Communication Federal Credit Union v. David Clemons

Let’s get one thing straight: David Clemons didn’t just borrow a few bucks and forget to pay it back—he defaulted on a $22,482.80 truck loan, and now a federal credit union is dragging him through Oklahoma’s Grady County court system like a rusted bumper behind a runaway RAM 1500. That’s right—this isn’t about an overdue library book or a forgotten Netflix subscription. This is about a truck. A big, hulking, 2017 RAM 1500, the kind of vehicle that probably came with a tow hitch, a deep growl, and a monthly payment that could feed a small family for a week. And now, someone’s gotta eat the tab.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Communication Federal Credit Union—yes, that’s a real name, and no, it doesn’t mean they specialize in yelling over walkie-talkies. It’s a financial institution that, like many of its kind, lends money to folks who want to buy cars but don’t have the full cash sum lying around in a duffel bag under the bed. They’re represented by a law firm with more initials than a superhero team—Robinson, Hoover & Fudge, PLLC—led by attorney Hugh H. Fudge, who, for the record, does not sound like a man you’d want to arm-wrestle. On the other side? David Clemons, a private individual, presumably a resident of Grady County, Oklahoma, who at some point between August 2021 and now decided he wanted a used truck more than he wanted financial peace of mind.

Here’s how this all went off the rails. Back on August 24, 2021—nearly five years ago, for those of us losing track of time during the pandemic—David Clemons signed a contract with BRYANS CAR CORNER to buy a 2017 RAM 1500. Now, we don’t know if this was a gleaming, low-mileage workhorse or a battle-scarred beast with mud in its treads and ghosts in its glove compartment, but we do know it came with financing. That loan was later assigned—transferred, in legalese—to Communication Federal Credit Union, which means the credit union now owns the debt. Clemons presumably made payments for a while—maybe religiously, maybe sporadically—until, at some point, he stopped. The filing doesn’t say why he stopped. Was he laid off? Did the truck break down? Did he decide he’d rather spend that money on something more exciting, like skydiving lessons or a lifetime supply of beef jerky? We may never know. But we do know that when he stopped paying, the credit union didn’t just sigh and write it off. No, they sent in the cavalry—or at least the repo men.

The truck was repossessed. That moment—when you walk outside and your ride is gone, replaced by a cold, empty driveway—is the automotive equivalent of a ghosting. But it doesn’t end there. The credit union, being responsible fiduciaries (or just cold-blooded capitalists, depending on your worldview), sold the truck. Probably at auction. Probably for less than what Clemons owed—because used trucks depreciate faster than a TikTok trend. After the sale proceeds were applied to the debt, there was still a whopping deficiency of $22,482.80. That’s not a typo. That’s over twenty-two grand—plus interest at 5.99% per year—that Clemons still owes, even though he no longer has the truck. The court filing says the interest accrued from January 14 to April 6, 2026, is $302.55, which sounds like a rounding error until you realize that’s just three months of interest on a debt that’s already massive.

So why are they in court? Because this is a classic breach of contract case—fancy legal speak for “you signed a deal, and now you didn’t hold up your end.” When Clemons financed that truck, he entered into a binding agreement. That contract said, in no uncertain terms, “You will pay us X amount of money every month until the balance is zero.” He didn’t. The credit union tried to mitigate their losses by repossessing and selling the collateral (the truck), but they still came up short. So now, they’re asking the court to step in and say, “Yes, David Clemons, you do owe this money,” and to order him to pay up—plus interest, plus court costs, plus attorney fees, because nothing says “I’ve been wronged” like billing by the hour.

What does the credit union want? Money. Specifically, $22,482.80 in principal, plus interest from the date of default, plus more interest going forward (called prejudgment and post-judgment interest, because the law loves redundancy), plus the costs of filing this lawsuit, plus a “reasonable” attorney fee under Oklahoma law. That last bit could add thousands more to the tab. Is $22,482.80 a lot? In the grand scheme of car debt, yes and no. It’s not a six-figure Lamborghini loan, but for a used 2017 RAM, it’s on the higher end—especially since the truck has already been sold. For context, a 2017 RAM 1500 in decent condition might sell privately for around $18,000 to $25,000 today, depending on mileage and condition. So the credit union is essentially saying Clemons owes nearly the full value of a comparable truck—without having the truck. That’s like returning a rental tuxedo two weeks late and getting billed for the entire Savile Row collection.

Now, here’s our take: The most absurd part of this whole saga isn’t that someone defaulted on a loan—that happens every day in America, where credit is dangled like candy and debt accumulates like dust. No, the absurdity lies in the escalation. A man buys a truck. He stops paying. They take the truck. They sell it. They still want almost the full original loan amount? That feels… excessive. Like charging someone full price for a concert ticket after they left at intermission. Sure, the contract allows for it—deficiency balances are a thing—but it still stings. Especially when you consider that David Clemons hasn’t even responded yet. This is a default lawsuit, meaning he hasn’t filed an answer or shown up in court. Maybe he moved. Maybe he’s broke. Maybe he’s just hoping this will go away if he ignores it hard enough. But in the eyes of the law, silence isn’t golden—it’s a confession.

We’re not rooting for deadbeats. We’re not saying people should get free trucks. But there’s something almost Shakespearean about this—man vs. machine, man vs. debt, man vs. Hugh H. Fudge. And honestly? We’re low-key rooting for Clemons to show up, drop some wisdom about predatory lending, and force the credit union to prove every penny. Or at least to file an answer so we can get some drama. Because right now, this case is less “Law & Order” and more “Law & Repossession,” and we’re here for the spectacle. Just don’t expect a happy ending—only interest accruals and court costs.