SUN LOAN COMPANY AND TAX SERVICE v. Berryman, Kathy

Loan shark seeks $119,260 from Durant resident! Wait—loan shark? Okay, maybe not literally a guy in a trench coat with brass knuckles named Vinny, but when a company called SUN LOAN COMPANY AND TAX SERVICE drops a six-figure debt bomb on a single woman living in a trailer on Gates Avenue, you’ve gotta ask: is this payday lending… or payday war? Because let’s be real—this isn’t just about money. This is about who owes what, how they got it, and why a tax service seems to moonlight as a microlender with a grudge.

Meet Kathy Berryman—a name that sounds like she should be running a quilt shop or hosting a church potluck, not starring in what feels like the opening scene of Oklahoma’s Most Wanted: Debt Edition. She lives in trailer D38 at 304 Gates Avenue in Durant, which, for the record, is not a gated community. It’s not even a gated trailer park. This is small-town Oklahoma, where everyone knows your business, your dog’s name, and whether you paid your tab at the Piggly Wiggly. Kathy’s life probably runs on coffee, church bulletins, and maybe—just maybe—a few financial decisions she now regrets.

On the other side of this legal rodeo is Sun Loan Company and Tax Service, which sounds less like a business and more like a roadside stand that does W-2s and loans you $500 at 400% interest while your transmission leaks onto their cracked asphalt. Located at 3004 W. University Suite 103 in Durant, they’ve got an address, a phone number, and apparently, zero patience. Their claim? Kathy owes them $119,260—yes, that’s one hundred nineteen thousand, two hundred sixty dollars—for an “unpaid loan.” Let that number marinate. That’s not a payday loan. That’s a house. That’s a Tesla and a down payment on a second one. That’s not what you expect when you walk in for a quick cash advance to fix your water heater.

So what happened? Well, according to the court filing—specifically, an affidavit sworn by one Stephanie Griffin, presumably an employee or agent of Sun Loan—the story goes like this: Kathy Berryman borrowed money. A lot of it. Then Sun Loan asked for it back. And Kathy, in what can only be described as a bold life choice, said “no thanks” and kept whatever she got. No partial payments. No negotiations. No “I’ll pay you when my cousin sells his truck.” Just radio silence. So now, Sun Loan is dragging her into Bryan County Court, waving this affidavit like a flaming torch, demanding their money or the metaphorical head on a platter.

But here’s where it gets weird. First off—$119,260? From a tax service? Since when do CPAs moonlight as high-stakes lenders? Sun Loan’s name suggests they help you file your 1040, not hand you a six-figure promissory note. Did Kathy come in for a refund anticipation loan and accidentally walk out with the entire business’s cash reserves? Did she refinance her trailer, her car, her grandma’s china, and her future Social Security checks into one unholy debt package? The filing doesn’t say. There’s no breakdown of interest, no loan agreement attached, no explanation of how a seemingly ordinary resident accrued a debt larger than the median home price in Bryan County. It’s just: You owe. You didn’t pay. Pay up or see you in court.

And the court date? April 13, 2026—exactly one month after the filing. That’s fast. For context, most civil cases take years to get a hearing. But this? This is like the legal equivalent of a drive-thru eviction notice. Show up, defend yourself, bring witnesses and documents—or don’t, and get steamrolled. If Kathy doesn’t appear, the court can—and likely will—enter a default judgment for the full amount, plus costs. That means wage garnishment, bank levies, ruined credit, and possibly the sale of her trailer to satisfy the debt. Poof. Gone. All because she allegedly didn’t pay back Sun Loan.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. $119,260. Is that a lot? Oh, honey. That’s not just “a lot.” That’s life-ruining levels of a lot—especially in Durant, where the median household income hovers around $45,000. This debt is more than double that. Even if Kathy made above average, it would take her years to pay this off. And unless she won the lottery or inherited a ranch, it’s hard to imagine how she could have borrowed this much—or why a company would lend it without collateral. Was this a business loan? A series of smaller loans that ballooned with interest? Did someone misplace a decimal point? (Spoiler: probably not. $1,192.60 would still be a lot, but at least believable. But $119,260? That’s not a typo. That’s a statement.)

And yet—here we are. No mention of collateral. No mention of a contract. No mention of anything except “unpaid loan” and a refusal to pay. The whole thing hinges on that affidavit—Stephanie Griffin swearing under oath that Kathy owes this insane sum. But affidavits are easy to file. Truth? A little harder to prove. Especially when the defendant is a private individual with limited resources, going up against a company that clearly knows how to work the system.

So what’s our take? Look, we’re not here to defend deadbeats. If Kathy borrowed the money and stiffed the lender, she should pay. But $119,260 from a tax service? In Durant, Oklahoma? That’s not a loan. That’s a horror story waiting to be adapted into a Lifetime movie: “Trailer Park Payday: The $119,000 Debt.” The most absurd part isn’t even the amount—it’s the lack of context. No explanation. No paper trail in the filing. Just boom: you owe six figures. And if Kathy doesn’t show up with a lawyer, a stack of receipts, and a miracle, she could lose everything.

We’re rooting for answers. We want to know how this debt grew so large. We want to see the contract. We want to know if Sun Loan Company has a history of these kinds of claims. Are they a legitimate lender, or are they skirting the edge of predatory practices, using the court system to strong-arm people into paying debts that may or may not be legally enforceable? And we really want to know what Kathy has to say—because right now, she’s just a name on a trailer address, accused of owing more than most people make in a decade.

So April 13, 2026, at 9:00 a.m., the third floor of the Bryan County Courthouse will host what could be the most dramatic showdown since the Great Durant Bake-Off of 2019. Will Kathy show up with a checkbook? With a lawyer? With a sob story and a box of homemade cookies for the judge? Or will she stay home, let the judgment roll in, and become just another cautionary tale about what happens when you borrow from a place that does taxes and loans?

One thing’s for sure: in the world of petty civil disputes, this one’s not petty at all. It’s a full-blown financial thriller—with a trailer, a tax shop, and a debt so big, it might need its own zip code.