Police Called Two Dozen Times to James’ Homes Over Criminal Incidents
The two Virginia homes owned by New York Attorney General Letitia James, both now at the center of her federal bank fraud indictment, have drawn repeated police visits — more than two dozen calls in five years — since being occupied by family members with long criminal histories, according to Norfolk Police Department records reviewed by the New York Post.
Police were called 12 times to the first home James purchased in August 2020 for $137,000, often multiple times on the same day, for incidents described as vandalism, domestic disputes, and suspicious persons. Many of the calls came after James’ grandniece Nakia Thompson, 36, moved into the property with her three children.
Thompson, who once told a grand jury she was living rent-free, has a criminal record spanning North Carolina and Virginia, including arrests for larceny, assault on a government official, possession of burglary tools, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. She is also wanted in Forsyth County, NC, for violating probation linked to felony convictions. Thus, James may be guilty of harboring a fugitive of the law.
Police records show that six of the 12 calls to the Peronne Avenue property came within the first two weeks of October 2025, just after James was charged in a sweeping federal bank fraud case alleging that she lied on mortgage documents to obtain favorable loan terms. Prosecutors say James falsely claimed that she would occupy the home herself, despite working in New York and allowing relatives to live there instead.
The second Norfolk property, purchased in 2023 with a $219,780 mortgage, has also become a magnet for police calls. That home, occupied by another grandniece, 21-year-old Cayla Thompson-Hairston, and two other relatives, was the site of 10 police visits between April 2024 and April 2025.
Thompson-Hairston, who promotes herself on OnlyFans, was arrested in 2024 for lying on a federal firearms form when attempting to buy a gun despite being legally barred from ownership due to a prior felony malicious wounding charge. She was previously arrested alongside her sister Nakia in a 2019 shoplifting case and convicted again in 2024 for grand larceny after stealing $1,600 worth of merchandise from a Norfolk Walmart.
Court records show Thompson-Hairston pleaded guilty to misdemeanor petit larceny and received a suspended 12-month sentence.
Both homes — one on Peronne Avenue and the other in the Berkley section of Norfolk — have drawn calls for warrant service, subpoenas, domestic disturbances, and reported assaults. Police sources told the Post that officers have become familiar with both addresses due to “repeat issues involving the same family.”
James’ 2020 property is directly tied to her ongoing indictment, which alleges that she misrepresented the home as her “principal residence” to qualify for a homeowner mortgage rate while using it as an investment and allowing relatives to live there rent-free. Federal investigators are also reviewing whether similar misrepresentations were made on her 2023 loan application.
The 65-year-old Democrat, who built her career on prosecuting financial crimes and investigating former President Donald Trump’s real estate empire, is now accused of committing the same kind of fraud she once promised to stop.
Thompson’s social media posts have only fueled controversy. Hours after her criminal record was revealed, she lashed out on Facebook, dismissing her rap sheet as “old as hell” and “fabricated.” Weeks later, she was charged again with using “profane, threatening, or indecent language over public airways” after allegedly threatening to punch her child’s assistant principal, calling her a “bald-headed” expletive.
As James awaits trial, her properties remain under scrutiny by both federal prosecutors and local law enforcement. Neighbors told reporters that frequent police visits have become routine.
“Every few weeks you’d see flashing lights,” one resident said. “We didn’t even know it was the attorney general’s family until recently.”
If convicted, James would be the first sitting New York attorney general in modern history to face a federal prison sentence — a dramatic fall for the prosecutor who once vowed to hold others accountable for “abuse of public trust.”
James, who has denied wrongdoing, potentially faces up to 60 years in prison.
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.” But the next mo
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.”
But the next morning in the emergency room, the doctor studied my X-ray and immediately called 911—because what he saw… exposed a horrifying truth.
Part One: “It’s Just a Joke”
On my birthday, the room smelled like sugar and candles and cheap champagne. A pink cake sat in the center of the table, my name written across it in looping frosting. Everyone was laughing. Phones were out. Someone shouted for me to make a wish.
My sister stood closest to me.
She grinned, eyes bright with something that wasn’t kindness. Before I could even lean forward, her hands slammed the cake straight into my face.
The impact was harder than anyone expected.
I felt myself stumble backward, my heel catching on the rug. There was a sharp crack as my head hit the edge of the table, then the floor. For a split second, the room spun in white and pink. I tasted sugar—and then iron.
Blood mixed with frosting, dripping down my chin.
People screamed, then laughed nervously.
“Oh my God,” someone said, still chuckling. “It’s just a joke!”
My sister laughed the loudest. “Relax! You’re so dramatic.”
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision blurred, and the ceiling swayed like it was floating. Someone wiped my face with a napkin, smearing blood across my cheek.
“You’re fine,” my mother said quickly. “Don’t ruin the mood.”
I remember thinking how strange it was that my ears were ringing louder than the music.
I remember the taste of frosting as I swallowed blood.
I remember waking up hours later in my bed, alone, my head throbbing, my phone full of messages telling me not to be “too sensitive.”
By morning, I couldn’t lift my arm.
Part Two: The X-Ray That Changed Everything
The emergency room smelled like disinfectant and sleepless nights. The doctor asked how it happened. I hesitated, then said quietly, “I fell.”
He nodded, unconvinced, and ordered X-rays “just to be safe.”
I lay on the cold table staring at the ceiling, replaying the laughter over and over in my head. It’s just a joke. That sentence hurt almost as much as my skull.
When the doctor returned, he wasn’t smiling.
He stared at the image on the screen for a long time. Too long.
Then he left the room without a word.
Minutes later, he came back—with a nurse, a security officer, and his phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I need emergency services. Immediately.”
My heart started pounding. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He turned to me, his voice careful. “This isn’t a simple fall.”
He pointed to the X-ray. Even I could see it—fine fractures branching like cracks in glass, not just in my skull, but along my collarbone and ribs. Old fractures. Healed wrong. Layered.
“These injuries happened at different times,” he said gently. “Some weeks apart. Some months.”
I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
He met my eyes. “This pattern isn’t accidental. And the impact that brought you in today could have killed you.”
The word killed echoed in my ears.
“Who did this to you?” he asked softly.
I thought of my sister’s grin. My parents’ laughter. All the times I’d been shoved, tripped, “joked” into walls. All the times I’d been told I was clumsy. Sensitive. Overreacting.
My hands began to shake.
“I think…” My voice broke. “I think it was never a joke.”
Part Three: When Laughter Turns Into Sirens
The police arrived quietly. Calmly. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d seen something like me.
They didn’t accuse. They asked questions.
Who was there last night?
Who pushed you?
How often do you get hurt?
For the first time, I didn’t minimize. I didn’t protect anyone. I told the truth.
By evening, my phone was exploding.
My mother crying.
My father furious.
My sister screaming that I had “ruined everything.”
“You’re exaggerating!” she yelled over voicemail. “It was cake! Everyone saw it!”
Everyone had seen it.
That was the horrifying truth.
Everyone had seen it—and laughed.
The investigation didn’t take long. Videos surfaced. Old medical records were reviewed. Witnesses contradicted themselves. Patterns became impossible to ignore.
What started as a “birthday prank” became an assault case.
What they called humor was documented as violence.
I was moved to a different room that night, monitored closely, safe for the first time in years. As I lay there, ice wrapped around my head, I realized something terrifying and freeing all at once:
If that cake hadn’t been smashed into my face…
If I hadn’t fallen just right…
The truth might have stayed buried forever.
Sometimes it takes breaking something visible to expose what’s been shattered for years.
