Louisiana AG Defies GOP, Unites With Greens in Oil Lawsuit Showdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/12/2026Louisiana’s legal fight over oil and coastal loss brings unexpected allies and national scrutiny. As state and federal interests collide, the outcome could reshape who controls America’s energy battles—and who is held accountable for the land’s future.

For years, Louisiana has lived under a threat that hides in plain sight—the slow disappearance of the land. Ask a shrimper hauling nets before breakfast, or a grandmother sweeping sand from a porch in Plaquemines Parish, and they’ll tell you: it’s not just hurricanes carving up the shoreline, but decisions made decades ago by powerful companies. The debate isn’t all that new. The cast of characters, though, keeps changing.

What’s different this time is the stage. Louisiana’s new Attorney General, Liz Murrill, a sharply spoken Republican who rarely hedges her words, is now in a leading role. Her stance has caught almost everyone off guard: she claims that holding oil companies to account in court is perfectly in step with a conservative energy playbook. “These cases fit the Trump agenda for energy just fine,” she declared, cool as you please. The remark spun heads in Baton Rouge, and not just among those who’d rather see oil and gas left out of courtrooms altogether.

The politics have grown complicated. Murrill now stands beside organizations she once railed against—the kind of environmental advocates her Republican peers might have dismissed as zealots. Earthjustice, the Environmental Defense Fund, even former Governor John Bel Edwards (a Democrat)—they’re all standing shoulder to shoulder on this one. It’s an odd collection. Old sparring partners, yes, but apparently, shared ground is easier to find than it used to be. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing: alliances often as shifting as the river’s course.

But don’t make the mistake of thinking this is simply about who’s suing whom. The dispute turns on the question of venue—a detail that lawyers obsess over and most folks figure won’t matter to them, until suddenly it does. Does the fight play out under the distant eyes of federal judges, where the odds often favor industry? Or should it stay rooted in Louisiana’s own courts, respect paid to those who grew up in these swampy lowlands?

Predictably, the country’s business heavyweights—Chevron, Trump-era officials, members of the America First Policy Institute—prefer a federal bench. Their arguments get support from the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, which has little interest in letting states become judicial trendsetters. State courts, they figure, could mean a wave of costly precedents.

Murrill isn’t alone, either. High-profile Louisiana lawyers like John Carmouche are working parish by parish to persuade local officials that holding oil and gas companies to account might mean both a shot at restoring wetlands and an influx of settlement money. There’s a certain theatricality to the way Louisiana’s court system approaches matters like this—some call it “colorful,” others “famously unpredictable.” But now, that flamboyant legal culture faces a bigger test, with headlines landing well beyond the porches of the Atchafalaya.

Behind closed doors, environmental groups have gotten savvy. They focus less on fighting the broader climate war and more on framing their cases as uniquely tied to local land loss. “We’re telling the story of our dirt, not just carbon dioxide,” a member of one group explained at a caffeine-fueled meeting in Baton Rouge. And if Louisiana keeps its cases at home—well, lawyers in other states are already taking notes.

Yet, for every earthy anecdote about coastal erosion, there’s a cold counterpoint. Some conservative attorneys bristle at what they see as an attack on industries for following the rules of yesteryear. If courts allow retroactive punishment, one Baton Rouge lawyer frets, “Nothing anybody agrees to is ever really final—every past handshake can be undone the next time the winds of policy shift.” There’s a wary sense that if today’s lawsuit succeeds, tomorrow’s targets become anyone with deep enough pockets, or enough history.

Peeling back another layer, some suggest these lawsuits form part of a more elaborate campaign—one that runs far beyond Louisiana and well-funded environmental legal strategies. Jason Isaac of the American Energy Institute, for instance, is convinced this isn’t about the climate so much as it is a trial run for curbing American energy. “You look at the funding, the consulting, the think tanks—Arabella Advisors, Tides—they’re all in there,” he says. The players may change, but the argument remains: this is a tactic, not just a grievance.

Meanwhile, the energy debate keeps shifting like afternoon clouds. While Louisiana’s lawsuits pick up steam, federal officials and oil company execs are casting their eyes abroad. Consider discussions around Venezuela—Energy Secretary Chris Wright recently floated, in so many words, that American firms might soon control sales from Caracas. Sound wild? Maybe. Exxon’s CEO Darren Woods has already called Venezuela “uninvestable,” but there are those in D.C. who believe American leverage can hasten reform in the country. “If the money’s flowing through us, we’ll see improvements faster than anyone expects,” Wright told a television crew that seemed as skeptical as any local fishermen.

These are conversations playing out far from the faded docks and backroad diners of Louisiana. Yet, for those whose families have lived along the bayou since before the levees, what matters is precisely who gets to decide: will it be federal judges hundreds of miles away, or the neighbors who understand the mud and the tides best?

Not everyone buys the idea that the state itself bears no blame. Critics, often quietly, point out that politicians looked the other way or cut corners for years—that pinning it all on BP or Chevron seems too easy. They mention California, where wildfires fueled political lawsuits against oil giants, when some argue better forest management would have made a difference. It’s a trend that dangles the prospect of easy answers and hard-fought dollars, rather than difficult policy reforms.

Within conservative circles, the unease runs deeper still. The possibility that lawsuits like these could become a blueprint elsewhere has them worried about a slippery slope—a patchwork of state-level litigation that could hobble industries far beyond Louisiana. “If you want real energy independence,” a campaign veteran told me over coffee, “you don’t do it by making your own companies fight a thousand little wars.”

On the ground, nothing is settled—or simple. For many in Louisiana, the real question isn’t whether the coast can be saved, but if anyone with the power to help will feel the urgency. Courts will decide how far this legal experiment goes, but the houses perched a foot above the tides have no such luxury of time. So as another morning fog dissolves over the bayou, the answer to who shapes the future—industry or community, D.C. or Des Allemands—remains as unsettled as the water under every wooden wharf.

If you drive down a coastal highway near Houma at dawn, it looks almost as though the fog wants to settle right inside the cab with you. Out here in the marshland, people have gotten good at ignoring the distant thunder of lawsuits, even if lately, that low rumble feels impossible to shake.For years, Louisiana has lived under a threat that hides in plain sight—the slow disappearance of the land. Ask a shrimper hauling nets before breakfast, or a grandmother sweeping sand from a porch in Plaquemines Parish, and they’ll tell you: it’s not just hurricanes carving up the shoreline, but decisions made decades ago by powerful companies. The debate isn’t all that new. The cast of characters, though, keeps changing.What’s different this time is the stage. Louisiana’s new Attorney General, Liz Murrill, a sharply spoken Republican who rarely hedges her words, is now in a leading role. Her stance has caught almost everyone off guard: she claims that holding oil companies to account in court is perfectly in step with a conservative energy playbook. “These cases fit the Trump agenda for energy just fine,” she declared, cool as you please. The remark spun heads in Baton Rouge, and not just among those who’d rather see oil and gas left out of courtrooms altogether.The politics have grown complicated. Murrill now stands beside organizations she once railed against—the kind of environmental advocates her Republican peers might have dismissed as zealots. Earthjustice, the Environmental Defense Fund, even former Governor John Bel Edwards (a Democrat)—they’re all standing shoulder to shoulder on this one. It’s an odd collection. Old sparring partners, yes, but apparently, shared ground is easier to find than it used to be. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing: alliances often as shifting as the river’s course.But don’t make the mistake of thinking this is simply about who’s suing whom. The dispute turns on the question of venue—a detail that lawyers obsess over and most folks figure won’t matter to them, until suddenly it does. Does the fight play out under the distant eyes of federal judges, where the odds often favor industry? Or should it stay rooted in Louisiana’s own courts, respect paid to those who grew up in these swampy lowlands?Predictably, the country’s business heavyweights—Chevron, Trump-era officials, members of the America First Policy Institute—prefer a federal bench. Their arguments get support from the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, which has little interest in letting states become judicial trendsetters. State courts, they figure, could mean a wave of costly precedents.Murrill isn’t alone, either. High-profile Louisiana lawyers like John Carmouche are working parish by parish to persuade local officials that holding oil and gas companies to account might mean both a shot at restoring wetlands and an influx of settlement money. There’s a certain theatricality to the way Louisiana’s court system approaches matters like this—some call it “colorful,” others “famously unpredictable.” But now, that flamboyant legal culture faces a bigger test, with headlines landing well beyond the porches of the Atchafalaya.Behind closed doors, environmental groups have gotten savvy. They focus less on fighting the broader climate war and more on framing their cases as uniquely tied to local land loss. “We’re telling the story of our dirt, not just carbon dioxide,” a member of one group explained at a caffeine-fueled meeting in Baton Rouge. And if Louisiana keeps its cases at home—well, lawyers in other states are already taking notes.Yet, for every earthy anecdote about coastal erosion, there’s a cold counterpoint. Some conservative attorneys bristle at what they see as an attack on industries for following the rules of yesteryear. If courts allow retroactive punishment, one Baton Rouge lawyer frets, “Nothing anybody agrees to is ever really final—every past handshake can be undone the next time the winds of policy shift.” There’s a wary sense that if today’s lawsuit succeeds, tomorrow’s targets become anyone with deep enough pockets, or enough history.Peeling back another layer, some suggest these lawsuits form part of a more elaborate campaign—one that runs far beyond Louisiana and well-funded environmental legal strategies. Jason Isaac of the American Energy Institute, for instance, is convinced this isn’t about the climate so much as it is a trial run for curbing American energy. “You look at the funding, the consulting, the think tanks—Arabella Advisors, Tides—they’re all in there,” he says. The players may change, but the argument remains: this is a tactic, not just a grievance.Meanwhile, the energy debate keeps shifting like afternoon clouds. While Louisiana’s lawsuits pick up steam, federal officials and oil company execs are casting their eyes abroad. Consider discussions around Venezuela—Energy Secretary Chris Wright recently floated, in so many words, that American firms might soon control sales from Caracas. Sound wild? Maybe. Exxon’s CEO Darren Woods has already called Venezuela “uninvestable,” but there are those in D.C. who believe American leverage can hasten reform in the country. “If the money’s flowing through us, we’ll see improvements faster than anyone expects,” Wright told a television crew that seemed as skeptical as any local fishermen.These are conversations playing out far from the faded docks and backroad diners of Louisiana. Yet, for those whose families have lived along the bayou since before the levees, what matters is precisely who gets to decide: will it be federal judges hundreds of miles away, or the neighbors who understand the mud and the tides best?Not everyone buys the idea that the state itself bears no blame. Critics, often quietly, point out that politicians looked the other way or cut corners for years—that pinning it all on BP or Chevron seems too easy. They mention California, where wildfires fueled political lawsuits against oil giants, when some argue better forest management would have made a difference. It’s a trend that dangles the prospect of easy answers and hard-fought dollars, rather than difficult policy reforms.Within conservative circles, the unease runs deeper still. The possibility that lawsuits like these could become a blueprint elsewhere has them worried about a slippery slope—a patchwork of state-level litigation that could hobble industries far beyond Louisiana. “If you want real energy independence,” a campaign veteran told me over coffee, “you don’t do it by making your own companies fight a thousand little wars.”On the ground, nothing is settled—or simple. For many in Louisiana, the real question isn’t whether the coast can be saved, but if anyone with the power to help will feel the urgency. Courts will decide how far this legal experiment goes, but the houses perched a foot above the tides have no such luxury of time. So as another morning fog dissolves over the bayou, the answer to who shapes the future—industry or community, D.C. or Des Allemands—remains as unsettled as the water under every wooden wharf.