The impeachment trial, according to Kit Tatad, has reached a point of diminishing returns in terms of entertainment value.
The defense panel, this week, called in a long train of payroll officers, municipal assessors and like bureaucrats in a patient effort to dismantle the charges leveled against the Chief Justice. Fortunately, there was Toby Tiangco who regaled us with the inside story about how the sloppy articles of impeachment went through the congressional gauntlet so quickly.
One witness, Demetrio Vicente, won the hearts of many with his candor. Vicente suffered from a stroke that slurred his speech, but he lives a life many of us wish we could. On the parcel of land he purchased from Tina Corona and her sister 22 years ago, the septuagenarian tends to bonsais. He has a small home and a lush garden, a piece of paradise. The man is a recognized bonsai artist.
A newspaper that has taken a sharply anti-Corona slant the past few months published an album of unflattering photos of Vicente, featuring facial expressions common among stroke survivors. That was a crude and callous thing to do. The paper has had to apologize after a deluge of criticism in the social media. The editorial lapse, however, underscores that certain meanness characterizing the hate campaign mounted against the Chief Justice.
Still, however, public attentiveness to the proceedings dwindles markedly. It is due as much to the tediousness of the process as it does with the fact that this is so much quibbling about so little.
The trial of Joseph Estrada in 2000 was a hundred times more compelling, a thousand times more spectacular.
In that case, many mansions (one with an artificial beach) spilled into public view, allegations of bribes amounting to hundreds of millions, claims of links to the gambling lords. An attempted ambush on an erstwhile ally precipitated the whole thing. Most important, the defendant was President of the Republic, the most powerful man on the political scaffolding.
This was high drama, laced with stories of many mistresses, long orgies of drunkenness, expensive wines spilled recklessly. The political struggles swirling around the trial were truly polarizing. At the center of it all was a man who was always larger than life, funny and contemptuous at the same instance.
In the Corona trial, the contending parties are quibbling over petty things: a condominium acquired at a discount, an even smaller 30 square meter unit, parking slots not listed in the SALN, a bureaucrat’s salary as distinguished from allowances. There is nothing here to match the visual impact of, say, that story from the Erap trial about P400 million delivered in cash contained in sacks to his Polk St. residence.
In the current trial, a bunch of incompetent prosecutors is trying to eke out a conviction by magnifying minor flaws, aided by a cruel propaganda effort. No one, save for the most partisan or the most naïve, is about to be swept off his feet by so much quibbling over small things.
This trial is like trying to draw blood from stone. It is a test on our attention span. There is a growing sense we are all wasting time.
Politicized
The stakes in this trial, as the community of magistrates and lawyers insists, are nevertheless large. This is a fight for judicial independence: that condition where administration of the law is protected from political pressure. The credibility of the rule of law and the fair dispensation of justice rests on the assurance of institutional independence.
As it is, our legal processes are vulnerable to politicization. A case in point is the recent, and disturbing, reversal of the DOJ’s ruling on probable cause against former Palawan governor Joel Reyes in the case involving the murder of Gerry Ortega.
Twice before, DOJ prosecutors cleared Reyes since evidence “was insufficient to establish probable cause.” That should have been that. But the resolution clearing Reyes was unacceptable to an array of powerful personalities, including major players in local Palawan politics, a media mogul and even environmental groups.
The pressure exerted on the DOJ ranged from the overt (a noisy media campaign to implicate the former governor) to the covert (the distribution of two suitcases of cash to NBI personnel as alleged in a sworn affidavit submitted to the panel). It was apparent the DOJ started to cave in to the pressure when, in an unusual event, the Justice Secretary convened a third panel to review what had already been reviewed.
Without new and compelling evidence directly linking Reyes to the crime, the third DOJ panel reversed the two previous resolutions. This week, the DOJ itself, in another unusual move, issued a press release announcing the decision of the third panel to file charges against Reyes.
Reyes, expectedly, found the reversal rather curious. It is more curious because of its timing: local political alliances in Palawan are just now gearing up for next year’s elections where nearly all of the personalities exerting pressure on the DOJ are players.
In a press statement, Reyes reiterated that there was no basis for the reversal of the previous resolution. He expressed the hope “this is not a persecution of justice resulting from media pressure because of unsolved media killings in the country. That this is not a demonstration of sacrificing justice on the altar of public opinion.”
He added the reversal calls into question “the integrity of the Justice Department in its ability to render firm and steadfast decisions.”
We can only hope that DOJ will openly address that concern and assure us this case has not fallen under the sway of politicization.