Cavalry SPV I, LLC v. Jason Nunes

Let’s cut right to the chase: Jason Nunes, a regular guy in Beckham County, Oklahoma, is being sued for $18,150.42—because a faceless debt collection company says he owes Citibank money… from a credit card he may or may not have touched in years. That’s not just a chunk of change—that’s a used car, a solid chunk of a wedding, or, if you’re really committed, 900 rotisserie chickens at Costco. And who’s coming after him? Not the IRS. Not the mob. Not even Citibank. Nope. It’s Cavalry SPV I, LLC—a name that sounds less like a financial entity and more like a rejected boy band from the early 2000s. And they’re not here to chat. They’re here to collect. With interest.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Jason Nunes—guy, presumably human, lives in Oklahoma, and based on the filing, has been radio silent (or at least legally unresponsive) long enough for this case to make it to paper. We don’t know his job, his hobbies, or whether he prefers ranch or blue cheese on his wings. But we do know one thing: at some point, he had a Citibank credit card ending in 6862. That card, like so many before it, probably started with good intentions—maybe a new couch, a vacation that seemed like a good idea at the time, or just surviving a rough month. But then life happened. Payments got missed. The balance grew. And somewhere along the line, Jason stopped paying. That’s not unusual. What is unusual is what happened next.

Because Citibank didn’t just write off the debt and send in the usual barrage of sternly worded letters. Oh no. They did what banks love to do: they sold the debt. To Cavalry SPV I, LLC. Now, SPV stands for “Special Purpose Vehicle,” which sounds like something out of a James Bond movie, but in finance, it’s basically a shell company created for one job: buying up bad debt and trying to collect it. Think of them as the vultures of the financial world—circling, waiting, then swooping in when someone’s credit score takes a nosedive. They pay pennies on the dollar for these old accounts, then try to collect the full amount. It’s a profitable game. And in this case, Cavalry is betting that Jason Nunes either forgot about the debt, doesn’t have the energy to fight it, or just hopes it’ll go away if he ignores it long enough.

Spoiler: it did not go away.

Instead, Cavalry, armed with a legal team that reads like a law firm’s all-star lineup (six attorneys are listed, which feels like bringing a tank to a fender bender), filed a petition in Beckham County District Court. The document? Two paragraphs long. That’s it. Paragraph one: Citibank gave Jason credit. Jason stopped paying. Debt got assigned to us. Paragraph two: He owes us $18,150.42. That’s the whole case. No dramatic backstory. No evidence attached. No receipts, no statements, no dramatic confrontation at a gas station. Just: he owes us money, please make him pay. It’s less Law & Order, more Law & Paperwork.

Now, let’s talk about what they’re actually asking for. $18,150.42. That’s not chump change. For context, the median household income in Beckham County is around $55,000. So this debt is over a third of that. It’s not bankruptcy-level, but it’s not “oops, I forgot to cancel a subscription” either. It’s the kind of number that can wreck a credit score, trigger wage garnishment, or force someone into a payment plan they can’t afford. And Cavalry isn’t just after the principal—they want interest from the date of judgment, plus court costs and “a reasonable attorney’s fee.” Which, by the way, is already being handled by a firm that clearly bills by the attorney. Six names on a two-paragraph petition? That’s not reasonable. That’s aggressive.

But here’s the legal twist most people don’t know: just because someone says you owe money doesn’t mean you do. In debt collection cases like this, the burden is on the plaintiff—Cavalry—to prove they actually own the debt and that the amount is accurate. They need to show the chain of assignment from Citibank, the terms of the original agreement, and evidence that Jason was the cardholder. And in this filing? None of that is included. It’s like showing up to a potluck with an empty dish and saying, “I brought the salad—I just forgot to put it in the bowl.”

Now, is Jason Nunes guilty of racking up credit card debt and not paying it? Probably. Most people who get sued for $18K in credit debt did, in fact, spend the money. But that’s not the point in court. The point is whether Cavalry can prove it—and whether they have the right to collect it. Because here’s the thing: these debt buyers often buy portfolios of thousands of accounts in bulk, with minimal documentation. Sometimes, the records are incomplete. Sometimes, the debt’s already been paid. Sometimes, it’s past the statute of limitations. And sometimes—shockingly often—the company suing you can’t actually prove they own the debt. They’re gambling that the defendant won’t show up, won’t question it, and will just pay up to make it go away.

And that’s exactly what they’re counting on here.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part of this case isn’t the amount, or the shell company with a name that sounds like a rejected Netflix series. It’s the sheer audacity of the presentation. A two-paragraph lawsuit. Six attorneys. A demand for nearly $20,000. No evidence attached. No explanation. No “hey, we tried to work with you.” Just: pay up or we’ll ruin your credit. It’s the financial equivalent of a drive-by legal hit.

And yet… we kind of get it. From Cavalry’s perspective, this is business. They bought the debt cheap. They’ve got a legal team on retainer. They file these petitions all day, every day. Most people don’t respond. They win by default. Rinse, repeat. It’s a machine. And Jason Nunes? He’s just another cog.

But here’s where we side with the little guy. Because if you’re going to sue someone for $18,150.42—especially when you’re not even the original lender—you need to bring more than two sentences and a prayer. You need proof. You need transparency. You need to show your work. And if Jason Nunes wants to fight this—and he absolutely should—he could force Cavalry to produce the assignment agreement, the account statements, the payment history. He could ask for verification. He could even argue the debt is time-barred. And if Cavalry can’t produce the paperwork? Boom. Case dismissed.

So while we’re not saying Jason Nunes is innocent—we’re not his lawyer, we’re not anyone’s lawyer, we’re just the court-adjacent podcast hosts with opinions—we are saying this: don’t let the simplicity of the filing fool you. This isn’t just about a credit card bill. It’s about the entire shadowy ecosystem of debt buying, where your financial mistakes get packaged, sold, and weaponized by companies you’ve never heard of, using legal systems that favor paperwork over people.

And if Jason Nunes shows up to court with a notepad, a copy of the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act, and a very skeptical look in his eye? Honestly? We’re rooting for him. Because sometimes, the most satisfying victory isn’t winning the case—it’s making the machine work for its money.