CAVALRY SPV I, LLC, AS ASSIGNEE OF CITIBANK, N.A. v. BRUCE FAUCAULT

Let’s cut right to the chase: a man in Wagoner County, Oklahoma, is being sued for $1,671.27—yes, that extra 27 cents matters because someone at a corporate debt collection firm was very precise about it—and the reason? A credit card bill originally tied to Home Depot, which Citibank once owned, which was then sold to a shadowy financial entity with a name straight out of a spy thriller: Cavalry SPV I, LLC. Not “Cavalry LLC.” Not “Oklahoma Tree Trimming Services.” Cavalry SPV I, LLC. That “SPV” stands for “Special Purpose Vehicle,” which sounds like a military drone but is actually just Wall Street jargon for “a shell company we made to buy your old debt so we can sue you for it.” And now Bruce Faucault—the defendant, the guy who just wanted to buy some lumber or a power washer or maybe a $1,671.27 stack of mulch—is caught in the crossfire of high finance, low stakes, and paperwork so cold it could frost a patio.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Bruce Faucault, a regular guy living on East Broadway in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. No fancy titles. No law firm listed. Just a man, a home, and now, apparently, a very specific debt. We don’t know if he’s a contractor, a DIY enthusiast, or just someone who once maxed out a Home Depot credit card during a particularly ambitious weekend of home improvement. But we do know this: he once signed up for a credit agreement—probably with a clipboard, a smile, and a 0% introductory APR—thinking he could pay it off later. Spoiler: he didn’t. On the other side? CAVALRY SPV I, LLC, a financial entity based in Greenwich, Connecticut—a town so rich it probably has a Starbucks that serves caviar. This company doesn’t sell shovels or hammers. It doesn’t even have a physical store. What it does do is buy up old consumer debt—like a vulture investor at a bankruptcy buffet—and then sue people to get their money back, plus fees, interest, and a side of legal paperwork.

Here’s how we got here. At some point, Bruce Faucault opened a credit account with Citibank, N.A., likely through The Home Depot. Maybe he was redoing his bathroom. Maybe he bought a new HVAC system. Or maybe—maybe—he just really wanted a $1,671.27 cordless drill collection. Whatever the reason, he charged something, didn’t pay it off, and eventually fell behind. Citibank, like most big banks, doesn’t like chasing down small debts. It’s not worth their time. So instead of sending a sternly worded letter or a passive-aggressive email, they did what banks do best: they sold the debt. Poof. Gone. Transferred to Cavalry SPV I, LLC, a third-party debt buyer that specializes in scooping up delinquent accounts for pennies on the dollar and then suing to collect the full amount. It’s like buying a used car at auction for $500 and then trying to sell it for the original sticker price—except the car is someone’s financial obligation, and the auction is a spreadsheet of thousands of delinquent accounts.

Now, Cavalry didn’t send a friendly reminder. No “Hey Bruce, just checking in!” postcard. No “We miss you at Home Depot!” coupon. Nope. They went straight for the legal jugular. On February 6, 2023, they filed a Petition on Account and Money Lent in Wagoner County District Court. That’s legalese for “you borrowed money, you didn’t pay, now we’re suing.” The filing is about as dramatic as a spreadsheet with a notary stamp. Two paragraphs. No wild accusations. No claims of fraud, theft, or secret basement remodeling schemes. Just a cold, hard assertion: Bruce owes $1,671.27. He promised to pay. He didn’t. Therefore, please, Your Honor, make him pay. Plus interest. Plus court costs. Plus attorney’s fees. Because of course—because of course—Dan G. Young, the attorney from Jenkins & Young, P.C. in Lubbock, Texas, didn’t file this for free. He’s in this for the long haul, and his firm wants to be reimbursed for the immense burden of typing two paragraphs and hitting “submit” on an e-filing portal.

And what does Cavalry want? $1,671.27. That’s the number. That’s the magic figure. Is that a lot of money? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you’re a hedge fund in Connecticut buying debt portfolios for millions, $1,671.27 is a rounding error. But if you’re Bruce Faucault, living in Broken Arrow, maybe driving a 2012 Honda CR-V and trying to keep the AC running through an Oklahoma summer, that’s six months of car insurance. That’s a new water heater. That’s a lot of mulch. And yet, here we are—someone in a suit in Texas is demanding that exact amount, down to the penny, because the math said so. No negotiation. No “we understand times are tough.” Just: pay up, or the court will make you.

Now, here’s the absurd part: nobody actually knows if Bruce still owes that exact amount. The filing doesn’t say when the debt was incurred. It doesn’t say how much interest has accrued. It doesn’t say if Bruce tried to pay, or if he disputed the debt, or if he even knew Cavalry existed before this lawsuit. It doesn’t say if the statute of limitations has expired—which, in Oklahoma, is three years for written contracts. If Bruce stopped paying in, say, 2018, this suit might be way too late. But Cavalry isn’t here to debate timelines. They’re here to file, collect, and move on to the next name on the list. This is industrial-scale debt collection: efficient, impersonal, and utterly devoid of human nuance.

And let’s talk about that name again: Cavalry SPV I, LLC. It sounds like a private military contractor. Or a secret government program. Or maybe a new energy drink for finance bros. But no—it’s just a debt buyer. A company that exists only to sue people for old credit card balances. They don’t know Bruce. They’ve never met him. They don’t care if he used the money to fix his roof after a tornado or if he blew it on a spontaneous trip to Vegas. To them, he’s a data point. A line item. A “defendant” in a form complaint that’s probably been copy-pasted a thousand times.

So where does that leave us? In a courtroom, possibly, though Bruce may not even show up. He might not know about the lawsuit. He might not afford a lawyer. Or he might just decide it’s easier to pay $1,671.27 than fight a corporate entity with a law firm on speed dial. And that’s the quiet tragedy of cases like this: they’re not about murder, fraud, or scandal. They’re about imbalance. About a system where a man can be hauled into court over two years’ worth of Netflix subscriptions, while the company suing him operates from a luxury office in Connecticut, trading debt like baseball cards.

Our take? We’re rooting for Bruce. Not because he definitely didn’t owe the money. Not because we’re anti-debt collection. But because there’s something deeply un-American about a system where a man can be sued for $1,671.27—to the penny—by a company with a name that sounds like a Pentagon black ops unit. Where’s the grace? The mercy? The “hey, we all make mistakes” energy? If Bruce bought a $1,600 patio set and it fell apart, we’d side with him. If he paid for a service that wasn’t delivered, we’d want him refunded. But because this is debt—because it’s money lent—suddenly the rules change. Suddenly, every cent must be extracted, every fee enforced, every 27-cent increment preserved like it’s the Magna Carta.

Look, we’re not saying people shouldn’t pay their bills. But when a case like this hits the docket—so small, so routine, so precise—it’s hard not to wonder: is this really what justice looks like? A form petition. A round-the-clock debt machine. A man in Oklahoma being hunted by a financial ghost with a Texas lawyer and a Connecticut address?

If this were a true crime podcast, the theme music would be a cash register cha-ching followed by a sad trombone. Because in the end, the real victim might not be Bruce… or Cavalry. It might be the idea that the law is supposed to be about fairness. Not just math.