Two tracks moved on the same day, and that alone should give us pause.

First, impeachment complaints against President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. were declared “sufficient in form” by the House justice committee, meaning the papers were properly filed, sworn, endorsed and cloaked in procedural respectability.

One complaint came from a private lawyer endorsed by a partylist representative; another came from 36 complainants backed by the Makabayan bloc. Technical objections were raised on notarization, signatures and even whether complainants were “taxpayers,” but these were brushed aside.

The committee voted to move on, while one particularly loud congressman walked out and was not missed. Why would he be? Did he really win in the last elections?

Second, new impeachment complaints were lined up against Vice President Sara Duterte, again focusing on her alleged misuse of confidential funds, the supposed fabrication of liquidation documents and her refusal to submit to congressional oversight.

On the surface, this is democracy flexing its accountability muscle. The two highest officials of the land are facing impeachment processes at the same historical moment — or what some may call an exercise in futility and another costly use of taxpayers’ money.

Both officials’ terms end in 2028. Conviction in the Senate requires numbers that, in Philippine history, materialize only when power has already shifted decisively. Before that tipping point, impeachment is less a verdict and more a spectacle.

And who performs in this spectacle? House members act as prosecutors, senators as judges. Many of them are eyeing higher office. Impeachment hearings offer national airtime, moral posturing, and the chance to brand oneself as a defender of the Constitution.

Surely, that does not automatically invalidate the complaints, but it makes the purity of motive harder to maintain with a straight face.

Hovering above this is the Supreme Court, which recently tried to clear up gray areas. It clarified when impeachment is “initiated,” narrowed the meaning of “session days,” and ruled that archiving complaints or simply doing nothing can still trigger the one-year bar.

It also insisted that due process is not optional, even in the so-called fast-track mode that political enemies of the Dutertes initiated last year. Lawmakers cried judicial overreach, but the Court called it constitutional discipline.

Strip away the rhetoric and the issue becomes stark: impeachment is Congress’ power, yes — but not Congress’ private property. If timelines can be stretched, complaints parked, revived, or buried at will, impeachment ceases to be a constitutional safeguard and becomes a political lever.

The Supreme Court stepped in to police the doorway. It said, in effect, you may use this weapon, but you will use it according to the manual.

Is the Court always right, especially one packed with the appointees of then-President Rodrigo Duterte and one that issued a ruling favorable to his daughter, Vice President Sara?

Of course not. Courts, even the Supreme Court, err. Past decisions have been narrowed, revised, and even quietly abandoned by later compositions of justices. That is the nature of constitutional law: it evolves, sometimes awkwardly.

But while a ruling stands, it binds. Disagreement is legitimate, yet there is no defying the supreme arbiter of the laws of the land. Otherwise, we will have a system where each branch follows court rulings only when convenient.

Impeachment was designed as an extraordinary remedy, not a regular instrument of political combat. Used frequently, it cheapens itself and deepens polarization at a time when the economy is already struggling.