Courtesey Loans v. Kortney Stephenson

Let’s get straight to the most absurd part of this story: someone in Oklahoma is being sued for $453.92 — plus court costs and a mysterious “P5 Fee” — like this is some high-stakes corporate betrayal, not a debt that, frankly, could be covered by selling a slightly used PlayStation on Facebook Marketplace. This isn’t a tale of embezzlement, fraud, or even a dramatic loan shark chase through back alleys. No. This is Courtesey Loans — yes, spelled with an “e” instead of an “o” in “Courtesy,” which already feels like a red flag the size of the Oklahoma state flag — dragging Kortney Stephenson into civil court over less than five Benjamins. And not even five whole Benjamins. We’re talking about enough money to cover a decent used tire, a month of Netflix and Hulu, or a really good thrift-store leather jacket. But no — this is war. Legal war. In Grady County.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Courtesey Loans, a business based at 302 W Kansas Avenue in Chickasha, Oklahoma. They appear to be one of those small-dollar, short-term lenders — the kind that offer quick cash advances to people who might not have the best credit or access to traditional banking. Think payday loans, but with a name that’s trying way too hard to sound trustworthy. “Courtesey Loans” — like they’re doing you a favor. Spoiler: they’re not. They’re in the business of charging interest, fees, and, apparently, filing lawsuits over pocket change. Representing them is Bridgette Rooher, who signed the affidavit swearing under oath that Kortney Stephenson owes them this princely sum. Whether Bridgette is a lawyer, an employee, or just the office manager who drew the short straw and got appointed to handle legal paperwork isn’t clear — but she’s the face of this legal crusade.

On the other side: Kortney Stephenson. According to the filing, Kortney lives at Winding Creek Apartments in Chickasha — a modest complex that, from the outside, looks like the kind of place where rent is paid in cash and the AC unit rattles like a haunted washing machine. The address listed is a little messy — “3000 S 9th Apt Le2 chickasha ok 73018” — and the mailing address is listed as “Savoy 1902 W Chickasha,” which might be a typo or a P.O. box. Either way, Kortney is now officially on the radar of the Grady County District Court, not for theft, not for assault, not for failing to return a borrowed lawnmower — but for $453.92. Plus court costs. And a P5 Fee. Whatever that is. (Our best guess? A processing fee. Or maybe a penalty for failing to spell “Courtesy” correctly. We’re not lawyers, but we are judges of vibes, and the vibe here is petty.)

Now, what actually happened? According to the affidavit — which is basically a sworn statement used in small claims court — Kortney took out a loan from Courtesey Loans. That part is simple enough. What’s not clear is how much was borrowed originally, what the terms were, or how the balance ballooned (or didn’t) to $453.92. But at some point, Courtesey decided Kortney wasn’t paying up — or at least not paying them — and they sent a demand. Kortney, allegedly, refused to pay. No counterclaim. No explanation. Just silence, or maybe a “not right now.” And instead of letting it go, writing it off, or sending it to a collection agency (which, let’s be honest, would probably cost more than $453.92 to operate), Courtesey said, “No. We’re going to court. For this.”

And so, on March 9, 2024, Bridgette Rooher signed the affidavit, swore under penalty of perjury that Kortney owes the money, and filed it with the court. The clerk, Mica Hackney (bless her), issued an order — which sounds way more dramatic than it is — telling Kortney to show up on the “87 day of April 2024.” Which… doesn’t exist. April only has 30 days. So either someone messed up the form, or we’ve entered an alternate calendar dimension where April is as long as a Marvel movie. Regardless, the intent is clear: show up, defend yourself, or get slapped with a default judgment.

Now, why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a debt collection lawsuit — specifically, a claim for loan default. In plain English: “You borrowed money. You didn’t pay it back. We want it.” That’s it. No fraud. No breach of contract drama. No hidden clauses about returning a pet ferret if payments are late. Just a straightforward “you owe us cash.” And while the legal system does exist to resolve these kinds of disputes, the optics are… questionable. Is this really the best use of court time? Judges, clerks, deputies, and courtrooms — all mobilized for a dispute over less than $500? It’s like calling the fire department because your toast is slightly brown.

And what do they want? $453.92. Plus court costs. Plus the P5 Fee — which, after some digging, appears to be a standard processing fee in Oklahoma small claims cases, usually around $10–$20. So we’re talking about roughly $475, maybe $500 with extras. Is that a lot? Well, for some people, yes — $500 is groceries for a month, or a car repair, or a security deposit on a new apartment. But for a lender? For a business that presumably deals in loans? That’s chump change. It’s less than the cost of filing the lawsuit in some states. It’s less than what some lawyers charge for an hour of work. And yet, here we are. Courtesey Loans didn’t write it off. Didn’t negotiate. Didn’t say, “Eh, life happens.” They said, “See you in court, Kortney.”

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole saga isn’t even the amount. It’s the tone. The form is cold, robotic, and dramatic — “You are hereby directed…” “The people of the State of Oklahoma…” “If you do not appear, judgment will be given against you…” All for a debt that could’ve been settled with a Venmo request and a mildly passive-aggressive text. (“Hey Kortney, we noticed your payment is late. Just a reminder! 💸”) Instead, we get sworn affidavits, deputy notaries, and court orders invoking the full power of the state. It’s like using a flamethrower to light a birthday candle.

And honestly? We’re rooting for Kortney. Not because we think people shouldn’t pay their debts — they should. But because this feels like corporate pettiness dressed up as justice. If Courtesey Loans is spending staff time, paper, ink, and court fees to chase down sub-$500 debts, they might want to rethink their business model. Or at least invest in better spellcheck. Because nothing says “trustworthy lender” like a company name that looks like it was typed by someone who failed third-grade spelling.

At the end of the day, this case is a perfect microcosm of how the civil justice system can sometimes feel less like a tool for fairness and more like a bureaucratic hammer looking for nails — even if those nails are barely worth the metal they’re made of. Will Kortney show up? Will the court hear arguments about late fees, payment plans, or forgotten direct deposits? Will the P5 Fee finally be explained to the public? We may never know. But one thing’s for sure: in the great American tradition of suing over small things, this one takes the… slightly used cake.