Louisiana Civil War: GOP Attorney General Sides With Greens Against Big Oil

Paul Riverbank, 1/12/2026GOP Louisiana Attorney General joins environmentalists in a high-stakes lawsuit against major oil companies.

The issue? A tangle of lawsuits accusing oil companies of shaving miles off the state’s shrinking coastline. That’s hardly new; what’s different is who’s picking up the banner. Attorney General Liz Murrill, a Republican whose campaign colors are red but whose recent moves defy any simple palette, is at the helm. Murrill’s insistence: protecting Louisiana’s future matches up with conservative ideals. “These cases fit the Trump agenda for energy just fine,” she said last week, striving for a tone of certainty.

Yet, as the U.S. Supreme Court prepares to weigh in—deciding, in essence, whether these suits should unfurl in Louisiana’s own courts or be spirited away to the federal bench—the expected battle lines have blurred. Some of her GOP colleagues bristle at the thought, aligning more comfortably with Chevron, America First stalwarts, and the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. Murrill, meanwhile, finds herself in rare agreement with the likes of former Governor John Bel Edwards and veteran environmental groups, names she once hurled barbs at in public forums. “Radicals, plain and simple,” she’d called Earthjustice in not-so-distant campaigns.

Now the “radicals” and the AG are on the same roster—at least in this courtroom skirmish. Of course, not everyone buys that the suits are only about eroded marshes and ruined fisheries. The American Tort Reform Association paints a more cynical picture, equating climate lawyers and advocacy groups to roving vendors hawking lawsuits across state lines. The real target, they argue, isn’t environmental crime, but deep-pocketed settlements. Louisiana’s legal system—famously “colorful,” critics say with a knowing look—is no stranger to this dance. Attorney John Carmouche, a familiar name in these legal festival circuits, is once again at the heart of litigation, weaving together interests from politicians, judges, law offices, and now, national campaigners.

Environmental groups, for their part, are experts at maneuvering. Years spent mapping out how to sidestep federal courts—where judges eye such lawsuits with skepticism—have made them nimble and persistent. Sometimes they even manage to keep cases entirely within home-state legal systems, crafting arguments that tie centuries of coastal change to decades-old oil leases. This battle, as arcane as it might sound, may set a precedent. If Louisiana keeps its case in state hands, those legal theories could quickly jump state borders. “There’s a lot more at stake than just the Mississippi delta,” one energy analyst told me.

A sticking point for many conservatives is the idea of retroactive blame. The plaintiffs want to charge energy firms for acts performed under laws of the day. “If the courts accept that, everything—every contract, every regulation—suddenly becomes provisional,” a Baton Rouge attorney mused over coffee, the worry etched into his voice. “What becomes of legal certainty if a tide shift in political power means industries can be punished for yesterday’s rules?”

Broader narratives are at play, too. Jason Isaac, steering the American Energy Institute, describes a sprawling web that, in his view, doesn’t just want to cut the gusher on oil wells, but aims to shrink American muscle worldwide. He’s quick to draw connections between climate activism and wider critiques of U.S. influence, pointing out that many protestors hopping from energy debate to energy debate often show up on the front lines of foreign policy demonstrations. It’s not about the climate, he argues; it’s about kneecapping American power with every lever available.

There’s money angling from the shadows, as it usually does in these things. Isaac is suspicious of “dark money” flows, labeling groups like Arabella Advisors and Tides as the nerve centers for national campaigns. Foundations provide the cash, political experts design the strategies, and somewhere in the mix, Louisiana’s legal system finds itself the next battleground.

Ironically, just as American environmentalists turn their sights inward, the Biden administration (and, curiously, former President Trump before them) is eyeing new oil ventures abroad—specifically Venezuela. The scene, for those in the know, is full of contradiction: U.S. Energy Secretary Chris Wright talking partnerships, Exxon’s CEO calling Venezuela “uninvestable,” and ConocoPhillips angling for state company takeovers that never materialize. Small U.S. outfits might test those waters, but everyone’s watching to see if controlling Caracas’ crude could really bring political reform to a country drowning in dysfunction.

But back on Louisiana’s marshy doorstep, the fight is less about what’s coming out of overseas pipelines and more about who decides these issues at home. Should responsibility rest on the industry that built the state’s fortunes? Or are these lawsuits just a convenient way for governments to dodge decades of mismanagement and shovel blame elsewhere? Some critics are quick to parallel the story with California’s wildfire sagas: forest mismanagement leads to disaster, but the courtroom points the finger at oil, not oversight.

The deeper anxiety for conservatives is unmistakable. A legal win here could hand activists a playbook—weaponizable in state after state, against energy producers everywhere. “If your goal is true American energy independence, are you helping that cause or handing out ammunition for its opposition?” one longtime political operative asked, half to himself.

In the end, energy fights are about more than natural gas wells, legal precedents, or the slow march of coastal tides. They’re about where a country puts its faith—whether in its own builders and producers or in the rhetoric of those who promise, through the courts, to reshape what’s possible. By the time the Supreme Court gavel drops, Louisiana’s story could be everyone’s story. But as dawn breaks again across bayou country, that outcome is still an open question, swirling like silt in the river’s backwater channels.

Over in southeastern Louisiana, locals are used to seeing new faces when big legal questions roll through town. This spring, as early-morning fog lingers over battered marshlands, the mood is knottier than most years. Bayou dwellers discuss more than just shrimp hauls and river gauge readings; the air is thick with talk of looming court fights—this time poised to draw in some of the most unlikely alliances seen in decades.The issue? A tangle of lawsuits accusing oil companies of shaving miles off the state’s shrinking coastline. That’s hardly new; what’s different is who’s picking up the banner. Attorney General Liz Murrill, a Republican whose campaign colors are red but whose recent moves defy any simple palette, is at the helm. Murrill’s insistence: protecting Louisiana’s future matches up with conservative ideals. “These cases fit the Trump agenda for energy just fine,” she said last week, striving for a tone of certainty.Yet, as the U.S. Supreme Court prepares to weigh in—deciding, in essence, whether these suits should unfurl in Louisiana’s own courts or be spirited away to the federal bench—the expected battle lines have blurred. Some of her GOP colleagues bristle at the thought, aligning more comfortably with Chevron, America First stalwarts, and the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. Murrill, meanwhile, finds herself in rare agreement with the likes of former Governor John Bel Edwards and veteran environmental groups, names she once hurled barbs at in public forums. “Radicals, plain and simple,” she’d called Earthjustice in not-so-distant campaigns.Now the “radicals” and the AG are on the same roster—at least in this courtroom skirmish. Of course, not everyone buys that the suits are only about eroded marshes and ruined fisheries. The American Tort Reform Association paints a more cynical picture, equating climate lawyers and advocacy groups to roving vendors hawking lawsuits across state lines. The real target, they argue, isn’t environmental crime, but deep-pocketed settlements. Louisiana’s legal system—famously “colorful,” critics say with a knowing look—is no stranger to this dance. Attorney John Carmouche, a familiar name in these legal festival circuits, is once again at the heart of litigation, weaving together interests from politicians, judges, law offices, and now, national campaigners.Environmental groups, for their part, are experts at maneuvering. Years spent mapping out how to sidestep federal courts—where judges eye such lawsuits with skepticism—have made them nimble and persistent. Sometimes they even manage to keep cases entirely within home-state legal systems, crafting arguments that tie centuries of coastal change to decades-old oil leases. This battle, as arcane as it might sound, may set a precedent. If Louisiana keeps its case in state hands, those legal theories could quickly jump state borders. “There’s a lot more at stake than just the Mississippi delta,” one energy analyst told me.A sticking point for many conservatives is the idea of retroactive blame. The plaintiffs want to charge energy firms for acts performed under laws of the day. “If the courts accept that, everything—every contract, every regulation—suddenly becomes provisional,” a Baton Rouge attorney mused over coffee, the worry etched into his voice. “What becomes of legal certainty if a tide shift in political power means industries can be punished for yesterday’s rules?”Broader narratives are at play, too. Jason Isaac, steering the American Energy Institute, describes a sprawling web that, in his view, doesn’t just want to cut the gusher on oil wells, but aims to shrink American muscle worldwide. He’s quick to draw connections between climate activism and wider critiques of U.S. influence, pointing out that many protestors hopping from energy debate to energy debate often show up on the front lines of foreign policy demonstrations. It’s not about the climate, he argues; it’s about kneecapping American power with every lever available.There’s money angling from the shadows, as it usually does in these things. Isaac is suspicious of “dark money” flows, labeling groups like Arabella Advisors and Tides as the nerve centers for national campaigns. Foundations provide the cash, political experts design the strategies, and somewhere in the mix, Louisiana’s legal system finds itself the next battleground.Ironically, just as American environmentalists turn their sights inward, the Biden administration (and, curiously, former President Trump before them) is eyeing new oil ventures abroad—specifically Venezuela. The scene, for those in the know, is full of contradiction: U.S. Energy Secretary Chris Wright talking partnerships, Exxon’s CEO calling Venezuela “uninvestable,” and ConocoPhillips angling for state company takeovers that never materialize. Small U.S. outfits might test those waters, but everyone’s watching to see if controlling Caracas’ crude could really bring political reform to a country drowning in dysfunction.But back on Louisiana’s marshy doorstep, the fight is less about what’s coming out of overseas pipelines and more about who decides these issues at home. Should responsibility rest on the industry that built the state’s fortunes? Or are these lawsuits just a convenient way for governments to dodge decades of mismanagement and shovel blame elsewhere? Some critics are quick to parallel the story with California’s wildfire sagas: forest mismanagement leads to disaster, but the courtroom points the finger at oil, not oversight.The deeper anxiety for conservatives is unmistakable. A legal win here could hand activists a playbook—weaponizable in state after state, against energy producers everywhere. “If your goal is true American energy independence, are you helping that cause or handing out ammunition for its opposition?” one longtime political operative asked, half to himself.In the end, energy fights are about more than natural gas wells, legal precedents, or the slow march of coastal tides. They’re about where a country puts its faith—whether in its own builders and producers or in the rhetoric of those who promise, through the courts, to reshape what’s possible. By the time the Supreme Court gavel drops, Louisiana’s story could be everyone’s story. But as dawn breaks again across bayou country, that outcome is still an open question, swirling like silt in the river’s backwater channels.