Salt Yoga, LLC v. Gordon & McCurley, P.C.
What's This Case About?
Let’s get one thing straight: this is not your average accounting dispute. We’re not talking about a misplaced decimal or an overcharged hourly rate. No, this is the kind of story that starts with “Wait, what?” and ends with “Did he really just do that?” An accountant — a certified public accountant, mind you, the same guy who’s been handling the books for a yoga studio and its owner for over two decades — is now accused of being the unwitting (or maybe not-so-unwitting?) middleman in a $159,000 cyber heist. How? By allegedly transferring money to a fake email address from a bank account that didn’t even exist. And no, the yoga studio didn’t lose the money to a rogue chakra cleanse investment. They lost it because their trusted CPA may have fallen for the most basic phishing scam since “Nigerian prince.”
Meet Teresa Gawey, the owner of Salt Yoga, LLC — a serene little wellness oasis tucked inside Utica Square in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where people presumably go to find inner peace, not get financially gut-punched. Teresa’s been working with Steve A. McCurley, a partner at the accounting firm Gordon & McCurley, P.C., for 25 years. That’s longer than some marriages last. McCurley wasn’t just doing her taxes — he was handling bookkeeping, financial statements, and even executing bank transfers on her behalf. He had access to her accounts. He knew her habits. He knew she only banked with Mabrey Bank. He knew her email was [email protected]. This wasn’t some fly-by-night gig. This was a full-on financial symbiosis.
So picture this: it’s January 2026. The air is crisp, the yoga mats are rolled out, and Teresa does what she’s done every January for years — she asks McCurley to move some cash from her business account to her personal savings. This year, it’s $114,000. She emails him from her usual address, gives clear instructions, even throws in the last four digits of her accounts to avoid confusion. All systems go. McCurley replies: “Will get the funds moved over.” Classic. Professional. Nothing seems amiss.
But then — plot twist — someone else emails McCurley. Same name. Similar email. But not the same. This message comes from [email protected] — note the misspelling: “gaway,” not “gawey,” and a Gmail account she’s never used. This imposter — let’s call them “Fake Teresa” — casually drops in: “Hey Steve, also move $45,000 to our other checking account ending in 2316… you got the routing number?” Now, remember: Teresa has never had a Chase account. Never mentioned one. Never authorized transfers to any bank outside Mabrey. But McCurley, instead of picking up the phone or doing a basic sanity check like, “Wait, since when do we have a Chase account?” — goes full autopilot. He says, “No, I don’t have it — send it to me.” And Fake Teresa does. Like it’s totally normal.
And then McCurley does the unthinkable: he transfers $45,000 to that Chase account. Then, when Fake Teresa says one of the transfers failed (probably because reality briefly tried to intervene), McCurley transfers the other $114,000 — the very money Teresa had asked to go to her Mabrey savings account — to the same Chase account. Total damage: $159,000. Poof. Gone. To a bank Teresa has never set foot in. To an email she didn’t send. To a request she never made.
When Teresa realizes the money never showed up in her account, she panics. She calls McCurley. She tells him something’s wrong. That his email might have been hacked. That someone’s impersonating her. And what does McCurley say? Not “Oh my God, I’ll call the bank.” Not “Let me reverse the transfers.” No. He says: “I was confused the day the transfers were made and still confused to day.” (Yes, “to day.” We assume that’s a typo, but honestly, at this point, who knows?)
Now, here’s the legal tea: Salt Yoga and Teresa aren’t suing the hacker — they’re suing McCurley and his firm. Why? Because they say he failed his duty as a professional. They’re not just mad — they’re alleging professional malpractice, negligence, and unjust enrichment. In plain English: “You were supposed to protect our money. You had all the red flags — wrong email, unfamiliar bank, out-of-character request — and you didn’t even blink. You didn’t call. You didn’t verify. You just handed over six figures like it was Monopoly money.” And because McCurley was acting as part of his job at Gordon & McCurley, the firm is on the hook too — legally speaking, they’re responsible for his screwups.
What do they want? At least $75,000 in actual damages — though they lost $159,000, they’re asking for a minimum of $75K, likely because some legal math or recovery attempts are factored in. But here’s the spicy part: they’re also demanding exemplary (a.k.a. punitive) damages. That’s not about making them whole — that’s about punishing the defendant. It’s the legal equivalent of saying, “You didn’t just mess up. You messed up so badly that we need to slap your wrist with a financial trout to make sure no other accountant ever zones out during a phishing scam again.”
Is $75,000 a lot? For a yoga studio, absolutely. That’s rent, payroll, new mats, essential oils, and maybe even a few silent retreats — all gone. But in the grand scheme of accounting firms and malpractice cases? Not crazy high. It suggests they’re not trying to bankrupt the firm — just hold them accountable. The real kicker is the punitive damages, which could multiply that number if the court agrees McCurley’s actions were that reckless.
Now, let’s talk about what’s really absurd here. It’s not that someone got hacked — cybercrime happens. It’s not even that an email scam worked — those are depressingly common. It’s that a certified public accountant, after 25 years of handling someone’s finances, didn’t have a single verification protocol. No phone call. No text. No “Hey Teresa, just confirming — since when do we have a Chase account?” Nothing. He saw an email from “Teresa” (sort of), asked for bank details (which any hacker could fabricate), and then moved six figures without a second thought. And then, when called out, his defense is “I was confused”? That’s not a defense. That’s a confession.
We’re not saying McCurley is the hacker. But we are saying that if your CPA is more trusting than a golden retriever at a dog park, maybe it’s time to reevaluate your financial relationships. And look, we’re all for mindfulness and trusting the universe — that’s what yoga’s about, right? But when it comes to moving $159,000, maybe a little paranoia is healthy. A quick phone call could’ve saved the day. Instead, we’ve got a lawsuit that reads like a cybersecurity PSA directed at middle-aged accountants who still use fax machines.
So whose side are we on? Hard to root for anyone who loses that much money — but Teresa and her yoga studio didn’t do anything wrong. They trusted a professional. And McCurley? Either he was shockingly careless, or he had the worst judgment of any CPA in Oklahoma history. Either way, this case is less about yoga and more about how not to run a financial practice. Namaste, but also — seriously, pick up the phone.
Case Overview
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Salt Yoga, LLC
business
Rep: Hall, Estill, Hardwick, Gable, Golden & Nelson, P.C.
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Teresa Gawey
individual
Rep: Hall, Estill, Hardwick, Gable, Golden & Nelson, P.C.
- Gordon & McCurley, P.C. business
- Steve A. McCurley individual
| # | Cause of Action | Description |
|---|---|---|
| 1 | negligence, professional malpractice, unjust enrichment | allegations of breach of duty to exercise reasonable care to protect client funds and prevent unauthorized transfers |