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The courtroom dress code for most witnesses and defendants is modest, quiet attire—clothing that no one will be talking about. But when celebrities and politicians are in the mix, it’s not that simple.

First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

David Frum: Wrong case, right verdict Harvard’s golden silence The maternal-mortality crisis that didn’t happen

Dressing the Part

When Stormy Daniels walked into court for her first day of testimony in Donald Trump’s hush-money trial, she wore a subdued black jumpsuit. At first glance, the simple outfit was an unremarkable choice. But the garment told a story: As the fashion critic Vanessa Friedman noted in The New York Times, that jumpsuit was the same one Daniels wore for her cameo in a satirical 2021 film about Trump selling his soul to the devil.

For most people, appearing in court involves trying not to make a splash. Conventional wisdom says that those involved in trials, whether as a witness or as a defendant, should stick to a default of “sensible, down-to-earth attire—nothing too flashy, obviously expensive or overly sexy,” Richard T. Ford, a law professor at Stanford and the author of Dress Codes: How the Laws of Fashion Made History, told me in an email. Suits, slacks, and blouses are common fare, as are dark colors. But for participants in high-profile cases, the courtroom can serve as a mini stage—a place to express one’s identity or values, or to send a winking message. Earlier this week, Ryan Salame, a former top FTX executive who was just sentenced to seven and a half years in prison, reportedly showed up in court wearing (not for the first time) socks emblazoned with the bitcoin logo—a pointed choice for someone heading to prison for crimes related to his work at a now-infamous cryptocurrency exchange.

Clothing can also shape jurors’ perceptions of a defendant—a truth that is both well documented and, to some extent, enshrined in the laws of the land. The Supreme Court ruled in 1976 that a defendant cannot be forced to wear prison attire on the stand, because the clothing could lead jurors to presume that the person is guilty. Jurors’ biases related to race, class, and gender can play a real role in how they perceive the people on the stand, and defendants may use clothing and accessories to try to cut against those preconceptions. In 2012, The Washington Post reported on an instance of five Black male defendants wearing nonprescription glasses to court—a tactic recommended by some lawyers as part of what one called a “nerd defense.” The article mentioned a 2008 study that found that students considered fictitious Black male defendants who wore glasses to be more honest and intelligent than those who didn’t; the same did not prove true for white suspects.

Celebrities and politicians—masters of image formation—sometimes use courtroom clothing in more calculated ways, to highlight or paper over elements of their image. “A high-profile trial is a good way to promote a personal brand,” Ford told me. Trump, for example, stuck throughout the trial with his usual uniform of a suit and large, usually red tie, continuing to project his businessman image; the outfit also makes him look, as one writer put it, like the human equivalent of an American flag. Other well-known defendants use their days in court to pivot away from signature looks—when on trial for fraud charges, Elizabeth Holmes ditched her trademark black turtlenecks for collared shirts, and Sam Bankman-Fried traded in cargo shirts and shaggy hair for a suit and clean haircut in court last fall.

When it comes to the courtroom wardrobe, the line between making a statement and appearing inauthentic is thin. By going too far in the latter direction, defendants can actually undermine their credibility. In a setting where believability is paramount, a whiff of fakeness is a problem. Still, the courtroom is a site of performance. As Ford explained to me, “A trial attorney is telling a story.” Those who appear in court are “characters” in that story, “and the attorney wants those characters to dress the part.”

Related:

What it takes to be a trial lawyer if you’re not a man Finding jurors for an unprecedented trial

Today’s News

The Supreme Court unanimously cleared the way for the National Rifle Association to continue to pursue its First Amendment lawsuit against a New York official who encouraged some companies to stop working with the NRA after the 2018 mass shooting in Parkland, Florida. Chief Justice John Roberts declined to meet with Democratic senators about the issue of Supreme Court ethics and the scandal embroiling Justice Samuel Alito. In Hong Kong, 14 prodemocracy activists were convicted and face prison time for national-security charges. They are part of a group of 47 individuals who were charged in 2021 with conspiracy to commit subversion; 31 people pleaded guilty, and two others were acquitted.

Dispatches

Time-Travel Thursdays: In 1906, just as today, people loved New York less for its beauty than for its vibrant energy, Conor Friedersdorf writes. Work in Progress: Americans are thinking about immigration all wrong, Derek Thompson writes.

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Evening Read

Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Getty.

Stop Wasting Your Fridge Space

By Yasmin Tayag

My refrigerator has a chronic real-estate problem. The issue isn’t leftovers; it’s condiments. Jars and bottles have filled the door and taken over the main shelves. There’s so little room between the chili crisp, maple syrup, oyster sauce, gochujang, spicy mustard, several kinds of hot sauce, and numerous other condiments that I’ve started stacking containers. Squeezing in new items is like simultaneously playing Tetris and Jenga. And it’s all because of three little words on their labels: Refrigerate after opening.

But a lot of the time, these instructions seem confusing, if not just unnecessary … Ketchup bottles are a fixture of diner counters, and vessels of chili oil and soy sauce sit out on the tables at Chinese restaurants. So why must they take up valuable fridge space at home?

Read the full article.

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Culture Break

Pierce Derks / IFC / Shudder

Watch. In a Violent Nature (out now in theaters) is a slasher film from the point of view of the silent predator. It might seem like a purely aesthetic exercise, but its experimentation elevates an all-too-familiar genre, David Sims writes.

Listen. The latest episode of Radio Atlantic features an interview with the drag queen Sasha Velour, who won RuPaul’s Drag Race and now stars in her own HBO reality show, We’re Here.

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Stephanie Bai contributed to this newsletter.

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A long-rumored deal to form a strategic partnership between the United States and Saudi Arabia looks doomed to fail because of Israel’s inability to accept a path toward Palestinian statehood in exchange for normalized ties with Saudi Arabia.

As the deal collapses, though, it is worth asking: What kind of relationship should the United States and Saudi Arabia aspire to? What is reasonable for each side to ask of the other?

On a recent trip to the kingdom, I spent a week speaking with Saudis from various backgrounds: wealthy businessmen from the eastern province, young Saudi women starting out in careers unimaginable to their mothers, senior government officials responsible for topics including privatization and foreign policy, and young Saudi men doing everything from starting their own law firm to driving for Uber after their government job had ended for the day.

Beyond their usual warm hospitality, and their patience with my rusty Arabic, I was struck by two things in conversations with Saudis: First, it is hard not get caught up in the infectious confidence they have about the direction their country is headed in. They feel like they are building something new—and judging by the innumerable construction cranes on Riyadh’s skyline, they are.

[Andrew Exum: A peace deal that seems designed to fail]

Second, there is deep frustration and even disillusionment with the United States. As a former government official, I am used to the regular complaints, such as the tiresome allegations that the United States is “abandoning” the region (despite the tens of thousands of troops that continue to garrison the Persian Gulf). But I heard newer, more disturbing concerns. At dinner with a dozen or so older Saudi men one night—almost all of whom had a degree from a U.S. university—I heard real reservations about sending their children and grandchildren to the United States to study: Gun violence, societal divisions, and populist politics in America were all cited as reasons to send their children to the United Kingdom or Europe instead. One Saudi who had gotten his Ph.D. in the United States worried that “the America I love is tearing itself apart at the seams.” And for what it’s worth, I heard something very similar from a group of businessmen in Singapore two weeks later.  

Yet I also found Saudis eager for a closer partnership with the United States. No country on Earth can match the United States when it comes to our technology, military power, and dynamic economy. (Joe Biden’s campaign would love for American voters to see our economy the way the rest of the world does.)    

But is it in America’s interest to forge a closer relationship with Saudi Arabia? As unpopular as the idea may be with many progressives, I think it is. Exciting changes are taking place in Saudi Arabia, and we should want to help advance them. Besides, in the Middle East, you tend to have either countries with a lot of people but not broad wealth, such as Egypt, or countries with a lot of wealth but few people, such as Qatar and the United Arab Emirates. Saudi Arabia is the only country in the region that has both, which is what makes it such an attractive market for American firms. And it’s also what makes Saudi Arabia so tantalizing as a strategic partner: If Saudi Arabia could ever get its act together militarily, for example, it could be a valuable partner for the United States in the region and abroad.

The Saudis have a long list of things they want from the United States. They want investing here to be easier, for example. They complain about the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States, which scrutinizes foreign investment in sensitive technologies or crucial infrastructure. The process is necessary, but it could arrive at decisions faster, something Democratic administrations in particular have trouble making it do. And the Saudis also rightly complain that investments with no obvious national-security angle are heavily scrutinized. I spoke with many Saudis, from the most senior princes to ordinary businessmen, who took offense that the Saudi investment in golf of all things had become the subject of a Senate investigation. And really, who can blame them? Calm down, senators, it’s golf.

The Saudis also want access to more sensitive U.S. technologies, and there is a deal to be done here. The U.S. government paved the way for a substantial Microsoft investment in the UAE’s G42, a large AI firm, on the condition that the UAE would divest from problematic technological partnerships and investments in China. You “have to make a choice” between the United States and China, G42’s CEO, Peng Xiao, lamented. The United States and Saudi Arabia can and should strike a similar deal.

Security is a trickier matter, and here the United States should demand as much as it offers. The Saudis want a Japan-like security guarantee from the United States, but the United States should not offer this until the Saudis can meaningfully contribute to a military coalition.

The good news for both the United States and Saudi Arabia is that some of the reforms initiated by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman—and not ones aimed at the military, interestingly—could allow the Saudis to develop military capabilities that have heretofore escaped them.

There is no reason, for example, that Saudi Arabia—a nation whose entire economy depends on the ability to move oil and gas over sea lanes—has no real navy to speak of. But training a navy is hard when sailors cannot be away from their families for more than a day or so at a time. Successful navies live at sea, and that’s not an option when the wives men leave at home cannot drive themselves to the grocery store or their children to school. That’s now changing, and it could be that we someday trace the development of Saudi Arabia’s independent naval capabilities back to its decision to grant greater independence to its women.

Saudi Arabia’s ground forces are likewise woeful. Developing competent ground forces involves deeply unsexy work—as far from a bright, shiny fighter jet sitting on a runway as possible. Infantry units must be physically fit and well drilled. I have yet to see a Saudi unit that is either. But it’s clear to me that young Saudi men and women are up for a challenge, and the Saudis should do as some of their neighbors have done: Build best-in-class special-operations forces from recruits who genuinely want to be part of such units and are willing to put in the hard work and pain required. Competent Saudi special-operations units that could function as true peers alongside U.S. units would do a lot to change the perception of Saudis among their counterparts in the U.S. military.      

Once Saudis have proved their ability to work alongside the U.S. military—and their ability to share the burden of clearing and defending the Straits of Hormuz and the Bab el-Mandeb waterways—the United States should consider extending security guarantees. But not before.

[Read: The Israeli-Saudi deal had better be a good one]

Even if the United States and Saudi Arabia fail to conclude an agreement during the Biden administration, however, I am still bullish about the future of relations between the two countries. I speak to U.S. companies on an almost-weekly basis that are interested in investing in Saudi Arabia or partnering with Saudi companies. And despite reservations about the direction in which America is headed—many of which I share, as an American—the Saudis can’t take their eyes off us. I noted on my trip that many Saudis excitedly asked me about the pro-Palestinian protests taking place on our college campuses. They devour our films and media and political news, all of which are much more accessible than the same from, say, China.

The United States and Saudi Arabia seem fated to deepen their partnership. We should make that partnership as functional as possible.    

The nation’s tiniest state legislative chamber has been unusually prolific lately. In its most recent session, Alaska’s Senate overcame years of acrimony and deadlock to pass major bills to increase spending on public schools, combat climate change and a state energy shortage, and strengthen penalties for drug dealers. “The universal feeling,” Cathy Giessel, the senate’s majority leader, told me, “was that this was the most productive two years that we have experienced.”

Giessel, a Republican who first took office in 2010, attributes this success not to her colleagues, exactly, but to how they were chosen. In 2022, Alaska became the first state to experiment with a new kind of election. All candidates—regardless of party—competed against one another in the primary, and the top four vote-getters advanced. In November, the winner was determined by ranked-choice voting, in which people list candidates by order of preference. The system—called Final Four Voting—gave a substantial boost to moderates from both parties. Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski won a fourth term, and a centrist Democrat defeated Sarah Palin, the former Alaska governor and 2008 GOP vice-presidential nominee, capturing a House seat that Republicans had held for a half century.

But Final Four had an even bigger impact in the state Senate, where Democrats narrowed the GOP’s long-standing majority. Giessel, who had lost in a traditional primary two years earlier, won her seat back. She and seven of her colleagues ditched three far-right GOP lawmakers to form a governing coalition with Democrats. The group decided to set aside divisive social issues such as abortion and gender identity and focus exclusively on areas where they could find common ground.

[Read: The political-reform movement scores its biggest win yet]

The legislative dealmaking that ensued was exactly what the designers of Final Four Voting had hoped for when Alaskans approved the system in a 2020 statewide referendum. In essence, Final Four is a radical reform designed to de-radicalize politics. Its purpose is to make general elections more competitive and to encourage compromise among lawmakers who had previously held on to power simply by catering to a small, polarized primary electorate that determines the winners of most modern campaigns. This year could be an inflection point for the reform: Four more states—ranging from blue to deep red—could adopt versions of Final Four, and Alaskans will vote on whether to repeal it. In November, voters frustrated with both parties will have a chance to transform the way they pick their leaders—or quash what reformers hope will be the future of American elections.

Final Four isn’t inherently ideological, but it appeals most to voters frustrated with polarization—“normal people who want normal things done,” as Scott Kendall, a former Murkowski aide who led the 2020 campaign to adopt Final Four in Alaska, put it to me.

The ideas that make up Alaska’s system aren’t new. California and Washington State have had nonpartisan primaries for years, and South Dakota voters could approve them in November. Maine has ranked-choice voting for federal elections; Oregon could adopt ranked voting this fall. But Alaska is the first state to combine the two reforms. Final Four backers hope that many more will follow, and they are pouring millions of dollars into ballot initiatives this year to expand it to Nevada, Colorado, Idaho, and Montana.

A sweep for Final Four would reshape not only state capitols but also Washington, D.C., where the system would, in the coming years, elect up to 10 of the U.S. Senate’s 100 members. Representing a combination of red and blue states, they could “form a problem-solving fulcrum” to address challenges that typically resist compromise, Katherine Gehl, who devised Final Four Voting and has spent millions of dollars campaigning for it, told me. “You really can see in Congress a difference with as few as 10 senators,” she said, citing comprehensive immigration reform as an example.

To gain a firmer foothold, advocates of Final Four must clear a number of obstacles. Critics say the system is too confusing for voters to grasp and too complicated for election officials to administer. They also question whether the reform enjoys the broad public support that its wealthy backers claim it does. The proposal faces bipartisan opposition in Nevada. In Alaska, critics on the right hope to scrap the system in its infancy.

And don’t get Colorado started.

The state’s Democratic and Republican parties disagree on virtually everything—except, that is, their shared loathing of Final Four Voting and the businessman, Kent Thiry, who’s trying to bring it to their state. The former CEO of the Denver-based dialysis company DaVita, Thiry has funded successful ballot drives to overhaul political primaries and enable nonpartisan redistricting in Colorado. He’s also a co-chair of the reform group Unite America, which is funding efforts to expand Final Four in other states. Thiry believes that in a year in which most voters don’t like their choices for president, the Final Four movement can “surf that wave of discontent” and offer people in Colorado and elsewhere an opportunity to vote for something new.

[From the December 2019 issue: Too much democracy is bad for democracy]

To Shad Murib, the Democratic Party chair in Colorado, Thiry is simply tossing “a hand grenade” into an election system that voters in the state already like. “It’s a way to rig elections for the highest bidder,” he told me, arguing that doing away with party primaries makes it easier for wealthier candidates to buy their way onto the ballot.

David Williams, the chair of the state’s Republican Party, sees the proposal the same way. The highest bidder, he told me, would be Thiry himself. “This is the one thing me and my counterpart agree on,” Williams told me. “This guy wants to destroy both political parties so that he can get elected.”

Thiry considered a run for governor in 2018, but he told me he was ruling out a bid in 2026. Critics of Final Four, he said, are using his past flirtations with a campaign “as an excuse to not discuss the actual substance of the issue.”

What he doesn’t deny, however, is that reforms such as Final Four are designed to reduce the power of the two major parties. He compares American democracy, rather floridly, to a highway. “The parties control all the on-ramps and the off-ramps, and the toll that they charge in order to get on a democracy highway is kowtowing to the far left or the far right and relatively ignoring the majority in the middle,” Thiry said. “We intend to blow through the toll gates and take back possession of that highway.”

How much voters want this kind of change remains to be seen. Final Four owes its support less to a grassroots movement than to a series of expensive persuasion campaigns funded by a group of wealthy philanthropists. In most cases, they are going around state legislatures, where party leaders aren’t interested in reforms that could threaten their rule.

In Colorado, Democrats say the voting system doesn’t need fixing. Participation in its all-mail elections is already among the highest in the nation, and its Democratic governor and senators are relatively moderate dealmakers. “It’s a solution in search of a problem,” Representative Diana DeGette, a Democrat and the longest-serving member of Colorado’s congressional delegation, told me. To head off Final Four, the state legislature passed a bill that could block voter-approved election reforms from taking effect for years, or possibly forever. Final Four backers are urging the governor, Jared Polis, to veto it.

On top of being unnecessary, critics see the system as a tool of wealthy centrists looking to carve a path to high office for themselves and their allies. But reformers point out that campaigns now aren’t exactly the province of the poor or even of the middle class. Rich people already have a leg up, including in Colorado. Polis, for example, is a tech entrepreneur who spent more than $20 million of his own money to win the post in 2018 after self-funding his first bid for Congress a decade earlier. “They’re just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,” Gehl told me about Final Four’s critics. The system guarantees that four candidates make the November ballot instead of two, she pointed out. “If you double the number of people who can get into Disney World, how does that decrease access?” she said.

In Alaska so far, Final Four hasn’t shown much preference for wealthy office-seekers; indeed, it has seemed to attract candidates from underrepresented backgrounds. In 2022, an Alaska Native won a seat in Congress for the first time, and more women ran for office than in the five previous cycles combined. “The open primary blows the doors open not just for women but for minorities,” Giessel said. “It changes the game completely.”

The debut of Final Four in Alaska had its challenges. The sudden death of 88-year-old Representative Don Young on a plane flight in March 2022 opened up Alaska’s lone House seat for the first time since he took office, in 1973, and forced the state to roll out its new system in a special election months earlier than planned.

“It felt like chaos,” Kendall, the Final Four campaigner, told me. Mary Peltola, a centrist and a Murkowski ally, ran as a Democrat and defeated both Palin and another Republican, Nick Begich, through ranked-choice voting. Although the two Republicans collectively earned more votes than Peltola in the initial tally, more than one-quarter of Begich’s voters ranked the Democrat above Palin.

Republicans responded to the defeat by bashing ranked-choice voting, echoing the GOP’s opposition to the system in Maine, where voters approved it after two victories by the Trumpian Governor Paul LePage. Critics of Alaska’s system have succeeded in gathering enough signatures to place a repeal measure on the ballot in November, which Kendall is fighting in court.

Phillip Izon, who is running the repeal drive, told me that the system in Alaska is “fundamentally flawed” and would require “generations” of voter education before people could adequately understand it. He cited the high number of voters who refused to rank their candidates during the special election, and a subsequent drop in turnout in the November midterms. “They say it’s cheaper. They say it’s faster. They say it helps third parties,” he said. “And none of this is true.”

[Read: A radical idea for fixing polarization]

Central to Izon’s critique is the sense that Alaskans didn’t really want Final Four to begin with. In 2020, the transformation of the state’s election system was packaged into a single ballot question with other proposed changes, most notably a popular push to ban “dark money” in state campaigns. Voters, Izon argued, had been “brainwashed” into approving Final Four. Izon told me that he is not registered with either party and doesn’t want his effort to be labeled as partisan. But a video on his campaign’s website leads with quotes from Donald Trump, who has denounced “ranked choice crap voting” as “a total rigged deal.”

Backers of the system say Izon is misstating or exaggerating his claims. “There was no hiding the ball,” Kendall told me, referring to the 2020 referendum. Nor did Republicans get wiped out under Final Four in 2022. Although they lost the House seat to Peltola and a few seats in the legislature, conservative Governor Mike Dunleavy easily won reelection. “We had a lot more opponents the last time around than we do now,” Kendall said.

Yet the champions of Final Four are clearly unnerved by the repeal effort, worrying that it could stunt the idea’s momentum not only in Alaska but elsewhere. The fact that Alaskans could ditch the system so quickly offers opponents in other states a handy talking point. In Nevada, for example, voters approved a version of the system (with five final-round candidates instead of four) in 2022, but under the state’s constitution, they must do so again this fall for it to take effect. “Change is hard. New is hard, and making the case in a crowded year is hard,” Gehl said.

When I spoke with Thiry, he also seemed prepared for some defeats. “Voters are appropriately going to not just run off to the first fancy and new idea that they hear or see,” he said. “If you look at the history of movements in America, every one that we looked at took some heavy hits early on, but they persevered. And we have every intention of doing the same.”