I STILL LIVE ON THE STREET WHERE WIM USED TO COME TO MY DOOR, where he picked me up, where we’d walk and talk together, him always asking me, “Any news?” It’s a street known for its many bars and restaurants, and it’s popular with the criminal crowd.
The Justice Department has often advised me to move, but I’ve lived here happily for twenty-one years, and I’m not about to give it up because I’m testifying against Wim. I don’t believe that moving out of my house will increase my safety. I know the store owners on the street, and I feel I benefit from that social safety net. I don’t want to lose my community on top of everything else.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t move. Being a witness has cost me a lot of money; moving is financially impossible unless I can find a house with more or less the same rent, and the chances of that are slim. So I stay put, at an address known to half the criminal world in Amsterdam.
Aware of the danger because everyone knows where I live, and also aware that leaving my house requires me to walk down some stairs, I am very careful. Before I go out in the daytime, I scan the street for suspicious people, put on my customized bulletproof vest, gather my courage, and get into my bulletproof car. First, I lock the car doors (because what good are bulletproof windows when the door opens), and I drive away.
I check whether I’m being followed, and if I’m not sure, I take a roundabout full circle or I turn around at once and continue in the opposite direction. I always maintain a gap of six yards between me and the vehicle in front of me, in case a scooter or a motorbike stops next to me. The distance to the vehicle gives me the opportunity to speed away, running over the bike if necessary; by then I wouldn’t care anymore.
Getting back into my house is a bit more complicated. Driving down my street looking for a parking space is not wise. From a bar or a restaurant, someone can easily watch me; pick a position, wait till I turn on to my street, and then boom. I can drive down my street only after midnight, when the bars and restaurants are almost empty and I can be sure to find a parking space close to my house. That’s why I often wait till twelve to head home. The downside is that when it’s dark, I can barely see people coming, even in those few steps from my car to my house. When I have a bad feeling, I don’t just wear my vest—I also put on my bulletproof helmet and collar and check the camera system on my phone to make sure no one is waiting for me in the stairwell. Then I run upstairs.
Sometimes I’m afraid to stay out late just because I might not be able to park my car in front of my door when I get home. So I go home early.
Tonight was such a night. It was eight thirty, and I had to go home. I put on my vest in the car. I checked carefully to see whether I was being followed, but I saw no one behind me. I drove around my house so I wouldn’t have to turn on to my street and be seen there unnecessarily. I had decided to park in the first space available on Churchill-laan, the street perpendicular to mine, so I wouldn’t have to circle around, risking being spotted.
Everything I needed was inside the car; I didn’t have to open the trunk. I always made sure that I could get out very fast and be away from the car as quick as I can.
I parked the car and walked down Churchill-laan. A hundred yards away I saw a car, double-parked, a new model. Approaching the car, looking through the rear windshield, I saw no driver in the car, only a passenger.
Where is the driver? The question shot through my mind immediately, and I scanned the street. I got a weird feeling. I saw no one on the street and took into account that the missing driver might be waiting for me on one of the porches of the houses. I walked past the car and looked inside.
A young Antillean-looking man turned his head away from me and looked at his phone. I immediately thought, Is he signaling? Maybe he was just waiting for someone in one of the houses. It was possible. But then again, maybe not. I started walking faster. I had to get off this street as soon as I could. A hundred more yards and I’d be at the intersection.
I turned the corner and saw a group of skaters waiting for the traffic light. Pffft. I was relieved. With so much activity, nobody in his right mind would liquidate someone, but, still not reassured, I kept walking—fast.
I was past the shoe store when I caught sight of a scooter out of the corner of my eye. I was scared and looked back. On the scooter was a guy dressed in dark clothes, wearing a helmet. He had dark eyes and a thin mustache. We looked each other in the eye, and I felt this was going to be the end of me. It was a very strong sensation.
I went through my chances quickly. He was a house away from me and on a scooter, I was on foot and unable to get away. I saw him bend over to get something, and I thought, Why don’t I just resign myself to this?
Instinctively, I backed away from him and he tried to prevent me by calling out, “Lady, can I ask you something?”
At first I felt I had to stay put out of courtesy—maybe he did just want to ask for directions, as my common sense told me? But then suddenly my instincts took over.
I shouted, “No, you can’t ask me a damn thing!” and I started running. I ran as fast as I could, but it felt as if I was standing still. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, afraid of losing seconds. Getting distance from him seemed to take forever, and I thought, He’s coming, he’s coming, and I’m not fast enough. He’s coming.
I ran upstairs and put the key in the lock, my hands trembling. I made it in, safely behind my steel doors. My heart was pounding, and my breath felt raw in my throat.
I ran to the window to see if he was still there, but nothing. He was gone. I called my security and told them the story.
“You have to get out of there,” they replied.
I left the next day. My loss is almost complete: my work, my house—I’ve lost it all.
But I’m still alive.