Chapter 3 - THE CFO WHO NEVER EXISTED
Special Agent Celeste Grant did not look like the federal investigators shown on television.
She wore a navy suit with flat shoes and carried a canvas laptop bag that appeared older than some of our junior associates.
Her partner, Agent Daniel Ruiz, was broader, quieter, and observant enough to notice every camera in the conference room before he sat down.
Margaret Lin joined us with an outside criminal defense attorney named Warren Blake.
Warren had represented corporate officers, politicians, and one famous athlete whose accountant had invented twelve employees.
He looked at the forged confession once and said, “No one answers anything until we establish whether Jada is a witness, subject, or target.”
Agent Grant folded her hands.
“At this time, Ms. Washington is a potential victim and material witness.”
“At this time?” Warren asked.
“It is an active investigation.”
“Then assume my client will not speculate.”
“I don’t need speculation.”
Grant slid a folder across the table.
Inside were copies of NorthStar’s investor materials.
The first page displayed Trayvon in a dark suit beside a glowing blue map of North America.
Beneath his photograph were the words:
REVOLUTIONIZING URBAN SUPPLY CHAINS THROUGH PREDICTIVE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
The second page listed the executive team.
My photograph appeared beneath the title:
JADA WASHINGTON, CPA — CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER
They had taken the picture from my firm’s website.
My biography had been copied almost word for word.
It mentioned my forensic accounting experience, anti-fraud work, and graduate degree.
Then it added a lie.
Ms. Washington designed NorthStar’s proprietary internal-control framework and personally oversees investor funds.
I felt physically ill.
“How many people received this?” I asked.
“At least twenty-three prospective investors,” Grant said. “Possibly more.”
“Did anyone verify it?”
“Davenport Urban Ventures contacted an email address listed for you.”
“The fake one.”
“Yes. They received detailed responses.”
“Written by Trayvon?”
“We are still determining that.”
Agent Ruiz placed another document on the table.
It was a signed certification claiming I had reviewed NorthStar’s financial statements.
The signature was forged.
So was the CPA license number.
They had used a valid number, but not mine.
It belonged to a retired accountant in Wisconsin.
“What does NorthStar actually do?” I asked.
Agent Grant leaned back.
“That is one of the questions we’re trying to answer.”
The company claimed to operate an artificial-intelligence platform that matched municipal agencies, shelters, and food banks with transportation providers during emergencies.
Davenport invested $4.8 million after NorthStar demonstrated what appeared to be a functioning logistics dashboard.
The City of Chicago later awarded the company a pilot contract to coordinate deliveries for temporary housing facilities.
But the software was mostly a collection of commercial templates.
NorthStar subcontracted nearly all operations to vendors connected to Trayvon.
Several vendors had no employees.
Two used mailboxes as business addresses.
One was called JW Strategic Advisory.
“JW,” I said.
“Your initials,” Agent Grant confirmed.
The entity had been formed using my name, my Social Security number, and a scanned copy of my expired driver’s license.
More than nine hundred thousand dollars had passed through its accounts.
“Where did the money go?”
“We’re tracing it.”
“How much is missing?”
“Approximately three-point-two million from investor and contract funds.”
Warren raised a hand.
“My client did not benefit from any of those transfers.”
“We have found no money in her known accounts.”
“Known?”
Grant looked at him calmly.
“Three accounts were opened under her identity.”
My stomach tightened.
“One at a regional bank in Indiana, one through an online financial platform, and one cryptocurrency exchange account.”
“I have never used any of them.”
“We believe that.”
Warren turned toward her.
“What evidence connects the activity to the Washington family?”
Agent Grant glanced at me.
“Some application data came from the South Holland residence belonging to Carlton and Renee Washington.”
My parents.
Other activity originated from Trayvon’s condominium and NorthStar’s office.
The fake email account was linked to a recovery number belonging to Jessica.
Jessica, who claimed she knew nothing.
“Why contact me now?” I asked.
“Because the fraud report triggered an identity-theft alert that matched our investigation.”
“The airline tickets.”
“Yes.”
If my family had paid for the vacation with another stolen card, NorthStar’s deeper crimes might have remained hidden longer.
Their arrogance had connected the cases.
“Do they know you’re investigating them?” I asked.
“They knew Davenport had requested an internal review. They may not have known the FBI was involved until recently.”
Agent Ruiz opened another folder.
“We believe NorthStar’s records were altered yesterday afternoon.”
“Before dinner?”
“Between four and six.”
Trayvon had sat across from me at the steakhouse smirking while someone deleted evidence.
“Was the forged confession created then?”
“The document metadata says it was created at 11:42 last night.”
After I locked the card.
They reacted quickly.
Not intelligently.
But quickly.
“Why blame me?” I asked, though I already knew.
“You have the professional knowledge to build the financial structure,” Grant said. “Your credentials attracted investors. And unlike Trayvon, you have no public history of failed ventures.”
“My brother has a history?”
Agent Ruiz almost smiled.
“More than you know.”
NorthStar was not Trayvon’s first company linked to questionable activity.
Two earlier businesses had taken loans and dissolved without repayment. No criminal charges were filed because my parents covered several debts.
My father had refinanced their house twice.
My mother had withdrawn most of her retirement account.
They had spent years protecting Trayvon from the natural result of his choices.
Now they expected me to do the same.
Agent Grant asked me to provide handwriting samples, employment records, tax returns, travel history, devices, and proof of my actual residence.
I agreed through counsel.
I also gave them the screenshots from the bank, the attempted transactions, and my notes from the morning phone call.
When I mentioned my mother admitting that my father knew my Social Security number, Grant’s pen stopped.
“Did you record the call?”
“No.”
“Write down the exact language while it’s fresh.”
“I already did.”
Agent Ruiz glanced at Grant.
“She really is a forensic accountant.”
Margaret did not smile.
“What happens to Jada’s position here?”
“That is for your firm to determine,” Grant said.
I was placed on paid administrative leave.
It was not punishment, Margaret insisted.
It protected the firm, the client investigation, and me.
I understood.
I also hated it.
For twelve years, I had built a reputation on precision, independence, and trust.
Trayvon had stolen my professional identity because he could not build one of his own.
At 3:20 that afternoon, I left through the private garage to avoid reporters.
No reporters were there yet.
But scandals moved faster than most people understood.
My apartment building’s front desk called before I reached home.
“A woman identifying herself as your mother is in the lobby.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do not send her up.”
“She says it’s an emergency.”
“It isn’t.”
When I entered the lobby through the garage elevator, my mother was standing beneath the chandelier wearing a camel coat and carrying the handbag my father gave her for their anniversary.
She looked around the marble space in disbelief.
Then she saw me.
“You live here?”
I kept walking.
She followed.
“Jada, wait.”
“How did you find my address?”
“Your father checked your credit report.”
I stopped.
The lobby manager looked toward us.
“My father accessed my credit?”
“He was trying to understand why the card was denied.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Can we speak privately?”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“Don’t humiliate me in front of strangers.”
“You came to my home without permission.”
“I am your mother.”
“And this building has security.”
That sentence wounded her more than the fraud accusation.
She lowered her voice.
“The FBI came to Trayvon’s office.”
“I know.”
“They took computers.”
“Good.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because evidence belongs with investigators.”
She stared at me.
“You did this.”
“No. Trayvon did whatever was on those computers.”
“They are treating him like a criminal.”
“He used my name to raise millions.”
“He said you agreed to help when he started the business.”
“He lied.”
“He has documents.”
“Forgeries.”
“He says you designed the financial structure.”
“Mom, think carefully before you repeat that.”
She gripped her purse.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be afraid of making false statements to federal agents.”
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
I stepped closer.
“Did you activate the travel card?”
“We needed the tickets.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Your brother was going to repay it.”
“Did you activate the card?”
Tears appeared in her eyes.
She did not cry because she was sorry.
She cried because the question allowed only one honest response.
“Your father helped,” she whispered.
“How?”
“He found the envelope in his desk. Trayvon said the card could be used temporarily.”
“Who created the email address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who answered the security questions?”
“I did.”
The lobby seemed to grow quieter.
“You impersonated me.”
“I gave birth to you. I knew the answers because I raised you.”
The entitlement was breathtaking.
“Did you sign documents for NorthStar in my name?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are lying.”
She straightened.
“I came here to ask you to fix this before the family loses everything.”
“What exactly could you lose?”
“The house.”
I studied her.
“Why?”
“Your father used it to secure a business loan.”
“For Trayvon?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
She looked away.
“Six hundred thousand.”
My parents’ home was worth less than that.
“Was I listed as guarantor?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because Trayvon handled the paperwork.”
“And Dad signed whatever he placed in front of him?”
“He believed in his son.”
“No. He protected his favorite child from reality.”
My mother wiped beneath one eye.
“The bank will take the house if NorthStar fails.”
“The company may already have failed.”
“You could save it.”
“How?”
“Withdraw the fraud report. Tell the investors you were involved. Help Trayvon correct the records.”
She wanted me to confess to crimes I had not committed so my brother could avoid losing a company built on my stolen identity.
“Leave,” I said.
Her expression changed.
“Jada.”
“Leave my building.”
“You would put your parents on the street?”
“Trayvon put your house at risk.”
“We did it for the family.”
“You did it for him.”
“You always resented your brother.”
The old accusation arrived exactly when expected.
Whenever I objected to unequal treatment, the problem became jealousy.
“I do not want Trayvon’s life,” I said. “I want my name back.”
My mother leaned toward me.
“If he goes to prison, your father will not survive it.”
“That is not mine to control.”
“You are cold.”
“No. I finally stopped setting myself on fire to keep all of you comfortable.”
She left without another word.
I watched security escort her through the doors.
Then I rode upstairs alone.
At six that evening, Jessica called.
I let it go to voicemail.
She called again.
On the third attempt, I answered.
“What?”
Her voice was barely audible.
“I need to see you.”
“No.”
“Trayvon is lying about everything.”
“That is not new information.”
“He has documents with your signature.”
“I know.”
“He says the FBI will believe you created the accounts.”
“They won’t.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I have evidence.”
“So does he.”
A chill moved through me.
“What evidence?”
“Your old laptop.”
I sat down.
“What old laptop?”
“The silver one you used in graduate school.”
I had left it at my parents’ house years earlier after the hard drive failed. My father claimed he recycled it.
“Trayvon kept it,” Jessica said. “He had someone repair it.”
“What was on it?”
“Tax returns. Copies of your license. Old assignments. Accounting files.”
Enough personal data to recreate large parts of my identity.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because this is getting out of control.”
“You helped activate the fake email.”
Silence.
“The recovery number belongs to you.”
“Trayvon asked to use it.”
“For eighteen months?”
“I didn’t read the emails.”
“Jessica.”
“I answered a few.”
“Pretending to be me?”
“He said investors wanted confirmation from a financial officer.”
“You impersonated a CPA.”
“I did not understand how serious it was.”
“You understood enough to enjoy the money.”
Her voice hardened.
“You think I wanted any of this?”
“I saw your bracelet.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“NorthStar money bought it, didn’t it?”
She began crying.
“I can prove where the money went.”
My anger paused.
“How?”
“Trayvon kept a private ledger because he did not trust the online accounts.”
“Where?”
“I have a copy.”
“Why?”
“For protection.”
Of course.
Everyone near Trayvon eventually prepared for betrayal.
“Bring it to your lawyer,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Then take it to the FBI.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“You called a forensic accountant whose identity you stole.”
“Because you’re the only person in this family who knows how to survive something like this.”
The truth of that sentence hurt.
“Where do you want to meet?”
“A coffee shop near Millennium Park. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
“Come alone.”
“You too.”
“No. My attorney will know where I am.”
She hesitated.
“Fine.”
Before ending the call, she lowered her voice.
“Jada, there is something else.”
“What?”
“Trayvon says your father signed the original loan papers in your name.”
My chest tightened.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Trayvon put cameras in their house.”
I thought about my mother arriving at my building.
Her fear.
Her careful words.
“Why would he monitor our parents?”
“To make sure nobody changes their story.”
The call ended.
At 9:18 the next morning, my father texted me for the first time.
Come to the house. We need to settle this privately before your mother does something she regrets.
I forwarded it to Warren and Agent Grant.
Grant advised me not to go.
I agreed.
At 9:57, I entered the coffee shop near Millennium Park.
Warren waited outside in a parked car.
Jessica arrived wearing sunglasses and a long black coat. She carried no purse.
She sat across from me and slid a flash drive beneath a folded napkin.
“This is everything I copied.”
“What is on it?”
“Vendor payments, investor presentations, account passwords, messages between Trayvon and your father.”
“My father?”
“He notarized documents.”
“He is not a notary.”
“He used a seal belonging to a friend.”
I stared at her.
“How involved is my mother?”
“She activated the cards and answered identity questions. She also called investors pretending to be your assistant.”
I felt as if someone had removed all the air from the room.
Not only Trayvon.
Both parents.
Jessica took off her sunglasses.
A bruise darkened the skin near her temple.
“Did he do that?”
She looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
“Go to the police.”
“He says he has a video proving I stole the money.”
“Did you?”
“I moved some into an account he didn’t know about.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“Jessica.”
“I was afraid.”
“So you stole investor money.”
“I was going to return it.”
The family slogan.
Everyone planned to repay the money after spending it.
“You need a criminal lawyer,” I said.
“I need you to protect me.”
“I cannot.”
“You work with federal investigators.”
“I am not one.”
She leaned closer.
“Trayvon is planning to destroy the company server tonight. Then he is going to say the real records were kept by you.”
“Where is the server?”
“A storage facility in Calumet City. Unit 417.”
“Tell Agent Grant.”
“I will after I’m safe.”
Her phone vibrated on the table.
A message appeared.
YOU GAVE HER THE DRIVE.
Jessica went still.
Another message followed.
COME HOME NOW.
She looked around the coffee shop.
“How does he know?”
“Did he follow you?”
“I changed cars.”
“Is your phone sharing location?”
“No.”
I looked at the bruise near her eye.
“The cameras aren’t only in your in-laws’ house, are they?”
Her face crumpled.
“He put something in my coat.”
She tore it off.
I examined the lining and felt a small hard object near the collar.
A tracker.
I motioned toward Warren’s car.
“We’re leaving.”
Before we reached the door, my phone rang.
Margaret Lin.
“Jada, federal agents are at the firm with a warrant.”
My body tightened.
“For what?”
“Someone uploaded confidential Davenport files to an external account using credentials connected to you.”
“When?”
“Two thirteen this morning.”
“I was home.”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The transfer originated from a device registered under your name.”
“My old laptop.”
Margaret’s silence confirmed that she understood.
“Jada, the files included manipulated NorthStar records making it appear that you approved the missing transfers.”
Jessica stood beside me, trembling.
Trayvon had used my name, my photograph, my history, my family, and now my old computer.
He had built a cage from pieces of my life.
Then Agent Grant called.
“Do not return to your apartment,” she said. “We believe your brother may be attempting to access it.”
I looked through the coffee-shop window.
Across the street, a black SUV had stopped beside Warren’s car.
Trayvon stepped out.
He looked directly at me.
May you like
Then he smiled.
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