In the high-stakes, smoke-filled theater of Philippine politics, the term “bombshell” is thrown around so often it has almost lost its meaning. But what has unfolded in recent weeks is, by any definition, a thermonuclear-level allegation.

From an undisclosed location abroad, a man named Zaldy Co, a figure enmeshed in the country’s colossal infrastructure projects, has been releasing a series of videos. These aren’t grainy, accidental recordings. They are calculated, direct-to-camera addresses to the Senate Blue Ribbon Committee and, by extension, to the entire Filipino nation.

His accusation is simple, and it is staggering. He claims that the masterminds of multi-billion peso corruption in the nation’s flood control projects are not just minor officials or shadowy contractors. He is pointing his finger directly at the top: at Speaker Martin Romualdez, and at the President of the Philippines, Bongbong Marcos (PBBM) himself.

He’s not just talking; he’s bringing props. In his videos, he has shown images of suitcases, allegedly packed with cash. He has dropped numbers that are difficult for the average person to even comprehend: 25 billion pesos in kickbacks for the President. 56 billion pesos siphoned from Bulacan projects alone. 100 billion pesos in “late insertions” for the 2025 budget.

This is the kind of story that topples governments. It’s a direct accusation of systematic, presidential-level plunder.

Malacañang, for its part, has dismissed the claims with an almost bored sigh, labeling them “fiction” and suggesting Co is a pawn being used to discredit the administration. The public, caught in the crossfire, is left to wonder. Some are dismayed, their worst fears about corruption confirmed. Others are deeply skeptical, smelling a political hatchet job.

But as the dust has begun to settle, and legal analysts have started to dissect Co’s testimony, a fatal flaw has emerged. It’s not a contradiction in the dates or a misremembered location. It is a fundamental, almost laughably absurd, flaw in his narrative.

It’s one simple, repeated claim that has invoked a time-honored legal principle: Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus.

False in one, false in all.

And in his desperate attempt to paint the President as corrupt, Zaldy Co may have accidentally, and completely, destroyed himself by claiming to be the only honest man in a room full of thieves.

The 100-Billion-Peso Question
Let’s first look at the allegations themselves, starting with the one that raised the most red flags among political veterans. In his first video, Zaldy Co claimed that President Marcos personally ordered 100 billion pesos in project “insertions” for the 2025 budget.

This, he alleged, happened at the very last stage of the budget process—the Bicameral Conference Committee (BCAM) in 2024.

For the uninitiated, this claim is shocking. For those who understand the budget process, this claim is, to put it mildly, weird.

As legal analysts and even former senators like Ping Lacson have pointed out, the President of the Philippines is the budget process. He has the entire Department of Budget and Management (DBM) at his disposal. He proposes the entire budget to Congress in the first place, through the National Expenditure Program (NEP).

If President Marcos wanted 100 billion pesos for his “pet projects,” he would not wait until the 11th hour, when Congressmen and Senators are horse-trading for their own small-fry insertions, to suddenly shove in a request. He would have inserted it from the very beginning, through the DBM, where it would be legal, institutionalized, and far less conspicuous.

To follow Zaldy Co’s logic, the President would have to be, as one commentator noted, “napakaswapang” (extremely greedy). Not only does he control the entire budget, but he also supposedly wants to dip his fingers into the tiny pot reserved for Congress at the very end. It paints a picture not just of a corrupt president, but an inefficient and illogical one.

This claim, while headline-grabbing, was the first crack in the wall. It was suspicious, and it didn’t quite make sense.

But it was his second and third videos that truly unraveled his entire case.

“No Money Went to Me”
In his subsequent videos, Zaldy Co went for the visual. He presented images of suitcases. He named his alleged associates, his drivers, his security. He painted a vivid picture of a man on a mission, a mule for the highest office in the land.

He described a clandestine operation, delivering these cash-filled suitcases to the private residences of Romualdez and Marcos—North Forbes Park, South Forbes Park, even Malacañang itself. He alleged that 25 billion pesos in kickbacks went to PBBM. He later “corrected” a previous claim by another whistleblower, Bryce Hernandez, stating the Bulacan project kickbacks weren’t 21 billion.

They were 56 billion pesos.

Fifty-six billion. A number so large it’s an abstraction. And according to Zaldy Co, it all went to Romualdez and Marcos.

This was the crescendo. This was the kill shot. And then, Zaldy Co took the figurative gun, pointed it at his own foot, and pulled the trigger.

He looked into the camera, with the full weight of his accusations hanging in the air, and said:

“Wala pong perang napunta sa akin. Lahat po ng insertion napunta sa ating pangulo at speaker Martin Romales.”

(No money went to me. All insertions went to our President and Speaker Martin Romualdez.)

He didn’t just say it once. In his third video, after alleging the 56-billion-peso Bulacan scheme, he reiterated his impossible defense.

“Uulitin ko po,” he stressed. “Yun pong pera wala pong napunta sa akin. Dumaan lang po ang pera saakin para i-deliver speaker Martin Romales at Pangulong Marcos.”

(I will repeat, no money went to me. The money just passed through me to be delivered to Speaker Martin Romualdez and President Marcos.)

And that is the fatal flaw. That is the “falsus in uno.”

This is the moment his entire testimony evaporated. This is the moment he transformed from a potentially credible whistleblower into a caricature: the Billion-Dollar Delivery Boy.

The Whistleblower’s Paradox: Why Purity is Unbelievable
To understand why this is so damaging, you have to understand the psychology of a credible confession.

In a court of law, and more importantly, in the court of public opinion, a whistleblower’s power does not come from their purity. It comes from their repentance.

We, the public, are not stupid. We know that the person in the room where billions are being skimmed is not there by accident. They are not an innocent bystander who just happened to see suitcases of money lying around. They are, by definition, a co-conspirator. They are a participant.

When Zaldy Co, the man at the center of these multi-billion peso projects, the man who allegedly organized the deliveries, claims that not a single peso stuck to his fingers, he is not just lying. He is insulting our intelligence.

He is asking us to believe that he undertook this massive, high-risk, and deeply illegal operation for… what, exactly? Civic duty? A desire for good penmanship on his delivery logs?

It is fundamentally, humanly unbelievable. Greed is the engine of the crime he describes, yet he claims to be the only person in the operation who is magically immune to it.

This is where the contrast with other, more credible whistleblowers becomes so stark.

Look at Bryce Hernandez and Roberto Bernardo, two other figures in this sprawling scandal. When they came forward, they did so with their heads bowed. They admitted their involvement. They expressed remorse. They acknowledged their wrongdoing and, crucially, offered to return the ill-gotten funds they personally received.

That is a credible narrative. It follows a human arc: temptation, guilt, and a desire for atonement. We believe them because they admit to a flaw that we all recognize: greed.

Zaldy Co, on the other hand, offers us no such narrative. He is attempting what legal analysts call a “poison pill” defense. He wants to take down his enemies, but he wants to do it without getting a single drop of poison on himself. He, and his own lawyer, have bafflingly maintained that he committed “no wrongdoing.”

This is the “falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus” principle in action. If a witness is found to be lying about one material fact, a judge (or in this case, the public) is entitled to disregard their entire testimony.

Zaldy Co’s lie of omission—his absurd claim of personal purity—is so blatant and so material that it renders everything else he says unbelievable. If he can lie so brazenly about his own role, why should we believe his “facts” about the 100 billion, the 25 billion, or the 56 billion?

If he truly believes he was just an innocent courier, as if he were delivering a pizza and not billions in kickbacks, then his perception of reality is too skewed to be trusted.

This is the great tragedy of Zaldy Co’s “revelation.” The allegations he is making are of the utmost seriousness. They strike at the very heart of public trust and the integrity of the nation’s highest offices. These are claims that deserve to be investigated.

But because the messenger has chosen to wrap himself in a ridiculous cloak of innocence, he has given his powerful enemies the easiest “out” imaginable. They don’t need to disprove his complex allegations about the budget. They don’t need to explain away the suitcases.

All they have to do is point to Zaldy Co, the man who claims he was a delivery boy for 56 billion pesos, and ask the public one simple question:

“Do you really believe that?”

And the answer, from a public that is weary but not stupid, is a resounding “no.”

Zaldy Co’s videos, which began with a nuclear-level bang, have fizzled. His later “exposés” have been met with declining public interest. He may have thought he was starting a revolution, but by failing to admit his own part in the crime, he failed to light the fuse. He has not incriminated PBBM or Romualdez. He has only succeeded in confusing the public and, most ofall, in incriminating himself as a deeply unbelievable narrator.