In a nation accustomed to political drama, it takes a truly extraordinary event to silence the room. That moment arrived when news of a potential International Criminal Court (ICC) warrant for a sitting senator, Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa, began to circulate. But the real shock wasn’t the warrant itself; it was the source.

The explosive “confirmation” didn’t come from the solemn halls of the ICC in The Hague. It wasn’t announced by the Department of Justice (DOJ), the agency tasked with executing such legal instruments. It wasn’t even whispered by the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA), the nation’s diplomatic gatekeeper.

Instead, the announcements came, bafflingly, from the Office of the Ombudsman.

Ombudsman Samuel Martires, a figure constitutionally mandated to act as a non-partisan, independent watchdog against government corruption, has seemingly appointed himself the de facto spokesperson for an international tribunal. His proactive media tour, discussing the supposed warrant’s existence and procedural nuances, has left legal experts and political observers stunned, confused, and deeply concerned.

This sudden foray into international criminal law has ignited a firestorm, one that goes far beyond the fate of Senator dela Rosa or his predecessor, former President Rodrigo Duterte. Leading the charge against this procedural anomaly is legal analyst Attorney Toron, who has delivered a blistering, point-by-point critique of the Ombudsman’s actions.

According to Toron, Martires’s behavior is not just unusual; it is a fundamental betrayal of his office’s mandate, a potential violation of the very ICC rules he claims to be discussing, and a dangerous venture into a legal black hole where Philippine law offers no clear path forward.

This is the story of that firestorm. It’s a deep dive into the scathing analysis of Martires’s “extremely flawed” crusade, the mystery of a “ghost warrant” that no one else seems to have, and the burning question that hangs over it all: Is this a high-minded quest for justice, or a recklessly “fame-hungry” political performance that threatens to create a constitutional crisis?

Chapter 1: “Not Your Job”: The Ombudsman’s Curious Crusade
To understand the depth of the current controversy, one must first understand the role of the Ombudsman. The 1987 Philippine Constitution, in Article XI, Section 13, lays it out clearly. The Office of the Ombudsman is an independent body, a protector of the people, tasked with investigating and acting upon complaints filed against public officers. Its power is immense, but its nature is meant to be, as Attorney Toron emphasizes, reactive.

The Ombudsman doesn’t go hunting for cases. It doesn’t hold daily press conferences to announce potential investigations. It waits for complaints, evaluates them, and then acts with the full, independent force of its authority. It is, by design, supposed to be above the political fray, a non-partisan referee in a field of players.

This is what makes Samuel Martires’s recent actions so jarring.

His daily media appearances, his proactive announcements, and his detailed discussions about an ICC warrant are, in Toron’s unsparing view, utterly alien to the Ombudsman’s job description. “He is acting like a DOJ secretary or a police officer, not an Ombudsman,” Toron argues, suggesting that Martires seems to be “hungry for fame,” inserting himself into a narrative where he has no constitutional role.

The critique is not merely about style; it’s about substance. The Ombudsman’s mandate is to investigate domestic corruption and misconduct. It has no stated jurisdiction or function related to the International Criminal Court. The process of handling an ICC request, whether for investigation or arrest, falls squarely within the executive branch—specifically, the DFA and the DOJ—and is ultimately validated by the judicial branch. The Ombudsman is nowhere in that procedural chain.

Martires’s decision to leapfrog all of these established bodies and become the primary commentator on the issue is seen by critics like Toron as a stunning overreach. It politicizes an office that must remain impartial. If the Ombudsman is seen to be carrying water for a particular political agenda—whether for or against the former administration—it risks eroding the one thing that gives it power: public trust.

This “crusade” raises unsettling questions. Why is Martires doing this? Is it a profound misunderflogging of his own office’s limits? Is it a calculated move to gain relevance in a high-profile international case? Or, as some fear, is it a signal of a deeper political alignment, turning an independent office into a tool for the current political winds?

Whatever the motivation, the damage, Toron suggests, is already being done. By acting as a proactive political commentator, Martires has potentially compromised the perceived independence of his office, inviting speculation and criticism that detract from its core mission. He has, in effect, abandoned his post as the impartial watchdog to become a player on the field—a move that has left the legal community bewildered and deeply concerned.

Chapter 2: The Ghost Warrant and the Grave Violation
The strangeness of the Ombudsman’s behavior is compounded by a central, glaring mystery: the warrant itself.

Ombudsman Martires has spoken with apparent certainty about the warrant for Senator dela Rosa. Yet, an official canvass of all the agencies that should be involved reveals a baffling wall of silence and denial.

The Department of Justice, the very body that would eventually be tasked with handling the legalities of an arrest, has stated it has no knowledge of such a warrant. The Department of Foreign Affairs, the official diplomatic channel for all state-to-state and state-to-tribunal communications, has not received a copy. Even the transnational crime units, which would coordinate on the ground, are in the dark.

Most damningly, the ICC’s own spokesperson has reportedly denied having a copy or knowledge of a public, executable warrant. This creates a deeply troubling paradox: How can the Philippine Ombudsman have “confirmed” information that the ICC itself, along with the entire Philippine executive apparatus, denies?

This paradox leads to two equally alarming possibilities.

The first possibility is that no such executable warrant currently exists, or at least not in the form Martires implies. In this scenario, the Ombudsman is, for reasons unknown, publicly speculating or acting on unverified information. This would be an act of profound irresponsibility, creating a political and diplomatic furor based on rumor—a “ghost warrant.”

The second possibility, however, is even more disturbing. This is the scenario that Attorney Toron argues is a “grave violation” of international law: the warrant exists, but it is under seal.

In high-stakes international cases, the ICC often issues warrants “under seal” for critical and obvious reasons. Sealing a warrant prevents the subject from fleeing, destroying evidence, or intimidating witnesses. It preserves the integrity of the investigation until the moment of arrest. The contents of a sealed warrant are one of the most closely guarded secrets in international justice, shared only with the most essential states or parties required for its execution, and under strict oaths of confidentiality.

If Martires has knowledge of a sealed warrant—and his public discussion is the first time anyone is hearing of it—then he has, in Toron’s view, committed a catastrophic breach of ICC protocol. “Disclosing applications for warrants or sealed warrants themselves is a grave violation of ICC rules, unless explicitly allowed by the ICC justices,” Toron explains.

There is no indication that the ICC’s justices have given a green light for the Philippine Ombudsman to announce their secret proceedings to the world.

This premature declaration, if that’s what it is, “compromises the integrity of ICC processes.” It pulls the rug out from under the ICC prosecutors, potentially alerts the subject, and throws the entire, delicate procedure into chaos. It also raises the explosive question: How did he get it?

Chapter 3: “Special Access” and a High-Stakes Political Gamble
The “how” is perhaps the most frightening question of all. The bewilderment expressed by both Attorney Toron and other observers circles back to this. If the DOJ and DFA are in the dark, how is the Ombudsman so well-informed?

This has led to dark speculation about “special access.” Does Ombudsman Martires have a private, back-channel contact within the ICC? Does he have a source in The Hague feeding him information that is being withheld from the Philippine government’s own executive agencies?

If this is true, the implications are staggering. “If the Ombudsman has such access,” Toron muses, “the President of the Philippines might also.” This opens a Pandora’s Box of political influence. It suggests that political players in the Philippines, perhaps opponents of the former Duterte administration, could be influencing or receiving leaked information from ICC proceedings.

This is “not good,” as Toron states with grim understatement. The entire premise of the ICC is to be an impartial tribunal, free from political pressure. The suggestion that its processes are being leaked to or influenced by domestic political actors in the Philippines would be a devastating blow to its credibility.

But there is another, equally cynical theory that turns this idea on its head. What if this isn’t about receiving information, but about applying pressure?

This theory posits that Martires’s actions are a deliberate tactic, a “political gamble” designed to “cajole or even force the ICC to issue the warrant.” In this scenario, by creating a public expectation and a media firestorm, Martires is attempting to pressure the ICC, forcing their hand. He is, in effect, daring them to either confirm his claims or be seen as weak. It’s a high-risk maneuver that treats the international court as a political tool.

This, again, highlights the fundamental critique of his conduct. As Ombudsman, Martires should be reactive. He should be a figure of quiet integrity, not a front-lines brawler in a political-legal war. By revealing sealed matters (or rumored matters) without judicial approval, he undermines the very institutions of justice—both domestic and international—that he is sworn to uphold.

Whether he is a pawn, a player, or a rogue agent, his actions have transformed a legal process into a political circus, creating confusion and undermining the rule of law.

Chapter 4: The Legal Black Hole: A Warrant to Nowhere
This is where Attorney Toron’s critique becomes a masterclass in legal dissection. Because even if you ignore everything else—the overreach, the breach of protocol, the political motives—one colossal, unanswerable problem remains.

Even if, by some miracle, an authentic, public, and verified ICC warrant for Senator Bato dela Rosa materialized on the DOJ’s desk tomorrow… what happens next?

The answer, according to Toron, is a resounding and terrifying nothing.

There is currently no clear and legal mechanism in the Philippines for arresting and surrendering a person to the ICC. The legal framework is a “black hole,” a void of procedure that Martires’s grandstanding completely ignores. Toron breaks down the two main legal arguments and systematically dismantles them both.

The RA 9851 Fallacy

The first potential legal basis is Republic Act 9851, or the “Philippine Act on Crimes Against International Humanitarian Law.” Article 17 of this law discusses the “surrender” of a person to an international tribunal.

This sounds promising, until you read the fine print—or rather, look for the fine print that isn’t there.

Toron’s central argument is that Article 17 lacks implementing rules and regulations (IRR). A law, especially one that involves the deprivation of a person’s liberty, doesn’t just exist in a vacuum. It requires a detailed procedure. Who files the petition for surrender? In which specific court? What are the rules of evidence? What are the subject’s rights to appeal? What is the standard of proof?

None of this exists.

Some have tried to argue that Article 17 is a “self-executing provision.” Toron scoffs at this, explaining that this concept is typically reserved for broad constitutional principles, not complex statutes that clearly require a functional mechanism to be enacted. A statute that outlines a process as serious as surrendering a Filipino citizen to an international court must have its implementing rules. Without them, it’s just words on paper. It’s legally unusable.

The Rome Statute’s Shadow

The second, even weaker, argument is Article 59 of the Rome Statute, the ICC’s founding treaty. This article governs the arrest proceedings in the “custodial state.”

The first and most obvious problem, as Toron points out, is that the Philippines withdrew from the Rome Statute in 2019. Its applicability is, at best, a highly contentious academic debate, and at worst, a legal impossibility.

But Toron, for the “sake of argument” (ex argumenti gratia), engages with the premise. Let’s pretend it does apply. What does Article 59 say? It says the arrested person must be brought before a “competent judicial authority” in the custodial state (the Philippines) to ensure their rights are protected.

This brings us right back to the exact same problem.

Who is the “competent judicial authority”? Is it a Regional Trial Court? The Court of Appeals? The Sandiganbayan? And more importantly, what are the rules of procedure for this hearing? Philippine criminal procedure is built around our own constitution. As Toron notes, Article 3, Section 1 of the 1987 Constitution guarantees due process. An ICC warrant cannot simply be “pasted” into our legal system. It must be filtered through our legal system.

And right now, there is no filter. There are no rules, no defined court, and no established procedure for a “competent judicial authority” to handle an Article 59 hearing. A prosecutor is not a judge. The Ombudsman is certainly not a judge.

The Correct (and Ignored) Procedure

Attorney Toron clarifies what a real process would look like, based on the established rules for extradition (which this process of “surrender” closely resembles).

A formal request from the ICC would have to be transmitted to the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA).

The DFA would review the request for diplomatic and legal sufficiency.

If sufficient, the DFA would transmit it to the Department of Justice (DOJ).

The DOJ would review the legal basis and, if valid, file a formal petition with a designated Extradition Court (typically a Regional Trial Court).

It is this court—and only this court—that would become the “competent judicial authority.” The court would review the petition, hear arguments, and then issue a Philippine-backed warrant of arrest.

This is the rule of law. It is a process of checks and balances that protects the rights of the citizen while honoring international obligations.

Ombudsman Samuel Martires’s one-man media show is not only absent from this process; it is a direct affront to it.

Conclusion: A Constitutional Mess
The saga of Ombudsman Martires and the “ghost warrant” has devolved into what can only be described as a constitutional mess. Whether motivated by a genuine (if misguided) sense of justice, a thirst for the spotlight, or a deeper political agenda, his actions have created a crisis of confidence.

He has, as Attorney Toron compellingly argues, brazenly overstepped the constitutional bounds of his office. He has potentially compromised a sensitive international investigation, showing contempt for the ICC’s own rules of confidentiality. And he has done all this while completely ignoring the fact that the very action he is discussing—the arrest and surrender of Senator dela Rosa—is currently a legal impossibility, a “warrant to nowhere.”

His premature declarations have highlighted a massive legal void in Philippine law, a void that lawmakers have failed to fill. But instead of prompting a sober discussion on how to create the necessary rules, his actions have only added more political poison to the air.

This is no longer just about Bato dela Rosa or Rodrigo Duterte. It is about the integrity of our own institutions. It is about whether the rule of law is a set of procedures to be followed, or a political weapon to be wielded.

In the conflict between international justice and national sovereignty, the public is left with more questions than answers. What was the real motivation behind the Ombudsman’s shocking pronouncements? And in the silence from the courts and the noise from the political actors, who, exactly, is in charge of the rules?