Sorry, but I’m really upset. It’s as if I realize only now that all of this is real. It’s so dramatic—my own brother,” I say through my tears.
“Yes, I know,” the voice on the other end says.
“Thanks for telling me,” I say.
“My pleasure,” he says, and hangs up.
Tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I imagine his face as he’s told why he is being arrested, and I suddenly feel so sorry for him. He must have been so startled by my betrayal, his omnipotence torn apart in every possible way. Everything he is used to doing unnoticed is being noticed. Good for us, but at the same time, sad for him. He’s being dragged down more and more, and I don’t see how he’ll ever recover.
Wim denies the allegations and declares that if it were up to him, his family would not be hurt. “If I heard anything like that, I’d certainly warn them.”
Now, where had I heard that before?
There have been situations twice before when Sonja and I supposedly “had our turn.” This was the third time, but this case was different in that there was sufficient concrete evidence that the Justice Department could investigate.
The DAs explain that Wim had made contact with two members of NLS, which stands for No Limit Soldiers, an international group known for its drug trafficking and assassinations, with branches in the Netherlands. They are being held responsible for the murder of Helmin Wiels, leader of the biggest political party on the island of Curaçao (Pueblo Soberano).
The two members Wim approached have both been convicted of murder. Liomar W. is serving a twenty-four-year sentence for killing a Dutch couple. Edwin V. was sentenced for a shooting in which one person was killed. They are being held in the same facility as Wim—the most heavily secured prison in the country—because they tried to escape from prison on Curaçao.
Sonja and I look at each other in bewilderment. We hadn’t expected this—Wim has tapped a network totally unknown to us. But these are no small potatoes. How could the authorities have let him spend time in the prison yard with them, exercising and cooking together?
According to Liomar W., Wim met him in a corner of the prison yard, out of sight of the cameras, to talk to them unseen and unheard.
Typical of Wim, I think immediately, and obviously the NLS guys are no amateurs, either; they, too, know how to communicate undetected.
Luckily the Justice Department was alert, and they picked up on two key details that tipped them off to Wim’s plans. First, the fact that Edwin V. wanted to be transferred for no reason caught their attention. They suspected that Wim might want to get some distance from his fellow prisoner. Rightly so, because that’s just the way he works: make sure you’re not around when something is about to happen, so you can’t be linked to it.
Second, the Justice Department noticed that Wim had been very chipper lately. I can see why: As soon as we were dead, he would have regained control over us, and that prospect would have cheere
d him.
The investigation started, and Edwin V. was caught passing a phone number that he didn’t care to discuss. Asked by the police whether he’d ever heard of Holleeder wanting something to happen to his sisters, he didn’t deny it, but he answered evasively:
EV: “It’s none of my business. I am not going to comment. I’m not here to testify about his sisters. No, that’s not my problem.”
Liomar W., on the other hand, spoke in some detail about what Wim had asked them.
LW: “He told me and that other Antillean guy that he’s mad at his sisters. He wants them dead. You know what it is? He wants those people who have testified against him, especially his sisters…he said to do them as soon as possible. Have them killed. That’s the way he said it.”
Wim wanted them to look for a gunman and had promised them a lot of money.
LW: “Either way, money is no object, that’s what he says. Sixty thousand, seventy thousand, that’s a lot of money, right? That’s what he pays for killing people.”
Wim wanted to pay thirty-five thousand per sister.
LW: “He said thirty-five thousand. So, seventy thousand. Those are very good figures. That’s what he used to pay.”
Liomar W. continued. Wim didn’t have the means to take care of the murders himself. He asked the two fellow prisoners to organize the assassinations through their contacts outside.
LW: “Yeah, he just wants us to find him some people. What needs to be done? Well just eh…he wanted, you know…contract killer. That’s what he wants.”
The person who could do that had been identified, according to Liomar W.; he was a leader of NLS.
Wim had, as we were told earlier, a priority list. Number one on his to-do list was me. Rightly so. I would want to kill him, too, if he’d done to me what I’ve done to him.
Judas Page 31