IN a political climate hungry for accountability, there is always a temptation to move fast, to file the biggest possible case and to name the biggest possible names. The unfolding flood control scandal, now inching toward potential plunder charges, presents precisely that moment. But in law, as in governance, speed and spectacle are not substitutes for proof. What is emerging instead is a troubling drift from legal discipline toward narrative-driven prosecution.
At the center of the controversy are statements from the Office of the Ombudsman indicating that plunder charges are being prepared against high-ranking officials, anchored on alleged irregularities in flood control projects and national budget insertions. The public, understandably outraged by corruption behind failed infrastructure, is primed to accept sweeping conclusions. But outrage is not evidence, and suspicion is not a legal theory.
Plunder, under Republic Act 7080, is not an elastic concept that can be stretched to fit every scandal. It has specific elements that must be satisfied. There must be proof that a public officer amassed, accumulated or acquired at least P75 million in ill-gotten wealth through a series of overt criminal acts. This is not simply a matter of showing that funds were misused or that projects were anomalous. It requires a demonstrable link between particular individuals and unlawful enrichment.
The same discipline applies to conspiracy, which appears to be part of the emerging prosecutorial theory. In public discourse, conspiracy is often invoked loosely, as if proximity to power or participation in a process is enough to establish complicity. The law says otherwise. Conspiracy is not presumed. It must be proven through clear evidence of a shared design and overt acts in furtherance of that design. Political alignment, institutional position or participation in the budget process does not, by itself, make one a conspirator. To argue otherwise is to collapse the distinction between governance and criminality.
Recent jurisprudence has even raised the stakes. Under the 2024 Department of Justice rules on preliminary investigation, prosecutors must now establish not merely probable cause, but prima facie evidence with reasonable certainty of conviction. It means that before a case is filed, the evidence must already be strong enough to withstand trial if left uncontroverted. The rule exists to prevent speculative, politically charged prosecutions that erode institutional credibility and the rule of law.
Yet what appears to be emerging is a prosecutorial approach that risks doing exactly that. There are indications of a “connect-the-dots” strategy, one that aggregates testimonies, committee hearings, media reports and institutional referrals into a single narrative of conspiracy. The problem is not the desire for accountability, but the substitution of aggregation for proof. A series of allegations, no matter how numerous, does not automatically establish a coherent criminal design. Nor does it identify, with the precision required by law, who benefited, how they benefited and through what specific acts.
This is particularly critical in a case of this magnitude, where the number of actors is large and the processes involved, such as budgeting, procurement and project implementation, are inherently complex and distributed. The budget process is a constitutional mechanism involving multiple institutions and layers of decision-making. To infer plunder from participation in that process alone is to stretch the law beyond recognition. Taken to its logical conclusion, such a theory would implicate not only legislators and committee chairs, but potentially the entire chain of approval, including the executive. That is not accountability, but legal overreach.
The role of witness testimony further complicates matters. Much of the public narrative relies on statements from insiders who have described alleged kickbacks and irregularities. While such testimony can be valuable, the law treats it with caution, especially when it comes from accomplices. It must be corroborated on material points by independent evidence. It cannot stand alone as the basis for conviction. This is to safeguard against the use of self-serving testimony to construct cases that cannot stand on their own.
The recent arrest of Elizaldy “Zaldy” Co, a key figure linked to the controversy, adds another layer of uncertainty. Depending on how events unfold, this development could either strengthen the evidentiary base of the case or expose its current weaknesses. If he cooperates and provides credible, corroborated testimony, the prosecution’s theory may gain substance. If he resists or contradicts existing accounts, the gaps in the case may become more apparent. There is also the possibility, one that cannot be dismissed in the Philippine political context, that he becomes a political actor in his own right, contributing to the narrative battle rather than the legal one.
All of this underscores a simple point: in a scandal of this scale, the strength of the case lies not in how many names are mentioned, but in how clearly each element of the crime can be proven against each accused. The law does not punish prominence. It punishes conduct specifically defined, properly evidenced and individually attributable.
This is where the real danger lies. If the Ombudsman proceeds to file a sweeping plunder case without a solid evidentiary foundation, the consequences will be severe. A weak case will not merely fail. It will collapse publicly, providing ammunition to those who will claim that the entire effort was politically motivated. Worse, it could set back the broader fight against corruption by reinforcing the perception that high-profile prosecutions are more about optics than justice.
There is, of course, a countervailing danger that excessive caution allows wrongdoing to go unpunished. But this is a false dilemma. The choice is not between inaction and overreach. It is between building a case properly and building it prematurely. The rule of law demands the former, even when the political moment demands the latter.
Accountability is not served by filing the most dramatic case. It is served by filing the right case against the right individuals, for the right offenses, supported by credible, admissible and sufficient evidence. Anything less risks turning a legitimate anti-corruption drive into a legally vulnerable exercise in selective attribution.
In the end, the measure of justice is not how loudly it is proclaimed, but how well it is proven.
The author is a professor at UP Los Baños and vice chairman of the board of the state-run PTVNI.
