-By A Special Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News - 12.Oct.2025, 9.40 PM) It began, like many tales of Sri Lankan legal arrogance, with something small and procedural — a police officer doing his job.
On an otherwise unremarkable morning at the Mount Lavinia Magistrate’s Court Complex, a policeman stood by the gate, performing his mundane but essential duty: controlling vehicle movements within the court premises. A prison transport vehicle was approaching, carrying detainees due to be produced before the magistrate. As per long-standing security protocol, the prison vehicle had priority to pass first. The constable on duty, mindful of the procedure and the safety of all, raised his hand to halt a car that was attempting to exit the court compound.
Inside that car sat not a criminal, nor a high-ranking official, but a lawyer , Attorney At Law- Gunarathna Wanninayaka— a man who, by virtue of his black coat, believed himself to be above the law.
What happened next has since gone viral in Sri Lanka’s legal and media circles. The lawyer, furious that his passage had been delayed, stepped out of his vehicle and confronted the police officer, front of the other Senior Police officers, who were trying to calm the situation, a single Police officer not assisted the poor police officer who try to follow the proper protocol, then police officer was undress, his Police uniform was removed, produced the Magistrate Courts, even without any inquiry, Eyewitnesses and video clips show him hurling abuse in Sinhala, berating the constable with a torrent of insults that would make even a fish market blush. His message was unmistakable:
“I am a lawyer. You are just a policeman. We are superior. You are nothing.”
He waved his hands, wagged his finger, and shouted until the entire court complex turned its attention to the spectacle. Lawyers, police officers, and members of the public stood in stunned silence. The black-coated advocate, a supposed officer of the court, was acting more like a street bully than a guardian of justice.
The confrontation escalated. At one point, the lawyer alleged that the policeman had “pushed him” — a claim hotly disputed by multiple witnesses. Yet, within hours, it was the *policeman*, not the lawyer, who found himself in handcuffs. The constable was arrested, produced before the magistrate, and remanded. The lawyer, meanwhile, walked free.
And then came the most shameful twist of all.
The Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL) — the apex body meant to uphold ethics, integrity, and discipline within the legal profession — released an official statement condemning “the use of force by the police” and calling for an investigation into “the mistreatment of a lawyer.”
Not a single word in the statement condemned the lawyer’s conduct, but quietly demanding entire Lawyers to not to representing poor Police officer, who is currently under remand, which is a dark day of the Justice system in the Sri Lanka.
Not a syllable acknowledged the vile language.
Not a whisper recognised the disgrace brought upon the legal profession by one of its own.
Instead, the BASL closed ranks. Like a fortress built to protect privilege, it shielded the offending lawyer behind the rhetoric of professional dignity and “protection of members.”
It was, quite simply, a disgrace.
This incident did not occur in isolation. It is symptomatic of a “deeply entrenched culture of arrogance” that has infected Sri Lanka’s legal fraternity for decades. Many lawyers — not all, but enough to poison the well — behave as though they are a class apart: untouchable, unaccountable, and entitled to special treatment.
They bark at police officers, bully court staff, and belittle junior lawyers. They park wherever they wish, storm through corridors with an air of divine right, and sneer at anyone who questions their conduct. The black coat, once a symbol of justice and dignity, has become a shield for arrogance and impunity.
And when such behaviour is challenged, they hide behind the BASL — an organisation that seems more interested in defending its members’ egos than defending public trust in the law.
If a policeman had behaved in this manner, he would be suspended pending inquiry. If a civil servant had shouted at a member of the judiciary, he would be disciplined. But a lawyer? Oh no. A lawyer is “special.”
The Bar Association’s response was not merely tone-deaf. It was a moral collapse. Rather than acting as the guardian of professional ethics, the BASL has turned itself into a “union of privilege” — a lobby group that reflexively defends lawyers, no matter how odious their behaviour.
What message does that send to the country?
That a lawyer can swear at a police officer and face no consequence?
That a constable performing his duty can be remanded merely because he stood in the way of a man with a wig and a license to practise?
That the rule of law in Sri Lanka now bends to the loudest and most powerful voice in the courtroom?
The BASL’s silence on the lawyer’s abusive behaviour is, in itself, an indictment. For an association that claims to champion “justice and dignity,” its selective outrage reveals a troubling hypocrisy. When the police are accused, it screams about rights. When lawyers are caught misbehaving, it whispers excuses.
At the heart of this scandal lies an even more dangerous idea — the “myth of the lawyer’s divine right.”
Some members of the legal fraternity genuinely believe they are above the system they serve. They speak to policemen as though addressing servants. They ridicule ordinary citizens who come seeking legal help. They think their degrees and titles grant them immunity from decency.
But the truth, as any real democracy knows, is this:
A lawyer is an *officer of the court*, not a *master of the law*.
He is a citizen like any other, subject to the same rules, bound by the same duties, and answerable to the same justice.
When a lawyer abuses a police officer in public, he does not just shame himself. He drags down the entire profession — every advocate who works tirelessly, every attorney who fights for fairness, every student who dreams of upholding justice.
Let us not forget the human element. The constable at the centre of this controversy is a man in uniform, a public servant whose only “crime” was doing his duty. He followed the rules, prioritised the safety of detainees, and ensured that protocol was observed. For that, he was berated, insulted, and ultimately imprisoned.
Can there be a greater humiliation for a man sworn to uphold the law than being treated as a criminal for obeying it?
And where was the BASL’s voice when his dignity was torn apart?
Where was its moral compass when the video of the lawyer’s tirade circulated online?
Where was its outrage when justice was mocked before the nation?
This story has reached far beyond Sri Lanka’s shores. Diplomats, legal observers, and international human rights groups have expressed disbelief that a professional body like the BASL would defend such behaviour. In other Commonwealth countries, a lawyer caught on camera verbally abusing a police officer would face immediate disciplinary action, suspension, and likely disbarment pending inquiry.
In Sri Lanka, however, the association’s instinct was to protect, not to punish.
Such double standards expose the rot at the heart of Sri Lankan institutions — where accountability is demanded from everyone except those in black coats and political office.
This incident must be a turning point. The BASL should not act as a trade union for errant lawyers. It should be the conscience of the legal community. It should set the moral bar, not lower it.
Here are the reforms that the public deserves to see:
1. Immediate suspension of the lawyer involved pending a full inquiry.
2. Introduction of a code of public conduct for all lawyers, especially in interactions with law enforcement and the public.
3. Mandatory identification badges for practising lawyers within court premises, displaying their names and enrolment numbers — as police officers and journalists already do.
4. A disciplinary review board that includes independent civilians or retired judges to ensure impartiality.
5. Prohibition of cash payments for legal services without receipts, to promote transparency and curb corruption.
6. Ethics training for lawyers, focusing on professionalism, respect, and communication with other state officers.
These are not radical demands. They are basic steps toward restoring dignity to the profession.
There is another layer of disappointment: the judiciary’s silence. Judges who witness such behaviour within their own premises should not remain passive. A courtroom is not a playground for egos. When a lawyer abuses a police officer in the vicinity of a court, it is a direct insult to judicial authority.
Magistrates must act firmly — not to side with one profession against another, but to protect the integrity of the justice system itself.
The Sri Lankan lawyer’s uniform — the black coat — was once a symbol of sacrifice, intellect, and service. Today, it risks becoming a symbol of arrogance and abuse.
When lawyers treat police officers like servants, when they boast of connections to judges and politicians, when they think they can bend justice to personal advantage, they become indistinguishable from the very criminals they claim to oppose.
And when the BASL rushes to defend such behaviour, it stains every honest lawyer who still believes in the nobility of the profession.
The Sri Lankan public is watching. The media is watching. The international community is watching.
If the BASL continues to shield offenders rather than discipline them, it will forfeit its moral authority. It will become a laughingstock — a “Bar Association of Excuses” rather than of Sri Lanka.
This incident should not fade from the headlines in a few days. It should be investigated transparently. The police officer’s version must be heard. Witnesses should be protected. And the lawyer in question must face both legal and professional consequences.
Justice cannot exist on a two-tier system — one for those with black coats and another for those in blue uniforms.
The Bar Association must decide what it wants to be.
Will it continue as a club of privilege, defending the indefensible?
Or will it rediscover its founding purpose — to uphold justice, protect the public, and maintain professional ethics?
This is not just about one lawyer or one policeman. It is about the **soul of Sri Lanka’s legal system**. Every time a lawyer behaves like a thug, the rule of law dies a little. Every time the BASL excuses such conduct, public trust erodes further.
Sri Lanka’s justice system cannot heal until its lawyers learn humility. And humility begins with accountability.
So, to the BASL:
Stop issuing excuses. Stop defending disgrace.
Suspend the lawyer. Apologise to the nation.
And remember — in the eyes of the law, **no one is above it.**
Until that happens, the black coat will remain not a mark of honour, but a **cloak of shame.**
-By A Special Correspondent
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by (2025-10-12 17:41:33)
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