Performance Assurance, LLC v. Felicia Marie Davis and Tyson Wayne Tate

Let’s cut straight to the chase: two Oklahoma adults allegedly couldn’t keep up with the payments on a 2017 Chevy Suburban LT—a vehicle so aggressively suburban it practically comes with a minivan-era dad joke built in—and now owe over $32,000 in debt, interest, and legal costs. That’s right. A full-size SUV, the kind that guzzles gas like it’s offended by fuel efficiency and parks diagonally across two spots at Walmart, has become the centerpiece of a civil war fought with legal briefs instead of bullets. And while no one’s been charged with grand theft auto, we are witnessing what might be the most dramatic repossession since Ferris Bueller stole his dad’s Ferrari.

Meet Felicia Marie Davis and Tyson Wayne Tate, the dynamic duo who, according to court documents, once looked at a used 2017 Chevy Suburban and said, “Yes. We will commit to a long-term financial relationship with you.” Whether they were a couple, roommates, business partners, or just two people who really liked sitting in the third row while arguing about GPS directions, we don’t know. What we do know is that they jointly signed a contract on November 18, 2022, to buy that hulking machine from Integrity Auto Finance, LLC. Now, before you start picturing shady back-alley car sales with a guy named “Slim” handing over keys in exchange for a wad of cash and a six-pack, this was a legitimate transaction—paperwork signed, interest rates disclosed, probably even a complimentary air freshener shaped like a pine tree involved. But somewhere between the ink drying and the first payment, things went off the rails. The kind of rails that, if this were a movie, would be accompanied by a dramatic dun-dun-DUNNN and a slow zoom on a bounced check.

The problem? Davis and Tate allegedly stopped paying. Not “forgot once and had to call customer service” late. Not “had a rough month and paid double the next.” No, this is full-on default territory. The kind of non-payment that makes finance companies sigh, crack their knuckles, and send in the repo squad. And yes, somewhere in Oklahoma, a tow truck quietly rolled up, clamped onto the Suburban, and hauled it away—probably while one of the defendants was inside Target buying socks. The vehicle was later sold, presumably at auction, to some other brave soul who thought, “You know what I need? A slightly used, possibly emotionally damaged Chevy Suburban with a mysterious past.”

But here’s where the math gets spicy. After the car was sold, the money from the auction didn’t cover what Davis and Tate still owed. That gap—the difference between what they borrowed and what the car sold for—is called a deficiency balance. And in this case, it’s not small change. The plaintiff, Performance Assurance, LLC (who stepped in as the new owner of the debt, like a financial phoenix rising from the ashes of bad credit decisions), claims the couple still owes $30,770.36 in principal. Add nearly $1,800 in interest, and you’ve got a bill for $32,761.18—more than the car might’ve sold for new in 2017, adjusted for inflation and emotional damage.

Now, let’s talk about why this is in court. Performance Assurance isn’t suing because they miss Davis and Tate’s smiling faces or want to repossess their dignity (though, honestly, that might be easier to find than the money). They’re suing for breach of contract—a fancy legal way of saying, “You promised to pay. You didn’t. Now we want the court to make you pay, plus extras.” It’s not about revenge. It’s about accountability. And also interest. And attorney fees. And court costs. Because in the world of civil litigation, when you lose, you don’t just pay what you owe—you pay for the privilege of losing.

The demands? Straightforward, if painful. Performance Assurance wants: - The $30,770.36 they say is still owed, - Interest—both before and after judgment—piling up at a whopping 19.4998% per year (yes, they included four decimal points, because nothing says “we’re serious about interest” like precision to the ten-thousandth of a percent), - Court costs (filing fees, service of process, the judge’s coffee budget—okay, maybe not that last one), - And a “reasonable attorney fee,” because chasing down $30k in debt apparently requires legal brainpower worth extra.

Now, is $32,761 a lot to owe over a used SUV? Let’s put it in perspective. That’s enough to: - Buy a brand-new 2024 Chevy Suburban (okay, maybe not the top trim, but still), - Pay off the average American student loan balance, - Or fund a very nice wedding, down payment on a house, or three years of therapy for the emotional trauma of losing a car.

But here’s the kicker: the original vehicle was a 2017 model. By 2023, when this lawsuit was filed, that Suburban was already six years old. Depreciation on SUVs is brutal—like, “your car loses 10% of its value the second you drive it off the lot” brutal. So the idea that, after repossession and resale, the defendants still owe more than the car was worth at the time of default… well, that’s the kind of financial twist that makes you wonder if the interest rate was set by a loan shark with a calculator fetish.

And let’s talk about that interest rate: 19.4998%. That’s not just high—it’s credit card maxed-out-on-a-Cyber-Monday-binge high. Now, before we start burning pitchforks, yes, such rates can be legal in Oklahoma, especially for subprime auto loans. But come on. This isn’t a payday loan for $500 to cover rent. This is a multi-year contract on a depreciating asset, and the interest is compounding like mold in a forgotten Tupperware. It’s the financial equivalent of a horror movie villain—just when you think it’s dead, it pops back up with a chainsaw.

So what’s our take? Look, we’re not here to judge people for falling on hard times. Life happens. Cars break down. Jobs disappear. Medical bills pile up. Maybe Davis and Tate lost income. Maybe the Suburban broke down and they couldn’t afford repairs and payments. Maybe they just really, really regretted saying “yes” to a car payment plan while standing under fluorescent lights with a salesperson named Chad grinning like he just won the lottery.

But here’s the absurd part: they’re being sued not just for the car, but for more than the car was worth, thanks to interest and fees. And the plaintiff? Performance Assurance, LLC. Sounds like a company that sells emotional support for actuaries. They didn’t sell the car. They didn’t finance it originally. They just bought the debt—probably for pennies on the dollar—and now they’re chasing the full amount like bloodhounds in suits. That’s how the debt game works: someone defaults, the lender sells the bad debt to a third party, and then that third party sues for the full balance, hoping to collect more than they paid. It’s financial vulture capitalism at its finest.

Are we rooting for the underdog? Sure. Who doesn’t feel a little bad for someone getting chased for $32k over a used SUV? But we’re also low-key rooting for the court to shine a light on these predatory interest rates and the cycle of debt that turns a car purchase into a financial black hole. Because if this case teaches us anything, it’s that in America, you don’t just buy a car—you buy the privilege of owing money on it, forever, at interest rates that would make a casino blush.

So here’s to Felicia and Tyson. May your next vehicle be cash-only. And may your next contract be written in plain English, not fine print and financial doom.