Aeronautical Title and Escrow Service, LLC v. Semirara Mining and Power Corporation

Let’s cut right to the chase: a hundred thousand dollars—yes, one hundred thousand—is currently locked in legal limbo over a jet that never even left the ground. Not because it crashed. Not because it was hijacked by pirates or mistaken for Air Force One. No, this is far more dramatic: it’s trapped in the bureaucratic Bermuda Triangle of international corporate brinksmanship, with a trio of foreign entities all pointing fingers and screaming “Mine!” while an Oklahoma escrow company throws up its hands and says, “I just work here!”

Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where we cover the legal equivalent of a three-way tug-of-war over a suitcase full of cash—except the suitcase is a $3.1 million Bombardier CRJ-200LR passenger jet, and the rope is a $100,000 deposit that nobody can agree who gets to keep. And yes, Oklahoma is somehow the neutral ground where this transcontinental drama is playing out. Buckle up. This one’s got Dubai, the Philippines, Arizona, and the quiet hum of Oklahoma City’s District Court—all because someone wired some money to the wrong place (or maybe the right place, depending on who you ask).

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Aeronautical Title and Escrow Service, LLC, or “AEROtitle” for short—a totally real name that sounds like a startup founded by a guy who watches too much Top Gun. They’re based in Oklahoma County and, as their name suggests, specialize in holding money for aircraft sales. Think of them as the DMV of private jets: nobody wants to deal with them, but if you’re buying or selling a plane, you kinda have to. They’re the neutral middleman, the guy who says, “I’ll hold your deposit until everyone stops yelling.” And right now? They’re yelling internally.

Then there’s the international cast of characters. First up: Executive Aircraft Services, Inc., a Scottsdale, Arizona-based company that was supposed to be the middleman in this whole deal. They weren’t the original owner of the jet, but they were set to buy it from someone else and then flip it to the final buyer—for a cool $3.1 million. Classic aviation hustle. But here’s where it gets twistier: the original seller is Semirara Mining and Power Corporation, which—wait for it—is a Philippine energy company that somehow owns a 2003 Bombardier passenger jet. Yes. A coal mining conglomerate. With a private plane. That’s already giving us “corporate villain origin story” vibes.

And finally, the would-be buyer: CSDS Aircraft Trading FZCO, a company registered in Dubai (FZCO means “Free Zone Company,” for those playing legal bingo at home). These are the folks who allegedly wired the $100,000 deposit and signed off on the technical inspection of the aircraft. They were ready to roll—paperwork signed, jet accepted, money down. But then… crickets. The sale fell apart. And now, that $100,000 is just sitting in an Oklahoma bank account like a cursed artifact.

So what the heck happened? Let’s reconstruct this like we’re on Airplane Crime Scene, a show that doesn’t exist but absolutely should. On May 7, 2025, Executive Aircraft and CSDS signed a purchase agreement: $3.1 million for the Bombardier, with a $100,000 deposit held in escrow by AEROtitle. Standard stuff. Then, on May 21, CSDS’s representative, one Rajita Ariyarathna (and we are 100% naming our next goldfish Rajita), signed the Aircraft Technical Acceptance form, meaning: “Yep, the jet checks out. We’re good to go.” But then—plot twist—the deal collapsed. Why? The filing doesn’t say. Was it financing? A paperwork snafu? Did someone discover the plane was haunted? We may never know. But what we do know is that now, both sides want their money back—or rather, they want to keep it.

Executive Aircraft, as the would-be seller, probably thinks: “Hey, the buyer backed out, so the deposit’s ours.” CSDS, the buyer, likely argues: “We accepted the plane, the seller failed to deliver, so give us our cash back.” And Semirara? Well, they’re the ghost in the machine—technically the original seller to Executive Aircraft, but now somehow tangled in a lawsuit in Oklahoma over a deposit they never touched. It’s like if your landlord got sued because your roommate didn’t pay the security deposit, even though the landlord never saw a dime.

Now, why are they in court? Because AEROtitle—the poor, beleaguered escrow agent—doesn’t want to pick a side. They’re not judges. They’re not lawyers. They’re escrow. Their job was to hold the money and release it when everyone agreed. But now, with multiple parties making competing claims, they’re stuck. If they give the money to one side, the other side might sue them for breach of contract. If they give it to the other side, same problem. So what do they do? They file a lawsuit… against everyone. Yes, you read that right. AEROtitle is suing the very people it’s supposed to pay, in a legal maneuver called interpleader.

Interpleader is basically the judicial version of “I give up, you guys figure it out.” It’s when a neutral third party—like a bank, an insurance company, or an Oklahoma escrow firm—says, “I have money that two (or more) people are fighting over. I don’t know who deserves it. So I’m going to give it to the court, walk away, and let y’all duke it out like legal gladiators.” It’s not about winning the money—it’s about not losing because you picked the wrong winner.

And what do they want? AEROtitle isn’t trying to keep the $100,000. Nope. They just want to hand it over to the court, get reimbursed for their attorney fees (because, yes, they had to hire GableGotwals, a real law firm with real lawyers named Jake Krattiger and Rosa Garner), and be released from any future liability. They want a clean exit. They want immunity. They want to go back to their quiet life of holding deposits for Gulfstreams and saying “per the agreement” in calm, measured tones.

Now, is $100,000 a lot? In most small claims court dramas, that’d be a king’s ransom. But in the world of private jet sales? It’s a rounding error. The plane was worth over $3 million. The deposit is just over 3%. In real estate, that’s a standard earnest money check. In aviation? It’s the price of a fancy catering package for the first flight. But still—$100,000 is not nothing. That’s 20 Tesla Model 3s. That’s a lifetime supply of airport lounge snacks. That’s a lot of in-flight peanuts.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part of this case isn’t the international intrigue, or the fact that a coal company owns a jet, or that Dubai and the Philippines are fighting over cash in Oklahoma. No, the wildest thing is that nobody seems to actually want the plane. They just want the deposit. It’s like two people arguing over who gets to keep the engagement ring after a wedding that never happened—except the ring costs six figures and the breakup involves three continents.

We’re rooting for AEROtitle. Not because they’re heroes. Not because they’re innocent. But because they’re the only ones being honest: “We don’t know what’s going on. We just held the money. Please stop emailing us.” They’re the designated driver of this whole mess, and they just want to go home.

Until then, that $100,000 sits in a bank account in Oklahoma City, collecting dust and earning minimal interest, while lawyers draft motions and corporations play high-stakes chicken. The jet? Probably still sitting on a tarmac somewhere, dreaming of skies it’ll never touch. And the deposit? It might just become the most expensive lesson in “read the fine print” the aviation world has ever seen.