*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I remember watching a live Ginebra San Miguel basketball game in the Araneta Coliseum where tensions were high and every possession mattered. The players were aggressive, specifically my daughter Juliana Rizalhea's favorite player, Raymond “Mr. Never Heard” Aguilar when Coach Tim Cone sent him onto the court, the crowd was loud, and the stakes were enormous. But what struck me most was not simply the intensity of the players but the quiet power of the referees. They did not shoot the ball. They did not design the plays. They did not carry the name of the team on their jerseys. Yet one whistle could change the rhythm of the game.
But there is a deeper truth we must not ignore. In real life, referees are not always perfect. Some make honest mistakes. Some are influenced by pressure. Some may favor a team, consciously or unconsciously. And in the darkest corners of sports, there are even stories of game fixing, where referees are allegedly paid to favor one side over another. That is why a championship game cannot rely on blind faith in one referee alone. There must be cameras, public scrutiny, replay systems, written rules, review panels, and the watchful eyes of the crowd. The game must be protected not because referees are always pure, but because human judgment is always vulnerable.
That, in many ways, is the more honest analogy for impeachment and constitutional review.
Impeachment, by design, is a political process. It is meant to be carried out by elected representatives who carry the mandate of the people. The House of Representatives of the Philippines initiates the process, while the Senate of the Philippines sits as an impeachment court to try and decide the case. This is not accidental. The framers of the Constitution intentionally placed impeachment in political hands because it is not merely about legal guilt in the ordinary courtroom sense. It is about public trust, fitness for office, accountability, and the protection of the Republic from officials who may have betrayed the confidence of the nation.
For this reason, the political branches are given wide latitude. They are expected to deliberate, to weigh evidence, and to decide based on their appreciation of facts and their sense of constitutional duty. They are accountable directly to the people, and in that accountability lies both their strength and their vulnerability. Elections serve as their ultimate reckoning. Public opinion shapes their incentives. Political survival often shadows their judgment.
Yet here arises a profound constitutional question—one that cannot be ignored.
If the political branches are accountable to the people, what of the Judiciary?
The Supreme Court of the Philippines is composed of justices who are not elected. They are appointed. And as political appointees of the President, there exists, at least in the mind of the public, a lingering suspicion: that a justice may carry a sense of gratitude—utang na loob—toward the one who appointed him or her. Unlike senators or representatives who owe their mandate to voters, justices do not face elections. They do not campaign. They do not answer directly to the electorate.
This perception, whether fair or not, is powerful. It shapes how people interpret judicial action, especially in politically charged cases such as those involving Joseph Estrada in the past or Sara Duterte in the present. When the Court speaks, the question sometimes arises not only about legality, but about loyalty. Not only about reasoning, but about independence.
More critically, in the mind of the ordinary citizen, even a unanimous decision does not always silence doubt. There are moments when people ask difficult questions: What if unanimity is not a reflection of shared legal conviction, but of quiet alignment? What if discussions happened behind closed doors that the public will never see? What if, despite the appearance of institutional unity, there exists an unseen bias favoring a particular side?
These questions may not always be fair. They may not always be grounded in evidence. But they are real. And they cannot simply be dismissed. In a democracy, perception is not a trivial matter—it is part of legitimacy itself.
The Constitution anticipates this concern—not by denying human nature, but by designing safeguards around it.
The appointment of justices is filtered through the Judicial and Bar Council, which seeks to elevate merit and competence over pure political preference. Once appointed, justices enjoy security of tenure, insulating them from the very political forces that might otherwise influence them. Their decisions are collegial, written, and subject to public scrutiny, dissent, and academic critique. They speak not in whispers, but in published opinions that are examined line by line by the legal community and by history itself.
And yet, these safeguards do not eliminate suspicion. They manage it.
That is why the legitimacy of the Court does not rest on the claim that justices are beyond bias. It rests on their ability to demonstrate, consistently and convincingly, that their decisions are anchored in constitutional reasoning rather than personal allegiance. Transparency, in this sense, is not about being overturned by another body. It is about being exposed to continuous intellectual, professional, and public scrutiny.
Every decision of the Court must therefore carry the burden of explanation. It must show its reasoning clearly. It must confront opposing arguments honestly. It must cite doctrine faithfully. It must be coherent not only within the case, but across time. Because while no one may immediately overturn a Supreme Court decision, everyone—from lawyers to scholars to citizens—can question its reasoning, challenge its logic, and measure it against the Constitution.
Over time, weak reasoning is exposed. Inconsistent doctrines are revisited. Jurisprudence evolves. What appears final today may be reinterpreted tomorrow.
This is where the balance becomes delicate.
The Supreme Court must respect the political character of impeachment. It cannot behave as if it were the impeachment court. It cannot replace the judgment of the Senate. It cannot decide whether an impeachable officer should be convicted or acquitted. That power belongs solely to the Senate of the Philippines.
But respect does not mean abdication.
The same Constitution that gives Congress the power of impeachment also gives the Judiciary the power to interpret the Constitution and to determine whether any branch has committed grave abuse of discretion. This power is not meant to dominate the political process. It is meant to ensure that the process does not escape constitutional boundaries.
The jurisprudence of Francisco v. House of Representatives stands as a reminder of this role. The Court did not intervene to decide guilt or innocence. It intervened to enforce a constitutional limitation. It acted not as a political actor, but as a constitutional guardian.
Still, the danger is real on both sides.
On one hand, there is the risk of legislative impunity—the idea that because impeachment is political, Congress may act without restraint, driven purely by numbers or political expediency. On the other hand, there is the risk of judicial overreach—the fear that the Court may enter too deeply into a political process and, in doing so, alter its outcome.
Both dangers erode trust. Both weaken institutions.
The solution, therefore, is not to choose one over the other. It is to strengthen both through discipline and transparency.
The House of Representatives of the Philippines must ensure that impeachment complaints are constitutionally grounded, properly documented, and not merely the product of political urgency. It must demonstrate that the process it initiates is not only legal, but legitimate.
The Senate of the Philippines, sitting as an impeachment court, must conduct proceedings with clarity, fairness, and openness. It must define timelines, respect due process, and make its actions visible to the public. Transparency is not a concession; it is a source of strength.
The Supreme Court of the Philippines must practice calibrated restraint. It must not intervene merely because a political question is raised before it. It must not stop the Senate simply because an impeached official seeks relief. But when there is a clear and demonstrable violation of the Constitution, it must not hesitate to act. Its silence in the face of constitutional breach would be as damaging as its overreach.
In this sense, the better analogy is not a game controlled by a single referee, but a system where referees, cameras, rules, review mechanisms, commentators, and the public all interact. No one is beyond question. No one is beyond observation.
That is how constitutional democracy survives: not by assuming that institutions are perfect, but by recognizing that they are not—and building safeguards accordingly.
In the end, impeachment is not merely a contest of power. It is a test of constitutional character. It asks whether the House can accuse with discipline, whether the Senate can judge with fairness, whether the Supreme Court can review with integrity, and whether the public can remain vigilant without becoming cynical.
Because whether appointed or elected, no official is completely free from influence, and no institution is completely immune from doubt. The strength of the Republic lies not in denying these realities, but in confronting them with structures that demand accountability, transparency, and restraint.
The Constitution does not rely on perfect individuals. It relies on imperfect institutions checking one another, guided by law, observed by the people, and judged—ultimately—by history.
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