Midland Credit Management, Inc. v. Jaclyn Haese

Let’s cut right to the chase: in early 2026, a woman in Oklahoma found herself being sued—not for assault, not for fraud, not even for stealing someone’s boyfriend—but for $2,684.96. That’s two thousand six hundred eighty-four dollars and ninety-six cents. Not even three grand. And yet, here we are, with a full-blown legal petition, multiple attorneys, affidavits from Minnesota, and enough paperwork to make a DMV clerk weep. Welcome to the wild world of debt collection, where nickels and dimes get their own court dates and a single late credit card payment can spiral into a courtroom drama worthy of a Netflix docuseries.

Meet Jaclyn Haese. Based on what we know, she’s just a regular person—probably someone who once filled out a credit application at a department store, got approved, bought some stuff, and, like many of us, eventually fell behind on payments. Nothing too scandalous. No embezzlement, no Ponzi schemes. Just life—rent, groceries, car repairs, maybe a surprise vet bill—and suddenly, the credit card minimums become unmanageable. Enter the plaintiff: Midland Credit Management, Inc., a debt collection company based in Minnesota that doesn’t blink at suing people over amounts that, frankly, wouldn’t even cover a decent used car down payment. Midland isn’t the original lender. Oh no. They’re the second owner of the debt—the financial equivalent of a repo man for IOUs. They bought these delinquent accounts for pennies on the dollar and now want to collect the full amount, plus interest, like it’s some kind of karmic obligation.

So what exactly went down? According to the filing, Jaclyn had three separate credit accounts that went south. The first was with Credit One Bank—yes, that Credit One, the one that sends mailers to every mailbox in America like they’re giving out free puppies. Account number ending in 6187. She opened it in December 2022, presumably to buy something fun or necessary (or both), made her last payment in August 2024, and then—poof—no more payments. The account was charged off in September 2023 (which means the original lender gave up on collecting and sold it off), and by January 2026, Midland claims she owes $1,236.27. That’s the first count.

Then there’s Comenity Bank—yes, that Comenity, the one tied to a dozen retail stores you’ve definitely shopped at. Maybe it was a Victoria’s Secret card. Maybe it was a Wayfair card. Doesn’t matter. Account ending in O552 (weird that it has an “O,” but okay, paperwork isn’t perfect). Midland says they now own that debt too, and Jaclyn owes $495.14. And finally, Comenity Capital Bank—basically the same company but with a slightly fancier name—account ending in 8991. Another $953.55. Add it all up, and you get $2,684.96. That’s not chump change, sure, but it’s also not a down payment on a house. It’s less than the average American spends on takeout in a year. And yet, here we are, with a lawsuit.

Why are they in court? Well, because Midland wants a judgment. And what’s a judgment? Simple: it’s a court stamp that says, “Yes, you owe this money,” and once you have that, the collector can start garnishing wages, freezing bank accounts, or putting liens on property. It’s the legal equivalent of turning up the pressure. Without a judgment, they’re just sending letters and calling your phone. With one? They can get the state to help them take your money. And to get that judgment, they have to prove they actually own the debt and that the amount is accurate. That’s where the affidavit from Mohamed Hassan comes in—a Legal Specialist from Midland’s team in St. Cloud, Minnesota, swearing under penalty of perjury that, yes, the records show Jaclyn owes this money, the accounts were properly assigned, and the balance is correct as of January 2026. It’s dry, it’s technical, it’s full of legalese, but the gist is: “We bought the debt, we have the paperwork, and we want our $2,684.96.”

Now, let’s talk about what they’re asking for. $2,684.96. Is that a lot? Depends on who you ask. If you’re a hedge fund buying thousands of delinquent accounts for cents on the dollar, that’s a solid return. If you’re a single mom in Lincoln County, Oklahoma, trying to keep the lights on and the minivan running, that’s a very stressful number. For context, the median household income in Lincoln County is around $60,000. So we’re talking about roughly 4.5% of a year’s income—equivalent to a month’s rent, or a major car repair, or a family vacation to Disney World (if you skip the park tickets). It’s not nothing. But is it worth a lawsuit? Is it worth multiple attorneys at Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.—yes, that’s a real law firm, and yes, they have six attorneys listed on this one petition—spending billable hours drafting affidavits and filing motions over less than three grand? Apparently, yes. Because in the debt collection game, volume is everything. If you sue 10,000 people and win even 60% of the time, you’re making millions. Jaclyn Haese isn’t a person to them. She’s a data point. A line item. A balance sheet.

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this whole saga isn’t that someone owes money. People fall behind on bills. It happens. The absurd part is the machinery that kicks in when they do. A woman in Oklahoma is being sued by a company in Minnesota, represented by lawyers in Oklahoma City, based on an affidavit signed in Stearns County, Minnesota, over a debt originally issued by banks that likely don’t even remember her name. The whole thing feels like a game of financial telephone—where the original agreement between Jaclyn and her credit card issuer has been so diluted by corporate handoffs and legal proxies that it’s barely recognizable. And yet, the court system treats it like a sacred contract. Meanwhile, Jaclyn probably didn’t even know she was being sued until a process server showed up at her door. She might not have the time, resources, or legal know-how to fight back. And if she doesn’t respond? Boom. Default judgment. Wage garnishment. And all over $2,684.96.

Do we think she should pay what she owes? Maybe. If she truly agreed to the terms and used the credit, then yes, responsibility matters. But do we think it’s wild that this is how debt collection works in America? Absolutely. We’re rooting for transparency. We’re rooting for fairness. We’re rooting for a system where people aren’t blindsided by lawsuits over amounts they could’ve paid off with a single credit card payment—if only someone had talked to them instead of immediately lawyering up. And honestly? We’re rooting for Jaclyn to at least file an answer, just to make Midland and their half-dozen attorneys do a little more work for their $2,684.96. Because if nothing else, this case proves one thing: in America, even your credit card debt gets a courtroom drama. And the audience? That’s us. Enjoy the show.