CITIBANK, N.A. v. MAXWELL B KANNADY

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a debt collector just sued a guy in Oklahoma over $3,195.10 — yes, three thousand one hundred ninety-five dollars and ten cents — because he didn’t pay his Citibank credit card bill. That’s it. That’s the whole case. No secret affairs, no missing garden gnomes, no backyard wrestling federation. Just one man, one credit card, and one very determined law firm from Wisconsin named RAUSCH STURM LLP, which apparently has a thing for debt collection and also really likes bolding their practice area right at the bottom of the petition like they’re advertising on a billboard.

Now, meet our cast. On one side, we’ve got Citibank, N.A. — not just any bank, but one of the Big Four American financial institutions. You know, the kind of company that probably has more lawyers than most towns have residents. They’re represented by RAUSCH STURM LLP, a firm that, according to their own letterhead, specializes in “the practice of debt collection.” That’s not a typo. They literally wrote it out like it’s their brand tagline. “Hey, we don’t do divorces or DUIs — we collect debts. And we do it with flair.” Leading the charge is Michael J. Kidman, Esq., of Brookfield, Wisconsin, who signed this petition with the solemnity of a man swearing on a stack of overdue bills. He even added a verified statement under penalty of perjury, because nothing says “I mean business” like invoking the full wrath of Oklahoma’s truth-under-oath laws for a sub-$3,200 dispute.

On the other side? Maxwell B. Kannady. That’s it. That’s the whole name. No title, no firm, no flashy law office in Tulsa. Just a regular guy from Le Flore County, Oklahoma — a rural area near the Arkansas border where the cost of living is low, the internet might be spotty, and the nearest Starbucks is probably a 45-minute drive. According to the filing, Maxwell opened a Citibank credit card account on May 16, 2022. That’s not ancient history — we’re talking about a card that’s barely four years old. He used it. He made payments. His last one? April 28, 2025. Then… crickets. Silence. No more payments. By November 10, 2025, Citibank had had enough. They “charged off” the account — which, in plain English, means they gave up on getting paid the normal way and decided to treat it like a loss. But here’s the twist: charging it off doesn’t mean they forgive the debt. Oh no. It just means they hand it off to the debt collection machine. And in this case, that machine is RAUSCH STURM LLP, rolling in from Wisconsin like the Debt Avengers.

So what actually happened? Well, according to the petition — which, let’s be clear, is only Citibank’s version of events — Maxwell owed money, stopped paying, and now they want it back. That’s the entire plot. There’s no mention of disputed charges, no claim that Maxwell went on a shopping spree he couldn’t afford, no evidence of identity theft or a billing error. Just a quiet default, followed by a quiet lawsuit. The amount? $3,195.10. Let that sink in. We’re not talking about a mortgage. Not a car loan. Not even a student debt. This is less than the average American spends on takeout in a year. It’s about the cost of a decent used car down payment, or a really nice couch. Or, you know, six months of therapy to deal with being sued.

But here’s where it gets spicy — and by “spicy,” we mean “legally aggressive for such a small sum.” Citibank isn’t just asking for the money. They’re also asking the court to force the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission — that’s the state agency that handles unemployment and job records — to hand over Maxwell’s employment history. Why? So they can figure out where he works and possibly garnish his wages. That’s right. They want the government to dig into his work history so they can get paid. It’s like sending a SWAT team to recover a library book. Is this allowed? Maybe. Is it necessary for a $3,195 debt? That’s debatable. But hey, when you’re a debt collection firm, you don’t mess around. You want the paycheck trail. You want the paper trail. You want all the trails.

Now, what are they actually asking for in court? Judgment for $3,195.10 — the exact amount owed, down to the dime. Plus “costs,” which usually means filing fees, service charges, and maybe a few copies printed at Staples. And then, of course, “such other and further relief as this Court may deem equitable, just, and proper” — legalese for “and whatever else you think we deserve, Your Honor.” No punitive damages. No request for Maxwell to be publicly shamed (though, let’s be honest, he’s being publicly shamed right now by us, so mission accomplished). No demand for an apology. Just cold, hard cash.

Is $3,195.10 a lot? In the grand scheme of debt, not really. The average American has over $6,000 in credit card debt. Some people carry that much on two cards. But for someone in Le Flore County, where the median household income is around $45,000, $3,200 is still a serious chunk of change — like two months of rent, or a major car repair. So it’s not trivial. But is it worth flying a Wisconsin law firm into Oklahoma’s legal system? Is it worth asking a state agency to rifle through someone’s job history? Is it worth the court’s time? That’s the real question no one’s asking.

And now, our take: the most absurd part of this whole saga isn’t that someone got sued for an unpaid bill. That happens every day. It’s not even that the amount is so precise — $3,195.10 sounds like someone added a latte charge at the end. No, the real absurdity is the machinery of debt collection. We’ve got a bank in New York, a law firm in Wisconsin, a defendant in rural Oklahoma, and a state employment agency being dragged into it — all over a sum of money that wouldn’t even cover the legal fees if this went to trial. It’s like using a flamethrower to light a birthday candle. And yet, this is how the system works: automated, impersonal, relentless. Citibank didn’t call Maxwell. They didn’t send a concerned letter. They didn’t offer a payment plan. They just… sued. Through a third-party firm. With a demand for employment records. It’s not personal. It’s just business. But man, does it feel personal when your name is on the docket.

Do we know if Maxwell actually owes the money? Nope. This is just the plaintiff’s side. Maybe he was hit by a medical emergency. Maybe there was a billing error. Maybe he’s disputing it. We don’t know. And the court doesn’t know — yet. But one thing’s for sure: if you’re in Oklahoma and you see a law firm from Wisconsin suing you over three grand, you might want to pick up the phone. Or at least start checking your mail. Because in the world of petty civil disputes, even a small debt can come with a very large legal shadow. And in Le Flore County, where the hills are green and the court dockets are full, Maxwell B. Kannady is now officially the star of Citibank vs. One Guy Who Forgot to Pay His Bill. Tune in next time, when we find out if he pays up, fights back, or just ghosts the whole thing and buys a goat farm instead.