Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Shon Hays

Let’s get one thing straight: Shon Hays didn’t kill anyone, he didn’t rob a bank, he didn’t even steal a shopping cart. No, his crime—according to the legal system and a very determined debt collection machine—was failing to pay a credit card bill. And now, a corporation based in Minnesota is suing him in Grady County, Oklahoma, for $1,190.37. That’s right—one thousand one hundred ninety dollars and thirty-seven cents. Not a typo. This is not a Law & Order episode. This is Debt & Order: Petty Balance Edition.

So who are these players in this high-stakes drama of financial brinkmanship? On one side, we’ve got Midland Credit Management, Inc.—a debt buyer, which sounds like a villain from a 1980s Wall Street movie, and honestly, that’s not far off. These folks don’t issue credit cards. They don’t hand out shiny plastic with 29.99% APR and free t-shirts. No, they wait in the shadows, like financial vultures, for banks to give up on collecting from people who’ve fallen behind. Then—bam—they buy that debt for pennies on the dollar and swoop in, demanding the full amount, plus interest, plus court costs, plus their lawyer’s dry cleaning bill, probably. Midland is based in St. Cloud, Minnesota, but they’ve got lawyers in Oklahoma City—specifically, the firm Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.—who file these kinds of cases with the efficiency of a TikTok algorithm. This isn’t personal. It’s business. But on the other side? Just Shon Hays. A regular guy, presumably living his life in Oklahoma, probably unaware that a man named William Hebert Prahl in Minnesota was one day going to swear under penalty of perjury about his credit card activity.

Now, let’s unpack the scandalous backstory. According to the court filing—backed up by an affidavit so dry it could be used to absorb a wine spill—Shon Hays once had a credit card with Credit One Bank, N.A. That’s the bank that sends mailers to people who may or may not have steady income, offering credit limits of $300 and interest rates that could make a loan shark blush. The account number? We’re not told the full digits, because someone remembered privacy laws, but we do know it ends in 4243. Very mysterious. Very Law & Order: SVU. The account was opened on August 2, 2022. That’s not that long ago. Maybe Shon needed tires for his truck. Maybe it was a birthday gift. Maybe it was one of those “Buy Now, Pay Never” mattresses. We don’t know. What we do know is that the last payment was made on June 8, 2024. After that? Radio silence. Then, on January 15, 2025, the bank officially “charged off” the account—accounting-speak for “we’ve given up, but we’re still mad.” Then, like a zombie rising from a financial grave, the debt was sold—on February 18, 2025—to Midland Credit Management. They now legally own the right to chase Shon for that $1,190.37. And chase him they did—right into the District Court of Grady County on January 5, 2026. Cue the gavel.

But why are we here, in a courtroom, over what amounts to less than the cost of a decent used car tire? Because Midland isn’t just asking for the money. They’re suing for it. The legal claim? “Indebtedness.” Which, in plain English, means: “This person owes us money, and we want the court to make them pay.” They’re not alleging fraud, theft, or breach of contract. They’re not saying Shon maxed out the card and fled the country. No, this is a straightforward debt collection case—boring on the surface, but quietly terrifying in its implications. Because buried in the paperwork is an affidavit from William Hebert Prahl, a “Legal Specialist” at Midland, who swears—under penalty of perjury—that he has reviewed the “electronic records” of the account and can confirm the balance. He didn’t talk to Shon. He didn’t see a contract. He didn’t witness a signature. He looked at a database. That’s it. But in the eyes of the law, that’s enough—if the records were kept in the “regular course of business.” And so, a man in Minnesota, whose only connection to Shon Hays is a spreadsheet, is now the star witness in a lawsuit that could result in a judgment, wage garnishment, or a black mark on Shon’s credit. That’s the modern American debt collection system: impersonal, automated, and relentless.

So what does Midland want? $1,190.37. That’s the number. That’s the demand. Now, is that a lot? Well, it depends. If you’re a multi-million-dollar debt collection firm, $1,190 is a rounding error. It’s the cost of a single paralegal’s coffee run for a week. But for an individual? That’s a car payment. That’s a month of groceries. That’s two months of internet and phone. That’s a lot when you don’t have it. And here’s the kicker: Midland didn’t pay $1,190 for this debt. They probably paid maybe $100 for it. That’s how debt buying works. They gamble that even if only 1 in 10 people pay up, they make a profit. And if they win in court, they get the full amount—plus interest. Plus court costs. Plus the psychological toll on the defendant. It’s a numbers game. And Shon Hays? He’s just a data point.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount. It’s not even the fact that a Minnesota-based employee is testifying about an Oklahoma man’s credit card history without ever meeting him. No, the real absurdity is how normal this is. This isn’t an outlier. This is how millions of Americans get sued every year—over small debts, with minimal evidence, by companies that profit from the machinery of the court system. Shon Hays might have defaulted. He might owe the money. But the idea that a faceless corporation can buy a delinquent account, generate an affidavit from a guy who’s never spoken to him, and then sue him in state court—that’s the wild part. And the saddest part? Shon probably won’t show up to court. He might not even know he’s been sued. And if he doesn’t respond? Boom. Default judgment. Midland wins. They can start garnishing wages or freezing bank accounts. All over $1,190.37.

Do we know if Shon is a deadbeat? No. Do we know if he was blindsided by medical bills, job loss, or a surprise pet iguana that ate his wallet? Also no. But here’s what we do know: we’re rooting for the little guy. Not because he’s innocent, but because the system feels rigged. A man gets a credit card, falls behind, the bank gives up, a debt buyer buys the debt, sues him, and wins—often without the defendant even knowing. That’s not justice. That’s bureaucracy with a side of financial predation. And if this case teaches us anything, it’s that in America, owing $1,190 can land you in court faster than stealing $1,190 ever would. Welcome to the civil justice system, where the real crime is not having enough money to make the problem go away.