By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope
There are moments in a nation’s life when the law speaks
with finality—and yet the people remain confused, divided, or even frustrated, mad, hysterical, and angry. One
such moment came with the recent decision of the Supreme Court of the
Philippines to strike down the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte. The ruling, clear in legal form, stirred waves of public emotion.
Many ordinary citizens—non-lawyers, citizens with no formal training in the
law—asked questions that rang with sincerity: “Why wasn’t the case heard?” “Why
was it dismissed so quickly?” “Does this mean high officials are untouchable?”
In the legal community, the answer was simple: the
Constitution has rules. One of them is the so-called “one-year bar” rule: if an
impeachment complaint has already been filed and acted upon, no new complaint
can be filed against the same official within one year. The Court ruled that
this condition was violated and that the process was not done properly from
the beginning. There was no malice in this judgment, no cover-up—it was, in
fact, a defense of the rule of law.
However, beyond the confines of the judiciary, a different reality was emerging. The voices of ordinary people, who may not be experts in jurisprudence, deeply understand the concept of fairness. Their unease is not because they reject the Constitution, but
because they want to believe that no one is above it. And when they feel
otherwise, even the correct legal outcome can feel deeply wrong.
This is where judicial privilege enters the story—not as the
main character, but as a quiet presence in the background. Judicial privilege
is the principle that judges must be free to deliberate and make decisions
without pressure or fear that their private discussions will be exposed or
politicized. It protects the court from being manipulated by outside forces,
allowing it to remain independent and focused on justice.
And yet, like any privilege, it must be held in tension with
another value: accountability. In a democracy, no official, not even a justice,
stands above the people. When courts decide on cases that affect national
leaders, especially controversial ones, the expectation for openness is
stronger. People want to understand—not just the decision, but the reasoning,
the logic, and yes, even the heart behind it.
The Sara Duterte case tested this balance. The Court stayed
silent beyond its ruling. No spokesperson explained in the language of the
streets what the decision meant. No one from the judiciary stepped forward to say, “Here is why we ruled the way we did. And here is why we hope you
understand.”
Was the ruling correct? As far as the Constitution is
concerned—yes. It upheld the rules. It did not weigh in on whether Vice
President Duterte was guilty or innocent. It merely said: the process was
flawed, and the process matters. It said that the law must be followed, even
when it frustrates political urgency.
But was the decision well-received by the people? Not
entirely. Many perceived it as an additional barrier to accountability. And that perception—regardless of legal correctness—hurts
public trust. People cannot support what they do not understand. And when
institutions hide behind silence, even the most principled decisions can look
like injustice.
What, then, is the lesson here?
Perhaps it is this: the Supreme Court must remain independent but not invisible. Its members may not campaign like politicians,
but they must not forget that their rulings touch the lives of people who
deserve an explanation. Just as the police have public relations officers and the president has a communications team, maybe the judiciary, too, needs a way
to explain its reasoning to the nation it serves.
This endeavor is not about pandering to public opinion. It is about
democratic humility—a reminder that even the most powerful minds in black robes
owe something to the people who grant them their authority.
To the court’s credit, it obeyed the law. But if law's goal is to persuade as well as command, more may be needed. Perhaps we must teach our people more about the Constitution—not in
classrooms alone, but through conversations that speak in the language of laborers, tambays, barbers, farmers, drivers, maritesses, and single parents. And perhaps the Court must
learn, too—not to speak less, but to speak with more empathy.
Let us be clear: judicial privilege must be preserved.
Without it, judges would be paralyzed by fear and politics. But when decisions
shake the public’s confidence, the Court must also reach out—not to explain
away its duty, but to open its hand and say, “We see you. We hear your
questions. Here is how we arrived at our answer.”
In the end, what’s at stake is more than one impeachment
case. The soul of our democracy—the fragile, enduring belief that even the highest offices serve the will of the people, and that justice, despite its blindness, does not ignore the cries of ordinary citizens—is at stake.
Let us support the Supreme Court in its difficult work. Let
us respect its independence. But let us also build bridges—so that law and
public understanding can walk together. If we can do that, perhaps we can turn
moments of division into shared learning and moments of doubt into a deeper
faith in our institutions.
Because when law and trust meet halfway, democracy is alive!
