Crown Asset Management & Advisory LLC v. Jonathan Stepp

Let’s get this out of the way first: a debt collector is suing a man in Oklahoma for $2,209.92 — and yes, they spelled defendant wrong multiple times in the legal filing. Not once, not twice, but three times they wrote “Defendant(s)” with an awkward plural “(s)” dangling off like a misplaced belt loop. In a case involving less than two grand, someone at a law firm in Wisconsin took the time to draft, verify, and file a lawsuit — complete with demands for employment records from the state — all over what amounts to roughly 44 takeout orders of Taco Bell’s $50 box. Welcome to American debt collection, where the stakes are low, the grammar is lower, and someone is very serious about getting that money back — or at least pretending to be.

Meet Jonathan Stepp, a man whose name now lives forever in the annals of McClain County court records, not because he robbed a bank or keyed a Tesla, but because he allegedly stopped paying his Torrid credit card. Torrid, for the uninitiated, is the plus-size fashion brand that sells leopard-print hoodies, bedazzled jeans, and tops with enough rhinestones to blind someone during a midday selfie. The card in question? A Comenity Bank-branded store credit card, the kind you’re guiltily handed at checkout with a smile and a “This could save you 15% today!” It’s the financial equivalent of a free sample tray at Costco — looks harmless until you wake up with a $2,200 balance and a lawsuit in the mail.

On March 31, 2019, Jonathan opened that account. For the next six years, according to the filing, he used it like a normal person — buying clothes, returning some, maybe overspending during a particularly rough week or a post-breakup retail therapy spiral. The last recorded payment? July 28, 2025. That’s right — this lawsuit was filed in January 2026, over a debt that was just six months past due. Most people don’t even get a final reminder from their dentist that quickly. But by November 30, 2024 — yes, before the last payment was even made — the account was “closed and/or charged,” meaning Comenity decided Jonathan wasn’t going to pay and wrote it off as a loss. Then, like financial whack-a-mole, the debt popped up again under a new owner: Crown Asset Management & Advisory LLC, a debt buyer based in Florida that scooped up Jonathan’s balance for pennies on the dollar and now wants the full amount. Because capitalism.

Now, Crown isn’t just sending stern letters or calling from a call center in Belize. No, they’ve hired RAUSCH STURM LLP — a debt collection law firm based in Wisconsin — to sue Jonathan in Oklahoma’s District Court of McClain County. Their claim? Breach of contract. Which, in plain English, means: “You agreed to pay, you didn’t, so now we’re asking a judge to make you pay.” It’s not dramatic. There’s no betrayal, no secret affair, no embezzlement. Just a contract, a signature (probably digital), and a failure to keep up with the monthly minimum. The kind of thing most of us have done at least once — maybe forgotten a subscription, let a utility bill slide, or ignored a medical charge because we were fighting with the insurance company. But Jonathan? He got lawyered up — or rather, they got lawyered up against him.

And what does Crown want? $2,209.92. Plus costs. Plus post-judgment interest. Plus, bizarrely, a court order demanding the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission hand over Jonathan’s employment history. Let that sink in: a debt collector wants a judge to force the state to give them a record of where Jonathan has worked. Why? Likely to figure out where to garnish wages if they win. But still — this is a $2,200 debt. For context, that’s less than the deductible on most car insurance policies. It’s about half the cost of a used iPhone 15. It’s the price of a round-trip flight from Oklahoma City to Chicago… if you book early and don’t check a bag. And yet, a law firm in Wisconsin is demanding the state government spy on a man’s job history over it. This isn’t just debt collection — it’s financial surveillance on a shoestring budget.

Now, you might be wondering: Why sue over such a small amount? And that’s the million-dollar question — or rather, the $2,209.92 question. The truth is, debt buyers like Crown make money by buying huge portfolios of defaulted accounts for pennies and then suing like madmen to collect full balances. They play the volume game: win enough cases, and even a 30% success rate turns a profit. They count on people not showing up to court, not hiring lawyers, not even knowing they’re being sued. And in rural counties like McClain, where courtrooms are understaffed and judges are overworked, these cases often sail through like ghost ships — no one on the defendant’s side, just a judge rubber-stamping a judgment. It’s not justice. It’s bureaucracy with a profit motive.

But here’s the kicker: Crown didn’t just want the money. They also asked the court for declaratory relief — a fancy way of saying, “Please declare that we’re the rightful owner of this debt and have the legal right to sue.” Which sounds reasonable… until you realize they’re asking a judge to confirm the obvious. It’s like asking a referee to rule that you’re holding the football after you’ve already run for a touchdown. It’s procedural theater — a way to bulletproof their case in case Jonathan tries to fight it later. And let’s not ignore the verified statement from Nicholas Tait, the attorney who signed this whole thing, swearing under penalty of perjury that everything in the petition is true. All for a debt that originated from a fast-fashion credit card. There’s something almost poetic about a licensed attorney in Wisconsin putting their law license on the line to confirm that, yes, Jonathan Stepp owes money to Torrid.

So what’s our take? That this case is a perfect microcosm of how absurd the American debt collection machine has become. A man buys some clothes he probably didn’t need. He stops paying. A bank gives up. A debt buyer buys the debt for maybe $500. Then a law firm files a lawsuit — with typo-riddled grammar — demands employment records from the state, and asks a judge to declare that, yes, this is all very serious. All of this machinery, all this legal posturing, all this paper-shuffling… for less than the cost of a decent used car down payment. And the most ridiculous part? This isn’t even unusual. This is normal. Thousands of these cases are filed every day across the country — over medical bills, gym memberships, phone plans, and yes, even mall store credit cards. The system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as designed: to pressure, intimidate, and extract money from people who are already struggling.

Do we think Jonathan Stepp is a deadbeat? No. Do we think Crown Asset Management is the villain? Not really. They’re just playing the game. But is it wild that we live in a world where a debt collector can demand a state agency hand over someone’s work history over a Torrid card balance? Absolutely. And if that doesn’t make you want to burn all your credit cards and move to a cabin in the woods, nothing will.