Silent appointee

The Duterte appointee who instigated what is perhaps the most corrupt, trillion-peso plunder in our country’s history. 

Samuel Martires wasn’t always a controversial figure. Born in 1949 in the town of Palapag, Northern Samar, he rose quietly through the legal ranks. He served as provincial trial judge in La Union and later became Sandiganbayan justice.

A San Beda law graduate and a fellow Bedan of Rodrigo Duterte, he was known early on for his stern, old-school demeanor.

In 2017, Rodrigo Duterte tapped Martires to join the Supreme Court, calling him “bright and fair.” A year later, in July 2018, Duterte hand-picked him again for one of the most powerful and supposedly independent posts in government. The Ombudsman. Thus began a seven-year, nonrenewable term as the nation’s anti-corruption watchdog.

It first sounded promising. A veteran judge overseeing justice itself. But as the years unfolded, Martires didn’t just guard the gate. He slowly closed it.

One of his earliest moves was to lock down access to public officials’ SALNs. Under his new rules, no one could access these documents unless the official being investigated personally allowed it, or a court ordered it. 

Even journalists who had long used SALNs to expose corruption were effectively shut out. Later, he even proposed punishing people who “comment” on SALNs with up to five years in jail.

It was a stunning reversal for an office meant to fight corruption. Transparency advocates called it a “curtain over accountability.” The Center for Media Freedom and the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism said it crippled the public’s right to know. Martires defended it as “protecting privacy.”

It looked more like protecting thieves.

As corruption scandals swirled across government, the Ombudsman’s office under Martires fell silent.

Official records show that in 2024, only 138 cases were filed before the Sandiganbayan. It was the lowest in recent memory. When asked why, Martires brushed it off, saying numbers don’t define justice. But to the keen observer, it looked like a watchdog taking a nap.

Then there was the selective fire.

When the issue involved powerful names, including Vice President Sara Duterte who was accused of making public threats, Martires’ office said there were “no valid grounds” to investigate.

Yet, when local officials like Cebu Governor Gwendolyn Garcia were accused of minor administrative offenses, he swiftly issued a six-month suspension, triggering court battles and accusations of politics. The pattern was clear. 

Tough on the powerless, timid with the powerful.

Perhaps the most jaw-dropping moment came when Martires publicly mused about abolishing the Office of the Ombudsman itself, arguing it had become “ineffective” because witnesses were afraid to testify.

It was like hearing a fire chief suggest burning down the fire station because fires were too hard to put out. Former Ombudsman Conchita Carpio-Morales called it dangerous, warning it would “open the floodgates to corruption.”

Martires also ended lifestyle checks, calling them “illogical,” even though they’d long been a basic tool for catching unexplained wealth.

Even prior to the end of his term, the public had largely tuned him out. People stopped expecting anything from his office. The watchdog that was supposed to keep officials honest had become, in many eyes, the government’s most polite bystander.

So when news broke that DOJ Chief Boying Remulla would replace him, the reaction was almost audible. There was a collective sigh of relief.

Martires’s exit didn’t just mark the end of a term. For many Filipinos, it felt like the end of an era of silence. After years of secrecy, stalled cases, and softened accountability, the watchdog who dimmed the lights is finally gone.

Good riddance to the Ombudsman who was ironically the enabler of corruption all throughout the time of Duterte.