This book would not have been possible without the Juliana twenty-one and their courageous journey. I cannot overstate what a transformative experience it was to work with them, nor can I aptly convey how outstanding, dogged, tough, unwavering, and yet consistently individual they all are. The level of self-sacrifice they have given their advocacy is a lesson in humility I only hope to have adequately chronicled. I am awestruck by the turns of luck and fate that led me to their story and deeply grateful for their trust in telling this piece of it.
I am similarly thankful to their parents, many of whom are appointment setters and gatekeepers alike. They endured my emails and my presence on hikes, at dinner, in their homes and camp—in other words, many places parents might easily decide a reporter does not belong. That they saw my involvement in their children’s lives as an opportunity to empower them imbued me with a sense of duty that I felt an ambition to serve.
Along the way, I had the assistance of two people whose close relationships with the plaintiffs facilitated much of my reporting. They are Meg Ward, the former communications director of Our Children’s Trust, and Dylan Plummer, the organization’s former public engagement organizer. Meg especially has my deepest thanks for understanding the depth of the reporting I wished to bring to the Juliana case and for her belief in its value.
My thanks is also owed to the lead attorneys for the plaintiffs, Julia Olson, Andrea Rodgers, and Phil Gregory, who always had the patience to explain the details of Juliana v. United States to me. They spent considerable time doing so and shared much of their personal journeys with me along the way. Mary Christina Wood similarly offered her time and expertise in conveying the legal theories undergirding the Juliana case.
This book was vastly improved upon by Melissa Melo and Lily Lamadrid, both sensitivity readers who graciously read for ageism, making many astute observations about my treatment of youth voices and culture and providing powerful feedback on other issues. Charles Hudson, a Hidatsa tribal member, kindly reviewed my portrayal of Indigenous peoples and issues. He has, over many years, greatly informed my aptitude for reporting on both. Kalen Goodluck, a journalist with Diné, Mandan, Hidatsa, and Tsimshian roots, reviewed Chapter 12 for cultural competency and provided critical input into the style treatment of the cultural references herein. I am indebted to these wonderful humans.
My editor, Stacee Lawrence, deserves all the credit for making this book a book. It was Stacee who saw the value in telling the story of a thing that did not happen. That she understood the interest and import that the backstory of this case could have is singularly what made this project happen. Lorraine Anderson provided the calm, even-handed final edits that required as much logistical planning as red ink, and did so in times of calamity around the world. I was immensely pleased to have her company in the final days of this work.
The writing in between—from the proposal through each chapter—was attended and aided by the untiring members of Writers Anonymous, who never complain, even when I am fatiguing them. Despite the tongue-in-cheek moniker for this bunch, I cannot let their contributions remain anonymous: Jon Ross, Linda Wojtowick, Amanda Waldroupe, Shasta Kearns Moore, Jason Maurer, Kelsi Villarreal. I only hope I can repay their skill and kindness in something other than more drafts.
In the early days of this writing, David Wolman provided next-level thinking on story structure that helped me to see where this book was headed. Rebecca Clarren is excellent at making my reporting as easy to perceive as my cynicism. She provided structural feedback on a first draft and reordered the narrative for the emotional tolerance of the reader. AmyJo Sanders also read a first draft and provided enormous insight into the strength of the material, and coached me on how to bring those strengths into focus. Jon Ross and David Shafer provided an extra dose of line edits. My work is vastly improved by all of their attention to it. It is Bill Tarrant, West Coast editor at Reuters, to whom I owe thanks for this book’s title.
I am so glad for the presence of all of these writers in my life and for their understanding and company in the unique challenges we face. It is the community they create that makes working in this industry worthwhile.
Thanks is also due to my agent, Jessica Papin, who makes my life tremendously easier and richer in all kinds of ways. Jessica showed enthusiasm for this book before I knew that I would write it. Her early reaction to the idea of a book about a canceled trial was largely what caused me to pursue it. She is also a darn good editor, and rolled her sleeves up on this project more than once.
My sincere gratitude also goes to Jonathan Logan for his support for my work through the Logan Nonfiction Residency. I owe him more than a martini and a black T-shirt, though I suspect he would settle for either. The time I spent at the Carey Institute for Global Good allowed me to read the court record of Juliana v. United States while people did things for me like make my bed and cook incomparably good food. Josh Freedman, Carol Ash, Carly Willsie, and many others made this environment the most conducive to good writing and good journalism that I have ever known, as did the companionship of my cohort. Every one of these individuals improved upon my ideas and my creative experience in undertaking this work. I am very, very lucky to know them and to have spent this time in their company.
The grant that allowed me to begin my pretrial reporting on the Juliana twenty-one came from the Society of Environmental Journalists and is the namesake of the late Lizzie Grossman, herself an intrepid environmental reporter whose forays into climate journalism took her all the way to the Arctic. This early support was essential and ultimately allowed me to stick with this story at precisely the juncture when many journalists turned away from it. I was humbled to do so in Lizzie’s name.
Throughout this work, my number one writing companion has been my dog, Onyx, however disinterested. She is a great walking buddy and a better reminder of what it means to breathe.
My husband, Bjorn, supported all the rest—my time in the Logan residency, the early conception of this book, and the life changes required to write it. That this included such annoyances as letting quiet rank higher than emptying the dishwasher on the household list of greater goods leaves me indebted to his humor. He is also sounding board and editor, and a critic who will not forgive being bored—in another words, the best kind. He is a good walking buddy, too, and I am grateful that he walks through this world with me.