Cavalry SPV I, LLC v. Nicolas Jones

Let’s be real: nothing says “American dream” like a debt collector suing a guy over a Costco credit card he probably used to buy rotisserie chickens and toilet paper. But here we are, in Marshall County, Oklahoma, where a shadowy financial entity called Cavalry SPV I, LLC has trotted into court demanding $4,845.48 from one Nicolas Jones—because apparently, even bulk-sized sour cream has consequences.

Now, who is Nicolas Jones? We don’t know much about him, and that’s kind of the point. He’s not a celebrity. He’s not a politician caught on tape doing something scandalous. He’s just a regular person—probably someone who once thought, “Hey, a Costco membership sounds like a good idea,” and then, like the rest of us, got seduced by the siren song of discounted muffin baskets and free samples. Somewhere along the way, he opened a Citibank credit card tied to that Costco membership—account number ending in 5051, if you’re into that kind of detail—and started charging things. Groceries. Maybe a vacuum. Possibly an inflatable kayak (they’re on sale sometimes). But then, life happened. Maybe the job dried up. Maybe the car broke down. Maybe he just forgot to pay the bill. Whatever the reason, by July 2023, Citibank had had enough. They “charged off” the account—bank-speak for “we’re writing this off as a loss and selling it to the debt vultures.”

Enter Cavalry SPV I, LLC. No horses, no swords, just spreadsheets and lawsuits. This company doesn’t make products or provide services—it buys debt. Specifically, it buys old, unpaid debts from banks like Citibank for pennies on the dollar, then tries to collect the full amount. It’s like buying a junk car at auction for $500 and then suing the original owner for the full Blue Book value. And they do it a lot. Cavalry is part of a whole industry of debt buyers who make their money by scooping up defaulted accounts and then deploying law firms—like Love, Beal & Nixon, P.C., in this case—to file lawsuits across the country. These cases are so routine they’re practically assembly-line justice: boilerplate petitions, automated declarations, and a prayer for judgment that sounds like a bad Yelp review (“We’d like our money, plus interest, court costs, attorney fees, and whatever else you’ve got lying around, Your Honor.”).

So here’s how we got to this moment: Nicolas Jones allegedly stopped paying his Citibank/Costco card. Citibank wrote it off. Cavalry bought the debt in August 2023. Then, over two years later—because bureaucracy moves at the speed of molasses—Cavalry, via its collection arm, Cavalry Portfolio Services, files a lawsuit in Marshall County District Court on December 12, 2025. The claim? Simple: Petition for Indebtedness. Translation: “This guy owes us money, and we want the court to make him pay.” The amount? $4,845.48. That’s not chump change, but it’s also not a fortune. It’s about what you’d spend on a mid-tier used car down payment, or a really nice vacation to somewhere with all-inclusive drinks. But in the world of debt collection, it’s a jackpot. After all, Cavalry probably paid less than $1,000 for this debt. If they win, it’s pure profit.

The legal claim itself is as basic as it gets. No fancy fraud allegations. No breach of contract drama. Just a straightforward “you owe us, here’s the paperwork, now pay up.” The evidence? A declaration from Victor Baptista, a “Legal Administrator” at Cavalry Portfolio Services, who swears under penalty of perjury that he reviewed the records (which are “maintained in the ordinary and routine course of business,” of course) and yes, Nicolas Jones owes $4,845.48. Oh, and just to cover their bases, they checked the DoD database to make sure Jones isn’t in the military—because there are federal protections for active-duty service members, and suing one could get you slapped with penalties. Smart move. Also, slightly depressing. The government maintains a database so debt collectors can avoid legal trouble when preying on people. That’s… a thing.

Now, what does Cavalry want? $4,845.48. Plus interest. Plus court costs. Plus a “reasonable attorney’s fee.” That last one is key. Love, Beal & Nixon didn’t take this case out of the goodness of their hearts. They’re getting paid—likely a percentage of whatever they collect. So if the court rules in their favor, Nicolas Jones doesn’t just owe the original amount; he might end up on the hook for thousands more in legal fees. And if he doesn’t show up to defend himself? Default judgment. Game over. The court says he owes it, and then the real fun begins: wage garnishments, bank levies, credit score nuked into next Tuesday.

But here’s the thing: we don’t know if Nicolas Jones even remembers this debt. Maybe he disputed it. Maybe he thought it was resolved. Maybe he’s broke, unemployed, or just checked out. The filing doesn’t say. And that’s the absurdity of these cases—they’re not about justice. They’re about volume. Cavalry isn’t mad at Nicolas Jones. They’ve never met him. They don’t care about his story. To them, he’s a data point, a line item on a spreadsheet, a potential payout in a portfolio of thousands just like him. And Love, Beal & Nixon? They’re not building a courtroom legacy here. They’re processing cases. One after another. Petition. Declaration. Prayer for judgment. Next.

And yet, this case is weirdly fascinating. Because beneath the legalese and the corporate shell games, there’s a human being. Nicolas Jones. A guy who probably just wanted to save money on bulk almonds and ended up in a courtroom over it. Was he irresponsible? Maybe. But let’s not pretend this system is fair. A bank issues a card. A person struggles to pay. The bank sells the debt to a third party that never provided any service. That third party hires a law firm to sue for the full amount—plus fees—on a debt they bought for a fraction of the price. And if the person doesn’t show up? They lose. No trial. No defense. Just a judgment that can haunt them for years.

So what are we rooting for? Honestly? We’re rooting for the rotisserie chicken to have been worth it. We’re rooting for Nicolas Jones to show up in court with a spreadsheet of his own, demanding to see the original contract, the chain of ownership, the proof that Cavalry actually owns this debt. We’re rooting for someone to slow down this debt collection machine, even if just for one case. Because if we don’t, then the next time you forget to pay your Costco bill, you might not just get a late fee. You might get served.

But let’s be real—this case will probably end with a quiet judgment, another notch in Cavalry’s belt, another invisible ding on someone’s credit report. And somewhere, in a cubicle in Florida, Victor Baptista will sign another declaration, and the machine will keep grinding. All because of a credit card linked to a warehouse store that sells hot dogs for $1.50.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if this were a movie, we’d call it The Cost of Costco. And the tagline? “Membership has its privileges. And its consequences.”