Chapter 4 - The trial of Shadows
The preliminary hearing at the Regional Trial Court Branch 12 in Cabanatuan took place two months later, on a hot Thursday morning in July.
The courtroom was packed.
Word had spread across the province like wildfire: The wealthy Manila contractor Marco Mercado had returned to drag his prominent brother, Julian Mercado—the town's biggest agricultural supplier—before the law for fraud, forgery, and senior citizen abuse.
Local reporters stood outside the heavy wooden doors of the courthouse with television cameras and microphones. Local farmers, businessmen, and village elders filled the wooden benches inside, whispering hushed conversations that buzzed like a hive of angry hornets.
I sat at the prosecution table alongside my legal team, led by Attorney Raymond Cruz, one of the sharpest trial lawyers in the capital.
Across the aisle sat Julian.
He looked unrecognizable from the man I had confronted two months ago.
He had lost at least twenty pounds—not from health, but from terror. His expensive clothes hung loosely on his frame, his face was pale and sallow, and dark, bluish circles shadowed his sunken eyes. His high-priced defense attorney from Manila sat beside him, shuffling through thick stacks of motions and bail applications with a nervous, frantic energy.
At the front of the gallery, sitting quietly in two brand-new, comfortable wheelchairs provided by the hospital, were my parents.
My mother wore dark black sunglasses over her eyes—she had undergone her cataract surgery three weeks prior, and her vision was slowly returning to bright, beautiful clarity. My father wore a clean, dark suit coat over a crisp white shirt. His cheeks had filled out, his skin had regained its healthy golden tone, and though he was still frail, he sat with his head held high, looking straight ahead at the judge's bench.
The heavy wooden gavel struck the bench three times.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Court is now in session," Judge Honorio Santos announced, his sharp eyes scanning the room over his half-moon reading glasses. "In the matter of People of the Philippines versus Julian Mercado, Charge: Qualified Theft, Falsification of Public Documents, and Violation of Republic Act 9994."
Julian's defense attorney stood up immediately.
"Your Honor," the lawyer began, his voice echoing loudly off the high plaster ceiling. "We move for an immediate grant of bail for my client. Mr. Julian Mercado is a respected pillar of the community, a major employer in San Isidro, and has no prior criminal record. Furthermore, this entire case stems from a tragic, internal family dispute exacerbated by the long absence of the complainant, Mr. Marco Mercado, who abandoned his family for sixteen years—"
"Objection, Your Honor," Attorney Cruz interrupted smoothly, standing up without even looking at the defense table. "The issue of my client's professional life in Manila has no bearing on the fact that the defendant forged his father's thumbprint to steal five hectares of land and misrouted over five million pesos in elder care funds into his personal business accounts."
"Overruled," Judge Santos said coldly, eyeing the defense lawyer. "Counsel, save your narrative arguments for the trial. Prosecution, call your first witness."
Attorney Cruz turned toward the gallery. "The prosecution calls Mr. Mateo Mercado."
A collective murmur swept through the courtroom.
I stood up and helped my father step out of his wheelchair. Though his legs were still weak, he refused my offer to push the chair to the witness stand. He insisted on walking.
With his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, his iron-tipped wooden cane striking the polished hardwood floor with a steady thud... thud... thud..., my father walked up the steps to the witness box.
He took the oath, his trembling right hand raised toward the national flag.
Attorney Cruz walked slowly toward the witness stand, keeping his voice gentle and respectful.
"Mr. Mercado," Cruz began. "Please state your age for the record."
"I am seventy-two years old," my father said, his voice clear and resonant in the quiet courtroom.
"Mr. Mercado, I am showing you Prosecution Exhibit 'C'—a deed of absolute sale dated March 14, 2018, transferring ownership of Lot 402 to J.R. Mercado Enterprises. Look at the bottom of the second page. Is that your signature or thumbprint?"
My father picked up the paper, holding it close to his eyes. He examined the dark purple ink mark at the bottom of the page.
"No," my father said firmly. "I never signed this paper. I never sold my father's land to Julian."
"Did your son Julian ever explain to you why the land title was no longer in your house?" Cruz asked.
"He told me the government had confiscated the land for taxes," my father replied, his eyes drifting across the aisle to lock onto Julian’s trembling face. "He said if we didn't stay quiet, the tax collectors would take our house too."
Julian flinched, dropping his head down into his hands.
"One final question, Mr. Mercado," Cruz said softly. "During the twelve years that your younger son, Marco, was sending money from Manila... how much of that money did Julian give to you for your food and medical care?"
My father slowly reached into his suit jacket pocket.
The entire courtroom fell dead silent. Everyone leaned forward on their benches, straining to see what the old man was pulling out.
My father placed a small, clear plastic zip-top bag onto the wooden ledge of the witness stand.
Inside the bag were three dry, brown pellets of dog food.
"He gave us this," my father said, his voice dropping into a register that was so quiet, yet so filled with devastating weight, that it felt like an iron curtain dropping over the room. "Fifty pesos a week for a bag of animal food. He told us Marco was dead. He told us Marco died in a construction accident in Manila ten years ago, and that nobody cared about us anymore."
A sudden, sharp gasp erupted from the gallery.
My head snapped around toward my father. I stared at him, my heart slamming violently against my ribs.
He told them I was dead.
Julian hadn't just told me my parents hated me. He had told my parents that their youngest son was buried in a nameless grave in the city, so they would stop asking for me, stop writing letters, and surrender completely to his total control.
My mother stood up from her wheelchair in the gallery, her dark sunglasses slipping down her nose, tears streaming freely down her wrinkled face.
Julian’s defense attorney looked down at his desk, closed his folder, and sat down without asking a single question on cross-examination. He knew—every lawyer in that room knew—that the case was over.
Judge Santos looked at Julian over his glasses. The judge's face was completely devoid of mercy.
"Bail is denied," Judge Santos declared, slamming his gavel down with a deafening CRACK. "The defendant will remain in custody at the Provincial Jail pending trial. Court is adjourned."
As two armed security guards stepped forward to handcuff Julian, my brother suddenly broke.
He fell to his knees beside the defense table, his hands tied behind his back, crying hysterically, his voice echoing loudly off the walls of the courtroom.
"Dad! Mom! Forgive me! Please! Tell them to stop!" Julian wailed, sliding across the floor toward the witness stand. "Marco! I'm your brother! Don't leave me in jail! I did it for the family! I was trying to build something for all of us!"
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I walked up to the witness stand, took my father's hand, and turned my back on Julian's screaming face.
We walked out of the courtroom together into the bright, unyielding sunlight of the morning, leaving the shadows of sixteen years behind us in the dark.
