Lawyers in court dress for war. Their uniforms are stark and deliberate, chosen to command respect and project authority. They wear black robes that hang heavy on their shoulders, fabric thick with tradition. These robes are plain, unadorned, and serious, as if to remind everyone that the law is bigger than any man or woman. Beneath them, their suits are dark—blacks, charcoals, and navy blues. Nothing bright, nothing frivolous. Their shirts are crisp and white, collars sharp as the edge of a blade. It’s not about fashion. It’s about purpose.

Men wear ties, always. Silk, often plain, sometimes striped, but never loud. The knot is tight, snug against the throat, a quiet declaration of discipline. Women might wear blouses or button-ups, some with a touch of lace or a muted pattern, but it’s subtle. Their jewelry, if worn, is small. Modest studs, a thin chain, a wedding ring perhaps. Nothing that jingles or draws the eye. The courtroom is no place for distraction.

Their shoes are polished to a shine, leather stiff and black. You hear their steps before you see them, measured and deliberate. These are not the shoes of comfort, but of conviction. There is no swagger, only purpose.

In some courts, the lawyers wear wigs—powdery, white, and curled. Strange relics of the past, but still alive in places like England. These wigs sit awkwardly, perched on heads that must accept the weight of centuries. They look strange but also powerful, like something ancient and immutable.

Everything they wear has meaning. It tells the court they respect the gravity of the law, that they understand the stakes. It tells the judge and jury that this is not a game. The uniform says what words cannot. It says they are ready.