The Bail Difference: The Extortionist Versus Tongits Gambler and Drug Peddler

Someone allegedly attempted to extort 350 million pesos. He was given bail of 120 thousand pesos. Others played tongits with a pot money of 500 pesos and were slapped with bail of 30 thousand pesos. Others sold 500 pesos worth of shabu and were ordered to post bail of 200 thousand pesos. The alleged extortionist walked out of detention three days later, assisted by well-oiled lawyers in crisp barongs and expensive watches, determined to contest every inch of the criminal procedure. The alleged illegal gamblers are still in jail a month after arrest, unable to post bail. The alleged small-time drug peddlers remain behind bars six months, one year, two years later, still waiting, still rotting, still presumed innocent in theory but already punished in practice. Many of them eventually plead guilty, not because they are guilty, but because detention itself becomes the punishment. Plead guilty, go home. Contest the case, die slowly in jail.

Such is the grotesque comedy of our pretrial detention system. It is called a financial bail system, but let us stop pretending it is about justice. It is a poverty test masquerading as due process. The rich and powerful treat it as a parking fee. The poor experience it as a death sentence in installments. The law says all are equal before the law. But in practice, equality begins where money begins. The rich can invoke constitutional rights with eloquence and confidence. They can shout “due process,” “equal protection,” and “political persecution” while sipping coffee in air-conditioned homes. The poor invoke the same rights from overcrowded cells that smell of sweat, rust, urine, and despair. This is not justice. This is class warfare written in legal language. The irony is almost obscene. The alleged extortionist, the one with resources, influence, networks, and capacity to continue offending, is the one who should have been subjected to preventive detention. In many progressive jurisdictions, courts increasingly rely on dangerousness and public safety assessments in determining pretrial release. The question is not simply whether the accused can pay. The real question is: if released, is the person likely to continue offending, intimidate witnesses, obstruct justice, or threaten public safety? That alleged extortionist has the capacity to continue his operations. He has connections. He has machinery. He has reach. But the small-time tongits players and street-level drug sellers, especially first-time offenders, are far less likely to pose a continuing threat. Many of them are products of structural poverty, unemployment, social disorganization, and strain. Robert Merton’s strain theory long ago explained how blocked economic opportunities push people toward illegitimate means of survival. Shaw and McKay’s social disorganization theory similarly demonstrated how communities abandoned by institutions become breeding grounds for petty crimes and underground economies. The poor do not enter crime from abundance. They enter it from desperation. Yet our criminal justice system treats poverty itself as dangerousness. The small-time offenders should have been released under recognizance. Barangay supervision could have sufficed. Supervised release programs could have been used. Community-based monitoring could have worked. Even the Rules of Court already allow recognizance and reduced bail for indigent accused. Former DOJ Secretary Boying Remulla had the wisdom and foresight to push for reduced bail of 10,000 pesos for indigent accused. Yet many prosecutors continue clinging to the 2018 bail bond guide as though it descended from Mount Sinai engraved on stone tablets. Judges mechanically reduce recommended bail by fifty percent and congratulate themselves for compassion, even when the resulting amount still remains impossible for the poor to pay. A 50 percent reduction of impossible is still impossible. And so the poor stay in jail. Not because they are dangerous. Not because they are convicted. But because they are poor. Couple this archaic financial bail system with the glacial pace of Philippine criminal procedure and you now understand why Philippine jails are among the most congested in the world. Trials drag on for three years, five years, ten years, even fifteen years. Hearings are postponed because witnesses are absent, prosecutors are unavailable, defense lawyers are elsewhere, judges are attending seminars, or records cannot be found. The system moves with the urgency of a cemetery. Meanwhile, human beings accumulate in detention like garbage swept under a national rug. The result is a vast archipelago of psychological limbo. Our jail system is filled not merely with convicted criminals but with people awaiting judgment. Fathers separated from families. Mothers losing children. Young men transformed into hardened offenders because jail itself becomes a school of crime. Criminological research has repeatedly shown that prolonged pretrial detention increases the likelihood of future offending, weakens family bonds, destroys employment opportunities, and pressures innocent people to plead guilty. Labeling theory tells us that once society stamps someone as criminal, reintegration becomes far harder. The jail becomes not a place of temporary custody but a factory of permanent exclusion. And still, politicians barely recognize this as a crisis. Worse, many weaponize pretrial detention against opponents while suddenly discovering human rights only when their allies become detainees. They thunder against “political persecution” when the powerful allies are jailed but remain deafeningly silent when ordinary Filipinos rot anonymously in overcrowded cells. For the poor, detention is normal. Expected. Invisible. The laylayan ng lipunan are disposable. Yet judges, prosecutors, and defense lawyers can do something about this. They possess discretion. Judges can reduce bail to truly affordable levels. They can recognize prolonged detention itself as proof of indigency. If an accused has languished in jail for one year simply because he cannot afford bail, that alone should trigger reconsideration for recognizance or supervised release. The elderly and sickly should be prioritized for release, especially in dangerously overcrowded facilities. Prosecutors can stop reflexively objecting to bail reductions for low-risk offenders. Defense lawyers can advocate not merely for paying clients but for social justice itself.

But too often, criminal justice actors fear stepping outside convention. They fear accusations of abuse of discretion. They fear administrative sanctions. They fear becoming the next headline. Better to follow routine than exercise courage. Better to preserve one’s career than defend the poor.

And so the little people continue rotting in jail while waiting for hearings that move slower than decay itself. Many will eventually plead guilty simply because they have already served the equivalent of the sentence despite never being convicted. In effect, the process itself becomes the punishment. Meanwhile, the truly dangerous offenders remain beyond meaningful accountability. Those who rob the nation blind manipulate the justice system with ease. They can post bail immediately. They can hire elite lawyers. They can file endless motions. They can invoke constitutional rights with theatrical indignation while continuing to plunder the country. They are not crushed by the system. They dance with it. And the country bleeds. We need bail reform. Not cosmetic reform. Real reform. Congress must abandon the archaic financial bail system and move toward evidence-based risk assessment models grounded in public safety, dangerousness, and likelihood of court appearance. The question should no longer be, “Can the accused pay?” The question should be, “Should the accused be detained?” I challenge Congress to take up this proposal. We need judges, prosecutors, and defense lawyers with courage. We need legal actors willing to stand for justice rather than hide behind mechanical procedure. We need lawyers who champion the poor and not merely serve as bayaran of extortionists, corrupt politicians, and oligarchs hiding behind technicalities. You were not in law school to end up having a law career as a tool of the corrupt. Because if justice remains something that only the rich can afford, then the law itself becomes another instrument of oppression. And that is no longer justice. That is organized cruelty wearing a robe.