By Oumar Farouk Sesay
The confrontation between Sierra Leone’s Chief Justice, Justice Komba Kamanda, and Joseph Fitzgerald Kamara—widely known as JFK—during Supreme Court proceedings was, on its surface, a procedural dispute.
But the episode quickly became about something larger.
It became about advocacy and authority; about the point at which persistence is perceived as defiance; about the immense power a judge holds to control proceedings; and, ultimately, about what power owes itself when it is publicly challenged.
Lawyers distinguish themselves not only by their knowledge of substantive law but also by their command of procedure: how cases are commenced, how objections are raised, how arguments are preserved, and how the machinery of justice is expected to operate.
Yet experienced advocates also acquire another form of knowledge—the knowledge of power.
Law governs the courtroom, and hierarchy structures it. The judge controls the proceedings, determines who speaks, rules on objections, and holds extraordinary powers to maintain the court’s authority and dignity.
The experienced lawyer therefore reads two things at once: the law and the room.
That dual obligation appears central to what transpired between JFK and the Chief Justice.
JFK raised a preliminary objection to the State’s participation in the proceedings, arguing that the required documents, including a Statement of Case, had not been filed. The Court overruled the objection and permitted the matter to proceed.
Later, however, the Court directed the Attorney-General and the Minister of Justice to file and serve a Statement of Case.
That later direction did not retroactively validate JFK’s objection. The Court had rejected his legal argument, but it did show that the underlying procedural deficiency he identified was real.
This is where the episode becomes more complicated than simply asking who was right. JFK may have lost the objection while still identifying a procedural omission that ultimately required correction. But advocacy is not merely the art of being right.
It is also the art of knowing when the point has been made. A seasoned lawyer must understand when persistence advances the client’s cause and when it begins to change the character of the encounter. At one point in litigation, another sentence sharpens the argument. At another, it merely prolongs the confrontation.
A lawyer with JFK’s experience should recognize the difference.
He did not need to withdraw his objection. He could state it forcefully, preserve it on the record, and allow the Court to rule. After that, further insistence risked shifting the dispute from procedure to something more personal: the bench’s perceived authority.
And that is where the danger begins. When a lawyer repeatedly challenges a position in open court—particularly before the country’s highest judicial officer—the exchange can take on a second meaning. What begins as disagreement over the law can start to look like a contest over who commands the room.
That perception may be unfair. It may even be unintended. But appearances partly sustain courtroom power, and the experienced advocate ignores that reality at his peril.
This is the strongest case for saying JFK should have known better. Not necessarily because his concern lacked substance, but because experience should have taught him how quickly a legal dispute can escalate into a struggle over authority.
Yet that cannot be the final lesson. For the title of this article could easily have been “JFK Ought to Have Known Better.” The more important question is this: what should power know about itself?
If lawyers must understand the sensitivities of authority, authority must understand the dangers of being sensitive. A constitutional court cannot demand deference merely because it can enforce it. Its legitimacy depends on something more demanding: the capacity to distinguish disrespect from disagreement, defiance from persistence, and contempt from vigorous advocacy.
The rule of law requires respect for the bench.
But it also requires a bench confident enough to tolerate challenge.
Sam Kargbo, SAN, locates that tension within the judicial process itself. In his view, the lawyer and the judicial officer are “equal partners in the administration of justice,” although they bear distinct responsibilities: “The lawyer advocates; the judge adjudicates.”
That distinction matters. The adversarial system assumes that counsel must be free to advance arguments, challenge propositions, and interrogate their legal basis without legitimate advocacy being treated as an affront to judicial authority. As Kargbo puts it, “the judge’s authority lies not in suppressing advocacy but in the disciplined, impartial, and lawful determination of the issues presented.”
Disagreement, then, is not necessarily disorder. Where advocacy and adjudication meet in good faith, some friction is inevitable; when iron sharpens iron, sparks may fly.
A lawyer should know when persistence becomes provocation. A judge should know the difference between provocation and contempt. The distinction is critical because the power relationship is profoundly unequal.
The lawyer can argue.
The judge can punish.
That asymmetry imposes obligations on both parties, but the greater power necessarily bears the heavier burden.
Judicial authority is strongest when it does not need to display its strength. A judge loses nothing by allowing counsel to advance an uncomfortable argument. Nor is judicial dignity diminished when a court revises, qualifies, or supplements a procedural position after hearing submissions.
Indeed, one of the clearest demonstrations of authority is the confidence to accept correction without feeling humiliated.
Judges may question counsel, test arguments, clarify procedure, and control their courts. These are essential judicial functions.
But the bench must also guard against letting disagreement with a judicial position become indistinguishable from disagreement with the judge as a person.
When those two things collapse into each other, a procedural dispute can become a contest of personalities. That is dangerous for everyone involved, but especially for the institution.
The confrontation eventually culminated in JFK being committed to custody for contempt.
At that moment, the stakes changed. Contempt powers exist for compelling reasons. Courts cannot function if lawyers, litigants, or members of the public can obstruct proceedings or openly defy lawful judicial authority.
But precisely because contempt powers are so formidable, they must be exercised with particular care.
When punishment follows directly from a heated exchange between counsel and the judge with authority to punish counsel, the court bears a heightened responsibility to make the boundary unmistakable: where advocacy ended, where contempt began, and why coercive power became necessary.
That clarity protects more than the lawyer.
It protects the court.
Judicial authority depends not merely on power, but on public confidence that it is exercised for institutional rather than personal purposes.
The appearance of justice therefore matters as much as its administration.
If the public cannot distinguish punishment imposed to protect the integrity of proceedings from punishment perceived as a response to a personal affront, confidence in the institution is unnecessarily strained.
The irony in JFK’s case remains difficult to ignore. His objection was overruled. Yet the State later had to file the Statement of Case, which he had complained was missing. That does not mean he was legally vindicated in the objection itself.
It means something subtler.
He could be wrong about the legal consequence of the omission while still being right that an omission existed.
And that distinction matters because it highlights the danger of reducing the entire episode to the personality or conduct of a single lawyer.
JFK’s behaviour deserves scrutiny. So does the exercise of authority in response.
A mature legal system should be able to hold both thoughts at once. Counsel has obligations to the court. He must advocate firmly without turning litigation into theatre, preserve his client’s position without mistaking repetition for courage, and know when to stop.
But judicial power carries its own discipline. A judge must not only command the courtroom. He must command himself. That is restraint’s deeper meaning.
Restraint is not a weakness in the face of challenge. It is evidence that authority does not require emotional reinforcement.
The same principle becomes even more important once a person is detained.
Whatever one thinks of JFK’s courtroom conduct, once an individual is deprived of liberty, the authorities largely bear responsibility for that person’s physical safety.
A detainee cannot freely leave his surroundings, remove himself from danger, or independently secure his own protection. Custody therefore creates not only control, but obligation.
Concern for JFK’s safety while detained is not an argument about whether he was right or wrong in court. Nor does it require speculation about what may happen to him. It is a simple principle of state responsibility.
Once the authorities take custody of a person, they assume a corresponding duty to take reasonable measures to protect his well-being.
Whatever consequences the law imposes, detention should not expose a person to dangers beyond those the court lawfully contemplates.
And here the different threads of the episode finally converge.
The lawyer must know how to challenge power without recklessness.
The judge must know how to exercise power without personalizing challenge.
And the State must know that custody transforms power into responsibility.
These are not competing principles.
They are parts of the same constitutional discipline.
What happened between JFK and the Chief Justice therefore matters beyond the personalities involved. It raises an enduring question about the relationship between advocacy and authority.
How forcefully may a lawyer challenge the bench before persistence becomes contempt? How confidently may a judge respond to challenge before authority begins to appear personal?
There will rarely be a clear answer.
That is precisely why restraint matters.
The lawyer who stands before the court must understand the limits of advocacy.
But those who command the court must understand something more fundamental: Power is never tested merely by its ability to prevail. It is tested by what it does when it can.
The law demands respect from those who stand before the court.
Justice demands self-command from those who possess the power to command others.