*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I still remember a basketball game from my teenage years.
Our team was strong. We had practically swept our games, and when we reached our last game in the elimination round, it was already a no-bearing game for us. Whether we won or lost, our place in the next round was already secure.
But the game was not meaningless to everybody.
Because of the quotient system, its result could influence which other team would advance and, eventually, which team we might face in the semifinals.
Before the game, our coach gave us an instruction I never forgot.
“Patalo na lang kayo.”
We could beat the other team. Kaya naming tambakan. But if the result favored a particular outcome in the standings, a weaker team could advance and potentially become our opponent in the semifinals.
Then something unusual happened to me.
I was the backup point guard.
But suddenly, I was in the starting five.
At hindi lang iyon.
Binabad ako sa laro.
For a young player who normally came from the bench, you might think that was my lucky day. Suddenly, I was getting minutes I normally did not get. I was handling the ball. I was running the offense. I was playing far longer than usual.
The game was real.
The referees were real. The scoreboard was real. The opposing team was trying to win. We were running, passing, shooting and defending.
Nobody watching from the sidelines could say that there was no basketball game.
There was.
But there was something the scoreboard could never reveal:
Winning that particular game was not necessarily our real objective.
Looking back at that childhood experience many years later, I realized that it offers a surprisingly useful analogy for understanding something far more serious than basketball.
What if a case is filed not primarily to win it, but, hypothetically, to lose it?
Of course, basketball strategy and criminal prosecution are entirely different things. What happens strategically in a sports tournament cannot simply be equated with what is legally and ethically permissible in the justice system.
But the lesson about appearance and intention remains powerful.
The existence of a contest does not necessarily prove an intention to win it.
And perhaps the same question should occasionally be asked when government announces that a plunder case has been filed.
At this point, however, I want to make my position absolutely clear.
I am not saying that any case or complaint involving Martin Romualdez is weak. I am not saying that it was filed with the intention of having it dismissed. I am not accusing prosecutors, investigators, political actors, or Martin Romualdez himself of participating in any sham prosecution. Such conclusions would require evidence, not speculation.
What I am examining is something different: the political narrative that can emerge around a high-profile prosecution.
In periods of intense political conflict, people do not interpret legal events in a vacuum. Supporters of government may see the filing of a serious case as evidence that institutions are working and that nobody is above the law. Critics and anti-government groups may interpret exactly the same event differently. Some may ask whether the case is genuinely designed to succeed, or whether it is merely political theater that could eventually end in dismissal or acquittal.
That is a political narrative. It is not proof.
And understanding the difference between those two things is essential.
Suppose billions of pesos in public funds become the subject of investigation. Documents surface. Witnesses speak. Financial transactions are questioned. The public becomes angry and demands accountability.
Then government announces:
“A plunder case has been filed.”
People celebrate.
“Kinasuhan na!”
But filing a plunder case and building a plunder case capable of surviving the courtroom are two entirely different things.
Plunder is a specific and serious statutory offense. Hindi sapat na malaking halaga ng pera ang pinag-uusapan. Hindi sapat na suspicious ang transactions. The prosecution must establish the elements required by law and ultimately prove guilt beyond reasonable doubt.
And this brings me to the central argument:
The filing of a case proves that prosecution has begun. It does not, by itself, prove that the prosecution was built to succeed.
Consider a purely hypothetical situation.
Suppose investigators possess financial records, documents, witnesses and transaction trails. But when a plunder case is constructed, important evidentiary links are missing. Stronger admissible evidence is not used. Critical witnesses are not presented. Obvious weaknesses are knowingly left unresolved.
Then comes the headline:
PLUNDER CASE FILED.
Napakabigat pakinggan.
But a powerful accusation does not automatically make a powerful case.
Eventually, the prosecution collapses.
Then comes the easiest explanation:
“Kinasuhan naman namin. Hindi lang napatunayan.”
This is where we must understand an important legal distinction.
A dismissed case is not automatically dead forever.
Hindi porke’t na-dismiss ang plunder case ay forever nang immune ang accused. Double jeopardy has specific legal requirements, and the procedural stage and manner in which proceedings terminate matter.
Therefore:
Weak Plunder Case + Dismissal ≠ Automatic Permanent Immunity.
The deeper theoretical concern is more sophisticated.
What if a deliberately weakened prosecution were allowed to proceed far enough and ultimately terminated in a manner carrying double-jeopardy consequences?
If somebody wanted to protect a powerful accused, preventing prosecution altogether might be too obvious.
Magagalit ang publiko.
Magtatanong ang media.
So imagine the opposite.
File the case.
May prosecutor. May witnesses. May hearings. May lawyers. May television coverage. May courtroom drama.
Everything looks like prosecution.
But if credible evidence eventually established that a case was deliberately deprived of the evidence necessary to prove it, then the sword of justice may have quietly become a shield.
This is the disturbing possibility behind what may be called a sham prosecution, or what ordinary Filipinos might describe as a moro-morong prosecution.
Again, this is a conceptual discussion. It should not be transformed into an accusation against Martin Romualdez or anyone else without evidence.
That distinction becomes even more important during periods of political polarization because narratives travel faster than court records.
The anti-government narrative may say, “Moro-moro lang iyan. Kakasuhan ngayon, tapos mahina pala ang kaso, then eventually abswelto.”
The pro-government narrative may answer, “Let the institutions work. Filing the case demonstrates accountability, and the courts should determine whether the evidence is sufficient.”
Neither political narrative decides guilt or innocence.
Evidence does.
And this brings us to the most important safeguard.
A weak case is not proof of moro-moro. A dismissal is not proof of conspiracy. An acquittal is not proof of collusion. And losing a case does not prove that prosecutors intended to lose.
Serious accusations require serious evidence.
Was stronger admissible evidence actually available? Was it deliberately withheld? Were critical witnesses intentionally excluded without legitimate explanation? Are there documents, communications, testimony, financial records or independently verifiable facts demonstrating coordination or deliberate sabotage?
Without evidence, suspicion must remain suspicion.
Otherwise, every acquittal we dislike becomes conspiracy. Every prosecutorial mistake becomes corruption. Every unfavorable judicial decision becomes suspicious.
That would not strengthen justice.
It would destroy it.
But neither should we make the opposite mistake of believing that the words “plunder case filed” automatically establish that accountability has already been achieved.
Ask what happens next.
What evidence supports the charge? Can it establish the legal elements? Were the strongest admissible documents and witnesses presented? If the case was dismissed, when and why? What exactly did the court decide?
Because there is an enormous difference between a case that was lost and a case that was made to lose.
The first can happen in any functioning justice system.
The second, if proven by credible evidence, would be a betrayal of justice.
Perhaps that is why, after all these years, I can still remember that little Barangay Under-15 basketball game.
I was just the backup point guard.
Then suddenly, I found myself in the starting five.
At binabad pa ako sa laro.
At that age, I probably appreciated getting the playing time. But today, looking back with a very different understanding of institutions, strategy and human behavior, I see another lesson hidden inside that childhood memory.
The scoreboard could tell everyone who won and who lost.
But the scoreboard could never tell them who actually wanted to win.
That is also why political narratives must never be confused with judicial findings.
People are free to question. Critics are free to scrutinize. Government is free to defend its actions. But ultimately, neither political loyalty nor political suspicion should decide whether a prosecution is genuine.
The evidence must.
So when a sensational case involving a powerful political figure appears, the responsible question is not to immediately declare it genuine or moro-moro.
The responsible question is:
Was this case genuinely built to pursue accountability, and what does the evidence actually show?
Because democracy needs citizens who question power.
But justice also needs citizens who understand that a question is not yet an accusation, a suspicion is not yet evidence, and a political narrative is not yet the truth.
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