Eaststar Properties, Inc. v. Stevie Galindo

Let’s cut right to the chase: a landlord is suing a tenant for $399 in unpaid rent. Not $3,990. Not $39,900. Three hundred and ninety-nine dollars and change — and possibly a few extra bucks for damages, which, at this point, might just be a bent spoon or a suspicious stain on the carpet. We are not in a high-stakes legal thriller. This is Real Housewives Meets the Small Claims Court, and honestly? We’re here for it.

So who are these players in this domestic drama of delinquent dollars? On one side, we’ve got Eaststar Properties, Inc. and GardenWalk OB — two corporate entities with names that sound like failed housing developments in a SimCity map. They’re represented by Rachel Conner, who, based on the filing address, might actually be the landlord herself. Is she a lawyer? A property manager? A very committed mom who moonlights in real estate litigation? The record doesn’t say, but she’s the one swearing under oath that someone owes money, so we’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she knows which end of the gavel to hold. On the other side: Stevie Galindo, a 21-year-old tenant living in Apartment 360 at a rural address outside Tahlequah, Oklahoma — 18145 W. 1744 Rd, which, if you’re not familiar with Cherokee County geography, is the kind of place where your GPS gives up and your phone signal goes on a spiritual retreat.

Now, let’s talk about what actually went down. It’s March 3, 2026 — a Tuesday, probably chilly, possibly with a light drizzle — and Rachel Conner walks into the Cherokee County Courthouse and files an “Entry and Detainer” action. That’s legalese for “get off my property and pay me money.” The claim? Stevie hasn’t paid rent. The amount? $399. That’s less than the cost of a used iPhone on eBay. Less than a decent gaming console. Less than a down payment on a timeshare in Branson. And yet, here we are, in a courtroom that has probably seen more livestock disputes than lease violations, preparing to litigate the fate of a single apartment over the price of a really nice dinner for two and a bottle of wine.

The filing says Stevie “wrongfully” possesses the property, which sounds dramatic — like they broke in wearing a ski mask and started hosting underground fight clubs. But no. The reality is almost certainly far more mundane: Stevie missed a rent payment. Maybe two. Maybe they got behind after a car repair, a medical bill, or just one of those months where ramen becomes a lifestyle. The landlord demanded payment. Stevie didn’t pay. So now, the legal machinery of Cherokee County has been activated. A summons has been issued. The court date is set for March 11 — eight days after filing — and Stevie has been told: show up and explain yourself, or get evicted by court order.

Now, what exactly is being asked for here? Legally, this is an “Entry and Detainer” action, which is Oklahoma’s version of an eviction lawsuit. It’s not about murder. It’s not about fraud. It’s about possession of a piece of land and the money that was supposed to come with it. The landlord wants two things: first, possession of the property — meaning Stevie has to pack up and leave. Second, the $399 in unpaid rent, plus court costs (that’s the “CC” mentioned), and potentially more for damages to the premises. Now, here’s the kicker: the damage amount is listed as “TBD.” To Be Determined. As in, they haven’t even totaled up the damages yet. Maybe the drywall has a nail hole. Maybe the fridge smells like forgotten enchiladas. We don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s not enough to fill out a number on the form.

And let’s talk about that $399. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of rent, probably not. Average rent in Tahlequah is around $800–$1,000 a month for a modest apartment. So $399 is roughly half a month’s rent — maybe a late fee tacked on, maybe a partial payment that never came. But for someone living paycheck to paycheck, even that amount can be a canyon. For a landlord, especially a corporate one, it’s a rounding error. So why sue? Why not work it out? Why not a payment plan? A warning letter? A strongly worded text? Because in the world of property management, precedent is everything. Let one tenant slide, and suddenly everyone thinks rent is optional. So this isn’t just about Stevie. It’s about sending a message: pay up, or we will drag you into court over the price of a pair of AirPods.

The relief sought? In plain English: give us the apartment back, give us the money, and cover our court costs. There’s no request for punitive damages — no “punish this person extra” clause — which is good, because that would be wild over $399. But there is a demand for injunctive relief, which means the court is being asked to force Stevie to leave. If they don’t show up on March 11, a writ of assistance will be issued — a fancy term for “send the sheriff to kick you out.” So yes, law enforcement could be involved in removing someone from their home over less than $400.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t that someone owes rent. People fall behind. Life happens. The absurdity is in the scale. The legal system is a sledgehammer, and this case is a gnat. We’re talking about a dispute that could’ve been settled with a conversation, a grace period, or a Venmo request — but instead, it’s been escalated to a formal court filing, a summons, and a potential eviction on the record. For $399. That’s like calling the fire department because your toast is slightly burnt.

And yet, we can’t help but root for a little mercy. Maybe Stevie has a story — a job loss, a medical issue, a car that won’t start on cold mornings. Maybe they’re trying. And maybe, just maybe, a landlord with two business names and a direct line to the courthouse could afford to show some flexibility. Because at the end of the day, this isn’t just about property. It’s about people. And sometimes, the cost of winning in court is higher than the money you’re trying to collect.

So as we await the showdown in Room ___ of the Cherokee County Courthouse — location still TBD, much like the damages — one thing is clear: in the great American tradition of petty disputes, this one takes the cake. Or at least a slice. A small one. Worth about $3.99.