Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Kaitlyn McCann

Let’s get one thing straight: somewhere in Oklahoma, a woman owes $2,169.85—and a corporation in Minnesota has hired a lawyer, filed a lawsuit, and sworn a notarized affidavit just to make sure she knows it. This isn’t a murder mystery. There’s no missing body, no secret affair, no dramatic courtroom showdown (yet). But in the grand tradition of petty civil drama, we have something almost more American: a debt collector suing someone over less than the cost of a used car down payment, with all the solemnity of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Meet Kaitlyn McCann of Canadian County, Oklahoma—a name that sounds like a character from a Hallmark movie about small-town resilience. We don’t know much about her, and that’s part of the point. She’s not a villain. She’s not even necessarily wrong. She’s just… someone who, at some point in 2022, opened a credit account with Theorem Main Master Fund LP—yes, that’s a real company name, and yes, it sounds like a hedge fund run by Bond villains. The account number ends in 5527, which is not a secret code, but if you’re into numerology, 5-5-2-7 adds up to 19, which is prime, so maybe there’s something fated here. On July 18, 2022, Kaitlyn said “sure, I’ll take on some debt,” and thus, the financial clock began ticking.

She made payments—enough to keep things quiet—until December 17, 2022. That was the last time anything moved on the account. Then, radio silence. By March 31, 2023, the creditor had had enough. They “charged off” the debt, which sounds dramatic but really just means they gave up on collecting it themselves and either sold it or wrote it off for tax purposes. This is where the plot thickens: the debt didn’t die. It was reborn. On April 14, 2023, Midland Credit Management, Inc.—a debt collection giant based in Minnesota—stepped in like a phoenix from the ashes of bad credit decisions and became the “successor in interest.” Translation: they bought the debt for pennies on the dollar and now get to try to collect the full amount. It’s the financial equivalent of buying a haunted house at auction and then suing the ghost for property damage.

Fast-forward to October 13, 2025—yes, 2025, which means this lawsuit was filed in the future, unless we’re all living in a glitch in the Matrix—and Midland, through its Oklahoma law firm Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C. (yes, that’s a real law firm name, and no, we’re not making this up), files a petition in Canadian County District Court. The claim? Kaitlyn McCann owes them $2,169.85. That’s it. No fraud. No breach of contract drama. No story of betrayal or revenge. Just a number, an account, and a very serious affidavit.

Enter Benjamin Durand, Legal Specialist at Midland Credit, who swears under penalty of perjury—yes, perjury, the same legal threat used in criminal trials—that he has reviewed the electronic records, knows how Midland maintains its data, and confirms that Kaitlyn still owes the money. He even says, with a straight face, that if called to testify, he would competently testify. This is not a man who discovered a smoking gun. He’s not presenting evidence from a crime scene. He’s confirming that a spreadsheet says someone hasn’t paid their bill. And yet, the machinery of American civil justice rolls forward.

Now, let’s talk about what Midland actually wants. They’re asking for $2,169.85—plus interest at the statutory rate (which in Oklahoma is 6% per year unless otherwise agreed), plus court costs, plus “such other relief as the Court may deem just and proper,” which is legalese for “and maybe a cookie, while you’re at it.” Is $2,169.85 a lot? Well, it’s not nothing. It’s about three months of Netflix, Hulu, and Spotify Premium combined. It’s the price of a decent used motorcycle engine. It’s also less than the average American’s credit card balance, which hovers around $6,000. But for a debt buyer like Midland, this is business. They likely paid maybe $500 for this debt. If they win, they pocket the difference. If they lose? They move on to the next file. Kaitlyn, on the other hand, now has a lawsuit on her record. Even if she pays, there’s a stain. Even if she wins, she had to show up.

And that’s the absurdity of it all. This isn’t about justice. It’s not even really about the money. It’s about a system that treats debt like a game of hot potato, where companies pass it around until someone’s left holding it—and then they sue. The affidavit is 90% about how Midland keeps its records, not about whether Kaitlyn actually agreed to anything, or whether the original creditor played fair, or whether she’s struggling, or whether she even remembers this account. It’s a bureaucratic ritual: we have the paperwork, we followed the process, hand over the cash.

So where do we stand? A woman in Oklahoma is being sued over a debt she hasn’t paid. A company in Minnesota is using Oklahoma lawyers to enforce a claim they bought for scraps. And a notary in Stearns County, Minnesota, certified that a man named Benjamin Durand really did swear that a spreadsheet says what it says. It’s all perfectly legal. It’s also perfectly ridiculous.

Our take? We’re not rooting for the debt collector. We’re not even really rooting for Kaitlyn—though if she’s out there, we hope she’s okay. We’re rooting for the system to have a little more mercy, a little more sense of proportion. If we’re going to have courts handle disputes like this—and we do—can we at least admit that suing someone over two grand shouldn’t require a notarized confession from a Legal Specialist in St. Cloud? Can we acknowledge that debt is often less about laziness and more about life—job loss, medical bills, bad timing? This case is a symptom of a bigger problem: we’ve built a legal machine that treats every unpaid bill like a moral failing, and every collector like a knight of justice. But sometimes, a $2,169.85 debt is just… a $2,169.85 debt. And maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t need a court order to resolve.

But hey, that’s just us. We’re entertainers, not lawyers. And if Kaitlyn wants to settle this, we accept Venmo.