You Just Got Sued, Now What?

OK, this is weird.

Some creepy guy on a motorcycle (or, if you’re lucky, a pudgy county constable) just knocked on my door and handed me a bunch of papers.

They say “YOU HAVE BEEN SUED” at the top.

I’m freaking out.

What is this?

I’m leafing through it and it doesn’t make any sense.

Some stuff in here sounds crazy.

What do I do?!?

As the drunk Greek told the panicking Frenchman after his wallet and passport were stollen on the train to Athens, “First thing: DON’T WORRY.”

So you got sued.

For the most part, the only way whoever sued you can justify it is if you don’t respond and they can get a quick “default judgment” against you.

This is the legal version of a forfeit in sports. Basically, one of the teams doesn’t show up, so the other team gets to win without doing anything.

The good news is, if you even attempt to show up and defend yourself, the other side won’t get a default against you and, even better, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll beat them.

First of all, you HAVE TO RESPOND.

The first thing that happens in a lawsuit is the plaintiff (the person suing) files a complaint (we call it a “petition” here in Texas) against the defendant (the person getting sued) with a court (usually in the county where the defendant lives.

Then they have to “serve” it on the defendant. This means literally handing a paper copy of the lawsuit to the defendant on their doorstep.

Usually this is done by people called “process servers” who make money delivering these papers all over town. It can also be done by county constables or sheriff’s deputies who have already exceeded their ticket quota for the month.

If they can’t find the defendant or the defendant tries to avoid them, the plaintiff can ask the court for permission to serve it another way (text, email, Facebook, newspaper ads, you name it). So don’t try to avoid service. It won’t work.

The petition tells the court what the plaintiff thinks the defendant did wrong. The plaintiff is supposed to tell the truth, but they can write whatever they want in there. It’s up to the defendant to respond with their side of the story.

That response is called an “answer” and in Texas it must be filed with the court at least 20 days after the defendant gets served with the lawsuit (if you want to get technical, by 10 a.m. on the “Monday next” after 20 days, but just go with 20 days).

All the answer has to say is the defendant denies all the plaintiff’s claims and wants the plaintiff to prove them in court.

In Texas, this is called a “general denial” and it’s totally allowed—in fact it’s filed by almost every defendant in every lawsuit.

The answer DOES NOT HAVE TO BE FANCY. It can be a scribbled down on the back of a Waffle House receipt.

As long as it says something like “I deny everything” and the plaintiff signs and gives it to the court before the answer deadline, I can’t imagine any court in Texas granting a default judgment over that.

But, if you want to get fancy, here’s a simple form you can use.

Just fill in the “cause number” (the number the court assigns the case at the top), the names of the parties, and the court and county at the top (you can just copy the top of the petition you got served with).

Then sign your name and put your contact information on the second page.

Then fill in the names of all the plaintiffs and other people you are “serving” with a copy of your answer (this is just legal jargon for listing all the folks you are going to send a copy of your answer to).

Then, take these three pieces of paper to the court where the lawsuit was filed (usually in the county courthouse of whatever county your lawsuit was filed in—just Google it) and hand them to the court clerk.

She’ll look up from her TikTok feed and act like you’re interrupting her.

But don’t worry.

She’ll tell you it has to be “e-filed”, but don’t worry. Just tell her you don’t have e-filing and want to hand her the paper instead.

Then she’ll let out a big, world-weary sigh and roll her eyes.

DON’T WORRY.

Next, she’ll snatch your paper from your hands and get up from her chair and retrieve her ancient file stamp and put a big red stamp at the top.

If she’s nice, ask her for a copy.

If she’s not (more likely), tell her you want to take a picture of the file-stamped first page and the rest of the pages with your phone (this is your proof you filed this thing).

Then, send the picture of the pages to the plaintiff or his slime-sucking lawyers at the email addresses listed below their signature in the lawsuit they served on you (in Texas, they have to put an email address on there and it’s perfectly OK to email stuff to them).

They will get it and probably spit out their morning coffee all over their seven-year-old IBM Thinkpad.

At this point, most low-life, scum-sucking, bottom-feeder bill collectors are going to fold and move on to the next sucker who doesn’t file an answer.

Either way, it’ll buy you some time and force them to prove whatever it is they’re saying.

How to Defend a Debt-Collection Lawsuit

Sometimes you struggle and scrape just to make enough to pay your most important bills, but there are others you just can’t pay.

They turn you over to “collections” and then those letters start threatening lawsuits.

For the most part, those are just that—threats. They will never in a million years file a lawsuit against you. It’s too expensive, too time consuming, and they’re too worried they might lose.

The only way they can justify filing a lawsuit is if you don’t respond to it and they can get a quick “default judgment” against you.

This is the legal version of a forfeit in sports. Basically, one of the teams doesn’t show up, so the other team gets to win without doing anything.

The good news is, if you even attempt to show up and defend yourself, the other side won’t get a default against you and, even better, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll beat them.

First of all, you HAVE TO RESPOND.

The first thing that happens in a lawsuit is the plaintiff (the person suing) files a complaint (we call it a “petition” here in Texas) against the defendant (the person getting sued) with a court (usually in the county where the defendant lives.

Then they have to “serve” it on the defendant. This means literally handing a paper copy of the lawsuit to the defendant on their doorstep. Usually this is done by people called “process servers” who make money delivering these papers all over town. If they can’t find the defendant or the defendant tries to avoid them, the plaintiff can ask the court for permission to serve it another way (text, email, Facebook, newspaper ads, you name it). So don’t try to avoid service. It won’t work.

The petition tells the court what the plaintiff thinks the defendant did wrong. The plaintiff is supposed to tell the truth, but they can write whatever they want in there. It’s up to the defendant to respond with their side of the story.

That response is called an “answer” and in Texas it must be filed with the court at least 20 days after the defendant gets served with the lawsuit (if you want to get technical, by 10 a.m. on the “Monday next” after 20 days, but just go with 20 days).

All the answer has to say is the defendant denies all the plaintiff’s claims and wants the plaintiff to prove them in court.

In Texas, this is called a “general denial” and it’s totally allowed—in fact it’s filed by almost every defendant in every lawsuit.

The answer DOES NOT HAVE TO BE FANCY. It can be a scribbled down on the back of a Waffle House receipt.

As long as it says something like “I deny everything” and the plaintiff signs and gives it to the court before the answer deadline, I can’t imagine any court in Texas granting a default judgment over that.

But, if you want to get fancy, here’s a simple form you can use.

Just fill in the “cause number” (the number the court assigns the case at the top), the names of the parties, and the court and county at the top (you can just copy the top of the petition you got served with).

Then sign your name and put your contact information on the second page.

Then fill in the names of all the plaintiffs and other people you are “serving” with a copy of your answer (this is just legal jargon for listing all the folks you are going to send a copy of your answer to).

Then, take these three pieces of paper to the court where the lawsuit was filed (usually in the county courthouse of whatever county your lawsuit was filed in—just Google it) and hand them to the court clerk.

She’ll look up from her TikTok feed and act like you’re interrupting her.

But don’t worry.

She’ll tell you it has to be “e-filed”, but don’t worry. Just tell her you don’t have e-filing and want to hand her the paper instead.

Then she’ll let out a big, world-weary sigh and roll her eyes.

DON’T WORRY.

Next, she’ll snatch your paper from your hands and get up from her chair and retrieve her ancient file stamp and put a big red stamp at the top.

If she’s nice, ask her for a copy.

If she’s not (more likely), tell her you want to take a picture of the file-stamped first page and the rest of the pages with your phone (this is your proof you filed this thing).

Then, send the picture of the pages to the plaintiff or his slime-sucking lawyers at the email addresses listed below their signature in the lawsuit they served on you (in Texas, they have to put an email address on there and it’s perfectly OK to email stuff to them).

They will get it and probably spit out their morning coffee all over their seven-year-old IBM Thinkpad.

At this point, most low-life, scum-sucking, bottom-feeder bill collectors are going to fold and move on to the next sucker who doesn’t file an answer.

But, if they don’t, never fear. Because this is the fun part: DISCOVERY!!!

Both sides have 30 days to give each other everything they have (emails, documents, photos, call recordings, whatever) that they are going to try to use to prove their case. These are called “initial disclosures” and should include just about everything.

But slime-sucking, schmuck debt collectors probably won’t want to spend the time or money to do this or they may try to sugarcoat things and hide the fact that they might not have the authority or proof to win this lawsuit.

So then you get to ask them even MORE questions (and this is the fun part).

Both sides can send up to 15 (sometimes 25, but probably not in your case) written questions called “interrogatories” to each other. They can also request as many documents or “tangible things” as they want in “requests for production.” Finally, and this is where bill collectors are going to try and get tricky, they can ask each other as many “requests for admission” as they want. These are questions that ask the other person to “admit or deny” something.

Usually, the bill collector will ask something like “admit or deny you owe this money.” If the defendant admits it (and you have to tell the truth), then the bill collector will use that as evidence against them.

BUT…the defendant can also ask the plaintiff ALL KINDS OF UNCOMFORTABLE QUESTIONS that will make the bill collector question what they are doing with their lives and wonder why they just didn’t go to dental school like their uncle told them to do.

Questions like:

1. How much did you pay the original creditor for the debt in question? (most collection agencies buy debt for a tiny percentage (like 3-5%) if the original amount).

2. Please produce the original contract between the defendant and the original creditor. (a lot of debt collectors don’t have the original debt paperwork).

3. Please produce the contract between you and the original creditor establishing your rights to bring this cause of action. (a lot of debt collectors don’t have the proper legal rights to sue for the debt).

There are all kinds of other fun questions you can ask that the debt collector won’t have the answers to. Even if they do, it will cost them more to research and respond to it than it will just to go away.

NOW, if they’re still kicking after all of this, then you may have to start talking with them about resolving things.

But, the good news is, like I said above, most debt collectors and slimy, no-good opportunists looking for low-hanging fruit and will gladly settle with you for a tiny fraction of the original debt.

Just make sure you get it in writing and they dismiss the lawsuit with the court.

If they don’t, just send the court a letter asking it to dismiss the case with a copy of the debt collector’s agreement.

And you just successfully defended a debt collection lawsuit.

Kan Paxton Has to Go

Every once in a while, the Texas legislature surprises you.

In a good way.

House Republicans finally, mercifully, and reasonably passed a committee resolution yesterday to impeach Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton.

The full House could vote on the measure as soon as this week.

Of course, Paxton is the state’s disgraced, but unsinkable top law enforcement officer.

He’s been indicted, investigated, sued, settled, and now he’s trying to get the state to pay for it.

But that’s not all!

He presided over one of the worst law enforcement debacles in history when officers took more than an hour to kill the Uvalde gunman.

But Paxton kept his job.

So did the state’s Department of Public Safety director, who is still in charge today.

Finally, someone’s getting fired.

Sometimes the Bull Wins

I’ve watched a bullfight. In Tijuana.

My wonderful Mexican Aunt Silvia and my adventure-loving Uncle Russel took me to see it when I was just 10 years old.

I’d always thought bull “fighters” were brave, fearless heroes doing the unimaginable—staring down a thousand pounds of raw anger and triumphing over it.

But, what I was most surprised to learn, was that they’re playing with a stacked deck.

For most of the “fight,” other bright-tight-wearing “picadores” mounted on horseback, stab and weaken the bull so that, by the time the sequenced “matador” gets in the ring, the bull is a weak, bleeding, lumbering mess.

The matador’s final show—waving the red flag around and fatally stabbing the bull in the heart—only comes when there’s almost no chance the bull will fight back.

Almost.

Every once in a while, a bull stares through the blood in his eyes and takes the matador down.

The most famous bull in history—Islero—killed the greatest bullfighter of all time, the matador Manolete, on a hot Spanish day in 1947.

Just like Islero, you and me fight against a stacked deck.

Big-moneyed, powerfully connected corporations and their insurance companies donate to the right politicians.

They hire the best PR and lobbying firms.

They hire the best lawyers who went to the best law schools and work at the most prestigious law firms.

And then they prance around in their sequence tights wearing us out until we almost can’t fight anymore.

Almost.

But, everyone once in a while—just like Islero—the bull wins.

Dillweed Lawyers

A while back, I wrote a post about “pit bull” lawyers and “lab” lawyers.

The argument I made was that you’re much better off with a lawyer who acts like a loyal Labrador retriever, versus one who acts like a hyper-aggressive pit bull.

I’d like to add a new category to that list: The dillweed lawyer.

Although closely related, these are different from their pit pull lawyer cousins (who are smart and tenacious, but way too aggressive).

Dillweed lawyers have the same level of aggression (maybe more), but they are also stupid.

They don’t know when to stop. They cover up their lack of skill with bluster, falsehoods, and personal attacks. They don’t know how to win on the law, so they resort to insults.

This is always a dead giveaway: Their quote-unquote arguments are mainly about opposing counsel. They make every fight personal.

They don’t understand the law, but worse, they don’t understand how to get along with people. Their emotional IQ is off-scale low.

These lawyers—thankfully—are rare.

They don’t last long—especially in the super cool, freakin’ amazing lawyer town of Austin.

They usually can be found in anonymous glass office buildings off major freeways in Dallas. Some have migrated to Houston and San Antonio. At least one made it to New Jersey.

But, as Austin grows, a few have been spotted in the Texas Hill Country.

The good news is, they flame out fast.

It doesn’t take long for judges, juries, and other lawyers to figure them out and ignore them.

Just like Beavis.