In a political drama thick with accusations of multi-billion-dollar corruption, a missing star witness, and explosive infighting, the Philippine Senate Blue Ribbon Committee is being revived. At its helm, Senator Panfilo Lacson, a man with a long history as a criminal investigator, finds himself navigating a minefield where the truth is as elusive as the very man who promised to deliver it. The investigation, which targets massive flood control anomalies, ghost projects, and a compromised national budget, now teeters on a knife’s edge, forced to proceed without its central accuser.

The entire case, at least in the public’s imagination, rests on the testimony of a man named Guteza. He is the only individual to have directly implicated former House Speaker Martin Romualdez in the sprawling controversy. And now, he is gone.

This disappearance has become the central crisis of the probe, forcing Lacson to publicly dissect the credibility of his own missing witness. In a recent press conference, Lacson drew a critical legal distinction: Guteza’s sworn testimony, delivered under oath before the committee on September 25, is considered valid for the Senate’s purposes. However, a separate, notarized written affidavit has been found to be “questionable,” with high suspicion of forgery.

This single act of falsification, as Lacson explained, detonates a credibility bomb. It invokes the damning legal maxim, “falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus”—false in one, false in all. While Lacson does not definitively say Guteza lied, he admits this forgery critically wounds the witness’s reliability. “We have to consider all those things,” Lacson stated, highlighting the challenge of building a national case on such a compromised foundation.

The problems with the testimony don’t end there. Lacson, with his investigator’s eye for detail, pointed to glaring inconsistencies in Guteza’s narrative. At one point, the witness described the alleged bribe money being transported in “boxes.” At another, he specified “maleta” (suitcases). The story then escalated to a claim of 46 luxury-brand Rimowa suitcases, a detail Lacson finds baffling, questioning if that many expensive bags would even fit in the one or two vans Guteza claimed were used for the delivery.

This leads to a troubling speculation on motive. Lacson, parsing the witness’s actions, questioned his ultimate goal. “If you truly want to prosecute and convict… you should not disappear,” Lacson reasoned. The fact that Guteza vanished immediately after making his “propaganda” splash at the Blue Ribbon—implicating the former Speaker and then fading into the shadows—suggests to Lacson that the intent may never have been a “logical conclusion,” which is prosecution and conviction, but rather a simple, destructive media explosion.

With their star witness now a ghost, the committee is pivoting. The focus is no longer on what Guteza said, but on what can be proven independently. The investigation is now a hunt for “solid,” corroborating evidence.

The first target: a security logbook. Lacson announced the committee will subpoena the security agency records from 42 McKinley Road, the alleged drop-off point for the illicit funds. They will meticulously review the logs from December 2024 to August 2025. “If we find that a convoy of vehicles entered… that’s a strong supporting document to buttress the testimony of Guteza, even without him,” Lacson explained. This is the new smoking gun—not a man’s word, but a simple, verifiable entry in a book.

While the investigation hunts for new evidence, it must also contend with the powerful figures Guteza left in his wake. Here, Lacson is drawing sharp, procedural lines.

For former House Speaker Martin Romualdez, who was only “indirectly” implicated by the now-missing witness, the committee will extend “interparliamentary courtesy.” An invitation will be sent, not a subpoena. This, Lacson clarified, is a courtesy to the institution of the House of Representatives, not to the man himself. It provides Romualdez an “opportunity to make a manifestation,” a chance to clear his name on the Senate record, a procedure Lacson has employed in past hearings.

A far harder line is being drawn for former Congressman Zaldy Co. Implicated by numerous other witnesses, not just Guteza, Co will face a starkly different process. An invitation will be sent to his “established residence,” an address the Office of the Ombudsman has already noted for refusing documents. If that invitation is ignored, a subpoena will be issued. “If he still doesn’t show up,” Lacson warned, “somebody may move for the issuance of a contempt citation and, eventually, a warrant of arrest.” He affirmed that a Senate-issued warrant is as valid as any court order and could even engage Interpol if Co is found to be abroad.

This procedural divergence highlights the committee’s strategy: treating those with standalone, uncorroborated accusations with courtesy, while reserving its full coercive power for those facing a wider body of evidence.

As if a missing witness and high-powered targets weren’t enough, the investigation is also being undermined by a bitter, personal feud within the Senate itself. The drama centers on Senator Rodante Marcoleta and former Congressman Mike Defensor, the two men who allegedly “handled” Guteza.

According to Lacson, Defensor—who he noted has a history with controversial witnesses like “Udong Mahusay”—was instrumental in drafting Guteza’s flawed affidavit. Defensor then allegedly brought Guteza to the Senate, where he was handed off to Senator Marcoleta.

Lacson, in his investigative capacity, reviewed the Senate’s CCTV footage to trace Guteza’s movements on the day of the hearing. The footage reportedly shows Guteza arriving at 8:27 AM, being met by Marcoleta’s staff, and staying in the senator’s office for hours before his 10:27 AM testimony. This review prompted a public spat. Marcoleta accused Lacson of “playing big brother” and spying on his office.

Lacson dismissed the charge with palpable irritation. “The Senate is a public place,” he retorted, stating there is no “reasonable expectation of privacy.” He openly challenged Marcoleta, “I can give him a logbook of my office… no contractor will go there.” The animosity is now so high that Lacson admitted, “We are not speaking.”

This feud is more than just political gossip; Lacson sees it as a “distraction” from the real, systemic rot the committee is meant to uncover. He has repeatedly tried to pull the focus back to the “issue at hand”—the “flood control anomalies, ghost projects, and substandard projects” that have siphoned billions from the national budget, affecting the entire country.

To that end, the investigation’s final, and perhaps most crucial, front is financial. Lacson spoke of the Anti-Money Laundering Council (AMLC) and its “web of accounts.” The P5.2 billion already identified, he warned, is just a “trickle in the bucket.” The true goal is to follow the money from one account to another, tracing the “large withdrawals” by contractors back to their official benefactors. “When we amended the anti-money laundering act,” Lacson, a senator, reminded the press, “we included ‘web of accounts’… this can recover” funds from corrupt officials, “congressmen and senators included.”

The revived Blue Ribbon investigation is now a multi-front war. It is a hunt for a ghost witness, a meticulous search for paper evidence in logbooks, a legal chess game with the country’s most powerful politicians, and a battle against internal feuds. With four officials already detained in contempt, the stakes are undeniably real. Lacson is betting that even with a flawed, missing witness, the trail of money and data, if followed relentlessly, will be solid enough to lead to the truth.