When the Supreme Court speaks with one voice, the public listens. But when it speaks with one voice while echoing the power that appointed it, the public should ask: Whose voice is it really?
This question hangs heavily after the Supreme Court’s unanimous 13-0 decision declaring that the impeachment complaint against Vice President Sara Duterte unconstitutional. The SC anchored their ruling on two key grounds: the constitutional “one-year bar rule” (Article XI, Section 3[5]) and the violation of Sara Duterte’s right to due process. On paper, the decision appears procedurally sound. In context, however, it is fraught with contradictions and troubling implications.
Contradiction reveals a deeper malaise. Procedure, when stripped of context, becomes a tool not for justice but for avoidance. What the Court framed as a matter of constitutional fidelity reveals, upon closer scrutiny, a pattern of selection application and institutional accommodation. The ironies here are not merely rhetorical; they are embedded in the very structure of our institutions. They demonstrate how the law can be twisted to shield those who refuse to subject themselves to its processes.
The irony is sharp and unsettling. Four impeachment complaints had been filed against Vice President Duterte. The first three, lodged by civil society and religious groups and endorsed by members of the House minority, were left to languish–never referred, never deliberated, and ultimately archived. According to lawmakers, these early complaints failed to gain momentum or consensus, as party leaders sought to consolidate them into a single, stronger case. The fourth complaint, emerging from broader consultations and presented with clearer allegations and firmer evidence, finally gained traction. The fourth, backed by 215 House members and containing clearer allegations, was the only one acted upon and transmitted to the Senate. Yet, in a legal sleight of hand, the Court used the existence of the earlier, untouched complaints to trigger the one-year ban–effectively shielding the Vice President from trial.
This maneuver flips the intention of the rule on its head. The constitutional safeguard was designed to prevent harassment through impeachment attempts. But in this case, it was not the frequency of initiation that triggered the ban–it was the deliberate inaction on previous filings. The House’s failure to act became the very reason the Court dismissed the only complaint it actually initiated. A provision meant to guard against abuse has now been used to block legitimate scrutiny. In the end, accountability was not denied because the official was unfairly targeted. It was denied because pursuing it would have been politically inconvenient.
Now, the House is pushing back. Declaring the SC ruling not yet final, it plans to file a motion for reconsideration and has asked the Senate to defer any decision until the judicial process runs its full course. Civil society groups and political scientists have likewise criticized the factual basis of the ruling, arguing it sets dangerous new barriers to public accountability. Whether the Court will revisit its position remains uncertain. But even before that question could be resolved, the Senate moved decisively. On August 6, 2025, it voted by a wide margin to archive the impeachment complaint against Vice President Duterte, effectively halting the proceedings in deference to the Court’s immediately executory decision. Though archiving does not equate to outright dismissal–leaving room or revival should reverse course–it nonetheless closes the door for now. What was framed as a matter of legal procedure has instead functioned as a political escape hatch. In the name of upholding the process, justice may once again have been denied its day in court.
Even more troubling is that the official at the center of this controversy repeatedly refused to engage with the very process that now claims to have violated her rights. Throughout the congressional hearings on the alleged misuse of confidential funds, Vice President Duterte repeatedly declined to participate meaningfully. She was invited to explain, respond, and clarify. Instead, she skipped hearings, refused to take an oath, and avoided answering questions. She was afforded every opportunity to respond, yet choose silence, evasion, and, arguably, defiance.
Yet despite this blatant disregard for public scrutiny, the judicial process and the procedural delays in the Senate moved to protect her. Due process was cited as the injured principle–even though she was the one who refused to participate in it. The result is a portrait of privilege: an official who acted above scrutiny, and a system that rewarded her with immunity. In the end, the rules she refused to follow were the very rules that protected her.
This is what makes the SC’s invocation of due process particularly ironic. How can the High Court claim her right was violated when she herself refused to engage with the process in good faith? This was not a case of an official denied the chance to speak. It was one of a public figure who treated accountability as optional, confident that her position and connections would shield her.
And in many ways, they did.
Of the fifteen justices currently on the Supreme Court, 12 were appointed by former President Rodrigo Duterte, the Vice President’s father. This fact does not automatically imply judicial misconduct. But in a country where institutions are often vulnerable to political influence, even the appearance of partiality can undermine public trust.
In a healthy democracy, the judiciary stands as the last line of defense–an institution above faction, influence, and personal allegiance. In the Philippines, however, that line appears increasingly porous. The ruling may have been procedurally sound, but the political context surrounding it cannot be brushed aside. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done.
There is precedent for concern. The Philippines has a long history of politicized appointments, with each administration seeking to leave its imprint on the judiciary. What is distinct today is the degree of consolidation. Rodrigo Duterte’s presidency left not only a political legacy but an institutional one: through appointments that now shape rulings on matters involving his own family and allies.
Globally, other democracies wrestle with similar challenges. The United States, for example, has seen fierce debates over the politicization of its Supreme Court, especially after high-stakes appointments and ideologically divisive rulings. But mechanisms such as open Senate confirmation hearings, public vetting, and a free press provide at least a modicum of transparency and accountability.
In contrast, the Philippine system offers a hybrid model of insulation and vulnerability. Judicial appointments are formally independent of Congress, as they do not require confirmation by the Commission on Appointments. Instead, the Judicial and Bar Council (JBC) screens and shortlists nominees based on constitutional standards of competence, integrity, probity, and independence. However, concerns persist. The President retains exclusive power to appoint from the JBC’s shortlist, and the Council itself includes members who are either presidential appointees or ex-officio officials from the executive and legislative branches. While the structure avoids direct legislative interference, the lack of a fully transparent confirmation process and the composition of the JBC leave room for executive influence, making the judiciary technically independent but not immune to political pressure.
This is not just about the Vice President, nor just about one decision. It is about the credibility of our judicial institutions, and whether the public can trust that the Constitution–not political accomodation–is what guides the Court’s decisions. A ruling that might otherwise be accepted as routine becomes suspect when familial ties, patronage, and dynastic politics are all at play.
To restore public confidence, reforms are urgent and necessary. The JBC should be restructured to ensure broader representation of independent voices. Judicial appointments could be subjected to legislative scrutiny or public confirmation hearings–just like in the United States–not to politicize them further, but to make the process more inclusive and transparent. More importantly, we must push for a cultural shift that rejects political entitlement. Public office is not a personal property, and accountability is not a matter of preference. That the Vice President ignored calls to explain herself, only to be shielded by a Court citing due process, is more than ironic. It is a sign of how institutional power can be used to protect, rather than question, those at the top.
The Supreme Court’s ruling in the case of Vice President Duterte may well be remembered in the annals of constitutional law, not for strengthening democratic accountability but for setting a precedent that could make it harder to hold high officials accountable. However, without a stronger commitment to judicial independence and public accountability, it risks being remembered less as a landmark decision and more as a cautionary tale—one that reveals how even the highest court can reflect, rather than check, the impulses of power. It also raises serious concerns of judicial overreach, as the Court not only shielded an official from accountability but encroached on the constitutional authority of Congress to pursue the impeachment process–an authority that, notably, also applies to the justices themselves.
