Squatter Walks Free, Returns to $2.3M Mansion

Blindfolded Lady Justice with scales, Supreme Court background.

A convicted squatter walked free after serving just weeks for taking over a $2.3 million Bethesda mansion, immediately returning to the property and exposing the legal gaps that enabled her occupation in the first place.

Quick Take

Tamieka Goode convicted of trespassing and burglary after nine months occupying a foreclosed Citigroup-owned luxury home on Burning Tree Road in Bethesda
Released February 2, 2026, after serving 90 days; returned to the mansion within hours, revealing enforcement failures that allowed her return
Co-squatter Corey Pollard arrested December 2025 with extensive criminal history including vehicle theft and federal stolen goods charges
Maryland’s squatting crisis exposes legal loopholes in unlawful detainer processes and forged lease tactics that delay evictions for months
Sheriff’s deputies cleared the home mid-February 2026 and sealed it with metal panels, but the case highlights systemic vulnerabilities in property protection

How a $2.3 Million Asset Became a Squatter’s Playground

When Citigroup Mortgage foreclosed on the seven-thousand-square-foot Bethesda mansion, the property entered a dangerous limbo. The home sat vacant after a pending sale fell through, creating a window of opportunity that Tamieka Goode and Corey Pollard exploited around July 4, 2025. Moving trucks arrived. Locks changed. Neighbors watched helplessly as two occupants claimed residency using forged documents and appeals to “squatter’s rights”—legal claims that Maryland’s slow civil courts took seriously enough to delay action for months.

The Nine-Month Stalemate

Goode was charged with trespassing and fourth-degree burglary in July 2025, yet she remained in the home through the fall, missing court dates and promoting rental packages on TikTok that mirrored the very tactics squatters use nationwide. Her attorney, Alex J. Webster III, defended her by arguing she “did her research” and was “able to assume under squatter’s rights.” This framing—treating criminal occupation as legitimate legal strategy—reveals how Maryland’s legal system treats property theft differently when occupants claim residency. Pollard’s arrest in December 2025 exposed a darker reality: he carried an interstate criminal record including vehicle theft, heroin charges, and federal stolen goods violations, yet had accessed a $2.3 million property in one of Maryland’s most exclusive neighborhoods.

Justice That Arrived Too Late

Goode’s conviction came in early February 2026 after nine months of occupation. The 90-day sentence felt symbolic rather than punitive—she was released February 2 on a $5,000 bond. Within hours, she returned to the mansion. Neighbors documented pet waste, a dog inside, and “no trespassing” signs that she ignored. The property remained vulnerable despite her conviction, a jarring reminder that Maryland’s enforcement mechanisms prioritize process over protection. Nearly a week before February 18, 2026, sheriff’s deputies finally cleared the home and sealed it with metal panels, but the damage to community trust was irreversible.

A Crisis That Extends Beyond One Mansion

This case is not isolated. Statewide patterns show squatters demanding “cash for keys” payoffs, using social media networks to advertise fake rentals, and exploiting foreclosed properties while banks navigate lengthy unlawful detainer processes. Similar cases in Bethesda have halted property sales entirely. Attorneys have challenged Meta and Google over advertisements promoting squatter tactics. The real estate industry faces chilled investment as owners confront the reality that vacant properties—especially those in foreclosure—attract occupants who understand Maryland’s legal vulnerabilities better than property owners themselves.

The Legislative Push for Reform

Goode’s case sparked a 19-year-old legislator to push for felony squatting laws in Annapolis, recognizing that current misdemeanor charges fail as deterrents. The economic impact cuts deep: a $2.3 million asset tied up in legal limbo, holding costs mounting for Citigroup, and neighborhood morale eroding. Bethesda residents, once confident in their community’s stability, now fear violence and hide their identities when filing complaints. The psychological toll matches the financial one—affluent areas are discovering that wealth alone cannot protect against legal loopholes.

Goode continues appealing her conviction while the home remains sealed. The question haunting Burning Tree Road is not whether she will return again, but whether Maryland’s legal system will finally treat property occupation as the serious crime it is.