Chapter 33
Tessa
This scene in 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 on Willow 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 within two 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.
“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 agricultural producer 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 continues for 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.”
“It's mutual,” I say. You all, this town…it’s given me back my love for practicing law.”
Amid the hubbub of neighbors burying old grudges over water, we find a chance to slip away and walk across the street to the bench where Fitz found me nervously pacing before my opening argument.
We walk a little farther down the street until the chatter outside the courthouse fades into the distance.
Instead of quiet, I notice all of the sounds of Willow Springs that have come to feel like home to me over the months I’ve been coming here—the quiet chirp of birds, water in a tiled fountain, the distant whinny of a horse.
I even catch a whiff of Maria’s tamales.
When I turn toward Fitz, I find him gazing at me with a patient, relaxed smile.
He crosses his arms and nods. “You are so fucking impressive. Not to mention funny, smart, gorgeous…I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you in my life—I sure as hell don’t deserve you—but I’m smart enough to keep you because it’s necessary. Because I love you so fucking much.”
I can feel my blush burnish my cheeks and neck. I wish those words meant more than what we currently have together. I wish so many things were different, but how can they be when we’re still in the same place as always?
But I smile at Fitz and stand on my toes to kiss his lips. “Thank you. I think I’ll keep you too.”
“Mean it, though,” he says.
“I do.”
“No, really mean it. Like how about we do it for real?”
The vulnerability in his face tears me up. I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him. What’s the damn point, even if our lives don’t make sense together?
“Of course, I love you too, Fitz. I do. I have for months.” The relief on his face disappears as soon as I continue with the truth.
“But nothing’s changed. I still want to be with someone who can let me in, and I don’t think you’re capable of that.
It’s okay, and I don’t blame you. It’s just the way things are. ”
I can’t say more because it’s too painful. I feel words and emotions choke in my throat, and I don’t want to cry right now. I need to do that alone.
So I turn to walk away.