Juana Tapia, a/k/a Juana Tapia Ortiz v. City of Oklahoma City, ex rel Oklahoma City Police Department

Let’s get one thing straight: the Oklahoma City Police Department is being sued for rear-ending someone like it’s a bad sitcom about traffic violations. That’s not a punchline—it’s what allegedly went down on December 18, 2024, when a city police vehicle, allegedly driven by officer Hollie Kriethe, smacked into Juana Tapia’s car hard enough to launch a lawsuit that landed in Oklahoma County District Court nearly 14 months later. And no, this isn’t about a high-speed chase gone wrong or a dramatic takedown of a fugitive. This is a garden-variety fender bender—except one of the drivers was on the public payroll, wearing a badge, and presumably supposed to be more careful than your average distracted commuter scrolling through TikTok at a red light.

So who are we talking about here? On one side, you’ve got Juana Tapia—listed in court papers as Juana Tapia Ortiz, because names are complicated and legal documents love parentheses—just an ordinary Oklahoma City resident trying to get from point A to point B without becoming a human crash test dummy. On the other side? The full might of the Oklahoma City Police Department, represented not by a SWAT team or a narcotics unit, but by a single officer named Hollie Kriethe, who was allegedly behind the wheel of a police vehicle when things went sideways. Or rather, straight into Tapia’s rear bumper. The city is named in the suit “ex rel” (short for on behalf of) the police department, which is legalese for “yes, the cop was driving, but the city pays the bills.” That’s important, because when a government employee screws up while doing their job, the government usually gets to inherit the lawsuit. It’s like workplace liability, but with sirens.

Now, let’s reconstruct the scene. December 18, 2024. A regular weekday in Oklahoma City. Roads probably fine. Weather? We don’t know, but unless it was a tornado or an ice storm, we’re going to assume visibility was decent and the asphalt was dry. Tapia is driving her vehicle—make, model, and dramatic flair unknown—minding her own business, when suddenly, wham. She gets hit from behind. By a police car. Not a fleeing suspect. Not a suspect at all. A cop. Allegedly. The petition doesn’t say if lights were flashing or sirens blaring, which would matter—because if Kriethe was on an emergency call, there might be some legal wiggle room. But based on what’s in the filing? It sounds like a routine patrol. Maybe she was en route to a donut run. Maybe she was texting her partner about dinner. We don’t know. What we do know is that someone in a city-owned vehicle, operating under the authority of the Oklahoma City Police Department, failed to stop in time. And that, dear listeners, is how negligence lawsuits are born.

Tapia claims she got hurt. Not “I stubbed my toe” hurt, but “I needed medical care” hurt. She’s asking for money to cover her medical bills, which makes sense—spinal adjustments, X-rays, and ibuprofen don’t grow on trees. She also wants compensation for pain and suffering, both past and future, because getting rear-ended can lead to lingering aches, sleepless nights, and an irrational fear of brake lights. Then there’s property damage—her car probably looked like an accordion after the collision. And finally, she’s reserving the right to ask for more damages later, once discovery reveals just how badly her life may have been disrupted. That’s standard legal CYA—cover your bases now, figure out the full cost later.

But here’s the kicker: we don’t know how much she’s actually asking for. The filing says the damages are “not in excess of the amount required for diversity jurisdiction,” which is lawyer-speak for “we’re keeping it under $75,000 so we can’t be yanked into federal court.” So is she asking for $10,000? $50,000? $74,999 with a side of emotional distress? The document won’t say. But let’s be real—$75,000 is not chump change, but it’s also not life-changing wealth. It’s enough to cover a year of physical therapy, a new car, and still have a few grand left over for a vacation to forget the whole thing. For an individual, that’s serious money. For the City of Oklahoma, with its multi-million-dollar budget and fleet of police cruisers, it’s basically a rounding error. Like finding a slightly dented patrol car in the annual audit and going, “Eh, we’ll fix it.”

Why is this in court at all? Because the city ghosted her. Seriously. Tapia followed the rules. In Oklahoma, if you want to sue a city, you can’t just file and flex—you have to give them formal notice first. So on July 1, 2025, she sent her claim to the City Clerk, like a polite adult with paperwork. Then, because the city asked for more info, she sent a supplement on August 29, 2025. And then… silence. No response. No settlement offer. No “we’re sorry, here’s a gift card to AutoZone.” Just crickets. So she did what any reasonable person would do: she sued. And she’s doing it under the theory of respondeat superior, which sounds like a Latin chant but actually means “the boss is responsible for the employee’s screw-ups.” So even if Kriethe was the one driving, the city has to pay. Unless—plot twist—she wasn’t on duty. The petition cleverly covers both bases: “She was working,” says paragraph 6. “Or, if she wasn’t,” says paragraph 8, “she was still negligent.” That’s called hedging your legal bets, and it’s the civil litigation equivalent of bringing an umbrella just in case it rains.

Now, let’s talk about what makes this whole thing deliciously absurd. It’s not just that a cop allegedly caused a crash—those happen. It’s not even that the city ignored her for months—bureaucracies move slower than sloths on sedatives. No, the real comedy of errors is that the Oklahoma City Police Department, an agency tasked with enforcing traffic laws, allegedly violated one of the most basic rules of the road: don’t hit the car in front of you. It’s like a fire station burning down because someone left a candle burning. Or a dentist with terrible teeth. There’s a poetic irony here that’s hard to ignore. And while we don’t know the full story—maybe Tapia stopped suddenly, maybe Kriethe swerved to avoid a squirrel—we do know that the plaintiff followed every procedural rule, knocked on the city’s door twice, and got nothing but silence. That’s not just negligent driving. That’s negligent governing.

Are we rooting for Juana Tapia? Absolutely. Not because we assume she’s flawless or that cops can’t make honest mistakes, but because accountability matters—even for fender benders. If you’re a police officer, you’re held to a higher standard. And if you’re a city, you don’t get to play deaf when someone brings you a legitimate claim. This isn’t about bankrupting OKC or getting Kriethe fired. It’s about making sure that when the people sworn to protect us cause harm, they don’t just drive away—figuratively or literally. So while this case may not have blood, bullets, or body cams, it’s still about justice. Just at 25 miles per hour, with airbags optional.

And hey, if nothing else, maybe this lawsuit will inspire a new police training module: “Don’t Be the Guy Who Gets Sued for Rear-Ending Civilians.” It could go right between “Active Shooter Response” and “How to Fill Out a Parking Ticket.”