Every judge has a story. Every judge has convictions. Every judge has frustrations about the law. That’s perfectly normal. The difference is that most judges leave those thoughts in chambers, bring them to the classroom, or publish them in law journals. They don’t usually attach them as the bonus track to a court resolution.
That is exactly what happened in the now-talked-about bail resolution of Lapu-Lapu Regional Trial Court Judge Nelson Leyco.
After explaining why bail had to be granted, the judge surprised everyone with a two-page epilogue entitled “Reflections Beyond the Case.” Suddenly, the resolution shifted gears. It no longer read like a court order. It read like a heartfelt essay, a judicial diary, perhaps even the first draft of a law review article.
To be fair, it was well-written.
The judge spoke candidly about corruption, his frustrations with the legal system, and even questioned whether our existing standards of proof have become too difficult to satisfy in corruption cases.
The problem isn’t what he said.
The problem is where he said it.
Months before this resolution, Judge Leyco posted on Facebook that he had lost sleep after seeing the devastation caused by typhoon Tino. He prayed for an opportunity to “make things right.” Later, he proudly shared his attendance at the Philippine Judicial Academy’s seminar on Strengthening Judicial Capacity for Anti-Graft Courts, saying perhaps God had answered that prayer.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. In fact, we want judges who care.
But when those deeply personal convictions begin to echo inside a judicial resolution, the public is entitled to pause and ask: Are we reading a court decision or a personal reflection?
A courtroom is where judges explain the law, not themselves.
Once the legal reasoning is complete, the curtain should fall. Instead, this resolution had an encore.
Law students call it obiter dictum, comments that are interesting but unnecessary to deciding the case. Ordinary people might simply call it “extra.”
Imagine if every judge did the same thing.
One resolution ends with reflections on corruption.
Another ends with thoughts on Charter Change.
Another discusses divorce.
The next one writes three pages on political dynasties.
Before long, court decisions would start reading like Sunday opinion pages.
That’s not what courts are for.
This is why I hope the Supreme Court takes notice, not because Judge Leyco should be punished, but because the Bench deserves guidance. Even if the reflections are legally considered obiter dictum, observations unnecessary to deciding the bail issue, they inevitably become part of the public record. They invite speculation about the judge’s thinking before the case has even reached its final chapter.
Justice is not only about being fair.
It must also appear fair.
Perhaps this is where the Supreme Court should step in, not to silence judges, but to provide guidance.
Can judges append personal essays to their decisions?
Can a judge openly advocate reforms on evidentiary standards while still presiding over the very criminal case in which those same standards will eventually be applied?
Where exactly is the line between judicial reasoning and judicial commentary?
Someone has to draw it.
Ironically, Judge Leyco himself admitted that changing the law is not the job of one judge.
Exactly.
Which is why those reflections would have been far more powerful as a lecture before the Philippine Judicial Academy, a speech before the Integrated Bar, or an article in a legal journal. In those venues, nobody would question his passion. In fact, many would applaud it.
A judicial resolution, however, carries a different kind of authority. Every word bears the weight of the robe. That is precisely why restraint matters.
Judges are expected to write decisions, not essays.
Because once a resolution ends with “Reflections Beyond the Case,” one can’t help but wonder:
Are we reading the judgment or the author’s afterword?
