Crown Asset Management, LLC Assignee of Credit One Bank N.A. v. Diana Lummus

Let’s get right to the juicy part: a debt collector is suing a woman in Oklahoma for $2,698.69—less than three grand—over a credit card she stopped paying. That’s not even enough to cover a decent used car down payment, let alone a full tank of gas in the economy we’re living in. And yet, here we are, in the hallowed halls of the District Court of Bryan County, where lawyers have gathered not to discuss murder, not fraud, not even a messy divorce—but a maxed-out Credit One Bank card that someone named Diana Lummus allegedly forgot to pay. Welcome to America, folks, where your credit score can summon a legal army before you even realize you’ve missed a bill.

So who are these players in this high-stakes drama of financial brinkmanship? On one side, we’ve got Crown Asset Management, LLC—corporate name sounds like a mid-tier property management firm, but no, this is a debt buyer. These are the folks who show up at the financial morgue, poke through the corpses of dead credit accounts, and say, “You know what? I’ll take that.” They don’t care about your credit history, your sob story, or the fact that you used that card to buy groceries during a rough patch. They bought your debt for pennies on the dollar from Credit One Bank, probably paid $600 for it, and now they’re suing for the full amount like they’ve been personally wronged. And they’re represented by RAUSCH STURM LLP, a law firm whose tagline might as well be “We Sue People So You Don’t Have To.” Their guy on the case? Michael J. Kidman, OBA #35912, who signed this petition not in Bryan County, not in Durant (where the court is), but in Tulsa, like he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend he was local. This is not personal. This is business.

On the other side: Diana Lummus. We don’t know much about her, and that’s the point. She’s not a villain. She’s not a hero. She’s just… someone who opened a credit card on July 9, 2023—maybe to cover rent, maybe for a vacation she immediately regretted, maybe just to survive. We don’t know. What we do know is she made payments, at least until July 5, 2024. That’s the last time she sent money in. After that? Radio silence. The account got closed on January 21, 2025, officially deemed a loss by the original creditor. And then—plot twist!—they sold her debt to Crown Asset Management, who then said, “Ah yes, fresh meat,” and filed a lawsuit almost exactly one year after the account was charged off. March 10, 2026. A year later. Not exactly swift justice, but hey, when you’re chasing $2,698.69, you can afford to be patient.

Now, let’s talk about what’s actually happening here. This isn’t a breach of contract case involving a failed business deal or a shady real estate flip. This is a “collection of debt” lawsuit—basically the civil court version of “you owe me money, pay up.” The legal claim is so boilerplate it might as well come with a watermark. Plaintiff says: “We own the debt. She used the card. She stopped paying. The balance is due.” That’s it. That’s the whole case. They even included the obligatory line that this is a communication from a debt collector—because federal law says they have to, like they’re giving you a little heads-up before they try to garnish your wages. And get this—they’re not just asking for the $2,698.69. They want costs, post-judgment interest, and—wait for it—a court order forcing the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission to hand over Diana’s employment history. That’s right. They want to know where she’s worked, presumably so they can figure out how to collect if they win. It’s not just about the money—it’s about access. They want to know if she’s got a job, if she’s getting unemployment, if she’s hiding income under a mattress. This is financial surveillance, dressed up as a civil petition.

So what do they want? $2,698.69. Is that a lot? Well, let’s put it in perspective. That’s about six monthly payments on a mid-range car loan. It’s two plane tickets to Florida. It’s one month of rent in some parts of Oklahoma, maybe two in others. But for someone living paycheck to paycheck—especially if they’re the kind of person Credit One Bank targets (hint: subprime, high-interest, “bad credit? no problem!”)—that kind of balance can snowball fast. Interest, fees, late charges—it adds up. And once the original creditor gives up and sells it to a debt buyer? Game on. These companies don’t sue for $30,000. They sue for $2,700. Because they know most people won’t show up to court. They know most people don’t have lawyers. They know that even if Diana wins, the stress, the time off work, the anxiety—it’s already a loss. And if she loses? The court enters a judgment, and then Crown Asset Management can start garnishing wages, freezing bank accounts, or putting liens on property. All over less than three grand.

Here’s the thing: this case is wildly unremarkable. That’s what makes it fascinating. This isn’t some scandalous betrayal or a heist gone wrong. This is the quiet, grinding machinery of American debt collection—where people get sued not because they committed a crime, but because they fell behind on a credit card. And the system is designed to favor the plaintiff. The burden is on Diana to dispute the debt, to show up, to prove she doesn’t owe it—or that the amount is wrong, or that the assignment wasn’t valid. But Crown Asset Management doesn’t have to prove they own the debt in the filing. They just say they do. And in courts across Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, and beyond, judges routinely rule in favor of debt collectors on paperwork alone. People don’t show up. They don’t know they’re being sued. They miss the deadline. Boom—judgment entered. And suddenly, you’re on the hook for thousands you thought you’d already settled or forgotten.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the amount. It’s not even the fact that a law firm in Wisconsin is suing an Oklahoma woman over a credit card she got in 2023. No, the real absurdity is how normal this is. This isn’t an outlier. This is the model. Debt buyers buy millions of dollars in delinquent accounts every year, file thousands of lawsuits, and win a staggering percentage of them—often by default, because the defendant didn’t show up. And while Crown Asset Management is out here demanding employment records like they’re building a dossier, Diana Lummus is just… a person. Maybe she lost her job. Maybe she had a medical emergency. Maybe she forgot. Doesn’t matter. The machine keeps running.

We’re rooting for transparency. We’re rooting for someone to stand up in court and say, “Prove you own this debt. Show me the assignment. Show me the contract. Show me something.” Because right now, the system rewards paperwork over people. And if we’ve learned anything from true crime, it’s that the quiet, bureaucratic horrors are often the most insidious of all. This isn’t Serial. It’s not The Jinx. But it is a story about power, about money, and about what happens when you fall behind in a country that never stops charging interest. And honestly? That might be the most American story of all.

(We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if you get sued for a credit card debt, maybe—just maybe—show up to court.)