Elman and Sonia Carranza v. Two Guys Investments LLC, Lonnie Trecek, Raymond Lord

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a married couple is suing two real estate investors—yes, literally called Two Guys—for $150,000, not just for allegedly kicking their tenant out of a house they were trying to buy, but also for sending one of them to criminal court on felony charges that got tossed out like last week’s takeout. And no, this isn’t a plot from Better Call Saul—this is real life in Tulsa County, Oklahoma, where lease-purchase agreements go to die and grudges apparently come with criminal charges attached.

Meet Elman and Sonia Carranza, a married couple trying to play the real estate game in Tulsa the way many small-time investors do—by using creative financing. Elman, in particular, is described as someone who helps Hispanic families find unconventional ways to buy homes, which often means lease-to-own setups where buyers pay rent with the promise of ownership down the line. It’s a risky path, sure, but for families locked out of traditional mortgages, it’s sometimes the only ladder available. On the other side of this mess are Two Guys Investments LLC—yes, that’s the actual name—which, despite sounding like a sketchy garage band or a failing sandwich shop, is a legitimate Oklahoma LLC run by two men: Lonnie Trecek and Raymond Lord. They, too, dabble in the same world of alternative real estate financing, helping folks who might not qualify for bank loans get into homes through contracts that blur the line between renting and owning. So you’ve got two sides, both playing the same financial fiddle—just not in the same key.

The music starts in March 2015, when the Carranzas sign a lease-purchase contract with Two Guys for a modest piece of property in Tulsa: Lot 9, Block 11 of Pamela Acres. Nothing fancy, but a foothold. The contract, according to the filing, explicitly allowed the Carranzas to sub-rent the place—basically, to act as landlords while they worked toward ownership. And that’s exactly what they did. They brought in a tenant. They collected rent. And, they claim, every single payment due under the contract was made on time. No missed checks. No bounced payments. Just steady, quiet compliance. Or so they say.

But then—plot twist—Two Guys allegedly decided the contract was in default anyway. Without warning, they kicked out the Carranzas’ tenant, took back possession of the house, and slammed the door on the whole arrangement. Poof. Gone. No explanation, no grace period, no “hey, let’s talk about this.” Just eviction and exclusion. To the Carranzas, this wasn’t just a business dispute—it was a betrayal. They were following the rules, they say, and got punished anyway. And that would’ve been petty enough on its own. But oh, it gets juicier.

Because while the Carranzas were trying to figure out why their tenant was suddenly homeless and their investment evaporated, Elman got hit with a criminal charge: felony obtaining money by false pretenses. That’s not a traffic ticket. That’s not a civil squabble. That’s the kind of charge that lands you in jail, wrecks your credit, and makes your neighbors side-eye you at the Piggly Wiggly. And who’s behind the accusation? According to the lawsuit, none other than Lonnie Trecek and Raymond Lord—the same two guys who booted the tenant and took the house. They allegedly ran to law enforcement with claims that Elman defrauded them, spinning some yarn about false pretenses to get money. But here’s the kicker: the case didn’t just fall apart. It got dismissed with prejudice—a legal mic drop meaning it was so baseless, the court refused to even let it go to trial. The judge sustained a demurrer at the preliminary hearing, which is legalese for “there’s literally no evidence here, next!” So Elman walks, the charge evaporates, and now he’s left with a criminal record that almost wasn’t, a tarnished reputation, and the kind of stress that probably cost him a few years of his life.

So why are we in court? Three reasons, spelled out like a legal three-course meal. First: Breach of contract. The Carranzas say Two Guys broke the lease-purchase agreement by declaring default without cause and evicting their tenant—actions that torpedoed their path to ownership. Second: Malicious prosecution—a rare and spicy claim, because it’s not easy to prove someone weaponized the criminal justice system against you. But here, the dismissal with prejudice is the smoking gun. If there was no probable cause, and the case got tossed early, that opens the door to arguing it was never about justice—it was about revenge, or pressure, or power. And third: Unjust enrichment—a fancy way of saying, “You can’t keep the benefits of our deal while screwing us over.” The Carranzas argue that by taking back the property and kicking out their tenant, Two Guys got something for nothing, and that’s not how capitalism works—even in the wild west of alternative real estate.

Now, about that $150,000 demand: $75,000 in actual damages and another $75,000 in punitive damages. Is that a lot? For a single-family home in Tulsa, maybe not—especially if the property has appreciated since 2015. But let’s be real: this isn’t just about the house. It’s about the principle. It’s about being dragged through criminal court over a civil dispute. It’s about your name being dragged through the mud by business partners who then turned around and called the cops. The punitive damages? That’s the “you don’t get to do this to people and walk away” tax. And honestly, in a world where landlords sue tenants for emotional distress over missing a rent check, is it really so wild that someone would want accountability for being falsely accused of a felony?

Here’s the thing we’re chewing on: the sheer escalation of this mess. Two real estate players, operating in the same gray-zone financing world, enter a contract. One side claims the other broke it. Instead of mediation, arbitration, or even a civil lawsuit, someone picks up the phone and calls the police to file a felony fraud charge. That’s not dispute resolution. That’s a nuclear option. And when the nuke fizzles out in court, the fallout still lingers—on Elman’s record, his reputation, his peace of mind. The most absurd part? That anyone thought this was a good idea. That in 2024, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, two guys with an LLC thought the best way to handle a contract spat was to try to send someone to prison. And now, they’re the ones in the defendant’s chair, staring down a jury trial and a claim that they turned the criminal justice system into a personal vendetta machine.

Do we think the Carranzas will win? Who knows. These cases are messy, and contracts from 2015 have a way of growing fuzzy with time. But if even half of what’s alleged is true, then this isn’t just a fight over a house. It’s a warning shot across the bow of every shady landlord, every overzealous investor, every “two guys” who think they can play judge, jury, and prosecutor all at once. We’re not rooting for blood. We’re rooting for accountability. And if justice means Two Guys have to pay up for turning a real estate deal into a criminal circus? Well, that’s a show we’d pay to see.