At the end of summer 2001, I practiced law a few blocks from Chandra Levy’s apartment building. The front page of every newspaper was filled with accusations against then-U.S. Representative Gary Condit, linking him to her and speculating that he had something to do with her disappearance. As I made my daily walk from the Metro station to my office, flyers and posters with Chandra’s picture were posted everywhere.
On two separate occasions, people stopped me on the street. Their eyes filled with a glimmer of hope, telling me I looked like “that missing woman.” I suppose the confusion was understandable. I, too, had long, dark curls and a Semitic look. I had to shatter the optimistic Samaritans by admitting, I was not Chandra Levy, but I, too, wished the police would find her soon. To me, it seemed like the worst thing I could imagine happening to a young woman.
However, by the end of the summer, something would happen that would shatter my wildest nightmares of “worsts.”
September 11.
After 9-11, nobody ever asked me again whether I was Chandra Levy. Instead of searching for her, commuters and residents in the neighborhood were in a daze, walking from the Metro past tanks and armed soldiers in the street, smoke still rising form the Pentagon in the distance. The skyways eerily still but for an occasional helicopter or fighter jet patrolling the area.
This was a time of one colossal tragedy overshadowing a personal one.