Tower Loans v. Carmalisa Dean

Let’s get one thing straight: someone is going to court in Oklahoma—yes, an actual courthouse, with a judge, a clerk, and probably a very confused bailiff—over $862.24. And not because it’s blood money, or a down payment on a cursed artifact, or even a bet gone wrong after one too many at the Wagoner County Chili Cook-Off. No. This is a full-blown legal showdown between a company called Tower Loans and a woman named Carmalisa Dean, all because she allegedly borrowed a sum of money and hasn’t paid it back. The stakes? Less than nine hundred bucks. The drama? Immeasurable.

Now, let’s talk about the players. On one side, we’ve got Tower Loans, which—judging by the name—sounds like it could be either a legitimate small-dollar lender or a front for a medieval siege engine rental service. Based in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma (motto: “It’s not Tulsa, but we’ve got highways!”), this business seems to specialize in short-term personal loans, the kind that come with more fine print than a Netflix subscription and interest rates that could make a credit card blush. They’re not represented by a lawyer here, which tells us two things: either they’re confident this is a slam dunk, or they’ve decided that hiring legal counsel would cost more than the amount they’re trying to collect. And honestly? At this point, we wouldn’t blame them.

Then there’s Carmalisa Dean. Born August 28, 1982, she lives at 215 S 118th East Avenue in Tulsa—prime real estate if your dream is to be near a Walmart and three different fast-food drive-thrus. She’s not represented by counsel either, which might mean she doesn’t think this is a big deal, or she’s broke (ironically), or she just really hates lawyers. Or maybe she’s still trying to figure out why a loan she took out—wherever and whenever that was—has landed her in Wagoner County court, which is about 40 miles from her house, roughly the same distance as the average Oklahoman’s commute to the nearest Sonic.

So what happened? Well, according to the affidavit filed by one MaKenzie M. of Tower Loans (last name possibly McFarly, unless someone forgot to carry the “a” in “McFarley”), Carmalisa owes them $862.24. That’s not a typo. Eight hundred sixty-two dollars and twenty-four cents. Plus one penny in costs. Yes, you read that right—one cent. We’re not making this up. Someone at Tower Loans sat down, ran the numbers, and decided that after administrative fees, late charges, and possibly the emotional toll of sending reminder texts, the total cost of collecting this debt had reached the staggering sum of $0.01. It’s the legal equivalent of charging someone a nickel for a paper cut.

The filing claims this is a case of “collection of open account, note, or instrument of indebtedness”—which, in human terms, means: “She borrowed money, signed something, and now she hasn’t paid it back.” Tower Loans says they asked for the money. Carmalisa said nothing. Or rather, she did something—she didn’t pay. And that, my friends, is how you end up in small claims court, where the drama is real but the budgets are tight.

Now, why Wagoner County? That’s a great question. Carmalisa lives in Tulsa County. Tower Loans is based in Tulsa County. But the case is being heard in Wagoner County, which is like filing a lawsuit about a taco in Albuquerque and expecting it to be settled in Santa Fe. But fear not—the filing helpfully cites Oklahoma statutes 1752, 134, 135, 139, and 142 (yes, all five, because why cite one when you can flex the whole legal code?) to justify the venue. The implication? The loan was either signed in Wagoner County, or that’s where the company keeps its records, or maybe that’s just where the loan officer was standing when he said, “You got the funds, girl.” We may never know. But the court accepted it, so we’re rolling with it.

The hearing is set for March 21, 2026—because apparently, even small claims courts in Oklahoma need time to schedule around tractor pulls and county fair livestock judging. Carmalisa has been ordered to show up, bring all relevant documents (receipts? text messages? a handwritten apology?), and explain herself. If she doesn’t? Boom. Default judgment. Tower Loans gets their $862.24, plus court costs (and possibly that one cent, which will go down in history as the most expensive penny since the 1943 copper wheat cent).

Now, let’s talk about what they want. Tower Loans is seeking $862.25 in total—yes, they added that penny. That’s not a fortune. It’s less than a monthly car payment. It’s two nights at a mid-tier hotel. It’s one round of IVF in a country with universal healthcare. But for a small loans company, this is the bread and butter. They make money not just on interest, but on the process—the fees, the collections, the small claims filings. And sometimes, that means dragging someone to court over a sum that wouldn’t even cover a decent used tire.

Is $862.24 a lot? Depends on who you ask. If you’re a billionaire, it’s a rounding error. If you’re a single mom working two jobs in Tulsa, it might as well be a down payment on a spaceship. But here’s the kicker: Tower Loans didn’t just send a bill. They didn’t threaten credit reporting. They didn’t offer a payment plan. They went straight to affidavit. Straight to court. Over a sum that, frankly, could’ve been settled with a Venmo request and a passive-aggressive emoji.

And that’s where we start to side-eye the whole situation. Because while Carmalisa may have broken her agreement (allegedly), Tower Loans is treating a personal financial hiccup like a felony heist. Did she default? Maybe. Did she ghost them? Possibly. But is this really worth a court date, a deputy clerk’s time, and the judicial resources of Wagoner County? Are we really at the point where a company will sue someone over less than a thousand bucks and tack on a penny in costs like it’s a moral victory?

Here’s our take: this case is absurd. Not because people shouldn’t pay their debts—of course they should. But because the machinery of justice is being used like a collections arm of a payday lender. We’re talking about a system designed to resolve disputes, protect rights, and uphold the rule of law—and it’s being deployed over a debt that could’ve been settled with a sternly worded email. And yet… we can’t look away. Because somewhere in this story is a woman trying to get by, a company trying to squeeze every cent, and a court clerk in Wagoner County who has definitely seen weirder.

Do we think Carmalisa should pay? If she borrowed the money and agreed to the terms, then yes. But do we think Tower Loans could’ve handled this better? Absolutely. They could’ve offered flexibility. They could’ve waited. They could’ve, dare we say, chilled out. Instead, they went full legal beast mode over a sum that wouldn’t even cover the gas it takes to drive from Tulsa to Wagoner and back.

So who are we rooting for? Honestly? The penny. That one cent has seen more court action than most Supreme Court justices. It’s the unsung hero of this saga. And if justice is truly blind, maybe—just maybe—it’ll decide that $862.25 isn’t worth the paper the affidavit is printed on.

But hey, that’s just us. We’re entertainers, not lawyers. And if this case teaches us anything, it’s that in America, even your small debts come with big drama.