FIRST FIDELITY BANK, N.A. v. ALVIS LEE ROBERTS

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not a story about a missing truck. This is a story about a bank that wants its truck back, and a man who, according to the paperwork, is just… still driving it. Like, full-on Joy Ride: Unauthorized Edition. First Fidelity Bank is suing Alvis Lee Roberts not because he crashed the thing, not because he turned it into a taco truck or a mobile EDM studio, but because he stopped paying for it—and now the bank wants to repossess a $56,000 GMC Sierra 1500 that, allegedly, he’s still cruising around Garvin County in like he owns it. Spoiler: he doesn’t. At least not anymore.

So who are we talking about here? On one side, we’ve got First Fidelity Bank, N.A.—a financial institution with a name that sounds like it belongs in a 1980s Wall Street thriller, complete with suspenders and a cold stare. They’re represented by a law firm called Robinson, Hoover & Fudge (yes, really), and their entire job in this case is to make sure banks get their collateral back when people don’t pay. On the other side: Alvis Lee Roberts. We don’t know much about him, except that on June 27, 2023, he walked into Seth Wadley Auto Group—Oklahoma’s answer to “fast cars and faster financing”—and walked out with a brand-new 2022 GMC Sierra 1500. Not just any Sierra, mind you. This one’s a Crew Cab Elevation 4WD, comes with the X31 Off-Road Package (because Garvin County apparently demands rugged terrain), multi-pro tailgate (for when you need to host an impromptu tailgate party), and enough included features to make your average minivan jealous. The retail price? A cool $59,500. Roberts didn’t pay that up front. Instead, he signed a contract, handed over some kind of down payment (not specified, but we’re guessing not $59,500), and drove off with a loan—and a security interest, meaning the vehicle was collateral. Classic car-buying-in-America stuff.

But here’s where it goes off the rails. According to the bank, Roberts made his last payment on July 9, 2024. That’s right—less than a year after buying the truck, he stopped paying. And not just stopped—vanished from the payment grid. The bank, now the official assignee of that loan contract, says Roberts still owes them $56,185.37 in principal, plus interest piling up at 7.99% per year because apparently, Oklahoma law allows that (and also, wow, that’s a very specific interest rate—like the banker rolled a die and said, “Seven point nine nine, baby, that’s the sweet spot”). The bank tried to get the truck back. Tried being the operative word. According to Brian Montgomery, a representative at First Fidelity, they’ve made multiple attempts to recover the vehicle. All failed. And here’s the kicker: they believe Roberts still has it. He hasn’t sold it. He hasn’t wrecked it. He hasn’t donated it to a charity auction or turned it into a tiny home. No. He’s just… keeping it. Like it’s his. Which, again, it’s not. Not unless you count “possession” in the same way you’d say a raccoon “owns” your trash can after midnight.

So why are we in court? Because this isn’t just a “please pay your bill” situation. This is replevin, a legal term so delightfully obscure it sounds like a rejected Harry Potter spell (“Replevinus maximus! Return the truck!”). In plain English: the bank wants the court to force Roberts to give back the physical truck. If he won’t, they want a court order blocking him from selling it, hiding it, modifying it, or doing anything else with it—basically a restraining order, but for a pickup truck. They also want a money judgment for the full balance owed, plus interest, plus attorney fees, plus court costs, because nothing says “I’m serious” like billing someone for the lawyer’s time spent suing them for not paying the lawyer’s original client. It’s litigation layering, and it’s beautiful in its bureaucratic absurdity.

Now, let’s talk about that $56,185.37. Is that a lot? Well, yes. That’s not “oops I forgot my car payment” money. That’s “I could’ve bought a house in rural Oklahoma” money. That’s “I could’ve started a small business” money. That’s “I could’ve funded a three-year kombucha addiction” money. For context, the average annual salary in Garvin County is around $45,000. So the bank isn’t chasing pocket change. They’re chasing more than a year’s salary. And they’re not just mad—they’re organized. They’ve got affidavits, NADA reports (that’s the National Automobile Dealers Association, the Bible of car valuations), lien receipts stamped with cryptic codes like L1875243432 (which, let’s be honest, sounds like a secret agent ID), and a full legal team ready to descend like vultures on a stalled pickup. This is not a casual “hey, buddy, can I have my truck back?” This is a corporate repossession operation with paperwork.

But here’s the wildest part: the truck is still out there. According to the bank, it hasn’t been seized. It hasn’t been auctioned. It hasn’t been crushed or stripped for parts. It’s just… being driven. Maybe Roberts loves that truck. Maybe he’s clinging to it like it’s the last symbol of his dignity. Maybe he’s convinced himself he did pay, or that the bank doesn’t have the right, or that if he just keeps driving it long enough, it’ll magically become his. Or maybe—just maybe—he’s playing the long game, hoping the bank gives up. But banks don’t give up. They have lawyers named Hugh Fudge and lien numbers that go on forever. They have process. And that process ends with a court order, a tow truck, and a very awkward moment when someone has to explain to Roberts that, no, he can’t keep the Sierra, no matter how cool the multi-pro tailgate is.

Our take? Look, we’re not here to judge someone for falling behind on a car payment. Life happens. Jobs vanish. Medical bills pile up. But the sheer audacity of holding onto a $56,000 financed truck after defaulting—while the bank formally swears under penalty of perjury that you’re “wrongfully detaining” it—that’s next-level. It’s like returning to the movie theater after your ticket expired and telling the usher, “Nah, I’m good, I’ll just finish this popcorn.” You don’t get to keep the asset. That’s not how loans work. That’s not how property works. The most absurd part isn’t even the amount—it’s the implication that Roberts thinks he can just… ignore the entire financial system. That he can drive around in a nearly new GMC like he’s above the rules, while the bank files affidavits and cites Oklahoma Statutes like 12 O.S. § 426 like it’s scripture.

Do we feel bad? Maybe a little. Do we think the bank is being ruthless? Sure, but they’re a bank. Ruthlessness is in the job description. Do we hope Roberts at least got one really good off-road adventure out of that X31 package before the repo man shows up? Absolutely. But at the end of the day, this isn’t Bourne Identity. It’s Loan Default: The Ballad of VIN 3GTUUUCEDXNG587829. And the final scene? That truck’s getting towed. Sorry, Alvis. The bank wants its truck back. And in America, when money’s involved, the bank always wins.