Glenda Goodwin and Jimmy Goodwin v. Myron Fixico, Tanna Fixico, and John and/or Jane Doe Driver

Let’s cut right to the chase: a mystery driver in Oklahoma plowed into a couple’s vehicle, then ghosted the scene like they were starring in a low-budget action movie — and now, two years later, the victims are demanding $75,000 from people they’re not even sure were driving. Welcome to Goodwin vs Fixico, et al., where the real crime might be how little we actually know.

Glenda and Jimmy Goodwin are your classic small-town Oklahoma couple — the kind who probably wave at neighbors, keep their lawn mowed, and definitely don’t enjoy being T-boned by a hit-and-run driver. On February 21, 2018, their quiet lives took a hard left turn — literally, probably — when someone rammed into their car in Okfuskee County. The details are sparse, the drama is not. What we do know is this: Glenda and Jimmy walked away with more than just a dented fender. They’re claiming injuries, medical bills, lost wages, and enough pain and suffering to justify a $75,000 payday. And yet… the person who actually did the driving? Oh, honey. We don’t know who that is. That’s right — meet John and/or Jane Doe Driver, the legal equivalent of “some random person we’re pretty sure exists.” This case is like a detective novel where the detective hasn’t found the suspect, but still filed a restraining order.

Now, here’s where it gets juicier. The Goodwins aren’t just suing the phantom driver. They’ve also dragged in Myron and Tanna Fixico — a married couple, also from Okfuskee County — for the crime of allegedly owning the car. Their claim? Negligent entrustment. Which, in regular human speak, means: “You let someone drive your car, and that someone wrecked ours and fled like a cartoon villain. So you’re on the hook too.” It’s the legal version of blaming the guy who lent his buddy the keys after one too many at the bar — except here, we don’t even know if the Fixicos did lend the keys. The petition doesn’t say they admitted it. It doesn’t say there was a witness. It doesn’t say the car was registered to them, or that it was seen at the scene, or that anyone caught a license plate. It just says, “They negligently entrusted a motor vehicle to John or Jane Doe.” That’s it. It’s like building a house on a foundation of “maybe” and “possibly.” But hey — that’s how lawsuits work. You file first, facts later.

So what actually happened that day? The filing is light on specifics. No time. No location. No police report cited. No mention of weather, road conditions, or whether the Goodwins’ car was totaled or just had a scratch. We don’t know if they were stopped at a light, merging onto a highway, or parked in a Waffle House lot. All we know is: crash, someone bailed, and the Goodwins were left holding the bag — and the medical bills. They claim bodily injury, pain and suffering, property damage, and lost wages. That’s a lot of damage for a case with so few details. And yet, in the world of civil court, sometimes the vagueness is the strategy. You cast a wide net. You sue everyone who might be responsible. And you let discovery — the legal fishing expedition — sort out who actually did what.

Which brings us to the Fixicos. Who are they? Neighbors? Relatives? Former car dealers? The petition doesn’t say. But the fact that they’re being sued suggests someone — probably the Goodwins’ lawyer, Robert V. Seacat of The Seacat Law Firm — thinks they had some connection to the vehicle. Maybe the car was registered to them. Maybe someone saw it at their house. Maybe there’s a text message floating around that says, “Hey, can I borrow the truck real quick?” We don’t know. But the legal theory here hinges on “negligent entrustment” — a fancy way of saying, “You shouldn’t have let that person drive, because you knew or should’ve known they were a danger.” That could mean the driver was drunk, unlicensed, reckless, or just bad at parallel parking — the law doesn’t specify. But to win on this claim, the Goodwins would have to prove the Fixicos knew the driver was a risk. And right now? That’s a whole lot of “allegedly” stacked on top of “maybe.”

So what do the Goodwins want? $75,000. In cash. Or, more realistically, in insurance payout. Is that a lot? Well, for a fender bender, no. For a life-altering injury with surgeries, rehab, and months of missed work? Absolutely. But here’s the thing — $75,000 is also the magic number in Oklahoma for getting into district court. If you’re asking for more than $75,000, you’re in big-league litigation. Less than that? You’re in small claims or limited jurisdiction. So by demanding “in excess of $75,000,” the Goodwins aren’t just asking for money — they’re making a power move. They’re saying, “This is serious. We want a jury. We want full discovery. We want the whole courtroom drama.” And they’re getting it — they’ve formally demanded a jury trial. Cue the dramatic music.

Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room: John and/or Jane Doe Driver. That’s not a real name. That’s a legal placeholder for “we don’t know who hit us, but we’re suing them anyway.” It’s a common tactic — especially in hit-and-run cases — to preserve the statute of limitations. Oklahoma gives you two years to file a personal injury lawsuit. So by naming a fictional driver, the Goodwins locked in their claim, even if they hadn’t ID’d the actual person yet. Smart? Yes. Slightly absurd? Also yes. It’s like sending a wedding invitation to “Occupant” — technically correct, but emotionally unsatisfying.

So where does this leave us? A couple with injuries. A mystery driver on the lamb. And two other people caught in the legal crossfire because, hey, maybe they lent out their car. The Fixicos haven’t responded yet — at least not in this filing — so we don’t know if they’re shocked, angry, or just really bad at car security. But here’s the wildest part: this case could hinge on something as flimsy as a verbal permission. Did someone say, “Sure, take the car”? Did they hand over keys? Was it a family member? A friend? A distant cousin who once got a DUI in 2003? The burden is on the Goodwins to prove the Fixicos knew the driver was dangerous — not just that they let them drive.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the hit-and-run. Tragic, yes, but not unheard of. The absurdity lies in the legal net being cast so wide with so few facts. You’ve got a couple suing people they don’t know, for damages caused by someone no one can find, based on a theory that hinges on a conversation no one witnessed. It’s like a game of telephone played with subpoenas. And yet — we’re rooting for the Goodwins. Not because the case is airtight. It’s not. But because someone hit them, left them hurt, and drove away like their conscience was on a time limit. That’s the real outrage. The legal gymnastics? That’s just how you get justice when the system moves slower than a DMV line. So sure, the case is thin on details. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned from decades of true crime — petty or otherwise — it’s this: the truth is out there. And sometimes, you’ve gotta sue your way to it.