LVNV Funding LLC v. Cheryl Andrews

Let’s get one thing straight: someone is suing a woman in Oklahoma for $3,377.72—yes, down to the penny—because she didn’t pay off a credit card… and the company suing her isn’t even the bank that gave her the card. This isn’t a typo. It’s not a prank. It’s just another Tuesday in America’s wild, Wild West of debt collection, where your unpaid Target credit card balance can end up in the hands of a Delaware-registered LLC you’ve never heard of, represented by a law firm that sends out lawsuits like spam emails. Welcome to Crazy Civil Court, where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and the plot twists are all in the fine print.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Cheryl Andrews, a regular resident of Creek County, Oklahoma—no attorney listed, which means she’s probably flying solo in this legal rodeo. On the other side? LVNV Funding LLC, which sounds like a tech startup but is actually a professional debt buyer. These guys don’t issue credit cards. They don’t offer loans. What they do is buy up mountains of defaulted debt—your forgotten medical bills, your abandoned retail store cards, your “I thought that expired” credit lines—for pennies on the dollar, then sue to collect the full amount. It’s like buying a dumpster full of old electronics for $20 and then suing everyone who ever owned a broken iPhone. Ruthless? Maybe. Legal? Unfortunately, yes.

And the original creditor in this saga? Credit One Bank, N.A.—the same folks who brought you those late-night infomercials promising a credit card “even with bad credit!” (Spoiler: the interest rate is 29.99%, and the credit limit is $300.) According to the filing, Cheryl opened an account with them back on October 26, 2022. Somewhere along the way, she stopped paying. Default happened. The account got written off. Then—plot twist—it was sold. Not just once, but twice. First, it went to Credit Asset Sales LLC (another debt buyer with a name like a rejected Transformers character), which bundled it into “Portfolio 45184” (sounds like a spy mission, but it’s just a spreadsheet of bad debts). Then, on February 18, 2025—yes, 2025, which means this lawsuit was filed after the alleged sale—LVNV Funding bought the whole portfolio, including Cheryl’s $3,377.72 tab. And now, they’re not just asking for their money back—they’re asking a judge to order her to pay it, plus interest, court costs, and attorney’s fees. All because she once swiped a Credit One card for, let’s be honest, probably Amazon Prime and gas.

Now, you might be wondering: how does a company that wasn’t even part of the original deal have the right to sue someone? Great question. That’s where the “assignment” comes in—the legal paperwork that says, “Hey, we sold this debt, and now you own it.” LVNV claims they have that documentation, and they’ve attached an affidavit from one Andy Valdez, an “Authorized Representative” (title so vague it could mean anything from CEO to office intern), swearing that yes, the records show Cheryl owes this money, and yes, they now own the right to collect it. They even claim they sent her a demand letter more than 30 days ago—standard procedure before filing suit. But here’s the kicker: nowhere in this filing does it say what she bought, why she stopped paying, or whether she disputes the debt at all. Did she lose her job? Was there a billing error? Did she forget to update her address and never see the bills? We don’t know. This isn’t a trial. It’s a petition—a legal formality that says, “We think she owes us money, and we want a judge to make her pay.” If Cheryl doesn’t respond, LVNV wins by default. If she does, then—and only then—does this turn into an actual fight.

So what does LVNV want? $3,377.72. That’s the number. To some, that’s a car payment. To others, it’s a vacation. To someone in Creek County, Oklahoma, it might be three months of rent. It’s not a trivial sum, but it’s also not a fortune—especially for a company that likely paid maybe $300 for the entire debt. That’s the absurdity of the debt-buying industry: you can acquire thousands of defaulted accounts for pennies, then sue for the full amount, hire a law firm on contingency (meaning they only get paid if they win), and rake in profits while hiding behind corporate layers and legal jargon. And let’s talk about that law firm: Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C.—a firm that, according to public records, files hundreds of these debt collection lawsuits every year. Their attorney on this case, William L. Nixon, Jr., is listed as representing LVNV, along with six other attorneys on the same petition. Six! It’s like they’re sending an army to collect a bar tab.

Now, here’s where we give you our take—because let’s be real, we’re not lawyers, we’re storytellers with opinions. And our opinion is this: there’s something deeply unromantic about a company suing someone for $3,377.72 in 2025 over a credit card opened in 2022, using an affidavit signed on the same day the lawsuit was filed, by a guy named Andy Valdez who we know nothing about except that he works for the plaintiff and once had a notary watch him sign a document. Is the debt real? Maybe. Is Cheryl Andrews legally obligated to pay it? Possibly. But is it fair that a third-party investor can buy someone’s financial mistake, then weaponize the court system to collect it—complete with attorney’s fees and interest—while the original lender walks away unscathed? That’s where the system starts to smell like week-old leftovers.

We’re not saying people shouldn’t pay their debts. But we are saying that when a lawsuit like this gets filed with the emotional weight of a parking ticket and the legal machinery of a corporate takeover, something’s off. Where’s the conversation? The negotiation? The humanity? And let’s not forget: this case was filed in November 2025—a date that, at the time of this writing, hasn’t even happened yet. Either we’ve time-traveled, or someone’s paperwork is very ahead of schedule. (Okay, fine, it’s probably a typo in the data—but it adds to the surreal vibe.)

So who are we rooting for? Honestly? We’re rooting for Cheryl Andrews to at least show up. To file an answer. To ask for proof. To make them prove this debt is hers, that it was properly assigned, that the math adds up. Because if no one pushes back, the machine just keeps grinding. And next time, it might be your name on the docket—for a debt you don’t remember, sold to a company you’ve never heard of, suing you for a number that ends in .72 cents.

Welcome to the American debt circus. Popcorn’s on us.