AUTO FINANCE USA, LLC v. RICHARD CHRISTAPHOR COLBERT

Let’s cut straight to the chase: a man in Oklahoma owes $11,690 for a 2010 Toyota Camry—yes, that sedan of sedans, the automotive equivalent of beige wallpaper—and now a faceless finance company is dragging him through court like he stole the Crown Jewels. And get this: they’re charging him nearly 20% interest on what is, at this point, essentially a rolling junkyard donation. This isn’t a heist. It’s not even a parking ticket drama. This is the legal system weaponizing compound interest against a dude who probably just wanted a car that wouldn’t die mid-commute.

Meet Richard Christaphor Colbert, a man whose name sounds like a Renaissance fair bard who moonlights as a tax preparer. We don’t know much about him—no criminal record cited, no dramatic backstory, no evidence he drove this Camry into a lake while fleeing federal agents. He’s just… a guy. A regular human who, like many of us, needed wheels and likely didn’t have the luxury of paying cash for them. On the other side? Auto Finance USA, LLC—a name so generic it might as well be “Car Money Inc.” or “Loan Guys Who Will Haunt You.” They’re represented by the law firm Robinson, Hoover & Fudge (yes, Fudge—and no, we’re not making that up), which sounds less like a legal powerhouse and more like a trio of accountants who got their licenses online. These are the modern-day debt wranglers, the ones who show up in your mailbox with envelopes that make your stomach drop.

So what happened? Well, buckle up, because the plot is about as thrilling as a flat tire change in the rain. Back on January 30, 2025—yes, that’s in the future as of this writing, but let’s assume it’s a typo and they meant 2023 or 2022—Richard bought a 2010 Toyota Camry. The seller? A company called The Key, LLC, doing business as The Key Cars, which sounds like a sketchy used car lot that operates out of a trailer next to a pawn shop. They sold Richard the car under a financing agreement, meaning he didn’t pay for it all at once. Instead, he promised to make payments over time. That’s normal. That’s how most people buy cars. But somewhere along the line, Richard stopped paying. Defaulted, as the court papers so dramatically put it. We don’t know why—maybe he lost his job, maybe the car broke down (again, it is a 2010 Camry), maybe he moved and forgot to update his address. The filing doesn’t say. And honestly? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the contract was breached. The gears of capitalism ground forward.

So what did Auto Finance USA do? They repossessed the car. Can’t say we’re surprised—this is Debt Collection 101. Then they sold it. Again, standard procedure. But here’s the kicker: after they sold the car, they claim they still didn’t get enough money to cover what Richard owed. That gap—the “deficiency balance”—is now their golden ticket to a lawsuit. And that’s how we end up here, in the hallowed halls of the District Court of Oklahoma County, arguing over who owes what for a car that probably had more duct tape than paint by the end.

Now, let’s talk about the math, because this is where things get wild. The plaintiff says Richard owes $11,690.59 in principal. That’s not just the price of the car—that’s what was left after they sold it and subtracted the proceeds. And on top of that? They’re tacking on $1,161.77 in interest—at a rate of 19.93% per year. Let that sink in. This isn’t a credit card APR joke. This is a car loan with interest so high it would make a payday lender blush. For context, the average auto loan interest rate for someone with decent credit is around 5-7%. Even for subprime borrowers, we’re talking maybe 10-15%. But 19.93%? That’s loan shark territory, dressed up in a polo shirt and a “We Finance Anyone!” sign.

And don’t think they’re stopping there. Auto Finance USA isn’t just asking for the $12,852.36 they claim is owed. Oh no. They’re also demanding attorney’s fees, court costs, and pre- and post-judgment interest, which means this number could keep growing like a moldy science experiment in a high school locker. All of this is perfectly legal, thanks to Oklahoma statutes like 12 O.S. § 936, which allows for attorney fees in contract disputes. So not only does Richard potentially owe over $13,000 for a car that likely sold for less than $6,000 when new, but he might also have to pay for the lawyer who sued him. It’s like being fined for being late to work and having to cover your boss’s gas money for driving to the office to yell at you.

Now, is $13,000 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, no—it’s not a multi-million-dollar fraud case or a wrongful death claim. But for the average person? That’s a life-altering sum. That’s a year of rent. That’s a down payment on a different car. That’s two years of student loan payments. That’s a vacation to Mars. And it’s all being chased over a 13-year-old sedan that probably had a glove compartment held shut with bungee cords.

Here’s the thing we can’t get over: the sheer banality of the escalation. A man needed transportation. He got a car. He couldn’t keep up with payments—maybe through bad luck, maybe poor planning, who knows. The car was taken and sold. But instead of cutting their losses, the lender decided to go full litigation mode. They hired a law firm. They filed a petition. They listed five separate forms of relief, like this is some epic battle of contractual honor. And for what? To recover a debt on a vehicle so old it predates the iPhone 4?

We’re not saying people shouldn’t pay their debts. We’re not advocating for joyriding and skipping payments like it’s a game of financial Frogger. But there’s a point at which the punishment stops fitting the crime and starts looking like financial predation. When a company charges nearly 20% interest on a used car loan and then sues for a deficiency balance on a vehicle that was, at best, a temporary solution to a transportation problem, it stops feeling like contract enforcement and starts feeling like legalized hounding.

And let’s talk about that interest rate again. 19.93%. That’s not just high—it’s predatory. It’s the kind of number that traps people in cycles of debt they can’t escape. One missed payment, and boom—compound interest kicks in, and suddenly you owe more than the car was worth when it was new. This isn’t responsible lending. This is debt farming.

So where do we stand? Auto Finance USA wants their money. Richard Colbert, presumably, wants to not be sued. The court will likely rule in favor of the plaintiff—because that’s what courts usually do in clear breach-of-contract cases like this. But victory here feels… hollow. Who really wins? A finance company that profits off high-risk loans? A law firm billing hours to collect on a 13-year-old Camry? Or does everyone lose—except the lawyers, who, let’s be honest, are the only ones driving off in something newer than a 2010 Toyota?

We’re rooting for the absurdity to be acknowledged. For someone—anyone—in this process to pause and say, “Wait, are we really doing this over this?” But we know that won’t happen. Because in America, contracts are sacred, even when they’re signed on a car that should’ve been retired to a museum of obsolete appliances. So Richard Christaphor Colbert, we see you. Your name is poetic. your situation is not. And your 2010 Camry? It may be gone, but its ghost lives on—in court documents, in interest calculations, and in the cold, unblinking eyes of the debt collection machine.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But even we know this: some debts aren’t just financial. They’re emotional. And this one? It feels like a tax on simply trying to get by.