Eva Lighthiser, a 20-year-old college student from Montana, has emerged as the lead plaintiff in a youth-led constitutional lawsuit challenging executive actions by U.S. President Donald Trump that support expanded fossil fuel development.

The case, Lighthiser v Trump, was filed by 23 young Americans who argue that federal policies promoting fossil fuel extraction and production violate constitutional protections by worsening climate-related harms affecting younger generations. The lawsuit was dismissed by a federal court last year, but the plaintiffs appeared before the ninth circuit court of appeals in Portland, Oregon, in April seeking reinstatement.

Lighthiser, who studies in Colorado and is considering a major in environmental studies, said balancing university life with high-profile litigation has altered the course of her early adulthood.“I said, ‘Hey, I’ve got to go to bed, I’m flying out to Portland tomorrow,’” she recalled while describing a recent college gathering. “Then follow-up questions get raised. I’m like, ‘Well, it’s a lot to explain.

”Outside the appeals court, Lighthiser accused the federal government of prioritizing fossil fuel development despite growing evidence of climate-related damage.“We are challenging this administration for sacrificing the lives of myself and my fellow plaintiffs by expanding fossil fuels for the sake of power,” she said during remarks delivered outside the courthouse.

The case reflects the growing prominence of youth-led climate litigation in the United States, where environmental groups increasingly seek constitutional arguments to challenge government policies tied to fossil fuel production. Legal advocates argue that climate change threatens rights relating to health, safety and environmental protections, while critics say courts are not equipped to direct national energy policy.

Lighthiser grew up in Livingston, Montana, a town surrounded by mountain ranges and river systems that have become central to her environmental activism. Her parents met while hiking, and she spent much of her childhood camping, climbing and traveling through national parks. During her first year of high school, she was homeschooled while traveling with her family across the western United States.

Her involvement in climate litigation began in 2020 after learning about Our Children’s Trust, a nonprofit legal organization focused on youth climate cases. She later joined Held v Montana, a constitutional challenge alleging that state policies favoring fossil fuels violated protections in Montana’s constitution guaranteeing a “clean and healthful environment.”Filed on Lighthiser’s 14th birthday, the Montana lawsuit became one of the first youth climate cases in the United States to proceed to trial.

During testimony, she described growing fears about climate-related environmental instability affecting the state she called home.“My future feels uncertain,” she said during the proceedings.In 2023, the court ruled in favor of the youth plaintiffs in what was widely regarded as a landmark climate decision.

The plaintiffs later argued that Montana lawmakers enacted additional legislation conflicting with the court’s findings, prompting continued legal disputes over implementation and enforcement.Lighthiser said discussions about a federal challenge accelerated after the start of Trump’s second administration in 2025.

According to Julia Olson, the organization quickly identified the possibility of a broader constitutional case focused on federal executive actions supporting fossil fuel expansion.“It became clear early in the second Trump administration that a federal case was something to pursue,” Olson said.

Lighthiser said she was contacted while preparing for an overnight cycling trip near Montana’s Paradise Valley and asked whether she would consider becoming the lead plaintiff.“The lawsuit also would be called Lighthiser v Trump,” she said. “That was really a moment when it clicked.

My name against his name.”Montana occupies a complex position in the U.S. environmental debate. The state’s economy has long depended on natural resource extraction industries, including mining and coal production, while simultaneously cultivating a strong outdoor conservation culture. Critics have described the state as a “resource colony” whose raw materials historically benefited outside commercial interests.

Lighthiser said environmental concerns often transcend political divisions in Montana, where many residents identify closely with local ecosystems regardless of party affiliation. She pointed to polling conducted in April indicating that a large majority of residents considered conservation issues important when evaluating elected officials.

“There’s a lot of people who may not believe in climate change or be resistant to conversion to renewables,” she said. “But there’s also a sense that everyone knows how special this place is.”Livingston, located near the Yellowstone River and framed by the Gallatin and Absaroka mountain ranges, has experienced multiple environmental disruptions in recent years.

Coal trains regularly pass through the area, dispersing coal dust, while warming river conditions contributed to a parasite outbreak that killed large numbers of fish in 2016.Flooding has had an especially direct impact on Lighthiser’s family. In 2018, the Shields River overflowed near the family’s former home, damaging infrastructure and forcing major transportation detours.

Four years later, severe flooding along the Yellowstone River caused widespread destruction across southern Montana, resulting in an estimated $128 million in damages.Lighthiser said those events deepened her sense of urgency while also reinforcing the importance of community response efforts.“In the following weeks, I remember there were a lot of efforts to clean up homes and help each other out,” she said.

“I thought that was a really special thing.”Other plaintiffs in the federal lawsuit said Lighthiser’s public role has encouraged younger activists to participate. Jorja McCormick, a 17-year-old co-plaintiff from Livingston, said hearing Lighthiser speak publicly made the legal process appear more accessible.“I definitely look up to the older plaintiffs like Eva,” McCormick said.Lighthiser’s parents have expressed both pride and concern over the case’s visibility.

Her mother, Erica, said the family understood the political sensitivity attached to directly challenging a sitting president in federal court.“Look, it’s our last name next to the president’s last name,” she said.Legal scholars remain divided over the long-term implications of such cases.

Pat Parenteau, an environmental law expert at Vermont Law School who has supported youth climate litigation efforts, warned that broad constitutional challenges may face substantial resistance from federal courts.“The courts are not able to reform the energy system of the United States,” Parenteau said.

“They’re not going to entertain requests for them to do that.”When dismissing the case last year, Montana district judge Dana Christensen described the plaintiffs’ requests as “unworkable” and beyond the jurisdiction of the court, though he said the dismissal came “reluctantly.”Parenteau said an unfavorable ruling from higher courts, particularly the U.S. Supreme Court, could establish precedents limiting future environmental litigation.

“You’re playing with fire with courts nowadays,” he said. “I believe in their cause, because what they’re arguing is what the law ought to be, but it’s not what the law is.”Olson rejected suggestions that ambitious constitutional climate arguments should be avoided because of potential legal setbacks.

She compared the strategy to earlier civil rights litigation efforts that initially faced skepticism before reshaping U.S. law.“The answer has never been to step back from the courthouse door,” Olson said. “Children are being harmed right now.”

Lighthiser said she believes the legal risks are outweighed by the need to challenge policies that contribute to climate-related damage affecting younger generations.

“There are risks,” she said. “But if you never take risks, nothing good happens.”

The legal dispute surrounding the former Los Angeles home of Marilyn Monroe has evolved into a broader confrontation over historic preservation policy, private property rights and the financial burden associated with maintaining culturally significant real estate in one of the United States’ most expensive housing markets.

At the center of the case is the Brentwood property where Monroe spent the final months of her life before dying from a drug overdose in August 1962 at the age of 36. The Spanish hacienda-style house, purchased by Monroe in February 1962, was the only residence she fully owned during her lifetime, according to preservation advocates and historians involved in efforts to protect the property from demolition.

The house, located in the affluent Brentwood neighborhood on the west side of Los Angeles, became the subject of an escalating legal and political conflict after current owners Brinah Milstein and her husband Roy Bank sought to demolish it following their $8.35 million purchase of the property in 2023.Milstein, described in court filings as a real estate heiress, and Bank, a television producer, had intended to incorporate the land into their adjacent estate, where they have lived for roughly a decade. According to legal filings, the couple viewed the structure as deteriorated, unoccupied and lacking practical value after years without residents or substantial maintenance.

The conflict intensified after city authorities initially approved a demolition permit. News of the permit prompted a campaign by preservationists, local officials and Monroe supporters seeking to designate the residence as a historic landmark. That campaign culminated in 2024 when Los Angeles formally classified the property as a cultural-historical monument, effectively blocking demolition plans.The designation placed the property under preservation oversight by city authorities, limiting the owners’ ability to significantly alter or remove the structure.

The homeowners subsequently filed lawsuits arguing that the designation had deprived them of the practical use and economic value of the property.In court arguments, the homeowners’ attorney David Breemer said the couple had effectively been compelled to preserve a public monument at private expense.

According to court filings, the plaintiffs argued that the city’s actions amounted to an unconstitutional interference with private property rights.A federal judge this week dismissed the claim that the city had improperly taken control of the property, although the ruling allowed the homeowners an opportunity to amend their complaint and present revised arguments.

Parallel efforts to overturn the preservation designation in state court have so far failed to gain significant momentum.The case has attracted attention among preservation experts because of the unusual sequence of events surrounding the property’s designation. Historic homes are typically sold with preservation protections already in place, allowing buyers to factor restrictions into purchasing decisions.

In this instance, however, the designation occurred after the sale and after demolition plans had already advanced through portions of the approval process.Pete Brown, a spokesperson for the Los Angeles city council office involved in the preservation effort, acknowledged the unusual nature of the dispute. “The intent of the statutes is that all parties are willing participants,” Brown said. “But that’s not what we have in this case.”

Preservation advocates argue the home carries cultural and symbolic significance that extends beyond its architecture. Monroe purchased the property during a period marked by personal and professional transition following the collapse of her marriage to playwright Arthur Miller and a temporary withdrawal from acting because of health issues.

Historians and preservation groups have described the purchase as an example of Monroe asserting financial and personal independence during an era when single women rarely owned high-value residential property. Adrian Scott Fine, president and chief executive of the nonprofit LA Conservancy, said the property represented an important chapter in Monroe’s efforts to establish independence from both the studio system and the powerful men who shaped much of her career.

“She talked about this house and was photographed in this house,” Fine said. “It was where she was embarking on a new chapter of her independence.”Despite those arguments, the condition of the property has emerged as a central issue in the dispute. The house has reportedly remained unoccupied since 2019 and has undergone no significant restoration work during the ongoing legal proceedings.

Court filings and photographs cited by both sides indicate sections of the roof are exposed, plumbing and heating systems are malfunctioning, and leaks and potential mold damage have developed throughout portions of the structure. City officials acknowledged that preservation staff have not inspected the property since 2023, creating uncertainty over whether historically significant interior elements remain intact.

The homeowners argue many original features associated with Monroe have already disappeared following decades of renovations carried out by previous owners. They contend that Mexican tiles and other decorative elements linked to Monroe’s occupancy are no longer present.

Preservation advocates fear the property could effectively undergo “demolition through neglect,” a process in which deterioration gradually destroys historic value even when formal demolition is prohibited. The concern highlights a recurring challenge in preservation law: landmark designation can restrict demolition but does not always guarantee adequate maintenance or restoration.

The case has also generated tension within the surrounding Brentwood community. Because the home cannot be viewed clearly from public streets and remains inaccessible to visitors, some nearby residents have questioned the broader public value of preserving the property.

Local complaints submitted to city officials cite increased congestion from celebrity tour buses and visitors attempting to glimpse the house from nearby streets. According to filings referenced by city officials, some individuals have attempted to climb walls surrounding the property, raising security and safety concerns for both homeowners and neighbors.

City planning authorities maintain they possess enforcement tools if the house deteriorates to the point of becoming hazardous or substandard. Under municipal authority, Los Angeles officials could order emergency stabilization or repairs while requiring homeowners to bear much of the associated cost.

Breemer said his clients were prepared to challenge or incorporate any such enforcement actions into broader settlement negotiations with the city. He declined to specify what resolution the homeowners might ultimately seek beyond compensation for the diminished value of the property.“Selling is not really an option,” Breemer said. “And they don’t want to be landlords.”

The dispute has exposed broader limitations within Los Angeles’ preservation system. City officials acknowledged there is no dedicated municipal funding source capable of purchasing or rehabilitating large numbers of historic properties facing financial or legal distress.

According to the city planning office, Los Angeles oversees more than 1,300 designated historic-cultural monument properties.Traci Park, whose district includes the Monroe property, previously described the home as one of the city’s most iconic cultural sites. However, city representatives have indicated there is currently no formal plan for resolving the property’s future while litigation remains ongoing.

Brown summarized the situation succinctly: “It’s a quandary.”

When the Delagrange family relocated from Hillsdale County to Lenawee County in southern Michigan in 2015, they brought with them a sanitation system rooted in Old Order Amish religious practice rather than modern plumbing standards.

Their use of outdoor privies instead of septic systems would eventually trigger a nearly decade-long legal and regulatory dispute that became part of a wider national debate over religious freedom, environmental oversight, and public health enforcement in expanding Amish settlements across the United States.

Henry Delagrange, a 74-year-old Amish bishop, and his extended family settled in Lenawee County in search of farmland. Like other conservative Old Order Amish communities, the family avoided electricity, telephones, and modern wastewater infrastructure. Human waste from a hand-built outhouse was collected in five-gallon containers, mixed with livestock manure, treated with lime, and spread on pastureland used for horses and cattle.

The practice had long been accepted in neighboring Hillsdale County, where the family previously lived. But local authorities in Lenawee County began investigating after residents questioned why Amish households were exempt from sanitation systems required of other property owners.The dispute unfolded as Amish communities across several states increasingly encountered local and state regulations governing wastewater disposal.

Similar legal conflicts emerged in Ohio, Indiana, and Minnesota, where health departments challenged Amish sanitation practices on public health grounds. In Fillmore County, Minnesota, litigation over gray water disposal led a state appeals court in 2023 to rule that septic systems were not mandatory under certain conditions, although the case later advanced toward review by the US Supreme Court.

The Lenawee County dispute centered on whether requiring Amish residents to install septic systems violated constitutional protections for religious exercise. Lawyers representing the Amish families argued that modern plumbing conflicted with their Ordnung, the unwritten and community-specific code governing Amish religious life and technology use.Donald Kraybill, a leading scholar of Amish society, and other experts have noted that Amish communities differ significantly in their interpretation of acceptable technologies.

In Lenawee County, the Ordnung followed by the Delagrange community dated to 1960 and was considered binding religious authority by church leaders.Henry Delagrange told lawyers during depositions that families who installed septic systems could face shunning within their church community. Although septic systems were not explicitly banned in the Ordnung, the use of such infrastructure was viewed as inconsistent with the community’s religious principles regarding separation from modern society.

The case also highlighted persistent confusion among regulators about how Amish communities distinguish between permitted and prohibited technologies. During depositions, county attorneys questioned why Amish households could use gas-powered washing equipment or travel in cars driven by non-Amish neighbors while rejecting indoor plumbing systems.

Joseph Graber, another Amish resident involved in the dispute, repeatedly responded that the issue was “modernism,” a term used broadly within the proceedings to describe technologies viewed as incompatible with Amish religious discipline.The Delagrange family permitted limited phone use through intermediaries for emergencies, business transactions, and legal communication.

They also occasionally relied on non-Amish drivers for long-distance travel, including weddings and funerals. Henry Delagrange explained during interviews that the community sought to avoid becoming “famous” through technology adoption.Public opposition intensified after local residents complained about perceived unequal enforcement of sanitation rules. Stephanie Dominique, a Lenawee County resident, wrote to the health department questioning why she was required to spend approximately $15,000 on a septic system while Amish households were not subject to identical requirements.

County officials in a related Indiana dispute similarly argued that financial considerations, rather than solely religious beliefs, influenced Amish resistance to sewer connections.The Amish families rejected that characterization. Melvin Delagrange stated that the objection was religious rather than economic, saying the family’s way of life reflected long-standing faith practices rather than an effort to reduce costs.

Environmental activists also became involved. Pam Taylor of the Environmentally Concerned Citizens of South Central Michigan publicly supported the county health department’s enforcement efforts and raised concerns about possible groundwater contamination, although no evidence of contamination emerged during the proceedings.Scientific testimony presented during the case focused on the environmental impact of Amish waste disposal methods.

Soil scientist Richard Stehouwer, retained by attorneys representing the Amish families, concluded that the approximately 300 gallons of human waste produced annually by the families was minimal compared with the tens of thousands of gallons of manure routinely spread per acre on large agricultural operations in the region.The legal dispute eventually ended in a negotiated settlement in 2023.

Under the agreement, Amish households were allowed to retain outdoor privies, but the systems had to be modified to include sealed 500-gallon holding tanks similar to vault toilets. Families were also required to periodically empty the tanks, conduct pH testing on treated waste, and pay annual permit fees.Local officials accepted continued land application of treated waste under regulated conditions.

Amish families were also permitted to maintain wells and other traditional practices that had become points of contention during the litigation.Comparable settlements or exemptions later emerged in Indiana and Ohio. In Indiana, sewer authorities established specific exemptions for Amish households, while Ohio authorities permitted privies that complied with designated construction standards.

Legal scholars say such disputes reflect broader tensions between expanding regulatory systems and religious communities that maintain traditional lifestyles. Steven Louden, a professor specializing in Amish studies at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, has noted that courts frequently struggle to interpret the authority and diversity of Amish Ordnung rules because practices can vary significantly even between neighboring settlements.

For the Delagrange family, the settlement allowed continuation of outdoor sanitation practices while bringing them under limited regulatory oversight. Their privies remain in use in Lenawee County, though now connected to sealed holding tanks monitored under county permit requirements.

The divided three-judge panel of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit said the administration was likely to succeed in arguing that the Pentagon’s new credential policy, which requires reporters to be accompanied by escorts inside the building, is legally valid.

The ruling is not a final decision in the lawsuit brought by The New York Times, which challenged the policy as unconstitutional, but it temporarily suspends an April 9 order by U.S. District Judge Paul Friedman that had barred the Defense Department from enforcing the escort requirement.

Friedman had ruled that the Pentagon’s revised credential policy violated journalists’ constitutional rights to free speech and due process, saying Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s team appeared to be attempting to circumvent his earlier March 20 decision ordering the restoration of Pentagon access for reporters.

He said the new rules effectively expelled all journalists from the building unless they were guided by official escorts, undermining the practical ability of the press to report independently.

Circuit Judges Justin Walker, J. Michelle Childs and Bradley Garcia heard the appeal, with Childs dissenting from the 2-1 decision.“Reporters can hardly verify sources, gather information, or speak candidly with Department personnel with an escort looming over their shoulders,” Childs wrote in her dissent.

Defense Department spokesperson Sean Parnell welcomed the panel’s decision and said the Pentagon looked forward to arguing the full merits of the case before the same court.In a statement posted on social media, Parnell said unrestricted access had contributed to the “regular unauthorized disclosure of sensitive and classified national defense information.”

“Since implementing the current access policy, the Department has seen a meaningful reduction in these unauthorized disclosures, which when they occur can endanger the lives of service members, intelligence personnel, and our allies,” he said.Theodore Boutrous, an attorney representing The New York Times, described the appellate ruling as a limited procedural step rather than a judgment on the broader constitutional challenge.

“This is a narrow, preliminary ruling and it casts no doubt on the strength of The Times’s constitutional arguments,” Boutrous said in a statement. “We look forward to defending the full scope of the district court’s rulings in The Times’s favor in this appeal.”The case has become a closely watched test of the balance between national security controls inside the Pentagon and longstanding press access for accredited journalists covering the U.S. military.

President Donald Trump nominated Judge Walker to the appeals court, while President Joe Biden appointed Judges Garcia and Childs. Friedman, the district judge who initially ruled for the newspaper, was appointed by former Democratic President Bill Clinton.