Editorial
In a society that prides itself on the rule of law, it is both shocking and infuriating to witness those entrusted with upholding justice brazenly flout it. The recent incident at the Mount Lavinia Magistrate’s Court, involving senior lawyer Gunaratne Wanninayake, is not merely a case of misconduct; it is a glaring symptom of a systemic malaise within the legal profession. The images and reports of Wanninayake shouting obscenities at a police officer, threatening the officer, and exercising undue influence over high-ranking officials are not isolated misdemeanors—they are emblematic of a culture in which certain lawyers behave as if the law is subservient to their ego and social connections.
Eyewitness accounts and video footage indicate that the officer in question had merely performed his duty, ensuring the safe passage of a prison bus—an act in line with standard protocols, particularly given the court’s history of violence, including past shootings inside its premises. Yet, Wanninayake’s response was aggressive, arrogant, and devoid of respect for the uniformed officer or the law he represents. Reports suggest that despite no assault taking place, the police constable was remanded for three days, a humiliation made possible by the lawyer’s apparent influence over higher-ranking officers. The very idea that a DIG could be “summoned” at the behest of a lawyer’s phone call exposes a frightening imbalance in power—a system where the law bends not to justice, but to influence, privilege, and intimidation.
This episode raises a question that must be asked loudly and repeatedly: Who holds lawyers accountable? The Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL), the supposed guardian of legal ethics, defended Wanninayake’s conduct, prioritizing professional solidarity over justice. Meanwhile, the police, constrained by the fear of reprisal or the sheer weight of systemic corruption, were initially mute, responding only after social media outrage forced their hand. Such institutional failure to act is not merely negligence; it is complicity. It signals to the public that some people—the socially connected, the wealthy, the educated elite—are effectively untouchable.
Accountability cannot, and must not, be limited to a single incident. Lawyers, as custodians of the law, must answer not only for acts of overt misconduct but for the entirety of their professional and financial behavior. Ancient legal traditions make this clear. The Code of Hammurabi, one of the earliest written legal codes, explicitly held judges and legal officials accountable for misconduct and corruption, prescribing harsh penalties for those who misused their authority. Similarly, in the Yājñavalkya Smṛti and Nāradasmṛti, Indian legal texts that date back centuries, fairness, transparency, and accountability were considered essential for any practitioner of law. The law was never designed to protect the powerful; it was designed to safeguard justice. The modern lawyer who believes otherwise is not only unethical but dangerously delusional.
The financial integrity of lawyers is no less critical. Across Sri Lanka, stories abound of legal practitioners wielding influence for personal enrichment—through fees, bribery, or subtle manipulations of the legal system. Yet, while society demands transparency from public officials, lawyers largely escape scrutiny, with minimal checks on the sources and uses of their income. This dual immunity—social and financial—reinforces a culture in which lawyers operate as untouchable elites, capable of flouting the law without consequence. If justice is to mean anything, this must end. Lawyers who manipulate the system for personal gain or use their influence to intimidate others must be exposed and held fully accountable, both in courts of law and in the court of public opinion.
The Mount Lavinia incident is particularly revealing because it lays bare the intersection of legal arrogance, systemic inertia, and societal complicity. Here was a police officer following orders, performing duties that protected public safety. Yet, he became the target of intimidation, while the lawyer, shielded by institutional inertia and a protective professional body, seemed untouchable. This is not an isolated failure—it is a structural one, indicative of a profession that has, in places, lost its moral compass. If the guardians of justice can violate the law with impunity, what hope remains for ordinary citizens seeking fairness?
The societal implications are profound. Citizens must trust that the law applies equally to all, irrespective of wealth, status, or connections. When lawyers, armed with black coats and polished arguments, are allowed to intimidate police officers, manipulate high-ranking officials, and secure immunity for themselves, that trust erodes. It is a slow, corrosive poison, undermining faith in courts, in policing, and in governance itself. The legal profession is not merely an occupation; it is a public trust. When lawyers behave as if the law exists to serve them rather than society, they betray that trust in the most fundamental way.
To address this, accountability must be holistic and uncompromising. Every lawyer implicated in misconduct must face transparent investigation and, where appropriate, criminal prosecution. Professional bodies must act swiftly and impartially, refusing to shield their members from consequences. Financial transparency must be enforced, ensuring that lawyers cannot exploit the legal system for personal enrichment without scrutiny. The law must apply to lawyers not as a distant ideal but as an immediate and enforceable reality.
As Cicero once said, “The safety of the people shall be the highest law.” In this light, the Mount Lavinia incident is a test of that principle. If lawyers can intimidate officers and manipulate justice unchecked, the safety and fairness promised by the law are mere illusions. Sri Lanka’s legal community faces a reckoning: either it restores accountability, integrity, and public trust, or it risks becoming a privileged enclave, divorced from the very principles it professes to uphold.
