Niccollette Van Dusen DBA Sun Loan v. Charles Goudeau Jr.

Let’s cut right to the chase: a loan company is dragging a man to court over $1,333.22 — and possibly some unnamed piece of personal property that, frankly, we may never know about because the form was left blank. Yes, you read that right. Somewhere in Shawnee, Oklahoma, a courtroom clock is ticking toward a showdown over a sum that wouldn’t even cover a decent used car down payment, let alone the kind of drama you’d expect in a civil war over collateral. But here we are. Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where the stakes are low, the paperwork is confusing, and someone definitely forgot to fill in the “valuable item” section.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Niccollette Van Dusen, doing business as Sun Loan — which sounds less like a financial institution and more like a tanning salon that moonlights in payday lending. Based on the filing, she’s operating out of a modest storefront on East Independence Street in Shawnee, which, according to Google Maps, is within shouting distance of a tire shop and a Waffle House. This is not Wall Street. This is “I need cash until payday and my car title is all I’ve got” street. On the other side is Charles Goudeau Jr., whose full name sounds like it belongs on a plantation in a Southern Gothic novel, but whose current mailing address — a nondescript South Draper Avenue spot — suggests we’re dealing with more humble circumstances. There’s no indication either party has a lawyer, which means this entire legal showdown is being conducted by people who probably learned what “affidavit” means from watching Law & Order reruns.

Now, what actually happened? Honestly, the full story is buried under layers of legalese and incomplete forms, but here’s what we can piece together: at some point, Charles Goudeau Jr. took out a loan from Sun Loan. The exact terms? Unknown. The interest rate? A mystery. The purpose of the loan? Could’ve been for dental work, could’ve been for a bass boat — the court doesn’t say. What we do know is that Goudeau allegedly failed to pay it back. The amount owed? $1,333.22, plus court costs. That’s specific enough to suggest someone ran the numbers in Excel, but vague enough that we don’t know if this was a title loan, a personal installment loan, or just a very formal IOU scribbled on a napkin and then photocopied for court.

The plaintiff, Sun Loan (a.k.a. Niccollette Van Dusen, doing business as a one-woman debt collection agency), claims they demanded payment and were refused. No surprise there — if Goudeau had paid up, we wouldn’t be here. But here’s where it gets weird: the affidavit also includes a section accusing Goudeau of being “wrongfully in possession” of certain personal property that belongs to the lender. Only… the description field is blank. So is the value. It’s like someone got halfway through the form, thought, “Eh, they’ll figure it out,” and hit print. Is it a car? A plasma TV? A haunted grandfather clock? We may never know. But legally, this opens the door to a conversion claim — which, in normal human terms, means “you have something that’s mine, and you won’t give it back.” It’s the legal equivalent of “I lent you my weed grinder in 2016 and you still haven’t returned it,” but with more notaries.

So why are they in court? Two reasons, according to the filing. First, breach of contract — meaning Goudeau allegedly signed a loan agreement and didn’t hold up his end of the deal. Second, conversion — meaning he’s allegedly holding onto property that belongs to Sun Loan. Both are standard claims in small loan disputes, but the way this is presented feels… off. The breach of contract part is straightforward: you borrowed money, you didn’t pay it back, now we want the court to make you pay. But the conversion claim? That’s where things get shady. If Sun Loan is claiming Goudeau has collateral — like a car title or a piece of jewelry — they should’ve said so. Instead, they left it blank, which is like accusing someone of stealing your sandwich and refusing to say what kind of bread was involved.

Now, let’s talk about what they want. Sun Loan is asking for $1,333.22 — plus court costs — and possibly the return of that mysterious, un-described personal property. Is $1,300 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, no. You could buy a decent used motorcycle for that. Or, if you’re in Oklahoma, a lifetime supply of Sonic cherry limeades. But for someone taking out a small loan, that amount could represent weeks of wages. And let’s be real: if this were a title loan, the interest may have already doubled or tripled the original amount. But here’s the kicker — Sun Loan isn’t asking for a jury trial. They’re waiving it. Which means they don’t want a dramatic courtroom showdown with surprise witnesses and emotional testimony. They want the judge to look at the paperwork, say “yep, he didn’t pay,” and issue a judgment. This isn’t The People vs. O.J. Simpson. This is The People vs. Guy Who Probably Forgot to Make a Payment.

And that brings us to our take. The most absurd part of this case isn’t the money — it’s the blank space. The fact that a legal document accusing someone of unlawfully possessing property doesn’t say what the property is? That’s like filing a missing persons report and leaving the name field empty. “There’s a person… who is missing… and they exist.” It undermines the whole claim. Either Sun Loan forgot to fill it out, or they’re trying to keep their options open, or — and hear me out — there is no property, and this is just a legal scare tactic to make Goudeau show up with cash in hand. And honestly? We’re rooting for the blank space. We’re rooting for the mystery. We’re rooting for Charles Goudeau Jr. to walk into that courtroom on April 1st, look the judge dead in the eye, and say, “Your Honor, I have no idea what they’re talking about. I don’t have any of their property. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have.” And then the judge turns to Sun Loan and says, “So… what is the property?” And they stutter. And the courtroom erupts. And justice, in its petty, bureaucratic glory, is served.

Because at the end of the day, this isn’t about $1,333.22. It’s about accountability. It’s about due process. It’s about making sure that when someone says you owe them money and have their stuff, they at least bother to write down what stuff. Otherwise, we’re not running a court system — we’re running a game of legal charades. And nobody wins that game. Except us. Because honestly? This is better than reality TV.