Jeffrey K. Lord v. Justin Prince
What's This Case About?
Let’s cut straight to the wild part: a man named Justin Prince—yes, that’s his real name—allegedly conned a fellow Oklahoman out of $125,000 by selling him a piece of a swimming pool company that may as well have been built entirely out of vapor and PowerPoint dreams. This isn’t just some shady handshake deal at a backyard barbecue. No, this is a full-blown, allegedly orchestrated, multi-count civil meltdown involving unregistered securities, missing money, secret bank withdrawals, and a man who may have used his investors’ cash to fund a lifestyle more suited to a Real Housewives spin-off than a legitimate business. And yes, one of the legal claims is literally called “rescission,” which sounds like something a villain in a legal thriller says while dramatically tearing up a contract.
Meet Jeffrey K. Lord—the plaintiff, the investor, the guy who thought he was getting into the lucrative world of in-ground fiberglass installations but instead got a front-row seat to what might be the most dramatic pool scam since someone tried to sell a kiddie pool as a “private resort experience.” Lord, a Tulsa-based individual with apparently enough spare change to toss $125,000 at a startup, was approached in September 2024 by Justin Prince, the self-styled visionary behind Anthem Pools of Oklahoma, LLC. Prince, according to the filing, didn’t just pitch Lord on a business opportunity—he sold him a fantasy. “Invest $125,000,” the pitch allegedly went, “and you’ll get a 5% stake in a booming pool empire with sky-high returns, zero risk, and all the financial transparency you could want.” It was, in short, the financial equivalent of being offered a gold-plated pool float shaped like a swan—luxurious, improbable, and possibly not even real.
Now, if you’re wondering why someone would hand over that kind of money without so much as a signed contract or a prospectus, well… that’s part of the problem. According to Lord’s petition, there was no formal offering document, no private placement memorandum, nothing you’d expect in a legitimate securities deal. Just vibes. And promises. And a handshake (or, more accurately, a wire transfer). Prince allegedly told Lord the money would be used for working capital, inventory, marketing—standard startup stuff. He claimed the company had solid financial controls, accurate books, and that investors like Lord would be kept in the loop. There was even an operating agreement signed—attached as Exhibit A, because of course it was—that said everything was above board and exempt from registration. But here’s the kicker: Lord claims Prince knew that wasn’t true. That the whole thing was skating way outside the lines of Oklahoma securities law. That this wasn’t just a risky investment—it was a legally questionable one from the start.
Fast-forward a few months. Lord, now a proud (if silent) 5% owner, starts wondering how his pool empire is doing. So in December 2024, he does the logical thing: he asks for financial records. Bank statements. Ledgers. Invoices. The kind of stuff that lets you know whether your company is building pools or just building lies. And what does he get? Crickets. Or, more precisely, silence, stalling, and incomplete responses. That’s when the red flags go from “mildly concerning” to “full-on Code Red.” Because according to the petition, Prince didn’t just fail to provide records—he actively misused the company’s money. Funds were allegedly diverted for personal expenses. Company and personal accounts were commingled like a bad smoothie. Cash was pulled out with no documentation, no receipts, no rhyme or reason. It’s the kind of financial chaos that makes accountants weep and fraud examiners sharpen their pencils.
So why are we in court? Because Lord isn’t just mad—he’s legally furious. And he’s throwing the entire civil playbook at Prince and Anthem Pools. The lawsuit lists seven causes of action, which is like bringing a flamethrower to a water gun fight. Let’s break it down in plain English: Lord is claiming Prince lied to get his money (fraud), failed to disclose major risks (constructive fraud), broke the trust expected of a business leader (breach of fiduciary duty), didn’t follow the contract they supposedly had (breach of contract), stole the money by using it for personal stuff (conversion), unfairly kept the benefit of Lord’s investment (unjust enrichment), and—this is the legal mic drop—Lord wants the whole deal undone (rescission). That last one is wild: he’s not just asking for his money back—he wants the court to pretend the entire investment never happened, like a financial time machine set to September 10, 2024.
And what does Lord want? Well, first and foremost: his $125,000 back, plus interest. But it’s not just about the cash. He wants a constructive trust—a legal tool that would freeze any assets bought with his money, so Prince can’t just blow it all on luxury cars or a second home and claim “oops, no money left.” He wants an equitable lien, which is like putting a financial “Do Not Sell” sign on Prince’s stuff. He wants a full accounting—basically a court-ordered audit of every dollar that’s gone in and out since the investment. And yes, he wants punitive damages, which means he’s not just trying to recover his loss—he wants to punish Prince for allegedly acting with such reckless disregard for the rules.
Now, is $125,000 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s not exactly billions, but for a pool company in Tulsa, it’s a massive chunk of change. That’s not seed money—that’s a full-scale launch budget. And if even half of it was siphoned off for personal use, we’re talking about a level of financial mismanagement that makes Enron look like a lemonade stand with a spreadsheet. The fact that Lord is demanding a jury trial tells you everything: he doesn’t just want a judge quietly sorting through receipts. He wants a public reckoning. He wants a room full of regular people to look at Prince and say, “Yeah, that was a scam.”
Our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the alleged fraud—it’s the audacity. The idea that someone named Justin Prince—a name so on-the-nose it sounds like a stage name for a Bond villain—could allegedly spin a web of financial deceit over a swimming pool company and think no one would notice. This isn’t high finance. This isn’t crypto. This is pools. We’re talking about a business that installs backyard oases for people who want to impress their neighbors during summer cookouts. And yet, the drama here is straight out of Succession—if Logan Roy had invested in above-ground spas.
We’re rooting for the receipts. We’re rooting for the bank statements. We’re rooting for the moment when someone stands up in a Tulsa courtroom and says, “And this is where the $12,000 went—Justin Prince’s Venmo to ‘Massage Therapist (Weekend Retreat).’” Because if this case teaches us anything, it’s that when someone promises you a golden ticket to a pool empire, you should probably ask to see the plumbing first.
Case Overview
-
Jeffrey K. Lord
individual
Rep: Kevin Vincent Cox
- Justin Prince individual
- Anthem Pools of Oklahoma, LLC business
| # | Cause of Action | Description |
|---|---|---|
| 1 | rescission | |
| 2 | fraud, deceit | |
| 3 | constructive fraud | |
| 4 | breach of fiduciary duty | |
| 5 | breach of contract | |
| 6 | conversion | |
| 7 | unjust enrichment/constructive trust |