Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Samuel J Roberts

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a debt collector is suing a man in Oklahoma for $10,680.05 over a credit card he opened less than two years ago and stopped paying last summer. That’s it. No murder weapon, no secret affair, no stolen llama—just a Citibank credit card, a few missed payments, and now a full-blown lawsuit filed by a company called Midland Credit Management, Inc., which swoops in like a financial vulture to collect debts it didn’t even originate. Welcome to the wild, weird world of American debt collection, where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and someone in Minnesota is swearing under penalty of perjury about your credit card balance.

So who are these players in this financial telenovela? On one side, we’ve got Midland Credit Management, Inc.—a debt buyer based in California that makes its living purchasing delinquent accounts from banks like Citibank, often for pennies on the dollar, then suing to collect the full amount. They’re not the original lender. They didn’t hand Samuel J. Roberts a credit card at a mall kiosk while playing soft saxophone music. No, they bought the debt after it went bad, like someone snagging a foreclosed house at auction and then demanding the former owner pay up. Representing them is the law firm Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.—yes, really, Love, Beal & Nixon—a firm that files so many of these cases it might as well have a macro for them. Their attorney on record, William L. Nixon, Jr., is not, as far as we know, related to the former president, but he is ready, willing, and able to sue you over $10,680.05.

On the other side: Samuel J. Roberts, a man about whom we know almost nothing except that he lives in Delaware County, Oklahoma (not the state, the county—Oklahoma has a Delaware County, which is already a fun fact you can use at parties), and that at some point in late 2023, he opened a Citibank credit card account ending in 6104. That’s all we’ve got. No backstory, no financial crisis, no evidence of a shopping spree on luxury yachts or artisanal cheese subscriptions. Just a guy, a credit card, and a trail of silence after August 26, 2024—the last time he made a payment. By January 2025, the account was “charged off,” which is banker-speak for “we’ve given up and sold your debt to a collection company.” Then, in March 2025, Midland Credit Management officially became the new owner of Samuel’s financial regrets. And now, in January 2026, they’re in court demanding every last penny.

The story, such as it is, unfolds like a slow-motion financial car crash. Samuel gets a credit card. He uses it. He pays for a while. Then, for reasons known only to him and his budget (or lack thereof), he stops paying. The bank waits, gives him chances, eventually writes the debt off as a loss, and sells it to Midland. Midland, seeing a chance to turn a profit, files a lawsuit. The evidence? An affidavit from Nancy Coronilla, a Legal Specialist in St. Cloud, Minnesota, who has never met Samuel but swears under penalty of perjury that Midland’s electronic records show he owes exactly $10,680.05 as of January 2, 2026. She didn’t create the records herself, but she’s trained to interpret them, and she says they’re kept in the regular course of business. It’s the financial equivalent of “the computer says yes”—a digital paper trail that, in court, often counts more than memory or intent.

Now, why are they in court? Because this is a petition for indebtedness, which is legalese for “you owe us money, and we want a judge to make you pay.” Midland isn’t accusing Samuel of fraud or theft. They’re not saying he maxed out the card and fled the country. They’re simply claiming he defaulted on a debt, they legally acquired it, and now they want the court to issue a judgment forcing him to pay. It’s a straightforward, almost mechanical process—so common it’s practically the fast food of civil litigation. No jury trial requested. No dramatic courtroom showdown anticipated. Just a judge, some paperwork, and a decision based on whether the numbers add up and the documents look legit.

And what do they want? $10,680.05. Not $10,000. Not $11,000. $10,680 and five cents. Let that sink in. Five. Cents. This isn’t a life-changing sum for a corporation like Midland, but for an individual, it’s no joke. For context, that’s about six months of rent in some parts of rural Oklahoma, or one unplanned emergency vet visit, or roughly 1,424 cups of dollar-menu coffee. It’s enough to stress over, but not enough to make national news—unless, of course, you’re the one being sued. And here’s the kicker: Midland isn’t just asking for the principal. They want interest at the statutory rate (which in Oklahoma is 5% per year unless the contract says otherwise), plus court costs. So if this drags on, Samuel could end up owing even more for the privilege of losing in court.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount, or the fact that a Minnesota woman is testifying about a man’s credit card habits without ever meeting him. It’s the sheer industrial scale of it all. Midland Credit Management files hundreds, if not thousands, of these lawsuits every year. Nancy Coronilla likely signs dozens of these affidavits monthly. Law firms like Love, Beal & Nixon have entire departments dedicated to churning out these petitions. And Delaware County, Oklahoma, probably sees cases like this every single day—quiet, unglamorous battles over money most people would rather forget they ever borrowed.

We’re not rooting for debt evasion. We’re not saying Samuel J. Roberts doesn’t owe the money. But we are raising an eyebrow at a system where a man’s financial misstep becomes a notarized affidavit in Minnesota, where a company buys your debt without knowing your name, and where justice is served one $10,680.05 lawsuit at a time. If this were a true crime podcast, the theme music would be the sound of a printer spitting out another collection lawsuit. And the tagline? “You missed a payment. Now the machines are coming.”