Dana Errthum v. Bryan Rogers

Let’s get one thing straight: Dana Errthum didn’t just lose $45,000 on some half-baked side hustle. She allegedly handed over nearly the cost of a brand-new Tesla to a guy who promised her a cut of a marijuana grow empire that, as far as we can tell, existed mostly in PowerPoint and PowerPoint alone. Now she’s suing Bryan Rogers for $100,000—because apparently, betrayal has a markup.

Dana and Bryan weren’t strangers, but they weren’t married, either. The court filing doesn’t spell out their relationship status, but the vibes are “we’ve known each other long enough for me to trust you with my life savings, but not long enough to have a prenup.” In 2019, Oklahoma had just legalized medical marijuana, and the air was thick with dreams of green—both the plant and the profit. Enter Bryan Rogers, a man allegedly ready to ride that wave with a business called Strains Galore, LLC—a name so on-the-nose it sounds like a stoner’s fever dream. Dana, perhaps smelling opportunity (or something earthier), agreed to invest. Over nine months, she funneled $45,000 into Bryan’s vision. That’s not spare change. That’s a down payment on a house. A kid’s college fund. A very long vacation in a place where people don’t grow weed in basements.

According to Dana, this wasn’t a handshake deal over a bong hit. There were term sheets. Actual documents. Signed. Promising she’d get $66,000 back. That’s not just a return of her investment—it’s a $21,000 profit on a business that, again, appears to have never actually grown anything beyond its own mythology. Bryan supposedly launched the operation, but like so many startups named after puns, it flamed out. The grow failed. The money vanished. And Dana was left holding a term sheet and a sinking feeling.

But here’s where it gets juicier: Bryan did pay her back $5,000. One payment. In December 2024. Two years ago as of this filing. It’s the financial equivalent of sending a sympathy card after burning down someone’s house. Dana claims he didn’t just fail—he lied. She says he misrepresented the health of the business, assured her it was thriving when it was more like barely breathing, if at all. And instead of using her $45,000 to buy grow lights, nutrients, and security systems, she suspects he used it for… well, who knows? New tires? A vacation? Therapy for dealing with the stress of running a business that doesn’t exist? The filing doesn’t say, but it does allege he “commingled, diverted, or otherwise misapplied” the funds. In legalese, that means: he might’ve spent it on himself.

So why are we in court? Because Dana isn’t just mad—she’s lawyered up. And not with some solo practitioner who handles traffic tickets. She’s got Enlow Law. Brothers J. Andrew and Zachary Enlow, with their matching OBA numbers and a law firm address on East 21st Street in Tulsa. These guys don’t mess around. They’ve laid out a legal trifecta of accusations: breach of contract, breach of fiduciary duty, and fraud. Let’s break that down like we’re explaining it to a jury of stoners.

First: Breach of Contract. Simple version? You promised to pay me back $66,000. You didn’t. You only paid $5,000. That’s a broken promise, and in court, broken promises are called breaches. Dana says there was a deal, it was real, and Bryan didn’t hold up his end.

Second: Breach of Fiduciary Duty. This one’s juicier. It’s not just that he didn’t pay her back—it’s that he owed her more than money. When someone entrusts you with their cash, especially in a business deal, the law says you have a duty to act in their best interest. You can’t just take their money and blow it on a fishing boat. Dana claims Bryan had a responsibility to protect her investment, to be honest, to keep it separate, and to return it when things went south. Instead, she says, he treated her $45,000 like his personal ATM. That’s not just bad business—it’s a legal no-no with extra drama.

Third: Fraud. The nuclear option. Dana isn’t just saying Bryan failed. She’s saying he lied to get her money. That he made false promises about the business being viable, knowing it wasn’t—or at least not caring. And she believed him. She relied on his words. And now she’s out $40,000 after the partial repayment. Fraud is serious. It’s not just about losing money. It’s about being duped. And if proven, it opens the door to punitive damages—money not to compensate Dana, but to punish Bryan. The filing asks for $75,000 in punitive damages alone. That’s the legal version of a slap on the wrist with a leather glove soaked in shame.

So what does Dana want? She’s seeking actual damages—meaning real losses—over $75,000 (though she originally invested $45,000, the claim includes interest, lost opportunity, and emotional distress, probably). Plus punitive damages of another $75,000. Total demand? Up to $150,000, though the petition caps actual damages at just under federal diversity jurisdiction limits—basically, she doesn’t want this case jumping to federal court, so she’s keeping the numbers just low enough to stay in Tulsa County. Smart legal chess move. Also? She wants her attorney’s fees. Because if Bryan loses, she shouldn’t have to pay for the privilege of suing him.

Now, is $100,000 a lot for this? For most people, yes. It’s life-altering money. But in the world of failed weed startups? It’s practically a cautionary tale with a receipt. Oklahoma’s medical marijuana boom created a gold rush of green entrepreneurs, many of whom learned the hard way that growing cannabis is harder than it looks on Instagram. Licenses, compliance, pests, theft, market saturation—turns out, it’s not just about planting seeds and counting cash. But Dana isn’t suing because the business failed. She’s suing because she thinks Bryan used the failure as a cover to keep her money. And that’s the difference between bad luck and betrayal.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t that a marijuana business failed—those are practically a public service announcement at this point. It’s that someone thought Strains Galore, LLC sounded like a credible company and then signed a term sheet promising a 47% return on investment. That’s not a business plan. That’s a Ponzi scheme with better branding. We’re also side-eyeing the fact that Dana waited until 2026 to sue—four years after the investment, two years after the last payment. What took so long? Did she give him chances? Did she believe the next check was always coming? Or did she just now realize she’d been had?

But here’s the truth: we’re rooting for accountability. Not necessarily for Dana to get $100,000, but for Bryan to explain—under oath—exactly what happened to that $45,000. Did the grow operation really exist? Were there plants? Permits? Payroll? Or was it all just vapor, like the smoke from a joint that never should’ve been lit? This isn’t just about money. It’s about whether you can promise someone a piece of the green dream and then disappear with their cash like a magician with a bad act.

One thing’s for sure: when this case goes to trial, the jury better be sober.