By the time the impeachment trial resumed last Monday, interest in it was at an all-time low. The only ones who still seemed preoccupied with it were partisans from both camps who kept contributing to Globe’s and Smart’s coffers by regaling the world with their opinions in text messages. As the general public went, there was no excitement, there was no anticipation, there was no debate. Some didn’t even know it was still there.
Does that work to Renato Corona’s advantage?
Without the break of more than a month, it might have. The whole tack of the defense has been to make the trial lack as much excitement, anticipation, and furor as possible. That way they take the public out of the equation and leave the lawyers entirely in control of the proceedings. The Erap trial showed what happens when public interest runs high and public opinion overruns that of the senators-judges.
But the break of more than a month did take place. And that has made all the difference.
What happened during that break?
One, public opinion came rushing in after the defense—and their allies in the impeachment court—had kept it at bay by insisting on a completely legalistic framework. Or by insisting that law take the place of reason. That might seem to be a strange thing to say, law and reason not being opposed categories, but it’s not so for this country. Here, law and reason are antagonistic, given the way law has been interpreted and practiced, not least when a lawyer or judge or justice stands at the other end of it. With the break, that legalistic framework the defense had carefully contrived for the trial collapsed and was taken over by reason, or common sense, or empirical judgment.
It did not help Corona that the immediate reason for the break was Holy Week, a profoundly holy time for most Filipinos, one that speaks of suffering and deliverance. Holy Week has always had a profound impact on us, Rey Ileto for one arguing that it was the Pasyon, with that theme of suffering and deliverance, which inspired the indios to join the Katipunan and take up arms against Spanish rule. It’s not entirely fanciful to imagine that this time around many Filipinos thought of the agony and death we experienced during Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s time and the promise of resurrection in the new government with its crusade to rid this world of corruption. Or more specifically, it’s not entirely fanciful to imagine that many Filipinos thought bitterly of the crown of thorns, the korona ng tinik, that Corona has buried into our head and the prospect of the glory, or relief, of having that korona finally lifted from it.
Whatever the reason, by the time the trial resumed last Monday, Corona had become one of the most distrusted men on earth. He has of course called the surveys phony, a criticism that has only served to raise questions about whether or not a midnight appointee can distinguish phony from real.
Can Corona bounce back with the resumption of the trial? That brings us to:
Two, a couple of weeks before the trial resumed, a new nail was hammered into his coffin. The Ombudsman, Conchita Carpio Morales, demanded that he explain the $10 million her office has ferreted out from his bank accounts. The Supreme Court of course stopped the impeachment court from opening Corona’s dollar accounts, but what the left hand denies, the right hand gives, what the Supreme Court denies, the Ombudsman receives. It’s part of the Ombudsman’s powers to open such deposits and presume hidden wealth where they are not declared.
Corona has cried foul and also called the Ombudsman’s case phony. The $10 million “simply does not exist,” he says. There’s only one problem, which is that for most Filipinos he and the truth are not mami and siopao, they are doughnut and kimchi. He doesn’t say, “By all means let the impeachment court open my dollar accounts and see if it’s true.” He says, “Take my word for it, trust me.” This from the last person this country is inclined to trust. Well, second to the last.
Corona might maintain a policy of ignoring Morales’ accusation, and the defense might maintain a policy of deeming it irrelevant. But the public will not ignore it, the public will see the $10 million as central to his innocence of guilt, as the defining element of the loftiness or rottenness of his pagkatao. The defense might hem and haw, twist and turn, but at the end of the day, the public will cry out like P-Noy, “Show me the money.”
Three, there’s San Miguel’s flaming sword in the form of Sr. Flory Basa. The Corona camp cannot attack her directly, that is suicide. They’re forced to resort to calling her misinformed and deluded, dropping no small hints about the senility that comes with her age. Unfortunately for them, heaven seems to have kept her intact for all of 90 years for a purpose: She remains as sharp as ever, cancer or no. She speaks with wit and wisdom, grace and graciousness. It’s another case where the Corona’s camp’s tack blows back on them, raising as it does questions about who exactly is in the throes of confusion or delusion.
You contrast Sister Flory and Lito Atienza, the latter having come out to testify for Corona, who are you going to believe? Never mind that Atienza has only confirmed that Manila City Hall bought the Basa property without showing that it was Cristina Corona’s to sell, mind only that Sister Flory spent nearly all her life having her hands clasped in prayer and Atienza having a hand in Jun Lozada’s abduction. No wonder Cristina has changed her mind about appearing in court. Can you imagine if she gave her side there and Sister Flory came along to refute it?
Some breaks give people respite, some others merely break them. This break speaks end game.
It speaks end of the line.