I Didn’t See the Lawsuit Coming—But It Saw Me
What getting sued taught me about silence, structure, and survival.
You never expect it from friends.
Not the cold envelope. Not the lawyer’s name at the bottom. Not the sheriff knocking at your door like a scene you didn’t audition for.
But it happens.
Even when it’s “just business,” it feels personal. Even when it’s not betrayal, it lands like one.
An email in all caps pretending not to threaten. Or the FedEx envelope. Heavy in my hands. Heavier in my gut.
The sound of “Dad”
I read the first few lines. Stopped. Didn’t finish the rest.
That night, I sat with my family. Tried to explain it.
My daughter asked, “What does this mean, Dad?”
It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a plea.
“Dad,” like fix this. “Dad,” like are we safe?
We were already stretched post-COVID, tired, rebuilding, and feeding the dogs tuna.
Now this?
After all that?
The layoffs. The pivots. The calls I didn’t dodge.
They sent a lawyer anyway.
A lawsuit like a sucker punch while you're already leaning forward.
I didn’t have answers. But I had to show up like someone who did.
The conversation with my father
I called my dad.
We don’t talk emotions. But he’s been through fire. Old-school LA. Entrepreneur. War-tested.
He listened. Let the silence hang.
Then he said:
“Friends, fuck you. Enemies respect you.”
I laughed. Sort of.
Then I wrote it down. Because it was true. Too true.
A moment to breathe
Alone. Door closed. Lights off.
The letter sat on the desk. Unread, but not unknown.
My phone buzzed. Emails piled up. The world kept moving. I didn’t.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
Thoughts scattered.
Is this how my legacy ends? Do they think I’m weak? Have I failed my family?
I thought about what “Dad” really means.
Rage rose first. I wanted to defend, attack, and assert.
But ego is loud. Integrity is quiet.
That night, I didn’t need revenge; I needed stillness.
To choose who I was going to be, before things escalated.
What was true? What mattered? What came next?
Not every fight is chosen. But every response is.
Who I called first
I called two attorneys I trust.
Both were kind. But neither softened the truth.
“You have to respond, James. If they think you’re ignoring them, this gets worse. Fast.”
Then came the real question:
“Do you have a war chest?”
Not cash flow. Cash to burn.
Because if it went to court, I’d need more than confidence; I’d need capital.
Then the follow-up:
“How far are you willing to go?”
Not a metaphor. An audit of exposure.
If I lost, what would it cost? If I won, what would I have left?
“If this escalates, you’ll need a litigator. And they don’t come cheap.”
Then he shifted.
“The best path? Quiet, direct negotiation—before this gets bigger.”
We got to work.
Whiteboard. Pipeline. Numbers. Scenarios.
What could we offer?
What revenue was real? What was wishful thinking?
Because the worst strategy is guessing, the second worst is hoping.
The only one that works is this: Price it. Plan it. Move.
My real mistake
It wasn’t the contract. It was the silence. I assumed we were good. Still aligned. No drama. But silence isn’t peace.
When people stop hearing from you, they don’t think you’re busy. They think you’re hiding. Worse, they start writing their version of the story, where you’re the villain, where you owe them something.
Silence builds stories. Stories build resentment.
My default instinct: deal first
I always try to fix it first. Find the back channel. Make the call. De-escalate. I look for the win-win.
But when a sheriff shows up, that instinct dies. You’re no longer negotiating. You’re defending.
And that changes everything.
When it turns into a war room
The spiral starts like this:
Why didn’t they just call? What did I miss? Was I the one who failed the relationship?
The human brain loops. The legal mind doesn’t.
My lawyer didn’t spiral with me.
He handed me five sentences:
“Reach out.” “Find out what they want.” “Settle if it’s cheaper.” “Fight if you must.” “Don’t bleed more than you have to.”
That was the most helpful thing I heard in weeks.
Lawyers train themselves to assume the worst. It’s not negativity. It’s protection.
But even while we prepared to defend, we had to humanize the other side.
People don’t sue unless they believe they’re right. Even if they’re wrong, they believe the narrative they’ve built.
We weren’t up against a villain. We were facing someone who felt justified. And whether I liked it or not, I had to find a solution.
So we stripped it all to logic. Looked at what was salvageable. Calculated what it would take to stop the bleeding without making it worse.
That’s the war room.
Not a place for rage. A place for decisions.
It’s lonely on this side
When you say, “I’m being sued,” most people don’t know what to say.
They nod. Then they drift. Think you’re desperate. Their eyes ask, "What did you do?
You can’t blame them. But it isolates you anyway.
Entrepreneurs are social on the outside, but we build alone. We lead teams. We shake hands. We show up to dinners.
But when the lawsuits come, we’re on our own.
Because no one else carries the same risk. The same weight. The same responsibility to protect the thing you built and the people you feed.
People think we do this for the money. But the real ones know the truth.
We do it for legacy.
To leave something behind that makes our last name worth more. To hand off a business (not a mess) to the people whom we love.
That’s why I couldn’t spiral.
Because legacies aren’t built during good times, they’re built when the foundation shakes and you hold your ground anyway.
The only thing that matters
The only thing that matters in a legal storm isn’t fear. It’s strategy.
You can’t run a business like a lawyer. But you can’t survive without legal structure either.
I don’t believe in a “sue first” mindset. I believe in protect first.
That means clarity.
In every agreement. Every deal. Every handshake that turns into paperwork.
We started structuring contracts that spoke plainly.
When does the money move?
Who owns what?
What happens if we part ways?
What if one side disappears?
No tricks. No traps.
Not to gain power. But to remove confusion.
Strategy replaces panic. Prayer outpaces worry. Action beats paralysis.
When the storm comes, you need more than instincts. You need a plan that you wrote when the water was calm.
What happens after the fire
After the smoke clears, whatever the outcome, you’re left with cleanup.
Financial, emotional, operational.
Some of the damage is obvious: Legal bills. Lost time. Team fatigue.
But the subtler stuff stays longer.
You start questioning every deal. You hesitate on your next handshake. You reread every email twice before hitting send.
And that’s where you either rebuild or calcify.
For me, it started with structure. I hardened contracts. Rewrote scopes. Clarified exit terms. I reached out to clients I hadn’t spoken to in too long. Not to sell, but to show up. To prevent silence from becoming suspicion.
And I walked through my company like it was my house after a fire. Testing beams. Checking locks. Replacing what cracked under pressure.
But the real rebuild wasn’t in the contracts. It was in how I led.
I started talking more, not less. I stayed close, not cautious. And I built systems that didn’t rely on trust, but didn’t kill it either.
That’s what comes after the fire.
Not just fixing. Reforging.
The closing move
It didn’t have to get this far.
One honest conversation might have solved it.
But silence became suspicion. Suspicion became action. And action, once legal, rarely turns back.
What I’ve learned—what I now know:
Stay close. Stay clear. Stay human.
That won’t stop every lawsuit. But it will stop the ones that didn’t need to happen.
Eventually, you find a way to close it.
Not with vengeance. Not with pride.
With clarity.
So you can move forward. So your business can keep breathing. So your daughter can still call you Dad—and feel safe when she says it.