[Pinoy Criminology] What the latest LTO dispute tells about rules and retaliation

Mr. James Deakin created a bigger problem for himself. In trying to teach his son the proper rules of driving, he got himself entangled in a bureaucracy trained not to correct itself but to protect itself. His experience exposes an old and brutal lesson in this country: if you make a public complaint against a government agency, you must be squeaky clean — spotless, unblemished, almost saintly. Otherwise, the bureaucracy will throw every rule in the book at you. Not to improve. Not to correct. But to punish.

Deakin, a well-known street safety vlogger, narrated in a viral social media post the frustrating experience of his 19-year-old son Daniel driving on Metro Manila streets. Daniel was flagged by a Land Transportation Office (LTO) enforcer for suddenly changing lanes — clearly prohibited. A rookie mistake, the kind every young driver commits at least once. The officer added reckless driving to the ticket. This is where the story could have ended in the usual Filipino way: a quiet “areglo,” a folded bill, a nod, and everyone goes home unbothered.

But Deakin chose a different path. He wanted to teach his son accountability. No bribery. No shortcuts. He asked for the ticket and decided to go through the formal process. They paid the ₱2,000 fine. Then came the bureaucratic ambush. The license could not be released because they needed to present the OR/CR. Worse, the 15-day window had already lapsed — never mind that eight of those 15 days were weekends and holidays, when offices were closed.

The lesson was cruelly inverted. By following the rules, Deakin felt punished by them.

Frustrated, he did what millions of Filipinos wish they could do: he spoke out. He shared his experience on social media, hoping to reach the authorities. Perhaps, he thought, this could spark reform. Perhaps this could be an opportunity for the LTO to streamline its requirements, extend service days, and treat citizens less like suspects and more like clients.

I was one of the thousands who shared his post. I saw it not as an attack but as feedback — an opening for institutional learning. The media took notice. Deakin was interviewed. The post went viral. Even the Anti-Red Tape Authority stepped in to examine whether the LTO had violated ease-of-doing-business rules.

And that is when the bureaucracy did what it always does when cornered: it retaliated.

Instead of introspection, the LTO went on the offensive. It combed through records. Scrutinized documents. Looked not for lapses in service but for ammunition. And it found some. The vehicle, it turns out, was not properly registered. The document presented was from importer to dealer, not from dealer to buyer. Now the dealer itself is in trouble, possibly facing license revocation. The 15 days? Calendar days, not business days. Holidays be damned.

The message was unmistakable: you complain, we investigate you — not ourselves.

This is a classic example of bureaucratic retaliation, something criminologists recognize as organizational self-preservation. Institutions, like individuals, develop defense mechanisms. When threatened, they do not reform; they fortify. They shift blame. They neutralize critics. This mirrors Sykes and Matza’s techniques of neutralization, where wrongdoing is justified by appealing to rules, procedures, and technicalities — never to justice or fairness.

This is not unique to the LTO. It happens in the BIR, Customs, the PNP, and virtually every Philippine bureaucracy. Which brings us to the heart of the problem.

In the Philippines, we live under two systems of rules: formal rules and informal rules. They operate side by side. Which one applies depends on who you are, who you know, what you can pay, and — most importantly — whether you keep quiet.

Formally, registering a vehicle with the LTO requires a mountain of documents: sales invoice, CSR, PNP-HPG clearance, emission compliance, CTPL insurance, MV inspection report, LTMS processing, and more. Each document means time, money, and endless back-and-forth between offices.

This complexity creates what criminologists call structural strain. When legal compliance becomes excessively burdensome, informal adaptations emerge. Fixers thrive. “Humanitarian considerations” appear. Temporary plates like “For Registration” suddenly become acceptable. Officially illegal, unofficially tolerated. This is how bureaucratic corruption becomes normalized — not through greed alone, but through design.

Over time, the informal becomes the norm. People survive by bending rules, not breaking them loudly. Silence is rewarded. Compliance is selective.

Until someone complains.

And when someone does, the bureaucracy digs into their past. It “kalkals” records. Finds a forgotten shortcut, a tolerated violation, an informal accommodation once enjoyed. And then the complainant becomes the criminal. This is why whistleblowers are rare. As labeling theory explains, once the label shifts — from citizen to violator — the moral high ground is lost. The system wins.

We see this everywhere. Taxpayers who once used informal tax practices cannot challenge BIR excesses without fear of exposure. Politicians who once availed themselves of pork barrel cannot credibly oppose larger pork allocations later. “Look who’s talking,” the system sneers.

James Deakin had good intentions. He wanted to teach his son responsibility. He believed — perhaps naively — that following the rules would be rewarded. He was brave enough to challenge the system publicly, hoping his visibility could force reform.

Instead, he became a cautionary tale.

What he received was not engagement but retaliation. Not reform but reprisal. The bureaucracy did not see a whistleblower; it saw a threat. And like all systemically corrupt institutions, it closed ranks and struck back.

This is the tragedy. In a healthy system, complaints lead to correction. In a corrupt one, complaints trigger punishment. And so the lesson Filipinos learn, over and over again, is this: Keep your head down, follow the informal rules, and never — ever — speak too loudly.

That is not governance. That is coercion in slow motion. – Rappler.com

Raymund E. Narag, PhD, is an associate professor in criminology and criminal justice at the School of Justice and Public Safety, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.