It all started back in January 1999 with an order to Domino’s Pizza. Sharon Jones paid for the pizza with a check, and likely brought it into her modest townhouse in Fredericksburg to share with her 8-year-old daughter, Breanna. But Jones never actually paid for the pizza—at least not that Sharon Jones. Because the checking account in question was taken out under the identity of a different Sharon Jones, one who lives 70 miles away in Charlottesville.
This second Sharon Jones, a 41-year-old single mother and sixth grade teacher at Walker Elementary School, didn’t learn about the $23 Domino’s charge or realize she was a victim of identity theft until eight months later, when she tried to co-sign a car loan for her brother. Though she always pays her bills on time, and thought she had excellent credit, her credit union rejected the loan request.
“That can’t be correct,” Jones remembers thinking of the credit rejection.
After ordering her credit report, Jones was shocked to read that she had accrued more than $30,000 in unpaid bills. The Charlottesville resident recognized none of the overdue expenses, which were charged to accounts at credit card companies, banks, department stores, and furniture and electronics retailers, most of which were in the Fredericksburg area. She even saw late rent payments and hospital charges on the credit report.
Jones started calling the companies to whom she owed money and was told that she was registered with them as a GEICO employee who lived in Fredericksburg.
“I’ve never lived in Fredericksburg. I’ve never been to Fredericksburg,” says Jones, who owns a small home in the 10th and Page neighborhood of Charlottesville.
It was the beginning of Jones’ long relationship with Sharon Patrice Jones, a woman whom she’s never met, though both women know many intimate details about each other.
Sharon Deloris Jones held a GEICO car insurance policy, and was able to piece the mystery together when she learned that a woman who shared her first and last names had been a customer service representative for the company in its Fredericksburg office. The similarly named rep lifted Jones’ social security number and other information, essentially assuming her identity.
Finally aware that she was being victimized, Jones began trying to undo the damage.
“It was like one affidavit after another,” Jones says of trying to expunge the many charges that the other Sharon Jones ran up on her credit report. Often she had to send her utility bills to companies to prove she lived in Charlottesville and was not the woman who had purchased furniture, clothes, or even junk food from 7-Eleven.
A couple months after the August 1999 discovery of her identity thief, Jones received a court warrant for a hearing in Fredericksburg. The identity thief had brought her daughter to a hospital for abdominal pains in April of 1999. The unpaid hospital bill for the visit was $275, and Jones was to be the defendant in the debt case. By explaining that this charge was actually the work of her identity thief, Jones was able to talk her way out of the court appearance. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be her last summons.
During this period, Jones was getting calls at home and at work. And because of all the bills and related paperwork, Jones grew accustomed to the “headache of wondering what’s going to be on my door today.” One day in June of 2000, Jones found a yellow paper stuck to her front door. The letter was a summons stating that unless she paid $956 in late rent and fees for her imposter’s townhouse in Fredericksburg, she would have her wages garnished at her job. To contest the charge, she would have to appear at a court hearing in Stafford.
Jones was not able to appease the court with phone calls that time, and had to take time off of her job to travel to Stafford and stand trial. But by then she had an ally. Jones says calls she’d made to the Charlottesville and Fredericksburg police departments got her nowhere. But after a friend advised her to call the State Police, she finally reached Lindsay Jett in the office of Criminal Investigations in Culpeper.
Officer Jett was familiar with identity theft, and took a police report from Jones. Jett also tracked down a photo of the imposter Sharon P. Jones from her old GEICO job in Fredericksburg. But to beat the rap, Jones needed more than Jett and a picture of her identity thief. She hired a lawyer, and brought the maintenance man from the criminal’s apartment complex to the trial. When this witness testified that Jones was not the Jones who worked for GEICO and lived in the townhouse, she was finally off the hook.
But Jones’ extensive and successful battles to keep her wages from being garnished were not the end of her war to win her name back from a system that believed she was a debtor and a criminal. In fact, five years after that first Domino’s pizza, she’s still feeling the effects of Sharon P. Jones’ meddling.
Just two months ago, Jones tried to pay for dinner at Chili’s in Charlottesville with a check. She was rejected. And, as has so often been the case, she felt as if she was being eyed as a scam artist.
“To prove that it wasn’t me made me feel like a double victim,” Jones says of having to constantly verify that she’s not a check-bouncing crook.
Jones is tall and exudes a polite confidence. And, as one might expect with a woman who knows how to control a room full of sixth-graders, she appears tough to rattle. But when Jones sees the clever and ubiquitous Citibank commercials on T.V.—the ones that attach the incongruous voices of identity thieves to the talking heads of their victims, like an old lady skimming her swimming pool—Jones says, “I get ticked.
“I’m sitting here and I’m thinking, ‘If they only knew,’” Jones says of the commercials. “They’re making a joke of it. It’s not a joke if it happens to you.”
“It is the fastest growing crime in Virginia,” says Jerry Kilgore, Virginia’s Attorney General, of identity theft. The numbers back up Kilgore’s claim, with complaints from identity theft victims increasing by 27 percent in Virginia in the last year alone, according to the Federal Trade Commission. Nationally, the FTC estimates that nearly one in 10 Americans have been victims of some form of identity theft in the last five years, and says the magnitude of the problem has been swelling every year.
Kilgore, 42, a prominent Republican and likely future candidate for Virginia’s governorship, has been leading the Commonwealth’s efforts to combat identity theft. As a successful prosecutor, Kilgore put away hundreds of drug dealers. Later, while serving as the public safety czar under former Virginia Governor George Allen, Kilgore was instrumental in Virginia’s abolition of parole. But identity theft is more than just another component of Kilgore’s hard-on-crime mantra; it’s a threat that scares him personally.
“It’s a crime that can be committed by someone you don’t even see, and you don’t even know it’s happened to you until it’s too late. That’s very frightening,” Kilgore says.
There are many ways someone’s identity can be pilfered, and thieves are getting increasingly computer savvy, according to the Blackberry-toting Kilgore. The general definition of the crime is when a victim’s social security number, credit card numbers or other key personal identifiers are stolen and used to make illicit purchases. [For more, see sidebar, page 14.]
The least serious version of the crime is when existing credit card or bank accounts are used, such as when a thief steals a wallet and frantically uses the credit cards to run up a few charges before the cards are cancelled. This form of identity theft can also occur when credit card numbers are lifted from the Internet, stolen mail, via e-mail or phone scams, through overheard cell phone conversations or even from discarded receipts and bills, a common practice called “dumpster diving.” For this variety of the crime, identity thieves blow through an average of $2,100 per victim before the stolen accounts are closed, according to the FTC.
Sharon Deloris Jones, whose personal information was snagged from a business and then used to open numerous new accounts, falls into the second, more serious version of identity theft. With a social security number, a criminal can literally assume another identity and open new credit, phone or other accounts, sometimes directing the bills to false addresses so victims are completely unaware that a profligate thief is running wild on their dime. Because a victim usually must access her credit report or, in some cases, be tracked down by collection agencies or even arrested before she becomes aware of her imposter, the lag time before discovery can be quite long—eight months in Jones’ case.
Though the hospital bills and other charges Sharon P. Jones racked up were decidedly low-rent—a far cry from Hollywood-style criminal expenses such as diamond rings or massive strip club bills—she still managed to spend $30,000 in the eight months before being discovered. Though of small comfort to Jones, a tab of this size may actually be in the low end of what identity thieves can accomplish when new accounts are opened, with the Identity Theft Resource Center estimating that the average amount of fraud charges may be as high as $92,000 per victim.
After her trial in Stafford in the summer of 2000, Jones says her “hopes were high” that the identity theft nightmare would soon end. She was becoming an expert in dealing with the credit damage, and now had a capable detective on her case. But Sharon P. Jones, whereabouts unknown, continued to use her identity. And the police report did little to stem the tide of credit hassles for Jones.
“I have all the documentation I need,” Jones says, gesturing to a two-inch thick manila folder of bills and affidavits. “And it’s like, ‘Oh well.’”
Finally, a break in the case came in the form of yet another unearned bill. Jones’ imposter had been in a car accident in Biloxi, Mississippi, on September 16, 2000, and had used Jones’ identity at the scene of the crash. Almost a year later, State Farm Insurance sent Jones a bill for $4,200 in damage. Jones immediately called Officer Jett and told him that her identity thief might be living in the Biloxi area. In a stroke of unbelievable luck, Jett knew a cop in nearby Gulfport, also on the casino-dotted Mississippi gulf coast. When Jett called Sgt. Ken Brown in Gulfport that same night, Brown said he knew who the criminal was.
Jones’ imposter had been in another accident, and had been arrested for using false identification at the scene. She posted $25,000 in bail and was released. But four days later, with the Gulfport police now aware of her Virginia warrant, Sharon P. Jones was arrested and charged with the fraudulent use of identity, a felony. She was extradited to Virginia.
But fortunes shift often and quickly for Sharon Jones, the victim, during her identity theft saga. Virginia authorities eventually released her identity thief, for reasons that were never explained to Jones. There are no records that her identity thief ever appeared in a Virginia court for the crimes against Jones. Sharon P. Jones eventually went back to Mississippi to face charges in that state. But Officer Brown, a key component in that case, is in the Air Force Reserves, and was mobilized and sent away to the United Arab Emirates shortly after September 11, 2001. As a result, both Brown and Jones missed the court hearing of Sharon P. Jones.
By the time Jones heard about her imposter’s appearance before a grand jury in Gulfport, which finally took place in October 2002, the hearing was already over. The district attorney’s office in Gulfport, Mississippi, sent her a letter, which informed her that the grand jury decided to drop the case, and that the “ruling ends further prosecution in this matter.”
Charles Wood, the assistant district attorney in Gulfport, says the ruling means the grand jury “determined that there wasn’t sufficient evidence to go forward with the case.” Short of tracking down the jurors and asking them why they made the decision, Wood says, “there’s really nothing else” Jones can do to pursue the case in Mississippi courts.
In the struggle of Jones vs. Jones, the criminal version clearly has the upper hand.
“She’s out running free and probably doing it to someone else now,” Jones says. “There’s no telling where she is now.”
Jones’ inability to bring her identity thief to justice is, sadly, common. According to the Identity Theft Resource Center (ITRC), a nonprofit group based in San Diego, Jones should consider herself lucky for securing the apprehension of her thief—even though the charge didn’t stick—because less than 5 percent of identity theft cases result in an arrest.
“These are Agatha Christie stories. There are so many red herrings and false trails,” says Linda Foley, the ITRC’s executive director and a victim of identity theft herself.
Investigations are further hampered because identity theft often crosses jurisdictions, sometimes separating victims and criminals by hundreds of miles. With rapes, murders and other crimes to solve, where both victim and perpetrator are usually local, police often put identity crimes on the back burner.
“Some police departments take it more seriously than others,” Foley says. “When you get a case that crosses jurisdictional lines geographically, they just drop it.”
Both Ken Brown in Gulfport, now a Lieutenant, and Officer Jett in Culpeper declined to comment for this story, citing police protocol. However, when Jett is asked if he remembers Jones’ case, he pauses, and says, “I have so many cases.”
The problems don’t end with a criminal’s arrest. Convicting an identity thief requires a preponderance of evidence and a clear paper trail, because the act of forging signatures and opening accounts lacks witnesses and, often, clear culpability. And solid documentation might not be enough for a conviction.
Attorney General Kilgore says he’s satisfied with the strength of Virginia’s laws against identity theft. But even with strong laws, Kilgore says it can be tough to get a conviction in identity theft cases.
“You have witnesses unable to travel. You have witnesses and all records in many, many other jurisdictions,” Kilgore says. “It becomes very difficult for a local prosecutor, if you will, to commit the resources to what they believe is a paper crime—or a crime that just involves money—when it’s really a crime that has wrecked some other individual’s life.”
Kilgore’s office began tracking identity theft in earnest after seeing a disturbing increase in the crimes about two years ago. After holding a series of public hearings, the Attorney General’s office drew up the Identity Theft Protection Act. The bill, which was introduced in the General Assembly last January by Albemarle Delegate Rob Bell, strengthened existing Virginia laws on identity theft in several ways. A key component of the bill, which was passed and became active last July, was to require credit bureaus to strike any information on a credit report relating to an identity theft once a victim has filed a police report. [For more information, see sidebar.]
The law proves that the individual has taken steps to report the identity theft and, “most importantly, it more likely than not prevents new credit being issued,” Kilgore says. “Because if they pull up their credit report at the credit card company, or at the bank, they’ll immediately start asking more questions.”
However, only one of the recently passed laws has benefited Sharon Jones: the creation of the “I.D. Theft Passport,” which is intended to help people prove to creditors and police that they are victims, not criminals. Last July, when the new rules went into effect, Kilgore’s office gave one of the first three passports to Jones, who carries the fairly official looking document around with her in a little leather pouch. The passport, which Jones can flip open like a badge, includes Jones’ full name and the State seal, and says that she is the victim of identity theft. Kilgore says about 50 Virginians now carry the passport.
Jones whipped out her passport at Chili’s when her check got nixed a few weeks ago. She says the restaurant was unmoved by the passport and still wouldn’t accept the check. To help Jones and others avoid this rejection, Kilgore says his office is working to get the word out about the I.D. passports to merchants.
Unlike many people, Jones has been diligent with her finances her whole life. She owns both her house and her car, and her meticulous record keeping is a family joke. But despite playing by the rules, Jones has been unable to fully escape the hole of identity theft. Because of her credit woes, she has had to rely on family members to purchase items for her, such as when her brother-in-law got her a SunCom cell phone because she couldn’t qualify for an account herself. The massive energy she’s spent fixing her credit record has left her feeling defeated at times. And regardless of having a powerful ally in the Attorney General’s office—she even met with Kilgore—Jones has been unable to find a lawyer willing to take on GEICO to seek compensation for her, claiming that lawyers say that GEICO is too powerful to make the pursuit worthwhile.
She admits that she sometimes wishes she had a different name, and says she now routinely uses her middle name.
Foley of the Identity Theft Resource Center says victims of identity theft often display signs of post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of the relentless assault of bills and the stigma of being falsely labeled as criminals.
“They are battered,” Foley says. “It’s not unusual for them to give up.”
After five years of fixing the mess created by her criminal doppelganger, Jones stoically declares that her credit problems are sure to continue “somewhere down the line.” And despite the passport and other assistance from his office, Attorney General Kilgore is not surprised that she’s still having problems.
“The general prediction is seven years out, you can still have things crop back up on your credit report or in someone’s file somewhere,” Kilgore says.
In her folder documenting the identity theft, Jones keeps a printout of GEICO’s privacy policy. She has highlighted various sections in the document, one of which states: “Information about our customers or former customers will only be disclosed as permitted or required by law.” After repeated calls, GEICO declined to comment for the story.
Of her imposter’s failed adherence to GEICO’s customer confidentially, Jones says, “Evidently she had other things in mind.”
Given the apparent ease with which the customer service rep appropriated her identity, Jones doubts she was Sharon P. Jones’ only victim.
“How many other Sharon Joneses are in there?” she asks. “I believe she’s a pro at it. So it’s not the first time that she’s done this.” Jones will probably never know whether she was victimized by a savvy identity thief or by a struggling single mother who stumbled upon the social security number of a woman who shared her name—a case of what Foley of the ITRC calls “the wrong people in the right place.”
Asked what she would say to Sharon P. Jones if she ever got the chance to speak to her, Jones says she’d be too angry to get a word out. After a minute, she reconsiders, and says, “One thing I would tell her is that she really screwed me over.”
On a recent visit to Wal-Mart, Jones says the cashier ran her check through a machine and then turned on a light above the register to summon a manager. She says fellow customers were looking at her as if she was “trying to run a scam.” So on a recent busy Saturday afternoon at the same store, both Jones and her son appear uneasy as they move forward in the checkout line. Jones’ son Rickquan, a polite and intelligent 10-year-old with corn-rows, pulls a cell phone out of his black leather jacket and fumbles with it as his mom fills out a check for the $15.37 worth of juice and crackers.
The cashier takes the check and runs it through a slot on the side of the register. After it comes out, she squints at the check and says, “We need some I.D. please.” The cashier then puts on a pair of thick glasses, examines Jones’ driver’s license and starts typing on the register again. After what seems like an abnormally long time, the check clears.
In front of the store, Jones says hello to one of her students—one of several conversations she has with students and parents while at Wal-Mart. Before walking through the chaotic parking lot, she smiles, and admits that she was nervous while her check was being scrutinized.
“I was nervous, too,” Rickquan quickly adds.
Say my name
Once a thief has your vitals, he has many ways to steal your moneySharon Jones shares the legal name of the woman who stole her identity. But even an uncommon name is no defense against identity theft. Authorities describe many cases in which people with different names, even of different genders, have used victims’ information to run up huge bills. The social security number of one woman, whose purse was stolen in 1990, was listed in FBI criminal records under a different name, and as a man.
The personal information used in identity thefts often comes from stolen wallets and purses, but can also be gleaned from stolen mail, hacked computer information, e-mail scams or stolen customer information from businesses. Thieves can even fill out a change of address form at the post office to intercept mail and then lift information from bills and other letters.
Once a criminal has a name, social security number and date of birth, there are countless ways he can begin siphoning money away from the system, unbeknownst to the person whose identity he has stolen. For instance, the thief can call the victim’s credit card companies and ask to have bills sent to a new address. With the bills going elsewhere, it can be a while before a victim discovers the crime.
Some other common scams include the opening of new bank accounts on which thieves can write checks, get new credit cards, take out loans to buy cars, open cell phone accounts, and even declare bankruptcy. If an identity thief is arrested, he can use a victim’s name and then skip a court date. When this happens, a warrant is often issued for the victim.
Once wise to the con, an identity dupe might find the going tough at the local police department. For starters, the crime is still relatively new for law enforcement. But perhaps an even bigger stumbling block is the long reach of identity theft.
“So often these identity thieves are in other states,” says Virginia Attorney General Jerry Kilgore.
Such was the case for Angel Gonzales, a resident of the Tidewater area of Virginia, who was arrested for the crimes of an identity thief operating in Las Vegas.—P.F.
how to avoid identity theft
Unless you live off the grid, it’s impossible to completely insulate yourself against identity theft. A massive array of routine activities—such as mailing a bill, signing up for car insurance or making a credit card purchase on the Internet—require enough personal information to give identity thieves a wide-enough opening to filch an identity.
The best way to reduce the risk of identity theft is to avoid disclosing a social security number unless absolutely necessary. If an unsolicited phone or e-mail pitch quickly requires your social security number, be suspicious. But because even a vigilant consumer is open to identity theft, the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) recommends that people access their credit reports from all three credit bureaus once a year. This will tell you whether a thief is trashing your credit rating and running up huge bills on your dime. And if they are, you can begin minimizing the damage.
In the eight months before Sharon Jones looked at her credit reports, her identity thief spent more than $30,000 in her name. Even more disturbingly, this may actually represent the low end of the money identity thieves can run through. In one survey of identity theft victims, conducted by the Identity Theft Resources Center, the average fraud charge on an individual’s name was $92,893.
Upon request, the three major credit bureaus—Equifax, Experian and TransUnion—are required to release copies of credit reports for no more than $9. If bogus charges show up on a credit report, your next step is to place a fraud report with one of the three credit bureaus—the other two will be notified automatically. Then, an identity theft victim must begin closing accounts that include false charges or have been opened by a thief. During this process, the victim should also report the crime to the police. The police report can be helpful in contesting false charges.
The FTC also asks identity theft victims to file their complaint with the agency, which can be reached at www.consumer.gov/idtheft, so the feds can keep a handle on the scope and trends of the ever-changing crime. Finally, Virginians can also apply to the Attorney General’s Office to get an I.D. Theft Passport that will help them prove they are the victims, not perpetrators, of identity theft. To apply for the passport, see the A.G.’s web site at, www.oag.state.va.us/hot_topics.htm.—P.F.