Amanda McCoy v. Zachary & Brittany Chavez

Let’s be real: people lie on dating apps, they lie about how much they love your new haircut, they even lie about how “just one glass” of wine they had at dinner. But when someone lies about whether their house has been flooded like Noah’s backyard, that’s not just a white lie — that’s a full-blown betrayal of trust, and now, apparently, a $75,000 legal problem.

Meet Amanda McCoy, a regular homeowner with a dream — modest, really. She wanted a place to live, maybe plant a garden, not have to wade through ankle-deep water every time it drizzled. In early 2025, she thought she’d found that dream at 112 SW 10th St. in Wilburton, Oklahoma — a quiet little town in Latimer County where the deer outnumber the lawyers (probably). The house came courtesy of Zachary and Brittany Chavez, a married couple who, according to public records, owned the property and were ready to sell. On paper, everything looked fine. On paper, it looked great. On paper, it also claimed the house had never been damaged by flooding, sewer backups, or water seepage — which would be an important detail if, say, the house had, in fact, been drowned multiple times.

The sale closed on March 19, 2025. Amanda signed, the Chavez couple handed over the keys, and everyone presumably smiled for a photo with the realtor. But then — as these stories so often go — reality set in. And by "reality," we mean puddles. In the basement. In the walls. In places puddles have no business being. Amanda, now the proud owner of what might as well be a permanent wetland, started digging into the home’s past. And what she allegedly found was not just water damage — it was a history of water damage. The kind that says, “This house doesn’t drain. It collects.”

But here’s the kicker: before Amanda ever signed a single document, the Chavez couple filled out Oklahoma’s required Residential Property Condition Disclosure Statement — a legal form that basically says, “Hey, we promise we’re not hiding anything weird about this house.” On that form, they answered “no” to two very important questions: 1. Are you aware of the property being damaged or affected by flood, storm run-off, sewer backup, draining or gradient defects? 2. Are you aware of water seepage, leakage, or other draining defects in any of the improvements on the property?

They checked “no” like they were voting for “none of the above” on a cafeteria survey. But Amanda’s lawsuit claims that wasn’t just an oversight — it was a lie. A flat-out, ink-on-paper, “I swear this house is dry” lie. And now she’s saying the house is basically a sponge, and she’s stuck with a repair bill that probably looks like a ransom note.

So why are we in court? Because Amanda isn’t just mad — she’s legally mad. Her petition, filed on March 23, 2026, accuses the Chavez couple of violating Oklahoma’s Residential Property Condition Disclosure Act — a law that exists for exactly this kind of disaster. In plain English: when you sell a house in Oklahoma, you have to tell the truth about its condition. You can’t just shrug and say, “It’s an old house!” and hope the new owner doesn’t notice the indoor waterfall in the basement. The law requires sellers to disclose known issues — especially major ones like flooding, drainage problems, or structural defects caused by water. And if you lie? Or worse, if you know you’re lying? That’s not just shady — it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Amanda’s legal team, led by Wesley J. Cherry of Foundation Law, P.L.L.C. (yes, that’s the real name, and yes, we’re not making that up), argues that the Chavez couple either knew about the water issues and lied anyway, or were so negligent that they should’ve known. Either way, Amanda says she was misled, and now she’s on the hook for repairs, stress, and the emotional toll of realizing your new home might be slowly dissolving beneath you. The petition doesn’t list exactly what the damages are — no itemized invoice for “emotional distress due to moldy drywall” — but it does demand over $75,000 in damages, plus attorney fees and costs.

Now, is $75,000 a lot for a flooded house in rural Oklahoma? Depends. If we’re talking about a full structural rebuild, mold remediation, foundation repairs, and a new drainage system, maybe not. That kind of work can balloon fast, especially in a place where contractors are few and far between. But $75,000 is still a chunk of change — enough to buy a decent used truck, a very nice wedding, or, you know, another house that doesn’t flood. For Amanda, it’s not just about the money. It’s about the principle. She didn’t buy a fixer-upper with a hidden past — she bought what she thought was a normal home, only to discover she’d purchased a water feature by accident.

And honestly? The most absurd part of this whole mess is how predictable it is. We’ve all heard the warnings: “Always get a home inspection.” “Ask about past water damage.” “Don’t trust a seller who says ‘Oh, it only floods when it rains sideways.’” But the law still requires sellers to be honest — and if they’re not, they shouldn’t be shocked when someone sues. The Chavez couple may have thought they were just “sprucing up” their disclosure form. But in Oklahoma, that little checkbox isn’t a suggestion — it’s a legal promise. And breaking that promise can cost you way more than a few sandbags and a dehumidifier.

Are we rooting for Amanda? Absolutely. Not because she’s flawless, but because she’s the one who showed up with receipts — and a very wet basement. The idea that someone could knowingly sell a flood-prone house and just check “no” like they’re dodging a pop quiz is the kind of petty fraud that makes people lose faith in the entire housing market. If sellers can lie with impunity, then what’s the point of disclosure forms at all? Might as well just sell houses blindfolded and call it “surprise real estate.”

Of course, none of this is proven yet. The Chavez couple haven’t responded in court filings (at least, not that we’ve seen), so we don’t know their side. Maybe they genuinely didn’t know about the flooding. Maybe they thought it was “fixed.” Maybe their sump pump was on a prayer and a shoestring. But the law doesn’t care about good intentions — it cares about what you knew, and what you told. And if Amanda can prove they knew about the water issues and lied anyway, then this isn’t just a case about a bad home sale. It’s a cautionary tale about why you should never, ever trust a “no issues” checkbox from someone who’s trying to get rid of their haunted basement.

So stay tuned, Latimer County. Because if this case goes to trial, the real question won’t be about money — it’ll be: How wet was this house, really? And if the answer involves waders, we’re guessing Amanda’s going to win.