“This is the supposed reward system that drove Duterte’s war on drugs.”
In a tense moment before the House of Representatives’ Quad committee, Royina Garma stepped up not to testify, but to unveil a dark secret. She exposed what she called the “Davao template,” a lethal system of financial rewards for killing drug suspects. It wasn’t just policy—it was a blood-soaked blueprint that extended far beyond Davao. Now, with her revelation, the question of how deeply this conspiracy ran into the Duterte administration emerged, and the world held its breath.
The implications were staggering, touching not only on Duterte’s war on drugs but entangling figures like Senator Christopher “Bong” Go, Napolcom Commissioner Edilberto Leonardo, and others within Duterte’s circle. Garma and Leonardo are now accused of orchestrating extrajudicial killings, including the high-profile murder of Wesley Barayuga, a supposed drug target. Lt. Col. Santie Mendoza, who testified that Leonardo engineered Barayuga’s assassination with Garma’s consent, brought the state-sponsored brutality into sharp focus. This was no rogue act, but part of a cold, calculated system. And as the Quad committee probed deeper, a web of deceit, blood money, and political protection began to unravel.
The international stakes are just as high. For years, the International Criminal Court (ICC) has been eyeing Duterte, investigating the brutalities of his drug war, where thousands of lives were snuffed out. Garma’s testimony gave the ICC a new weapon—proof of a reward system that turned killings into business. Under the Rome Statute, such orchestrated violence is more than a crime; it’s a systematic attack against civilians, the very definition of a crime against humanity.
The reward system, as described by Garma, ripped apart the basic tenets of Philippine and international law. The right to life, due process, and legal oversight were annihilated by a scheme that incentivized officers to murder, bypassing courts and eliminating oversight. This was a direct affront to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, both of which the Philippines had pledged to uphold.
This “Davao template” was not just a local operation—it implicated high-level officials, including Bong Go. Garma’s bombshell linked Go to the killings, with reports that Leonardo briefed the country’s highest-ranking security officers on how to execute these operations. Garma’s account painted a damning portrait: a top-down chain of command from enforcers in the streets to the very halls of power.
The consequences for public trust in law enforcement are dire. Instead of protecting the public, officers became bounty hunters, profiting from human lives. This system of violence broke every moral and ethical code and deepened a culture of impunity. The legal fallout from Garma’s testimony is enormous. The Philippine Constitution guarantees due process, yet the reward system rendered these protections meaningless. Republic Act No. 6713, which enforces ethical standards for public officials, was shredded by the corruption that this scheme bred. And the Philippine Supreme Court’s decisions, like Manalo v. Secretary of National Defense, which emphasize state responsibility in protecting citizens, were defied by those sworn to uphold them.
International law, too, casts a long shadow over this case. Duterte’s administration, with its ties to extrajudicial killings, faces potential prosecution under Article 7 of the Rome Statute. The legal precedents are clear—systematic attacks on civilians are prosecutable, as seen in cases like Prosecutor v. Jean-Pierre Bemba Gombo. Duterte and his allies cannot ignore the mounting evidence against them, even if they deny direct involvement.
However, Duterte’s defenders, including those aligned with Garma and Leonardo, may argue that the war on drugs was a necessary evil—a brutal yet effective solution to an entrenched criminal scourge. They could claim that the reward system was an unfortunate but pragmatic tool for fighting an unprecedented drug crisis. And Duterte’s camp has long argued that the ICC lacks jurisdiction, especially after the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute in 2019. According to them, these are matters for domestic courts, not international tribunals.
But Garma’s revelations create an inescapable legal quagmire for Duterte. Her testimony, combined with that of other witnesses like Arturo Lascañas and Edgar Matobato, gives the ICC a wealth of evidence that a directive for state-sponsored killings existed. Yet, Duterte’s refusal to cooperate with the ICC may stall justice. His political allies, particularly in the Senate, could obstruct domestic investigations, further complicating the path to accountability. Nonetheless, the principle of command responsibility could ensnare Duterte, even if he did not personally give the orders.
The legal battle is far from over. The ICC faces an uphill struggle, especially with Duterte’s stonewalling tactics. But international pressure, coupled with the growing number of witnesses willing to come forward, could keep the wheels of justice moving. In the Philippines, however, justice depends on whether the judiciary can act without interference. The Supreme Court has shown in cases like Estrada v. Desierto that it can hold the powerful accountable, but whether it will do so again remains a question.
For Duterte, Garma, and Leonardo, the walls are closing in. Denial may buy them time, but it won’t erase the blood that’s been shed. As more witnesses step into the light and the truth about this reward system is laid bare, the victims of the drug war may yet see justice. The question is whether the Philippines is ready to confront the horrors of its past—and if it’s willing to pay the price for redemption.
