Andrew Morgan v. Stephen Schmedt

Let’s cut right to the chase: two guys co-own a business, one of them vanishes into the financial fog like a magician after a disappearing act, and the other is left holding a clipboard and screaming, “Hey! Where’d all the money go?” That’s not a plot twist from Succession—that’s real life in Oklahoma County, where Andrew Morgan is suing his 50/50 business partner, Stephen Schmedt, for the crime of… not sending bank statements. Yes, you heard that right. This isn’t about embezzlement (allegedly), fraud (not yet), or even a stolen office chair. It’s about paperwork. Or rather, the lack of it. And in the world of small business drama, nothing is more explosive than a man denied access to his LLC’s bank records.

Andrew Morgan and Stephen Schmedt weren’t just business associates—they were equal partners in Statewide Review Services, LLC, an Oklahoma-based limited liability company that, according to state records, is currently “inactive.” Which, in government-speak, means it’s not dead, but it’s definitely not breathing on its own. No operating agreement? Check. That’s like getting married without a prenup, except instead of arguing over a vintage record collection, you’re fighting over who paid for the domain name. Morgan lives in Utah (formerly Colorado, according to the filing—maybe he’s just always on the move), while Schmedt stays put in Edmond, Oklahoma, where he’s apparently been running the show solo, like a one-man band at a ghost town parade. Despite the company’s comatose status with the Secretary of State, Schmedt is allegedly still operating the business and keeping all the financial levers to himself. Meanwhile, Morgan? He’s been left out in the cold, peering through the window like a kid watching his sibling eat a sandwich he was promised half of.

The drama kicked off on May 6, 2025—mark your calendars, folks, because that’s when Morgan dropped a certified letter that reads less like a business inquiry and more like a polite ultimatum. “Hey Steve,” it basically says, “I’d like to see the tax returns, bank statements since 2022, and any loan documents. No big deal. Just transparency, you know? We are 50/50 partners.” He even offered to pay for the copies. How generous. How reasonable. How not what happened next. Schmedt, or more accurately Schmedt’s lawyer, responded with the corporate equivalent of “none of your business.” Some documents were handed over—probably the ones that make everything look fine, like a magician showing you an empty hat before the trick—but the bank statements? Nope. Not a chance. And that’s the red flag the size of a billboard: if everything’s above board, why hide the bank records? It’s like saying, “Sure, you can see my diet log… except for the part where I ate an entire pizza at 3 a.m.”

Now, let’s talk about what Morgan is actually asking for, because this isn’t a money grab—at least not directly. He’s not demanding $50,000, or even $5,000. There’s no dollar figure slapped on this lawsuit. Instead, he wants injunctions and declarations, legal terms that sound like something from a medieval court but really just mean: “Make him show me the bank statements” and “Tell me I’m allowed to see them.” He’s also asking for a full accounting of the company’s affairs—basically a financial autopsy to see what’s alive, what’s dead, and what’s been quietly moved to a different bank account. Under Oklahoma law (specifically 18 O.S. § 2021(B)), LLC members have the right to inspect records, get financial info, and demand an accounting when things smell fishy. And folks, this smells like last week’s tuna casserole left in a hot car.

The legal claims here are dry as a tax seminar—“breach of limited liability company records”—but the implications? Juicy. Morgan isn’t accusing Schmedt of stealing (yet), but he’s laying the groundwork. By refusing to provide bank statements, Schmedt may have violated Morgan’s statutory rights as a co-owner. And in the absence of an operating agreement—again, no rulebook, no playbook, just vibes and hope—that law becomes the only referee in this messy game. The court isn’t being asked to split profits or dissolve the company (not yet, anyway), but to force transparency. To say, “Hey, Steve, you can’t run a business with someone and then pretend they don’t get to look at the books.” It’s like co-owning a food truck and your partner saying, “I’ll handle the money,” then refusing to tell you how many tacos you sold last week.

So what does Morgan really want? Clarity. Control. And maybe, just maybe, proof that he hasn’t been getting ghosted financially. The relief sought—bank statements, an accounting, attorney’s fees—might seem minor in the grand scheme of civil litigation, but for a small LLC with no clear governance, it’s everything. Attorney’s fees could add up, sure, but this isn’t about the cost—it’s about the principle. And the principle is: if you’re 50% of a business, you get 100% of the right to know what’s going on. The fact that Morgan had to file a lawsuit just to see bank statements is less about greed and more about betrayal. It’s the business version of “I thought we were friends.”

Now, here’s our take: the most absurd part of this case isn’t that two grown men are fighting over financial records. It’s that they built a business together with no operating agreement. No rules. No guidelines. Just “we’ll figure it out.” And now they’re in court because one guy won’t hand over bank statements like it’s a grade school project. It’s like building a house without blueprints and then being shocked when the walls collapse. But honestly? We’re rooting for Morgan. Not because Schmedt is definitely shady (we don’t know that), but because transparency should be the default in any partnership. If Schmedt has nothing to hide, he should just hand over the damn bank statements and end this. Instead, he’s making his partner sue him. That’s not business—it’s passive-aggressive warfare with legal paperwork.

And let’s be real: if the accounting turns up something wild—undisclosed revenue, personal expenses billed to the company, a secret fleet of company-owned jet skis—we’re going to need popcorn. Until then, we’ll be here, waiting for the next chapter in Statewide Review Services: The Paper Trail.