UNITED AUTO CREDIT CORPORATION v. MICHELLE ANN PRINCE and JERRY LEE PRINCE SR

Let’s get straight to the part that made us spit out our coffee: 21%. Yes, twenty-one percent interest on a used 2017 Honda Pilot. That’s not a typo. That’s not a payday loan for a cursed artifact. That’s what a car financing company in Oklahoma is legally charging two people who just wanted to drive their family SUV without having to hotwire it. If you think that sounds like the plot of a dystopian black comedy where vehicles are paid for in blood and servitude, buckle up—because this is real life, and it’s happening in Caddo County.

Meet Michelle Ann Prince and Jerry Lee Prince Sr., a married couple (we assume—joint auto loans usually suggest some level of commitment beyond “casual ride-or-die”) who, back in February 2024, walked into Joshuas Auto Sales with dreams of reliable transportation and left with a 2017 Honda Pilot and what can only be described as a financial time bomb. Now, we don’t know what kind of sales pitch they got—maybe the guy in the polyester suit promised them free oil changes for life or a complimentary air freshener shaped like a pine tree—but somewhere in that transaction, they signed a contract that would eventually lead to United Auto Credit Corporation suing them for nearly $15,000. And yes, that interest rate—21%—is not just high, it’s loan-shark-next-door high. For context, most credit cards cap out around 29%, but those are unsecured debts. This is a secured auto loan… on a seven-year-old SUV. The car probably depreciated faster than their credit score.

So what went wrong? According to the filing—short, sweet, and legally efficient—the Princes stopped making payments. That’s it. That’s the whole crime. They defaulted. Now, “default” sounds dramatic, like they blew up the car or used it in a bank heist, but in reality, it likely means they missed a few payments. Maybe Jerry got laid off. Maybe Michelle had medical bills. Maybe the transmission blew and they couldn’t afford both repairs and the monthly note. We don’t know, and the petition doesn’t care. All it says is: they didn’t pay. So United Auto Credit, the company that bought the loan from the dealership (because yes, car loans are routinely sold like trading cards), repossessed the Honda Pilot. Then, they sold it—probably at auction, likely for less than the outstanding balance, because used SUVs from 2017 aren’t exactly flying off the lot.

Here’s where it gets spicy. After the sale, there was still money owed. Not because the car was undersold—that happens—but because of that 21% interest rate quietly compounding like mold in a forgotten Tupperware. The principal deficiency? $12,584.44. The interest accrued after the default, from March 2025 to March 2026? $2,483.44. Let that sink in: in one year, interest added almost a quarter of the original deficiency. That’s not just high—it’s predatory-adjacent, especially for a vehicle that’s not exactly a luxury model. For reference, the average new car loan interest rate in 2024 hovered around 6-7% for prime borrowers. The Princes were paying triple that. Was their credit rough? Maybe. But charging 21% on a used Honda Pilot feels less like finance and more like financial vengeance.

Now, why are they in court? Simple: United Auto Credit wants a judgment. They’re not asking for the car back—that ship has sailed, or rather, been auctioned off. They want cold, hard cash. Specifically, $12,584.44 in principal, plus that $2,483.44 in interest, plus more interest going forward (called prejudgment and post-judgment interest, because of course there’s more), plus court costs, plus attorney fees under Oklahoma law (12 O.S. § 936, if you’re into that kind of thing). The total demand? $14,706.88. And no, they didn’t ask for a jury trial, which tells you everything you need to know: this is a paperwork war, not a courtroom drama. It’s the legal equivalent of sending a strongly worded email with a spreadsheet attached.

Now, is $14,700 a lot? Well, sure—if you’re already struggling to make car payments on a used Honda, an extra fifteen grand is basically a financial asteroid impact. But from the lender’s perspective? This is business as usual. United Auto Credit Corporation isn’t some mom-and-pop shop. They’re a specialty finance company that buys high-risk auto loans—the kind that regular banks won’t touch because the borrowers are more likely to default. And how do they mitigate that risk? By charging sky-high interest rates. It’s a calculated gamble: some people will pay, some won’t, but the ones who do pay will cover the losses—and then some. In that sense, the Princes aren’t individuals to this company. They’re data points. Actuarial tables with names.

But here’s the thing that makes this case absurdly petty and weirdly tragic at the same time: none of this had to happen. The car was repossessed. It was sold. The lender got something. Yet they’re still chasing a family for thousands of dollars on a vehicle that, by 2026, was worth maybe half of what they’re claiming. And let’s be real—how many 2017 Honda Pilots are still kicking around with under 100,000 miles and a full set of tires? That car had a good run. It probably hauled kids to soccer, survived road trips, maybe even towed a trailer once. And now, its afterlife is a legal footnote in a debt collection case.

Our take? We’re rooting for the Honda. Seriously. That SUV did its job. It got them from point A to point B. It didn’t ask for a 21% interest clause. It just wanted to be washed occasionally and not parked under a tree full of birds. Meanwhile, United Auto Credit is acting like the Princes stole the Mona Lisa and sold it on the black market. They want every penny, plus interest, plus fees, plus a side of legal garnish. And while yes, contracts are contracts, and people should pay their debts—there’s a line where finance stops being responsible and starts being exploitative. Charging over 20% interest on a used family SUV in rural Oklahoma? That line was crossed, U-turn made, and driven over again for good measure.

Look, we’re not saying the Princes are saints. Maybe they should’ve budgeted better. Maybe they should’ve refinanced. But let’s not pretend this is a simple case of “they didn’t pay, so now they owe.” This is a story about a system that lets finance companies slap triple-digit APRs (effectively) on basic transportation, then sue when life happens. A job loss. A medical emergency. A flat tire that spirals into a repossession. And at the end of it all? A $15,000 judgment that could wreck a credit score for years.

So here’s our verdict: the real crime isn’t the default. It’s the interest rate. And if we ever start a podcast called Crazy Civil Court: Debt Edition, this case is the pilot episode. Pun intended.