Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Jeffrey G. Macinnis
What's This Case About?
Let’s be real: the most dramatic thing about this case isn’t a betrayal, a scandal, or even a screaming match in a parking lot. No, the wildest part is that a man in Oklahoma is being sued for $12,179.95—by a company that didn’t lend him a single dime. That’s right: Jeffrey G. Macinnis never signed a contract with Midland Credit Management, Inc. He’s never sent them a birthday card. He’s never even met them. And yet, here we are, in the District Court of Noble County, because Midland wants a judge to make him pay up for debts he allegedly racked up with Citibank—debts that were then sold, like a used lawnmower on Facebook Marketplace, to a debt collector halfway across the country.
So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Jeffrey G. Macinnis—presumably a regular guy trying to live his life in Oklahoma, probably unaware that his name was about to appear on a legal document drafted in Minnesota by a man named Richard Hogan, who works as a “Legal Specialist” for a debt buying company. On the other side: Midland Credit Management, Inc., a well-known debt collection agency based in St. Cloud, Minnesota, whose entire business model runs on purchasing old, unpaid debts for pennies on the dollar and then suing people to collect the full amount. They don’t care about your sob story, your job loss, or the fact that you haven’t seen a Citibank statement since 2020. They bought paperwork. They want money. And they’ve got a whole team of lawyers in Oklahoma ready to press the issue.
Now, let’s walk through what actually happened—or at least, what the filing claims happened. According to the petition, Jeffrey had not one, but two credit card accounts with Citibank. The first, ending in 4457, was opened back in December 2016. The second, ending in 5574, came along in April 2019. For a while, everything was fine. Payments were made. The American Dream rolled on. But then—plot twist—Jeffrey stopped paying. The last recorded payment on both accounts? March 9, 2023. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe that’s the day his dog ate his wallet, his car broke down, or he just decided, “You know what? I’m done with financial responsibility.” We may never know. What we do know is that by late 2023, Citibank had given up. The accounts were “charged off,” which is banker-speak for “we’re writing this off as a loss and moving on with our lives.” But here’s where it gets juicy: instead of just eating the loss, Citibank sold the debt—like a financial hot potato—to Midland Credit Management. On or around December 20, 2023, Midland became the proud new owner of Jeffrey’s unpaid balances. And they weren’t about to let it go.
Enter Richard Hogan, the unsung hero (or villain, depending on your stance on debt collection) of this whole saga. Hogan, a Legal Specialist at Midland, has never met Jeffrey. He’s never seen his credit report. He’s never even pronounced his last name (is it Mac-in-nis? Mac-in-is? Mac-what?). But he’s filed two notarized affidavits swearing under penalty of perjury that, based on Midland’s electronic records, Jeffrey owes $3,608.67 on the first account and $8,570.28 on the second. That’s a grand total of $12,178.95—plus interest, plus court costs, plus the emotional toll of being sued by a company you’ve never heard of. The affidavits are dry, repetitive, and oddly specific, citing dates, account numbers, and internal MCM reference codes like they’re evidence in a murder trial. But at no point does anyone produce a signed contract from Jeffrey with Midland. No emails. No texts. Just a paper trail of data transfers between financial institutions and a man in Minnesota who says, “Trust me, the computer says he owes money.”
So why are they in court? Simple: Midland wants a judgment. In plain English, they want a judge to officially declare that Jeffrey owes them $12,179.95 (we’ll round up, because who’s counting pennies at this point?). Once they have that judgment, they can start garnishing wages, freezing bank accounts, or putting a lien on property. It’s not a criminal case—Jeffrey won’t go to jail—but it can still wreck his credit, his finances, and his peace of mind. And let’s be clear: this isn’t about a forgotten $20 library fine. This is a serious financial claim, built entirely on the idea that debt can be bought, sold, and enforced like a baseball card or a vintage watch. The legal theory here is straightforward: if Citibank had the right to collect, and they sold that right to Midland, then Midland gets to step into Citibank’s shoes and sue just like the original lender could have. It’s called “assignment of debt,” and it’s completely legal—though morally, it feels a little like getting sued by the third owner of your old high school crush’s prom photo.
Now, what do they want? $12,179.95. Is that a lot? Well, for a debt collection case, it’s not chump change. Most small claims courts cap out around $10,000, but this case is in Oklahoma’s District Court, which handles bigger disputes. So yes—this is a premium debt. Not a payday loan gone wild, not a forgotten gym membership. We’re talking about over $8,500 on one card alone. For context, that’s enough to buy a used car, cover a year of rent in some parts of Oklahoma, or fund a really ambitious TikTok influencer wardrobe. And Midland isn’t asking for punitive damages or an injunction. They’re not demanding Jeffrey write a public apology or attend financial literacy classes. They just want the money. Cold, hard, court-ordered cash.
And here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole thing isn’t that debt gets sold. It’s not even that a guy in Minnesota is testifying—on paper—about a man in Oklahoma he’s never met. No, the real absurdity is how normal this all is. This isn’t some bizarre legal fluke. This is how the American debt economy works every single day. Millions of people have their financial missteps packaged, sold, and litigated by companies that profit from their misfortune. And the whole thing hinges on affidavits like Richard Hogan’s—documents that sound official, are notarized, and carry the weight of law, even though they’re based on secondhand data and corporate recordkeeping practices. Jeffrey might have defaulted. He might owe the money. Or maybe there’s a mistake—maybe the account was his ex’s, maybe he was a victim of fraud, maybe he paid it and the records got lost. We don’t know. And neither does Richard Hogan. But the system rolls on.
Do we root for Jeffrey? Sure, a little. Not because he’s definitely innocent, but because the whole setup feels like a rigged game. A man gets sued by a stranger for money he may or may not owe, based on records he can’t access, defended by a legal doctrine that treats debt like a trading card. It’s not high drama. It’s not a murder. But it is the quiet, grinding machinery of modern capitalism—and that might be the scariest true crime story of all. We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if we were on the jury? We’d at least want to see the original contract. And maybe ask Richard Hogan to explain what, exactly, a “Legal Specialist” does all day.
Case Overview
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Midland Credit Management, Inc.
business
Rep: LOVE, BEAL & NIXON, P.C.
- Jeffrey G. Macinnis individual
| # | Cause of Action | Description |
|---|---|---|
| 1 | debt collection | Plaintiff seeks to collect debt from Defendant |
| 2 | debt collection | Plaintiff seeks to collect debt from Defendant |