NewRez LLC v. SKYLER T. ISHMAEL

Let’s get one thing straight: someone’s dead, and now their house is about to be auctioned off over $66,790. Not millions. Not even six figures. We’re talking about a modest home in Glenpool, Oklahoma — a quiet suburb where the biggest drama is usually whether the HOA will fine you for leaving your trash can out too long — and now it’s ground zero for a posthumous financial bloodbath. Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where death doesn’t end your problems… it just makes them someone else’s.

Meet the Ishmaels. Or, more accurately, the surviving Ishmaels. Janine S. Ishmael, the original homeowner, is no longer with us — the filing helpfully notes she was single at the time of her death, which means no spouse automatically inherited her debt (or her house). But her name is still on the mortgage, and that’s a problem, because when you die owing money on a house, the bank doesn’t send flowers — it sends lawyers. Enter Skyler T. Ishmael, who appears to be a relative (possibly a child?), now juggling two very different hats: one as an individual defendant, and another as the personal representative of Janine’s estate. That means Skyler is legally in charge of cleaning up Janine’s financial mess — which, surprise, includes a mortgage that hasn’t been paid. Also named is Chander L. Ishmael, whose exact relationship to Janine or Skyler remains a mystery. Are they siblings? Cousins? In-laws who showed up at the funeral and never left? The court doesn’t say, but they’re clearly on the hook somehow. And then, because this is America and someone might be squatting in a foreclosed house like a reality TV show, we have the dramatic “Unknown Occupants” — a legal placeholder for anyone currently living at 1121 East 145th Place who might claim they have a right to stay. Maybe it’s a roommate. Maybe it’s a distant nephew who moved in after the funeral. Maybe it’s a raccoon with excellent credit. We may never know.

So how did we get here? Picture this: Janine took out a mortgage years ago, signed the paperwork, got the keys, lived her life. At some point, payments stopped. The filing doesn’t say why — maybe she got sick, maybe she lost income, maybe she just… stopped. But when you stop paying your mortgage, the lender doesn’t just sigh and say, “Eh, maybe next month.” No, they send a Notice of Right to Cure — which is basically the financial equivalent of a “final warning” card from a library, except instead of a 50-cent late fee, you lose your house. That notice is attached to the petition, meaning the lender followed protocol. The mortgage is still valid. The debt is still owed. And now, NewRez LLC — a national mortgage servicing company with the emotional warmth of a spreadsheet — is stepping in as the current holder of the loan, demanding payment or property. The balance? $66,790.03 as of March 3, 2026. That’s the principal, not counting interest, taxes, insurance, legal fees, or the emotional toll of being named in a foreclosure case while you’re still grieving.

Now, why are they in court? Let’s break it down without the legalese. NewRez isn’t suing for money damages in the traditional sense. They’re not asking the Ishmaels to write a check (though they wouldn’t say no). Instead, they’re asking the court for foreclosure — a legal process that allows a lender to seize and sell a property when the borrower defaults. The court’s job here is to confirm that the mortgage is valid, that the borrower defaulted, and that the lender followed all the rules. If the judge agrees, the house gets sold at auction, and the proceeds go to pay off the debt. Any leftover money might go to the estate (or heirs), but if the house doesn’t sell for enough? That shortfall could, in some cases, lead to further collection — though Oklahoma is generally a non-recourse state for purchase-money mortgages, meaning the lender can usually only go after the property, not the person. But since this case names the defendants individually, there may be more at stake than just the house.

And what does NewRez want? Well, first, they want the court to officially declare that the mortgage is in default and that they have the right to foreclose. Then, they want the house sold — “with or without appraisement,” which sounds like something a shady auctioneer would say, but it just means they don’t need a formal appraisal before selling. They also want the court to wipe out any competing claims to the property — that’s the “bar and foreclose all right, title, and equity of redemption” part — so no random cousin can show up six months later saying, “Actually, Grandma promised me that house.” They want attorney’s fees, court costs, and any expenses they’ve paid to keep the property insured or taxes current. And, of course, they want the sale proceeds applied to the debt. If there’s extra money? It goes to the court, pending further orders. If there’s not enough? Well, that’s someone else’s problem.

Now, is $66,790 a lot? In the grand scheme of real estate, not really. The average home in Glenpool is worth over $300,000. This debt is less than a quarter of that. But context matters. If the house is underwater — worth less than the loan — then selling it won’t cover the full amount, and the estate gets nothing. If the heirs want to keep the house, they’d have to pay off the full balance, plus interest and fees — a steep price for a property that may have been in the family for years. And let’s not forget: this isn’t just a financial transaction. It’s someone’s home. Someone’s final address. And now it’s being treated like a delinquent account in a database.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the debt, or the unknown occupants, or even the fact that a law firm in Iowa is handling a foreclosure in Oklahoma. (Yes, The Sayer Law Group is based in Waterloo, IA. Mortgage servicing is a national business, and your loan could be bought, sold, and litigated by companies that have never seen your street.) No, the absurdity lies in how impersonal it all is. Janine is gone. Her family is likely grieving. And the response from the system? A cold, mechanical legal petition with exhibits, jurisdictional statements, and prayers for relief — all while the house just sits there, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder, like a piece of furniture at an estate sale. We’re rooting for clarity. For fairness. For someone — anyone — to step in and say, “Wait, let’s figure out what actually happened here.” Because beneath the legalese and the dollar amounts, there’s a human story. A life lived. A family left behind. And a house that, for better or worse, was once called home.

But hey — we’re entertainers, not lawyers. So if you’re Skyler, Chander, or one of the mysterious unknown occupants, our advice? Call your attorney. And maybe start packing.