Inside Marissa Roy's Bollywood-bumping, group-project bid to become L.A.'s city attorney

It was less than a month before the Nov. 3 election when Los Angeles city attorney front-runner Marissa Roy realized she'd missed her lucky manicure. A deputy attorney general in the California Department of Justice, she had scarcely slept since her team clinched its historic $17-billion settlement with Meta in August.

She'd been canvassing hundreds of voters and sounding out scores of deputy city attorneys in her bid to transform the troubled office where she'd launched her career in 2017 into the "largest public interest law firm" in L.A. Between filming TikTok spots and prepping for formal debates, Roy has been fine-tuning her plans to avenge exploited tenants and claw back stolen wages, tame runaway civil liability, protect victims of child abuse and domestic violence, and join other elected attorneys in lawsuits against the Trump administration.

Nails didn't make the cut. "There's just been too much to do," Roy said of the chrome gel ritual she inaugurated as a volunteer for Eunisses Hernandez in 2022. Seen one way, Roy's talismanic manicure is an object lesson for her fiercest critics: all flash and no substance, evidence the 34-year-old lacks the "gravitas" to be among the state's most powerful elected lawyers.

But like the iridescent glitter in her campaign-matched chrome polish, the meaning shifts with the viewer's perspective. To supporters on the city's restive left and the clique of California city attorneys eager to add Roy to their group chat, it's a winking show of solidarity burnished through years of knocking on doors for fellow up-and-coming progressives. It was metallic blue for Hernandez, silver for Ysabel Jurado and ultraviolet for her own historic primary upset in June.

Her backers see in her fierce loyalty and admire her eternal hunt for wage thieves to sue. "I wanted the slogan 'let's sue it' — that was violently nixed," Roy said of her campaign. With her Democratic Socialists of America sass, bright amethyst blazers and Bollywood needle drops on Instagram, the lifelong Angeleno cuts a stark contrast to her rival, Deputy Dist.

Atty. John McKinney, 58, who leapfrogged to a second-place finish in the primaries amid a stoic, law-and-order campaign that sometimes slipped into Spencer Pratt-style dystopian imagery. McKinney's boosters point to his extraordinary biography — from penniless orphan to director of special prosecutions in the country's largest district attorney's office — and celebrated courtroom prowess as evidence he is better suited to handle the 120,000 violations referred to the city attorney for potential charges every year.

“John has the experience, stature, reputation, and gravitas to do the job and will be both effective and respected,” said former Los Angeles City Atty. Burt Pines. "I do not have the same confidence in her.”

Roy's allies counter that prosecuting misdemeanors is only a third of the city attorney's job — and typically the less complex part. Whereas McKinney has never worked a civil case, Roy has managed multicity litigation and shares the credit for legal victories no attorney could secure alone. In the Meta case, Roy and her team had argued that the social media giant had intentionally designed its products to hook young children and repeatedly misled the public about known risks.

"She was one of the original four team members in California that stayed up until 2 a.m. filing the [Meta] complaint," said California Atty.

Gen. Rob Bonta. "She helped develop our legal strategy, particularly our deception theory, which was our core theory of legal liability for the case."

Similarly, while McKinney's camp paints a lawman of singular personal ability, Roy supporters describe her as brilliant, driven, and eager to lift the best and brightest around her. "She is tenacious and works around the clock," said San Francisco City Atty. David Chiu.

She's also infamously bubbly: When a canvasser door-knocked 9th Circuit Judge Richard Paez, for whom Roy had clerked, he reportedly asked the volunteer to give her a hug. "She has a natural enthusiasm about her that is infectious," said Mark Ramos, chair of Los Angeles County Democratic Party. "She’s [always] shown up, and showing up matters."

Which matters more — individual virtue or collaborative ingenuity — now in effect divides the race for the most abstruse job in local politics: Four of L.A's former city attorneys have endorsed McKinney, while California's current top elected lawyers have largely lined up behind Roy. A head-to-head match with McKinney was not what Roy envisioned last year when she launched her campaign to unseat the incumbent city attorney, Hydee Feldstein Soto.

After charming L.A.'s major power brokers, she had hoped to win the primary outright and avoid a runoff so she could focus exclusively on the Meta trial in August.

"I had been planning for things to end in June," she said. Feldstein Soto was bogged down by scandal and soaring civil liability costs for the city. She also faced criticism for ducking challenges to President Trump's policies, including the deployment of military troops to Los Angeles last year, a fight the city joined but did not lead.

By early spring, Roy had racked up endorsements from the state's legal elites and leftist kingmaker Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) She earned the imprimatur of the city's powerful Democratic clubs and its influential labor unions, while enjoying widespread support from a democratic socialist base.

L.A. voters want "the transformational leadership that they’re seeing in [New York Mayor Zohran] Mamdani, and also in Mayor [Daniel] Lurie in San Francisco," said L.

A. County Supervisor Lindsey Horvath, a longtime friend of Roy's and among her earliest endorsers. "Angelenos are increasingly impatient in wanting to see that change come to their city, too."

Then, in April, Feldstein Soto slipped from unpopular to politically radioactive after hackers stole thousands of LAPD files from her office. That inspired a late-breaking police union endorsement and a surge of corporate cash for McKinney, boosting him to a second-place finish and knocking out Feldstein Soto in a historic rout. McKinney touts the city attorney's prosecutor role as a means to stem quality-of-life crimes and curb homelessness.

Roy has promised to keep more Angelenos housed and protect their livelihoods through "affirmative litigation" — suits brought against slumlords and exploitative corporations under the state's Unfair Competition Law. "When you file these suits, you have complete discretion," said Pines, the former city attorney who successfully lobbied the state to extend Los Angeles that power in 1977 and watched in dismay as Feldstein Soto left it to whither. In recent years, affirmative litigation has become an essential tool for defending against punitive federal policy and recovering public funds, Pines and others said.

Seeing the San Francisco city attorney's office sue to overturn California's ban on gay marriage — a law that would have stymied her gay younger brother — inspired Roy to give up her elementary school dream of decoding ancient texts to pursue the law. "Childhood Marissa spent recesses in the library buried in books about ancient Egypt," Roy said. "It was San Francisco suing — that was when I began to become aware of the power of lawyers."

Unlike her opponent, Roy grew up comfortably in Monrovia, largely shielded from the sacrifices her family made to afford her an elite education. The daughter of an Indian immigrant mother and a white American father, she graduated from Flintridge Prep and attended University of Southern California on scholarship. While studying law at Yale, she interned in the affirmative litigation department in the San Francisco city attorney's office — a program Chiu lauded as "an essential training ground for the next generation of government lawyers" in a recent law review article.

Roy and her supporters say those early experiences cemented her commitment to teamwork, which is central to the less glamorous, more costly side of the city attorney's job: serving as general counsel for myriad city agencies and legal advisor to City Hall. "There’s absolutely more collaboration and it’s more significant given the things we’re up against," said San Diego City Atty. Heather Ferbert, a close ally of Roy's.

Ferbert and others pointed to a surge in lawsuits against municipalities over everything from sidewalk trip-and-falls to police misconduct — cases that can lead to seven- or eight-figure payouts. "If it’s not extremely unusual, it doesn’t make it to the city attorney’s desk," said Oakland City Atty. Ryan Richardson, who endorsed Roy.

As a deputy city attorney, Roy spearheaded a trio of major wage-theft suits just a month after she was admitted to the bar. Independent expenditure groups supporting McKinney spent more than $350,000 trying to strip her of that title because she was paid by a nonprofit — an common arrangement employed by government law offices across the U.S.

— while the city attorney's office itself gave her permission to use it, and lists her as such in its court filings. McKinney has since sought to paint Roy as the second coming of George Gascón, the polarizing district attorney who was drubbed in 2024 — a move that assumes most voters are still thinking about Gascón, or are likely to see the graying "godfather of progressive prosecutors" in a raven-haired deputy attorney general. "The only way you disprove that is by putting your head down and doing the work 10 times harder," Roy said.

"Voters are smarter than that. People in the coalition see these tactics and are tired of them too."