What made her say yes to the trip? For the first time, the mother of Natalee Holloway tells the inside story of the search and how she finally found peace of mind. By Beth Holloway
January 2007 I'm the parent who got the dreaded call the one whose phone rang out of the blue in the middle of the day, who heard a voice at the other end saying, "Your daughter is missing."
Now the day has come when I must pack up Natalee's belongings, which have remained untouched since she left on her senior class trip to Aruba on May 26, 2005. My son, Matt, and I are moving to a new house.
Everything in the room represents Natalee. Light purple (her favorite color) and delicate greens predominate. In one corner, a purple curio cabinet holds her Wizard of Oz memorabilia. Her graduation robe hangs outside the closet door, the honors cords still around the neck. She was full of life, smart, gutsy, determined, and dependable. And so independent that I used to joke, "Natalee, just ask me some questions so I can feel like I'm your parent. Humor me."
Thank goodness there was something she needed me for: her clothes. Almost every Saturday morning, she'd appear in the kitchen in a fleece jacket with her hair tied up, face freshly washed. We'd head out for a day of shopping together at our favorite stores near our suburb outside Birmingham, AL. In the car, between stops, we'd talk about anything and everything. Those are the memories I cherish most.
In October 2004, Natalee asked me if she could go on the senior class trip, an exotic four-night stay on the island of Aruba. The trip was a Mountain Brook High School tradition. Her stepbrother, George, had gone two years before, and if I could swing it financially, I wanted Natalee to have the experience.
In the weeks before her graduation, I attended two parent meetings hosted by Jodi, the travel agent who handled the Aruba trips and whose own daughter was scheduled to go that year. We discussed payment, roommates, and other details. The position of the chaperones was made clear: They'd be there for emergencies such as lost passports, but they wouldn't be conducting bed checks or roll call. In addition to the seven adults, more than a hundred of Natalee's senior classmates were booked to go. It was comforting to know there'd be safety in numbers.
Natalee was 18, almost grown. But I still reminded her to make personal safety her first priority, and to stay with people she knew. She hadn't had a real boyfriend, and confided to me that she was a virgin. I let her know I was glad about that, and mentioned my worries about what she might encounter in Aruba's clubs and casinos. When a former Mountain Brook student came back from his class trip, he'd told us about a chilling incident at a nightspot called Carlos'n Charlie's. Some locals had tried to get a couple of girls in his class to leave with them. This young man stepped in to help defuse a potentially dangerous situation. "I know when you're there you're of legal age," I said. "But someone might try to take advantage of the situation or even put something in your drink. You need to be on your guard." Natalee acknowledged my warning with the typical teen reply, "Mom, I know. I'll be careful." I felt better after reminding her again about possible dangers she could face. She'd proven to be responsible all her life. I trusted her to be able to take care of herself.
In the wee hours on Thursday, May 26, I dropped Natalee at a friend's house for the ride to the airport. As she gathered her things from the car, she looked up long enough for me to kiss her on the cheek. "I love you! Have a great time!" I told her. She replied, "Bye, Mom! Love you!" She slung her purple duffel bag over her shoulder and made her way to the front door. As I turned the car around to leave, I caught a glimpse of her entering the house, not knowing it would be the last time I would ever see Natalee. By Monday morning, she was missing.
May 2005 With Natalee away in Aruba, I decide to drive down to Hot Springs, AR, for the weekend with a couple of friends to pay a long overdue visit to my family's lake house. Somewhere amid the chuckles and small talk on our drive home on Monday, my cell phone rings.
"Mrs. Twitty?" a young girl's voice says, addressing me by my husband's name. "My mom...um...she wants to talk to you." It's the daughter of Jodi the travel agent. She'd developed appendicitis before the trip, so she and Jodi hadn't gone to Aruba.
It's an eternity before Jodi takes the phone. She simply says, "Natalee didn't show up this morning to get on the plane." And instantly I know. Something bad has happened.
When the other Mountain Brook students met in the Holiday Inn lobby to board buses for the airport, Natalee's roommates notified the chaperones that she hadn't returned to the room the previous night. No one knows where she is.
After sharing this frightening news with my friends, I call my husband, Jug, and ask him to see about getting transportation to Aruba. He hesitates, saying maybe she just missed her flight. "C'mon, Jug," I say. "Natalee might be early for something, but never late. Please see what you can do!"
My mind goes into overdrive. Think! Think! I remember that my friend Martee knows a private pilot, and phone her to ask for a number. "Is this how it happens, Martee?" I hear myself say. "You just get a call?" We hang up and I pray the first of a million prayers. I ask God to give Natalee the strength to endure, until I can get to her.
Natalee's 16-year-old brother, Matt, calls. "Mom, this is serious," he says. "You gotta call the FBI." I try. But it's a holiday, and no one is on duty in the Birmingham office. One of the chaperones, a coach, is staying behind in Aruba in case Natalee returns to the hotel. When I get him on the phone, I ask him to stick to the hotel lobby, so Natalee will see him when she comes in.
Natalee and I haven't talked since she left. She doesn't have international calling on her cell phone. I feel such regret about that. And sadness. She may have been in a bad situation and couldn't call anyone. Though it's pointless, I leave her a voice message. "Natalee, hang in there. Help is on the way. Please call me. I love you."
Trading phone calls with the Mountain Brook students who are waiting to fly out of Aruba, I get the tip we need. The students, including Natalee's group, were at Carlos'n Charlie's on their last night on the island. Dear God. Carlos'n Charlie's. The students say Natalee got into a silver or gray Honda with a young man who befriended some of her classmates. Jug's nephew Thomas, who was also on the trip, says he played cards with him at the casino. His name is "Gerran or Juran or something like that." Thomas doesn't think this man would harm Natalee. "He just seemed like, y'know...a regular guy. Like me." Apparently, this Gerran/Juran fellow is a tourist from Holland and is staying at their hotel.
At home in Birmingham, I clutch Natalee's senior portrait as Jug and I drive to the airport. On the way, I contact the cell phone company and have international calling activated on Natalee's cell phone and mine. Why, Lord, didn't we do this before she left? Jodi and two other parents have volunteered to accompany us to Aruba. No one says much during the four-hour flight. We can do this, I think. We can find this guy and we can find Natalee. But first, we have to find the right authorities. How hard can that be?
It's 11 p.m. on Memorial Monday when Aruba comes into full view. I'm shocked by its size. I'd imagined a small island with a few tiki huts bordered by beautiful beaches. It looks like we're approaching Atlanta at night. I realize I know nothing whatsoever about this island. How will we ever find her down there?
The owner of the plane arranged for "handlers" to meet us at the airport and assist with customs and ground transportation, a common practice. Two men, Alberto and Claudio, are assigned to us. They seem genuinely interested in our plight. An official in the processing area draws my attention. Her badge identifies her as a U.S. Homeland Security representative our first sign of real hope. I have to restrain myself from hugging her. Talking a mile a minute, I explain about Nat's disappearance and ask for her help in figuring out where to start. She says very little; she has no special authority, and cannot do a single thing to help Natalee.
As we head for the hotel, our handlers offer comforting words. "Don't worry," they tell us. "Everyone knows everyone in Aruba. She'll be found." I try to feel encouraged, but reports of drug cartels and human trafficking coming out of Venezuela, 12 miles offshore, give me cause for concern.
Inside the lobby of the hotel, I spot the coach standing with a U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) agent. But my eye is drawn to Natalee's purple duffel bag on the table next to him. My knees weaken as I walk toward it. Immediately, her things become sacred to me. The coach was uncomfortable leaving her bag in the room unattended and brought it to the lobby.
After telling the DEA agent what I know, we rush to the desk to ask about a tourist named Gerran or Juran who plays in the casino here and might be staying at the hotel. The night manager, Brenda, knows him by name. "Oh! Yes...Joran. He gambles in the casino. He likes to prey on young female tourists," she volunteers. "Especially the blonds." My mouth drops open. "He is tall. Good-looking boy. Like a Dutch marine."
"Where's he from?" I ask her.
She replies, "He lives in Aruba."
I stutter, "He's...he's not a tourist just here for the summer? He isn't staying at this hotel?"
"Oh, non! Non," she says. I know that we've got to find him.
Jug's nephew says he played cards with Joran in the casino. We ask if there are videotapes of the blackjack tables. Brenda explains that it will be difficult to locate someone at this hour to show us the footage from the previous night. "Maybe tomorrow." I ask for the records that show who entered Natalee's hotel room last night. Those will have to be pulled for us.
We return to the coach. Apparently, the beach patrol he has been dealing with since that morning aren't actual police, nor did they think the matter urgent enough to file a missing persons report. "Just wait for her," the locals said. "She will come back." Natalee has been missing for close to 22 hours now. A crime may have been committed, though it has not been reported or documented. All of us are dumbfounded by this blasι attitude. But I'm not about to let this get swept under the rug.
The DEA agent asks about Natalee's cell phone and passport. I discover them in a little carry-on purse attached to the side of her duffel. After the agent looks at them, I return Natalee's things to her hotel room. Seeing her passport gives me hope. At least she hasn't left this island. She's here somewhere. We can find her. When I return to the lobby, the DEA agent suggests we go to Carlos'n Charlie's to ask questions and show her picture around.
Carlos'n Charlie's is very close to where the cruise ships dock. Another wave of concern takes my breath away: Has my daughter been taken away on one of these ships? Dumped at sea? Taken as a slave to another country? I try to control my horrible rushing thoughts.
Making their way inside the bar, the men in our group dodge a couple of fistfights and dope-smoking patrons, trying to find someone with information. They don't learn anything, so we all drive back to the hotel. We again ask to watch the video of the blackjack tables. This time, the hotel manager finds someone to show us the tapes. We get Jug's nephew back on the phone while we view the footage. Thomas describes where Joran was sitting. Bingo. There he is. We have a picture of him and a confirmed first name.
Excited, Jug and I run down the stairs from the casino toward the lobby and almost collide with the handlers, who've volunteered to hit the streets to see what they can learn. Alberto is waving a piece of paper. They have Joran's last name Van der Sloot and his address.
It takes almost half an hour to get uniformed officers to accompany us to the Van der Sloot home. The police sound their horns and sirens for about five minutes before a man answers the door. He has a cell phone in his hand. He is Joran's father, Paulus van der Sloot. On the phone, the DEA advises me to remain in the rental van. I don't want to impede the police work by flying off the handle.
The police ask to see Joran. Paulus says he isn't home and calls his son to find out where he is. He tells the police that Joran says he's in a poker tournament at the Wyndham Hotel. On the way to the Wyndham, I decide that I am going to nail this kid right there in the casino and confront him about my daughter's whereabouts. Ask him why he lied to the Mountain Brook students about being a tourist. The car barely stops rolling before I jump out, running past the police officers and Paulus to be the first in the casino.
Frantically, I ask the pit bosses if they've seen Joran. There's no sign of him. I turn and see Paulus on his cell phone again. He reports to us that his son is back at their house now with a friend, Deepak Kalpoe, the owner of the silver Honda.
Meanwhile, two Wyndham Hotel security guards report that they saw two dark-skinned males and a tall white male with a blond girl out by the beach a few hours ago. The men in our group split up to search the beach area. I remain with Paulus and the police, still clutching Natalee's portrait. I hope our men will walk back in with her. But they don't.
Tempers get hotter. We're instructed by the police to go back to the Van der Sloot residence, where Joran is now waiting. We arrive to see Joran and Deepak Kalpoe standing in front of the house. Everyone waits for the DEA agent to arrive. I remain in the car. Natalee's friends from home are on speakerphone, guiding me with information.
One boy describes Deepak's car and the people in it to a tee. It was chaotic, he says, because the bar closes earlier on Sunday nights and everyone was scattering to find a cab. Most taxis in Aruba are unmarked privately owned vehicles. Natalee's friends wonder if she thought she was getting into a cab with Joran. "I'm going to ride back to the Holiday Inn," she'd called out to those still waiting in the parking lot. Then she shouted, "Aruba!" It was the last time anyone saw her.
By the time the DEA agent arrives, it's 3 in the morning. The police leaning against their squad car are several feet behind Joran. It's a school night. The boys aren't dressed as if they've returned from a night of casino gambling. They're in grubby T-shirts and shorts. I make a mental note to ask to see the casino footage from the Wyndham later on. Alberto and Claudio come back and forth between the circle of men and my car to update me on the conversation.
Joran says that he and Natalee met at the hotel blackjack table on Sunday evening. Her friends were making plans to go to Carlos'n Charlie's later that night. He met up with her again there. Natalee was dancing when he walked into the bar. He says he did Jell-O shooters off her stomach and bought her a shot of 151-proof rum a potent liquor. This is frightening to hear. I am sure Natalee did not know the strength of this drink. When the bar closed, Joran says, Natalee wanted to go with him. So they got into De's car along with his brother, Satish. She yelled "Aruba" to her friends, Joran says, and her friends yelled to her to get out of the car.
Before continuing, Joran asks that anyone related to Natalee walk away so he can finish telling about the encounter. Jug leaves the circle and Joran resumes his story.
According to Joran, after they left Carlos'n Charlie's, Natalee asked to see sharks. He told her there were no sharks, but she insisted. So they drove to the lighthouse. On the way over, Joran says he and Natalee made out in the backseat, but she was "so drunk," she kept falling asleep and waking up.
Joran relates some crazy things Natalee supposedly said that she's a lesbian, that she's related to Hitler. My heart sinks when I hear Joran's description of Natalee's underwear with the dark-blue embroidery and the flowers. Dear God. He has been with her. It's excruciating to imagine what my daughter endured on this car ride, if indeed she was even conscious. He says Natalee was a willing participant. But he decided she was too drunk to continue and returned her to the Holiday Inn. I'm sickened by his explicit account.
Paulus interrupts his son, telling him not to say anything else. Two of the men from our group become agitated, saying they doubt Joran's motives were so noble. Paulus begins to shout, "You have no jurisdiction! No manners!" The Aruban police, who've stayed out of this ring of fire, tell us to disperse.
Alberto, our handler, reports that Joran and Deepak both insist they dropped Natalee off at the Holiday Inn, that she stumbled and bumped her head getting out of the car.
I relate this to the students on the speakerphone. They shout back, "They're lying!" and urge us to search the house. Paulus, a judge-in-training, knows he doesn't have to let us in. And he refuses.
We drive back to the Holiday Inn, so Joran and Deepak can show us where they claim they left Natalee. In the parking lot, Paulus passes my rental car. He gives me a cold, hard stare and I give it right back to him. Next, his son approaches and squats down by the slightly open door. I hold up Natalee's picture and say: "Give her back!" Slapping his chest with his open palm, he answers, "What do you want me to do?" He never once says "I don't know what happened to her" or "I'm so sorry."
Jug goes up to the room to rest, and I stay in the lobby to wait for the local police detective Dennis Jacobs. Jacobs arrives and pulls his notebook and a pen out of his pocket. This is a welcome sight. Maybe we'll finally get somewhere.
He asks to see Natalee's passport and her driver's license. I show him the passport and explain that since her license is not in her bag, we assume she has it. He asks if she has a debit card. I explain that it's at home, but for some reason, he doesn't believe me. He asks me to come to the police station in about an hour to give our statement.
Jug and I arrive at the station at 8 a.m. sharp. One of the first things I notice is Deepak's car, parked in the back. I mentally prepare myself for an encounter with Joran and Deepak. And maybe I'll get to see the other guy, Satish. Inside, Jacobs is sitting in a reclining swivel office chair. As we move toward him, he leans back in his chair and says, "I'll have to eat my Frosted Flakes first" he runs a hand across his jawline "and get a shave before I can deal with you."
And with that he gets up from the chair, exits through the swinging door, and disappears. I'm speechless. I wish there was an American law-enforcement contact here to help us. Despair is weighing on me. I was told that the DEA agent was here "on vacation," but considering his line of work, I have to wonder. I'm just thankful he was there to help us get the ball rolling. There's no U.S. consulate here. No State Department representative. No FBI agent. We're on our own and will have to rely on local authorities until help arrives.
After almost three hours, Jacobs comes back into the waiting area and tells me he won't take our statements today. Maybe tomorrow. Numb, I walk out of the police station. We're in serious trouble, I think.
Alberto waits by the van. There's a cameraman and a reporter with him from the local Aruban television station. Leading me to the camera, he says, "You need to go on TV." I'm a preschool teacher of special-needs children. I don't have a clue how to do this. But a prayer is answered as I open my mouth and begin to speak.
The words just come as I tell the reporter how uncharacteristic it is of my daughter not to be on time for her flight. I describe what she was wearing when she disappeared, and where she was last seen. I hold up two cell phones and speak directly to the camera, to her, "Natalee, I have my cell phone and yours. I have international calling on both of them now. Please call me."
Later that day, we drive to the print shop and place an order for 100 "missing" posters. In the midst of all this running around, Matt calls from Birmingham. I tell him what we're doing to broadcast Natalee's disappearance. He says he will contact CNN. God bless him. A short while later he text-messages me: "Mom, I called CNN in Atlanta and told them about Natalee. Now the whole world knows."
Perhaps getting the word out everywhere is a good idea. I call the only person I know who is in television my friend Sunny in Birmingham. Apparently, there's been chatter in local newsrooms about the Alabama girl missing in Aruba, but none of the reporters knows any details not even Natalee's name. At my request, Sunny arranges for me to do a phone interview to air on our local news channel. Sunny expresses concern about the effect this could have on anyone who wants to make a deal for Natalee's return. But the word is out already. "Let's do it," I say.
Before the interview, I ask to be driven out to the lighthouse where Joran and Deepak claim to have taken Natalee. It sits on a cliff at the northern tip of the island. As we approach, the roadside view becomes scant, just hot sand over rocks. I see the lighthouse but don't look beyond it to the water.
First thing next morning, I go back to the police station to give my statement about Natalee and what we've learned from Joran and the others. Afterward, Detective Jacobs makes a feeble attempt to comfort me. "You know," he says, "she'll show up. You should just go to Carlos'n Charlie's and a crack addict will bring her back."
Shocked, I reply, "Wait a minute. The two young men who were last seen with her told us they left her at the hotel." Shaking now, I suddenly realize that the police want me to believe their island crackheads have my daughter.
Dear God, I pray, I need you now, and so does Natalee.
Tips come in all day Wednesday. Natalee was supposedly seen at a pizza place, a gas station, on the street with two crack addicts, and in a jeep owned by a drug dealer. We spend hours following leads, chasing lies.
Wednesday rolls into Thursday when a tip comes in at 1 a.m. from an island newspaper reporter. She has a lead that Natalee is being held at a crack house on the other side of the island. The reporter says we should meet her at a restaurant called the Buccaneer to figure out how to buy Natalee back from the crack dealers. Buy Natalee back. Convinced this tip is solid, we call Detective Jacobs, who meets us at the crack house.
With Jacobs standing by, the men search inside and after a few minutes, come out. I run to them. Natalee isn't there. So much anticipation was expended on this search that there isn't an ounce of hope left in me.
From this point on, the days and nights blend together. More reported "sightings" of Natalee prove to be dead ends. I cling to the theory that somebody must know something.
At 4 a.m. on the fourth day after we arrive, Jug and I finally get to see video footage of the hotel lobby. As I sit down to watch the tapes, I'm handed the records I've been asking for that show the key entries to Natalee's room on May 30. Three keys were used. Three of the four girls entered the room. One did not.
The black-and-white footage plays. Suddenly, a blond crosses the lobby threshold. The video is grainy; it's hard to tell who she is. I ask to see it again. More than 10 times they rewind to the spot on the tape that shows this young woman entering the hotel. I want it to be Natalee. But it's not. She's the daughter of one of the other parents.
There is silence in the little room where we watch the video. The police witness the same evidence we do. Everyone sees that Joran and Deepak never brought Natalee back to the hotel. Their story is all concocted. My soul is barren. Empty. My work is finished. It's up to the police to take it from here.
Feet dragging, I enter Natalee's hotel room and see her purple duffel bag on her bed. I tell her I'm sorry. I tell her how hard we have worked to find her. Suddenly, it feels like I may not be able to take another breath. And I know what I have to do. Grabbing one of the Natalee posters, I hail a cab and tell the driver to take me "somewhere I can pray."
Traveling through the predawn darkness, the driver makes a couple of turns, then pulls over. He points to the side of the road and tells me to walk in that direction.
So I do, and come across a beautiful white cross. Beyond it, I see other crosses leading up a hillside. I start to pray. At the fifth cross, peace blankets me. I don't know if Natalee is alive or not, but I know she is with God. From the time she got into Deepak Kalpoe's car, her heavenly Father wrapped His loving arms around her and held her through whatever ordeal she encountered that night. He entrusted me with her care for 18 years. Now I must trust Him to care for her.
October 2007 Nothing from my life before Natalee disappeared has stayed intact not my career, not my home, not my marriage. At the same time, a lot of healing has taken place. I began to share Nat's story with tens of thousands of high school and college students, law-enforcement officials, and faith groups, so they can learn from it. A curriculum on safe travel is being developed (for details, go to safetravelsfoundation.org). I want change to come from our ordeal.
I have received the two things I needed most to survive this crisis: hope and prayers. With hope and faith, a human being can endure almost anything. I'm proof of that. I never imagined I would be "that parent," the one no one wants to be. But I was, and I still am. I will forever be Natalee's mom.
From Loving Natalee: A Mother's Testament of Hope and Faith. Copyright (c) 2007 by Beth Holloway. Published by HarperCollins.
http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/names/real/natalee-holloway-daughter-disappeared-3
