This scenein the Willow Springs courtroom could not be more different from the trials I’ve sat in on for the firm. First of all, my entire family is here, which has never happened before. Gramps sits next to Grandma Ann, who is tending to Charlotte in her stroller.
And second, the place is filled to the rafters with all of the locals who I've met in the time I've been here. Fitz sits in the front row. People I recognize from the months I’ve spent here. I take a deep breath to calm myself because I've never argued in front of this many people.
I've never had this many people interested in anything I've done. It's never mattered this much before.
That's what allows me to inhale a deep, cleansing breath and remember why I decided to take this case in the first place. I want to make a difference to real people with real problems. People I know, not just faceless corporations with money to burn.
In other words, like the ones that we are countersuing right now.
I sit at my desk in front of the judge and glance over at the attorney for the giant Tomahawk Corporation. He looks a few years older than me and wears a gray suit. I'm his equal in terms of dress, but I am worried that I'm not up to the task.
I immediately banish those thoughts because if I can't do this, who can? I'm well trained, and I have a horse in this race. All the horses in Willow Springs, actually.
Wearing a simple black robe over a white shirt and tie, the judge settles into his chair and glances at the docket on his desk. “All right. We’re here onWillow Springs Farming Coalition v. Tomahawk Corporation.Counsel, I’ve reviewed the briefs. I’ll hear from the plaintiffs.”
My heart pounds. Like panic-attack-level pounding. Why didn’t I realize that I’m in way over my head? I have the father of my child and an entire town depending on me, and I’ve never gone to trial before. What made me think I could take on the Tomahawk Corporation of all things for my first time out?
Breathe. Do not pass out.
I glance up at Fitz with a look of panic and apology. I expect to see disappointment because I’m not going to be able to come through. For him. For myself. For anyone.
All he does is smile and give me a slow nod.
The small gesture feels different somehow than all the sweet things he said in the past that never amounted to him letting me past the walls that guarded his heart. Or maybe that’s just what I need to believe at this moment to get me through the trial. Either way, it fuels me. His confidence in me gives me confidence in myself—a feeling that was there all along, but hiding behind my excuses and fears.
I turn to the judge, believing in what I'm doing, maybe for the first time.
I stand. “Thank you, Your Honor.” I take a slow breath, grounding myself before I begin. “This case is about groundwater rights in a basin that has been in a state of overdraft for years. Despite that, Tomahawk Corporation continues to extract water at a volume that is no longer sustainable under current conditions.”
The judge nods. “Go on.”
“They rely on historic use to justify continued pumping,” I continue. “But under California law, those rights are not absolute. When a basin is overdrawn, the court has authority to impose equitable limitations to prevent harm to other users.”
I step toward the easel and flip to the first chart.
“These numbers show annual extraction over the past ten years. Tomahawk draws the most water, and the company’s usage has remained consistent—even as drought conditions worsened—while local farmers have reduced their use significantly.”
I point at the columns showing profits for the Tomahawk Corporation and every single farmer in town in the red. “The result is that one entity is operating at historical capacity while the rest of the community absorbs the loss.”
Smoothing his impeccable blue suit, Tomahawk’s lawyer rises from his chair. “Objection, Your Honor—argumentative.”
“Overruled,” the judge says. “This is a hearing, not a jury trial.”
I nod and suppress a smile at my first victory over an objection. “The plaintiffs are not asking the court to eliminate Tomahawk’s access. We’re asking for a proportional allocation that preserves the basin for all users.”
I flip to the next chart, which shows acres upon acres of dry fields surrounding a verdant crop area owned by a big corporation. “If current extraction continues at this rate, expert projections show the basin will reach critical depletion withintwo years. At that point, recovery becomes significantly more difficult—if not impossible. This is based on the Cuyama case in Exhibit Four.”
The judge makes a note, and I step back slightly.
“Your Honor, equitable apportionment exists for this exact situation—where historic use no longer aligns with sustainability or fairness. The plaintiffs have already reduced their allocations. They’re asking that Tomahawk do the same. We also propose a framework to allow Tomahawk to purchase additional water rights from willing sellers, provided they don’t deplete the basin.”
I return to the counsel’s table and look around the courtroom before addressing the judge again. “Absent intervention, the burden falls entirely on the smaller farmers. The spirit of the law does not suggest that result.”
Sitting down at the desk, I feel for the first time like my job means something. No matter what the verdict is in this case, I can walk out of this courtroom knowing that I'll have a different future in my law career.
I want my work to matter, and I finally see a way to make that possible.
I sit, and my opposing counsel stands. He buttons his jacket and smiles at the judge.