“Your Honor, Tomahawk Corporation has operated within its legal rights for decades.”
He walks a step forward, hands clasped. “The plaintiffs’ argument asks this court to disregard an established precedent in favor of a reallocation that would fundamentally disrupt existing operations.”
He gestures lightly toward the charts.
“We do not dispute that the basin is under strain. But the solution cannot be to penalize the single largest agriculturalproducer in the region—one that employs local residents, contributes to the tax base, and supplies food at scale.”
There’s a disgruntled rumble amid the locals in the courtroom. The judge interjects. “Counsel, address the overdraft issue.”
He nods.
“Of course, Your Honor. Tomahawk remains compliant with all current regulations. The plaintiffs are asking the court to impose restrictions beyond what the law currently requires.”
He waits a beat and levels his final argument. “And while they characterize this as an issue of fairness, the governing framework is based on established rights—not subjective notions of equity.”
Looking smugly satisfied, he returns to his table. “We respectfully request that the court deny the plaintiffs’ proposed reallocation.”
I look around the courtroom and see disappointment on some farmers' faces. They've heard this before, and things have not gone their way in the past, so I'm sure they're preparing themselves for another disappointment.
But there’s only one person in the courtroom whose face I’m looking for. And when I catch Fitz’s eye, I find him beaming with pride.
The case continuesfor several more days, with the Tomahawk Corporation bringing in water experts and economists to argue their case.
I do the same, bringing in my own experts and having several farmers testify to how their fortunes have changed over the years.
“I used to bring in two thousand dollars per day. I used to be able to employ fifty workers,” one of the farmers says. “And now I've had to fire almost everyone, which makes it impossible to grow what I used to produce, which means I'm working at a loss. I can't feed my family, and that's not a tenable situation.”
One after the next after the next, each farm owner and rancher in the room gets up and says the same thing. I glance over at the attorney for the Tomahawk Corporation to see if any of this makes an impression on him. Does he feel guilty at all about advocating for a company that causes financial and personal pain to all of these people?
His face remains stony, and I know that he's trained to be emotionless and merciless at the same time.
Well, I can be merciless too, especially for something I care about.
The case stretches on until everyone has been heard and the judge has time to consider all the evidence. When we return to hear the final verdict, I feel nervous. I feel responsible for the fate of the people in this town that I've grown to care about so much.
My sisters meet me for coffee at the place down the block and do their best to prop me up and encourage me to think positively.
“If you can't win this case, I don't know who could. You're so good at what you do,” Callie says.
“Yeah, this is absolutely your wheelhouse, and everything you've articulated has been amazing. If I were the judge, you’d have convinced me ten times over,” Dylan says.
“Okay, I love you guys for blowing smoke up my ass, even if it's not true.”
“It is true,” Hannah says. “You're really good at what you do, and I’m so glad I got to be here to see that in person.”
Coming from Hannah, it means even more. Hearing it from the oldest, who I always assumed knew the most, gives me a boost of confidence that the verdict could turn in our favor.
We enter the courtroom, and I see it's just as full as it's been all the other days, but there's a nervous rumbling of anticipation. Everybody talks in hushed voices, wondering what the verdict will be. I feel the tension like an electric storm.
When the judge returns, we all sit quietly while he reads off the merits of the case.
“I understand where both sides are coming from. It wouldn't be a court case if there weren't evidence on both sides. However, looking at the case law and historical precedent on California water rights over the past decade, I believe that 100 years makes things pretty clear-cut. The community that has built thriving acres of farmland and tended the land for generations is the rightful owner of the water beneath it. History is not an excuse for raping the land or pillaging its natural resources for one company’s profit. Therefore, I rule in favor of the defendants and grant future tenancy of the underground water resources, which may be used or sold at the discretion of individual owners. Case is closed.”
A massive cheer erupts in the courtroom. The opposing counsel nods at me, folds up his notes, and puts them into his briefcase. He walks quickly out the rear door, and I feel a twinge of pity for him, but then I remind myself that his client has deep pockets and will live to fight another battle against another group of small farmers. They may even win.
All that matters to me is this case and these farmers I have come to know and respect in the time I've been here.
Fitz comes over and puts an arm around me. “You did it,” he whispers in my ear. “We are all so grateful. You've given us back our livelihoods.”
