I told her again.
She was furious about the right thing.
Here’s what Sutton’s lawsuit claimed.
He alleged that 2 years prior, when I’d given him $12,000 for his second car flipping attempt, I had verbally agreed to be his business partner.
That the money wasn’t a gift, but a capital investment.
That I had promised to continue funding the operation, and that when I pulled out, I caused the business to fail, resulting in lost income, debt, and again, emotional distress.
He wanted 200,000 to cover what the business would have earned, plus damages.
Now, anyone with a functioning brain stem could see this was nonsense.
There was no partnership. There was no agreement.
I’d given my brother money the same way you’d give a friend 20 bucks when they forget their wallet at lunch.
Except I’d done it about 200 times, and the lunch cost $45,000.
But Sutton had apparently found a lawyer willing to take the case.
And in our legal system, that’s all you need to make someone’s life very uncomfortable.
I called my parents the next day, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’d have come to their senses.
My dad answered.
I asked if he knew what Sutton was doing.
He said he did.
I asked if he thought it was reasonable.
There was a long pause.
And then my dad said, “Well, Adam, your brother feels like you made him a promise and you broke it. He’s hurting. He’s hurting.”
I said, “He’s suing me for $200,000, Dad. I’m the one who should be hurting.”
My dad sighed like I was the unreasonable one.
“Son, you know how Sutton is. He gets an idea in his head and he runs with it. But this could all go away if you just sit down with him and work something out. Maybe give him what he needs to get back on his feet.”
“What he needs to get back on his feet is a reality check, not my checkbook,” I said.
My dad went quiet.
Then he said something that I will never forget as long as I live.
He said, “Adam, you’ve always had it easier than your brother. You went to college. You got the good job. You married a wonderful girl. Sutton didn’t get those breaks. The least you could do is help him when he’s down.”
The least I could do.
Like I’d been sitting on a throne eating grapes while my brother suffered.
Like my engineering degree fell out of the sky and landed in my lap.
Like Jolene showed up at my door with a bow on her head.
Everything I had, I’d built.
Brick by brick, late night by late night, missed weekend by missed weekend.
But in my family’s eyes, I’d just gotten lucky.
And Sutton had gotten unlucky.
And the universe owed him a correction that apparently had to come out of my bank account.
I hung up on my dad.
Second time in a week I’d hung up on a family member. New personal record.
The next few weeks were a blur of legal paperwork and anxiety.
I hired my own attorney, a woman named Cordelia Voss, who came recommended by a colleague.
Cordelia was exactly what I needed.
She was calm, direct, and had this way of explaining things that made you feel like the ground was solid even when everything else was shaking.
She reviewed Sutton’s claim and told me, in her professional opinion, that it was legally creative, which I later learned was attorney speak for “this is garbage, but we still have to deal with it.”
The problem, Cordelia explained, was that even a frivolous lawsuit costs money to defend.
Even if Sutton’s case got thrown out, which she believed it eventually would, I’d still be spending thousands on legal fees, discovery, depositions, and court appearances.
Sutton’s lawyer might be hoping I’d just settle to make it go away.
It’s a common tactic.
File something outrageous. Bet that the defendant would rather write a check than deal with the headache.
Meanwhile, my family went into full pressure mode.
My mom called three times in one week.
“Can’t you just give him something?” she kept saying.
My aunt Lorine called to tell me I was tearing the family apart.
My cousin Bod sent me a Facebook message saying I should be ashamed.
Not one of them acknowledged that Sutton was the one who filed the lawsuit.
Every finger pointed at me.