Leila de Lima has spent much of her life inside the machinery of Philippine justice—first as a prosecutor, then as Secretary of Justice, and later as a senator and legislator. But perhaps nothing has taught her more about the fragility of truth than the years she spent in detention, accused of crimes she says were invented by people who swore to lies. Now, as House Senior Deputy Minority Leader and representative of Mamamayang Liberal party-list, she is turning that painful personal history into a legislative crusade. She wants the Philippines to criminalize subornation of perjury—the act of persuading or coercing someone to lie under oath. Her voice carries a weight that statistics and legal textbooks cannot capture. She has been the target of fabricated accusations, she says, and she knows how quickly the justice system can break when witnesses are used as weapons. In her own words: “Bilang dating Justice Secretary at ipinakulong noon dahil sa imbentong mga kaso na batay lang sa mga gawa-gawang paratang, malinaw na ang pagsisinungaling sa korte ay pagwasak sa integridad ng ating sistemang pangkatarungan.” She is not speaking as a detached lawmaker; she is speaking as someone who has felt the cold weight of false testimony pressing down on her life.
Her renewed call comes at a moment of striking developments. Former Marine Sergeant Orly Guteza has recanted his previous affidavit, the one in which he claimed he delivered cash-filled luggage to former Speaker Ferdinand Martin Romualdez. Four former bodyguards of former Ako Bicol party-list Representative Elizaldy Co have also recanted similar allegations. These are not small, obscure legal footnotes. They are the kind of reversals that expose the underbelly of how accusations are sometimes manufactured. Guteza and the bodyguards are now saying they were not telling the truth before—or at least that the stories they told were not theirs alone. De Lima sees this as a clear sign that perjury is not just a crime committed by witnesses; it is a weapon wielded by people with power and intent. The people who induce false testimony are often the masterminds, while the witnesses are instruments. And yet, under current law, the witness often becomes the focus, while the person who orchestrated the lie walks away. De Lima insists this has to stop. “This has to end. Those responsible for this travesty of justice should be held accountable,” she said. Her words are sharp, but they are also a reminder that the legal system must punish not only the hand that swears falsely but the mind that scripts the falsehood.
The proposed solution is House Bill 1435, known as the Criminalizing Subornation of Perjury Act. It is a measure designed to close a dangerous loophole. Under the bill, any person who procures, coerces, or otherwise induces another person to falsely swear to or execute a statement under oath, for the purpose of charging or accusing someone else of a crime or offense, can be held liable for subornation of perjury—provided the person induced actually testifies. This is a crucial distinction. A witness who is pressured to lie is already vulnerable; the bill reaches beyond that witness to the person pulling the strings. It treats the act of manufacturing false testimony as a crime in itself, not merely an attempt to sway a verdict. The penalties are severe, and appropriately so. A conviction can bring prision mayor in its maximum period, which means six to twelve years imprisonment, up to reclusion temporal in its minimum period, which means twelve to twenty years. In plain language, the people who recruit liars for the courtroom could spend more than a decade behind bars. That is not an abstract punishment. It is a message that the justice system refuses to be a stage for scripted lies.
For public officials, the bill is even harsher, and this is where de Lima’s personal experience and her political purpose converge. If the accused is a public official or employee, the penalty becomes reclusion temporal, twelve to twenty years, all the way to reclusion perpetua, thirty years imprisonment. The bill also authorizes a fine of up to one million pesos. But the most lasting consequence may be the provision for perpetual disqualification from holding any appointive or elective government position. In other words, a public official convicted of suborning perjury would not simply go to prison; they would lose their right to serve the public ever again. This is no small matter. De Lima knows how dangerous public officials can be when they abuse the machinery of justice. She was once the government’s top lawyer, and later she was locked up based, as she says, on fabricated charges. She has seen how officials can misuse their authority to manufacture narratives, silence critics, and destroy enemies. The proposed law would strip them of their positions and their power. It would also serve as a warning: if you use your office to make people lie under oath, you will not only face years in prison—you will be banned from public life forever. “Under our proposed measure, public officials or employees who commit subornation of perjury face higher penalties and perpetual disqualification from holding public office or employment,” she said. Then she added, in a burst of Filipino that goes straight to the heart: “Tigilan ang pagsisinungaling at pekeng mga testimonya! HB 1435, isabatas.”
The broader significance of this bill cannot be overstated. Courts are built on the assumption that witnesses will tell the truth. Every oath, every raised right hand, every solemn promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth is a covenant between the individual and the community. When that covenant is broken, the harm is not limited to one case or one defendant. It seeps into the public’s confidence in the entire legal system. If people believe that testimony can be bought, coerced, or scripted, then they begin to see courts as theaters rather than temples of justice. They lose faith in the possibility of fairness. De Lima’s call is therefore not just about punishing bad actors; it is about restoring a kind of civic sacredness. She points to the recantations as evidence that the system is vulnerable. A witness who once swore that a suitcase of cash was delivered to a powerful politician now says it never happened. Four bodyguards who once supported a similar claim now say they were part of a lie. These reversals create confusion, but they also create an opportunity. They reveal what happens when people in power treat witnesses as pawns. They also show why the law must go after the puppeteers, not just the puppets. Without such a law, the cycle will continue. Someone will always be willing to lie under oath if the reward is great enough or the threat is severe enough. And someone else will always be willing to arrange that lie if they believe they will never be caught.
In the end, de Lima’s campaign against subornation of perjury is a deeply human one. It is a story about truth and power, about ordinary people caught in webs of deceit, and about the courage it takes to stand up and say no more. She has emerged from her own ordeal not bitter but determined, not vengeful but vigilant. She knows that justice cannot exist without truth, and truth cannot survive when people are allowed to manufacture false testimony with impunity. Her proposed law offers a path forward: hold the orchestrators responsible, punish public officials with severity, and restore faith that courts are places where the truth matters. The recantations of Guteza and the four bodyguards are not simply words on paper; they are cracks in a wall of lies. De Lima wants to hammer through that wall. She wants the people who built it to face consequences. Her message is simple, but it resonates across every courtroom in the country: lies under oath are not mere mistakes; they are assaults on justice itself. And those who commit those assaults—especially those in power—must be held to account. “This has to end,” she says, and her voice is not just that of a legislator. It is the voice of a woman who was once sentenced by lies and now hopes to ensure that no one else has to endure the same fate. The fight is not only for a law. It is for the integrity of the Philippines, for the dignity of its citizens, for the simple and unshakeable belief that truth, not falsehood, must rule the courtrooms of the land. HB 1435 is more than a bill; it is a promise that justice will no longer be silent in the face of fabricated testimony.