There was a collective pause from 2 to 6 p.m. Tuesday, May 29, as millions of Filipinos watched with bated breath the final day of the impeachment trial of now former Chief Justice Renato Corona.
Though published surveys and informal surveys showed that majority of Filipinos believed Corona was guilty, one couldn’t really be smug about a guilty verdict. History, as well as everyday life (and am not just talking about American Idol here), is filled with upsets, and it is not uncommon for a virtually certain outcome to be snatched from the jaws of reality at the last second.
But when it became clear that Corona was going to be convicted (after Senator-judge Ramon Revilla Jr. cast his vote, the 16th vote to convict Corona) by the senator-judges for culpable violation of the Constitution for failure to fully disclose his true wealth, I felt like I was witnessing an EDSA ’86 revolution all over again (coincidentally, Juan Ponce Enrile, once more, was a pivotal figure in this watershed in history).
I was witnessing a historic first, a flexing of the sinews of democracy, a giant step towards a dream — impossible no more — of having a clean and honest government. The conviction of the Chief Justice, as well as his acceptance of the verdict, was a precedent that augurs well for democracy and the rule of law in this country.
The conviction of Corona serves notice to all, in bold black letters and in the biggest font possible, that government service isn’t like winning the lotto. With the modest compensation that it gives, government service shouldn’t give you condominiums and fat dollar accounts. It isn’t a ticket to Destination Wealth.
What you can aspire for when joining government is the bigger chance to make a difference in this impoverished country, so that, as Senator-judge Ralph Recto pointed out with grim statistics, more people will have jobs and less will go to sleep on an empty stomach.
One day, the biggest houses in town will no longer belong to BIR and Customs officials. One day, eyebrows will not only be raised but inquiries will be conducted when a public servant (other than Manny Pacquiao, for we know where he got his money!) drives a Ferrari after serving a few years in government.
The impeachment trial was also all about accountability — you will answer for your commissions or omissions. Someone is watching you, and there is a fair system that can and will make you pay for misdeeds — even if your doctors give you an excuse slip.
The impeachment trial was also about truth — safeguarding the truth and carrying it like an Olympic torch to the finish line — for all the world to see in its blazing glory.
The trial of Chief Justice Renato Corona was also all about equality. Whether you are a court interpreter or the Chief Justice, you will have your day in court. “Kung ang ating mga batas tulad ng Republic Act 6713 ay nagpaparusa ng dismissal sa isang ordinaryong kawani ng gobyerno sa paglabag ng mandato upang maiwasan ang katiwalian, wala po akong nakikitang dahilan para po hindi ipatupad ang parehong batas na ito sa isang Punong Mahistrado,” said Sen. Loren Legarda, explaining her “painful” vote to convict Corona.
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We don’t have to go out into the streets to stage a revolution.
And we don’t have to wait till it snows in Baguio for justice to be served in this country.
President Noynoy Aquino was voted into office by millions who believed in his reformist battlecry: “Kung walang corrupt, walang mahirap.”
Last Tuesday, Aquino’s campaign promise to fight corruption in government pole-vaulted from a vow into a doable policy. Hopefully, it would pole-vault even further into an everyday practice. If Aquino’s allies in Congress closed ranks behind him toward this end — well, what’s wrong with that? Being a crony against corruption is a title you will not be ashamed to pass on to your grandchildren.
I voiced this optimism in a text message to the President: “Like millions of Pinoys I rejoice because democracy works in the Philippines and that this administration’s promise to fight corruption is and will no longer be just a vow.”
His reply: “We are trying our best, Jo.”
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I asked my husband Ed to share with me his thoughts on the just concluded impeachment trial, and he wrote this in response:
The 24th senator-judge
All 23 senator-judges were articulate in explaining their respective verdicts. But none was as eloquent and poetic as the 24th judge — Delsa Flores, a humble court clerk from Davao, who was stripped of her job and of a better future for failing to disclose in her SALN, a market stall that she had been operating.
Delsa Flores was not present during that fateful 44th day of the impeachment trial of Chief Justice Renato C. Corona. Delsa was not even given the opportunity to take her rightful place as judge; for the man who represented the courts of justice that declared her guilty was now the man accused of the same digressions — but professed innocence.
Delsa Flores never uttered a word. Never hogged the limelight of media. Never talked about the nuances and complexities of the law. Never had an axe to grind with the now former chief justice. Delsa struggled on quietly with her life, eking out a living from a laundry business that she had managed to set up.
It is said that a man’s past will, one day, come back to haunt him. For Renato Corona, the past came back with a face, a story and an airtight reason for conviction.
Delsa Flores returned in flesh and blood, out of the pages of trial journals and case studies. She returned to explain the spirit of the law in the Constitution — a facet many of the more learned men and women of the law seemed incapable of understanding. Delsa Flores returned with only one standard of justice by which all of us had to be measured. She returned, not cloaked in a judge’s robe, but with the naked truth — that no one is above the law.
Forty-four days of trial. Five months of waiting. Two hundred hours of direct and cross-examinations. Thousands of pages of evidence painstakingly marked. Through all the legalese, the judges had to find one argument that would sit well with their conscience. One light at the end of the tunnel. One truth that would set them free.
They found Delsa Flores.
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(You may e-mail me at joanneraeramirez@yahoo.com.)