“The quiet death of truth is the most dangerous casualty of all, and in this war, everyone stands to lose.”
Did a former Philippine National Police Chief turn one of the most feared drug lords into a pawn to destroy a political rival? In a shocking twist, Kerwin Espinosa—once the country’s most notorious drug lord—claims Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa pressured him into framing former Senator Leila de Lima. Now, with Espinosa’s revelations rippling through Congress, questions about Duterte’s violent war on drugs—and the political maneuvering behind it—resurface.
Espinosa’s claims aren’t just about coercion; they pull back the curtain on the murky intertwining of law enforcement and politics during Duterte’s reign. His allegations, if proven, could expose systemic abuses and challenge the legitimacy of high-profile convictions.
Kerwin Espinosa’s history is marked by violence and fear. His father, Mayor Rolando Espinosa Sr., became entangled in the drug trade and was arrested in 2016. Fearing for his life, the elder Espinosa’s worst fears came true when he was shot dead in his cell in what police controversially called a shootout. The killing cast a dark shadow over the country’s criminal justice system—a system that, according to Kerwin, soon turned its sights on him.
Espinosa claims that upon his return to the Philippines, he was greeted not with relief but with threats from Dela Rosa. According to Kerwin, Dela Rosa made it clear: he had to admit to his drug involvement and implicate de Lima and Peter Lim—or face the same deadly fate as his father.
At the heart of this explosive testimony is the personal and political feud between de Lima and then-President Duterte. As a human rights advocate, de Lima had investigated Duterte’s alleged links to extrajudicial killings in Davao. When Duterte took power, de Lima became a vocal critic of his drug war—and a prime target of his ire. Kerwin’s false testimony against her fit into the administration’s narrative that de Lima was a key player in the drug trade. Her imprisonment was seen as politically motivated—a convenient way to silence one of Duterte’s fiercest opponents.
But now, with Espinosa’s recantation, the truth is once again in question. His claim that Dela Rosa pressured him reveals a troubling trend in Duterte’s drug war: the use of coerced confessions for political gain. The Philippines has a long history of turning “state witnesses” into tools for securing convictions against prominent figures. However, Espinosa’s testimony adds weight to concerns that these witnesses weren’t just incentivized—they were threatened into giving false evidence.
Coerced confessions violate both domestic and international legal standards. Under Philippine law, confessions obtained through intimidation or threats are illegal (Article 286, Revised Penal Code). The Supreme Court has repeatedly ruled that testimonies extracted under duress are inadmissible (People v. Obrero). Yet, despite these legal protections, Duterte’s drug war saw a pattern of intimidation, and Espinosa’s story could prove to be one of its most glaring examples.
Dela Rosa, now on the defensive, will likely focus on discrediting Espinosa. He could argue that Kerwin, a convicted criminal, is an unreliable witness looking to escape punishment. Dela Rosa might also claim that this recantation is part of a broader effort by Duterte’s political enemies to undermine the legacy of the drug war.
Legally, Dela Rosa could rely on the principle that without corroborating evidence, Espinosa’s testimony holds little value. The courts typically view recantations with skepticism unless there is strong proof to back up the new claims (People v. Lagon).
For Espinosa, the challenge will be in proving his previous testimony was coerced. He will need to present corroborating evidence—such as testimony from other witnesses who may have been similarly coerced, or documentation of communications from law enforcement.
Meanwhile, Dela Rosa’s credibility hangs in the balance. If it’s proven that his leadership involved coercion, he could face charges of misconduct—or worse, complicity in extrajudicial killings. The scrutiny on Duterte’s drug war will likely intensify, with potential international investigations into human rights abuses.
For Espinosa, the path forward may lie in seeking legal protection and working with other witnesses who suffered similar fates. This could open the door to a broader investigation into the systemic abuses of Duterte’s war on drugs.
For Dela Rosa, transparency is his best defense. Simply denying Espinosa’s claims won’t be enough—he must produce evidence to clear his name. Without proof, his reputation, and that of Duterte’s drug war, may continue to unravel.
For the Philippine government, Espinosa’s claims demand an impartial investigation. The nation’s judicial system, already under immense scrutiny, faces a defining test. Will justice be done, or will the powerful escape accountability once more?
As for the public, vigilance remains essential. This is not just a battle between politicians and criminals; it’s a fight for the soul of the nation’s justice system. The quiet death of truth is the most dangerous casualty of all, and in this war, everyone stands to lose.
