In my recent visit to two jails in the Philippines, I encountered two stories that reveal the quiet violence of delay. In both the Mandaluyong City Jail, managed by the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology, and in the Bulacan Provincial Jail, directly under the supervision of the provincial government, the longest staying persons deprived of liberty (PDLs) have been detained for 15 years. One is accused of murder; the other, of rape.

Fifteen years.

The wardens in both facilities were professional, humane, and deeply committed to the welfare of those under their custody. They try to provide the best accommodations possible within severely constrained conditions. They facilitate access to education, ensure that detainees receive medical attention, coordinate with courts, and assist in documentation requirements that are often labyrinthine in the Philippine justice system.

In many ways, jail officers have become social workers, guidance counselors, paralegals, and program coordinators, all rolled into one. They do their part in a system that frequently does not do its part for them.

Yet one cannot simply let go of the fact that these PDLs — what I call cases of extreme importance — remain largely invisible to the institutions tasked to deliver justice.

They are not convicted. They have not been found guilty beyond reasonable doubt. And yet they have lived inside jail walls for a decade and a half.

The Mandaluyong PDL has tried to transform confinement into opportunity. He completed his high school education while in detention. He is now enrolled in a college program. He participates in religious and educational activities, and has become a model detainee. The jail warden computed his Good Conduct Time Allowance or GCTA under Republic Act 10592, as well as his Time Allowance for Studying, Teaching and Mentoring or TASTM. His accumulated credit is approximately 17 years. Combined with the 15 years he has actually spent in detention, he has effectively served the equivalent of 32 years.

Even if he were eventually convicted of reclusion perpetua, which carries a penalty of 20 years and 1 day to 40 years under the Revised Penal Code of the Philippines, he would already be eligible for commutation of sentence and parole under ordinary circumstances.

Yet he remains detained — not as a convicted prisoner, but as an accused awaiting judgment.

This is the cruel paradox of prolonged pre-trial detention: the punishment is fully experienced even before guilt is determined.

In many of my previous works on prolonged trial detention and jail congestion, I have argued that delay is not merely an administrative inconvenience. It is a structural feature of the Philippine criminal justice system. The problem is not simply that courts are slow; it is that the entire system is configured in a way that allows delay to flourish.

Consider the empirical reality. Philippine jails have long operated beyond capacity. Data from the BJMP consistently show congestion levels exceeding 286%, with some facilities exceeding 500% and even 1,000% congestion levels in extreme cases. Many detainees sleep in shifts. Personal space becomes a mathematical impossibility. Health risks increase. Violence becomes more likely. Rehabilitation programming becomes more difficult to implement.

Congestion is often framed as a problem of infrastructure. Build more jails, we are told. Expand facilities. Increase bed capacity.

But congestion is fundamentally a problem of time.

The average length of pre-trial detention in many Metro Manila facilities has been estimated at 528 days, but averages conceal the outliers — those detained for five years, ten years, fifteen years, and in rare cases, more than twenty years. Two years ago, a PDL detained in Metro Manila for a violent extremism case stayed in detention for 24 years before eventually being declared not guilty by the court. Twenty-four years of life taken without conviction. Twenty-four years that cannot be returned.

When detention extends beyond the likely sentence for the offense, the presumption of innocence becomes a legal fiction.

The Supreme Court of the Philippines has recognized the gravity of the problem. It convened two National Jail and Prison Decongestion Summits, bringing together judges, prosecutors, jail officers, public attorneys, and policymakers. Everyone agrees that delay undermines justice. Everyone acknowledges that prolonged detention erodes trust in the legal system. Everyone recognizes that congestion cannot be solved without addressing delay.

And, yet, the cases continue.

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When I raised the possibility of releasing these detainees on recognizance, the response from many legal practitioners was immediate: the offenses are non-bailable. Under the Rules of Criminal Procedure, bail is not a matter of right when the accused is charged with an offense punishable by reclusion perpetua or life imprisonment. Bail may only be granted if the evidence of guilt is not strong. Thus, the burden shifts to the accused to demonstrate the weakness of the prosecution’s evidence.

The irony is unmistakable. The accused must argue for liberty while already having lost 15 years of it.

The Constitution guarantees the right to a speedy trial under Article III, Section 14. The Revised Rules on Criminal Procedure emphasize continuous trial to avoid unnecessary postponements. Administrative Circulars and subsequent guidelines encourage courts to hear cases on a day-to-day basis when possible. Yet, postponements remain routine. Hearings are often scheduled months apart. Witnesses fail to appear due to economic hardship, distance, or fear. Prosecutors juggle hundreds of cases simultaneously. Public attorneys manage overwhelming caseloads. Judges handle congested dockets with limited staff support.

Each postponement appears reasonable in isolation. Collectively, they produce extraordinary delay.

From a structural perspective, the Philippines continues to have a limited number of judges relative to case volume. Vacancy rates in trial courts contribute to docket congestion. From an organizational perspective, coordination gaps between police investigators, prosecutors, courts, and detention facilities lead to documentary deficiencies and repeated resetting of hearings. From a cultural perspective, delay has become normalized. The expectation that cases will take many years has become embedded in professional practice.

Delay has become part of the culture of adjudication.

But should it be?

In comparative perspective, prolonged detention of this magnitude would be difficult to imagine in many jurisdictions. In some legal systems in Southeast Asia, cases that remain unresolved beyond a defined period may be dismissed or subjected to strict judicial review. The principle is straightforward: the State must prosecute cases within a reasonable time or risk losing the authority to punish.

Justice delayed must carry consequences for the State, not only for the accused.

One possible approach is to adopt a clearer operational definition of delay. The Task Force Katarungan at Kalayaan (TFKK), convened under the leadership of former chief justice Maria Lourdes Sereno, identified detention beyond three years as a threshold requiring urgent review. Three years is already a substantial period of lost liberty. Beyond this threshold, courts should be required to justify continued detention based on clear and compelling reasons.

Automatic periodic review of detention should become mandatory. Judges should be required to evaluate the necessity of continued detention at defined intervals, perhaps every two years. The presumption should shift toward release unless the prosecution demonstrates specific and credible risks such as flight, witness intimidation, or danger to the community.

Release on recognizance need not mean abandonment of prosecution. Trials can continue while the accused is under supervision. Courts may issue hold departure orders to prevent flight. Reporting requirements may be imposed. Electronic monitoring may be considered where feasible. A system of pretrial release officers — court personnel dedicated to monitoring compliance with release conditions — could be institutionalized.

These mechanisms are not radical innovations. They are consistent with the principles of proportionality, due process, and the constitutional presumption of innocence.

Equally important is the adoption of genuine continuous trial mechanisms. Hearings should not be spaced months apart. Judges should be supported with administrative systems that allow multiple witnesses to be heard in a single setting. Prosecutors and defense lawyers should be required to ensure witness availability through improved coordination. Frivolous motions for postponement should be discouraged through stricter enforcement of procedural rules.

The idea of “sure trials,” where hearings proceed consecutively until completion of testimony, deserves serious consideration. Concentrated hearings reduce transportation costs for detainees, minimize scheduling conflicts, and preserve the integrity of witness testimony.

Fifteen years of detention without conviction should shock the conscience of any lawyer.

But perhaps the most troubling aspect of these cases is that they no longer shock us.

They have become part of the accepted landscape of the justice system. Lawyers expect delay. Judges anticipate postponements. Jail officers prepare for long-term detainees who were never meant to stay long. The extraordinary becomes ordinary.

Yet the Constitution does not recognize delay as normal. The law does not declare that justice must take fifteen years to arrive.

Behind every prolonged case is a life suspended. Parents grow old. Children grow up without fathers. Relationships dissolve. Opportunities disappear. Even when acquittal eventually comes, the years spent in detention remain irrecoverable.

The two detainees I encountered are not statistical anomalies. They represent a broader pattern that continues to undermine the legitimacy of the justice system. They remind us that the measure of justice is not only the accuracy of verdicts, but the timeliness with which those verdicts are delivered.

Cases of extreme importance demand extreme attention.

Because when the legal system becomes accustomed to 15 years of detention without conviction, the presumption of innocence becomes a slogan rather than a lived reality.

Justice that arrives too late does not simply fail to correct injustice.

It becomes injustice itself. – Rappler.com

Raymund E. Narag, PhD, is an associate professor in criminology and criminal justice at the School of Justice and Public Safety, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.