We’ve been through this in a restaurant where the kitchen serves some tables at lightning speed while others wait until they’re close to fainting or their food is cold.

You order Beef Bulalo. The waiter says, “Ten minutes.” An hour passes. Then the kitchen serves a full-course meal to a table that walked in five minutes ago — while your bulalo is still mooing. The manager shrugs. That’s the justice system in the “flood control” scandal in 2026 — blazing speed for some, drift for everyone else.

Remember December 2025? Filipinos were promised warrants before year-end. Lawmakers would spend Christmas in jail. Dozens of cases “almost ready,” the biggest names finally facing the music. Christmas came and went, and the promised avalanche never rolled down the mountain.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, gears found grease. Senator Rodante Marcoleta — plunder charge was filed on 3 July, arrested on 6 July, just in time to miss his impeachment-judge duties. Senator Jinggoy Estrada was charged on 28 May, and he surrendered on 1 June. Two Duterte allies with express tickets to detention. The unmistakable message — we can move when we want.

Marcoleta wasn’t even on November’s forecast of imminent warrants. Others supposedly “almost ready” months ago? Still walking free. Senate President Chiz Escudero’s case? Still crawling through preliminary investigation, despite repeated “two to three weeks” promises. Those weeks apparently run on dog years.

Is justice a buffet where the menu depends on your political flavor? Or is there a backdoor where the wealthy can pay their way out?

At the center is the Office of the Ombudsman, which assures us that no one is above the law. Reassuring words. But the gap between promise and delivery is hard to ignore. When some respondents are detained within days while others remain uncharted for months, the public asks: is the system impartial or are there factors — perhaps conversations — that influence pace?

Allegedly, there’s a “matinding lagayan” — a 70–30 cost-sharing scheme, with the government getting 30 percent. The Discayas tried entering the Witness Protection Program but were reportedly dangled a restitution.

Prosecutor General Richard Fadullon said it; other officials defended it as “accountability.” Fair enough — stolen money should be returned. But accountability should not mean paying an undisclosed amount and staying uncharged. Nor should it mean returning a fraction and receiving immunity. Nor negotiating through intermediaries while the case gathers dust. Never should it become a backdoor for favorable treatment.

Who is “Nanang”? A public official? Private intermediary? Code name? Is she Alfred Kho Lao, whose name surfaced in hushed discussions about go-betweens? Did Nanang meet with contractors, witnesses, respondents? Was she authorized to discuss terms? These are legitimate questions the Office of the Ombudsman can put to rest with a documented response. There may be wisdom in silence but it fuels speculation.

Let’s look beyond our shores. Indonesia’s top corruption hunter, Febrie Adriansyah, spent years chasing dirty money. Police say they found it in his house — 74 kilos of gold, over US$26 million. Until last week, Febrie ran the office prosecuting Indonesia’s biggest graft cases. He denies the fortune is his, claims it “has an owner.”

Sound familiar? When the hunter becomes the hunted, when the enforcer is accused of the same crime they swore to fight, the system collapses. Here at home, we wonder: are we heading down that path? Because when restitution becomes a negotiation rather than mandatory accounting, it stops being justice and becomes a transaction.

To certain officials who have been the public voice on restitution: did their role stay within public explanation, or did they join private discussions? Did they recommend amounts or attend meetings? Did Alias Rolle, Bayot, Jip, Weng, Susan and Liluigi Bonoan act officially? We are not condemning anyone. We are asking for an accounting because the stakes are too high for whispers.

We were promised swift, even-handed justice, no one spared. Admirable commitment. But when the execution appears uneven, the public has every right to ask why. If it is lawful and transparent, there must be a complete paper trail — every peso accounted for, every approval documented, no secret negotiations, no automatic immunity for those who can write a check.

Otherwise, justice becomes a vending machine where you insert money and receive leniency instead of a receipt. When justice has a price tag, the rich dine on freedom while the poor starve in cells.

Filipinos are not interested in conspiracy theories — just a simple and honest accounting. A transparent response will restore trust. The ball is in the office’s kitchen. Here’s a fervent hope that the next dish is clarity, not confusion.