Hours
later, Father Revo found himself in a meeting that would decide the fate of the
child, at Father Andoy’s behest. Participants in that meeting included two
social welfare officers from the city government, the woman in her forties who
found the baby, the two priests, and the chief of the police station. They were
huddled together inside the latter’s cramped office. About fifty to sixty
onlookers, including a TV crew, were waiting for “news” outside.
Everybody in that
meeting was upbeat, exchanging repartee and small talk. When the meeting turned
serious, and after having introduced themselves to one another, Sylvia Monir,
the finder-keeper, volunteered to open the discussion.
“Father Andoy here
told me earlier he was taking custody of the child,” she said.
“We have discussed
everything with the foster parents, so protecting the interests of the child
should be in good hands,” Father Revo quickly added, sounding much like a
lawyer for Father Andoy.
It had been a
tribute to the enduring moral suasion among priests that people were ready to
give them the benefit of the doubt, where no further questions needed to be
asked, in a context that allowed a positively generous interpretation of
whatever it was they had to say, even away from the pulpit. In this case, the
social workers and the police understood Father Revo’s “manifestation” as
suggesting that Father Andoy had filial interests in the child.
One Social Welfare
officer whispered to the other, “How will I fill up the case-management form?”
“Just copy what the reports say in similar
cases.” The body language suggested their office overflowed with piles of
similar cases, and counting, to the delight of the police chief.
The meeting ended
the way it started. Everyone had a smile on their faces, except perhaps Father
Andoy.
The next day, one
newspaper headline screamed: “Abandoned child fathered by a priest?” with a
subheading: “Scandals continue to hound the Catholic Church.”
The report quoted
a bystander who heard Father Andoy say he was taking custody of the child.
Sylvia was also interviewed, who said the Social Welfare officer had made it
known that one of the biological parents was taking custody of the child. There
was no reference of who the priest was, except that “he could be one of the
young and debonaire priests of Quiapo Church.”
In the evening TV
news (and now more or less all media networks had covered the story), more
clips of interviews among witnesses were shown. One reporter also managed to
elicit a few words from the parish office.
“Is it true that
Father Andoy is the father of the child?”
“I’m sorry. Really
do not know, you’ll have to ask Father Andoy himself.”
Hours earlier, the
Rector called his priests (all eleven of them) to a meeting to address what
seemed to be a gathering firestorm of buzz bits. They agreed to gag themselves.
Two days later, however, reportedly on “strong suggestion” by the archbishop,
Father Andoy allowed himself to be briefly interviewed on TV. He denied
fathering the child but voiced his decision to take custody of the child in the
belief that his action would benefit the child.
The next day,
about a thousand placard-bearing rallyists chanted “Down with liars and
hypocrites!” and “Father Damaso!” in front of Quiapo Church. This, too, was
featured in tabloid headlines.
Eight days after
Father Andoy consented to be the child’s “father,” the Quiapo clergy baptized
Anding. The official name on record was Leandro Deo Renato Moscavida. It was
the result of a compromise among quibbling priests. The child’s surname was
copied from a file of a maternity clinic where supposedly the child was born,
based on results of a Father Andoy–led investigation.
Aside from Sylvia
being the actual custodian of the child, part of her agreement with Father
Andoy was to collaborate on establishing official records for the child. She,
however, had nothing to contribute except a disposable baller which had
something like “Moses Maternity Clinic” written on it. After an exhausting
search, Father Andoy decided that no such clinic existed. But the search led
him to “MMortal Maximilian Clinic” instead.
Father Revo
suggested something like Martin Moscavida, which to him was apt to remember St.
Martin de Porres by. The saint was born out of wedlock to a mixed-race couple,
then went on to overcome prejudice and gained acceptance throughout his entire
life simply by loving his neighbor and practicing humility. But the Rector
suggested Deo Renato. And obedience was often a fact of priestly lives.
“Deo Renato means
Deo Regnat in Latin,” said Monsignor Hoben Ubanon, the Rector of Quiapo Church.
He did not need to explain but said so anyway. “In English: God Reigns. Then
‘ad regnum’—to the reign, my personal motto—prays that every hand may help us
lead our flock back to the reign.”
The baptismal rite
was a show of force for the Quiapo clergy. The Rector presided over it, and all
his priests stood as godfathers. In a way, Anding early in life reached a level
of social prestige and standing only a few of the children of the super-rich
could match: that of being ushered into God’s kingdom by a platoon of His
worldly ministers.
But
no one would have thought that Anding’s anointing would also usher in Anding’s
early ascent to his calvary. The weeks that followed showed that Sylvia had
little interest in protecting, much more in promoting, the interests of the
child. She was secretly, unknown to Father Andoy, selling Anding to the highest
bidder.
She made use of
the priest to take possession of a commodity that she planned to profit from
commercially. And Father Andoy seemed happy to be of service, until news broke
out that Anding was nowhere to be found.
Before she took on
the menial job as store attendant of a general merchandise store—the one that
used to be owned by one among Octavio’s clan—in Watkasing Street, Sylvia Monir
had a promising career in multi-level marketing, ostensibly selling home grooming
products. However, a court case against the company for “pyramiding” halted her
rise to fame and wealth.
Still, that did
not stop her from getting ahead in life. The main competitor of the company
hired her as a mid-level corporate executive. With bonuses from sales made by
teams she helped grow exponentially, she became a self-made millionaire at age
thirty-five. She was so good that her coworkers felt envious of her success.
One day, the owner
of the company found that somebody had embezzled funds from the treasury. In an
internal investigation that followed, two coworkers testified that Sylvia was
behind several fraudulent transactions, complete with receipts that established
the money trail. Turned out her skills in sales could not help her navigate
through the maze of bureaucratic traps. She found herself lucky: the penalty of
dismissal imposed on her could have been harsher.
Months later,
egged on by a former coworker to question her unjust dismissal, Sylvia sued the
company for unfair labor practice. She took the gamble partly because of
personal pride that nagged her to redeem whatever was left of her reputation,
as well as partly on a friend’s advice that everything she lost financially
could be recouped. She eventually lost the case, after a series of appeals,
along with much of her savings that she spent on legal services during
litigation.
Her depression
pushed her to the brink; her emotional swings—sometimes foregoing meals for
days—taxed the patience and tolerance of people around her. Except for a
few—her boyfriend of ten years had abandoned her—those who followed her in her
heyday were mostly gone. Convinced that a world she once dazzled with her gift
of gab had been lost, she sought and found refuge in illegal drugs. It was a
matter of time before she showed signs of hitting the bonkers. In just a span
of two years, hers was a free fall from the heights of self-confidence to the
depths of despair, from millionaire to pauper, from a winsome talker to a
wretched loner.
Fortunately for
her, the core of her family was there to lift her from the pits. Against her
will, family members deprived her of personal liberties. She could not hang out
with anyone beyond the neighborhood unless she showed some healing in her
emotional bruises. Alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs were totally and permanently
banned.
After a year of
arduous babysitting, Sylvia’s mother, frail at sixty-five, gradually allowed
her to test the outside world again. Strangely, the city streets became a
therapeutic home for her. Her outward appearance still pretty much suggested
that she had lost her wits. On closer look, however, she was one who could wow
a crowd with tales of her once happy life and, to the surprise of policemen and
onlookers, she could speak fluent English.
Even more
strangely, she found the slimy Quiapo neighborhood to be accommodating. The
place where complete strangers met beckoned her to blend in. Although at times
she marked herself as Catholic by the sign of the cross, members of the Muslim
community in the area adopted her as one of their own. Fourteen months after
her meltdown, she was on her way to a “miraculous” emotional recovery.
Wooed
extravagantly, she went on to marry a Muslim trader. They separated three years
later, however, although she decided to keep his family name. Her husband, who
had children from several other women, complained that she was barren.
Her husband
happened to have connections with a slew of policemen. Through an endorsement
by one of them, she got the job as store attendant in the store where she found
a carefully bundled child one early morning, just as dawn was breaking. She was
sane enough, with an astute presence of mind, to quickly decide that this one
was her passport to redemption. She had been planning to try her luck as an
overseas contract worker, and she needed at least 70K pesos to get all the
paperwork done. Once she started “earning” again, her personal vow to repay her
mother for the troubles she caused her could finally be fulfilled.
Sylvia guarded
Anding like he was the Golden Buddha—one of those make-believe stories she once
read from a pile of her favorite tabloids. So precious but hidden.
The first order of
the day was to talk to Sir Dikomo. The policeman had the longest tenure in the
Quiapo Police Precinct. While it was normal for everyone else to be reassigned
to other precincts after two or three years, Sir Dikomo had been in Quiapo for
more than ten years.
The Police
Commission had found him guilty of at least three administrative charges in the
past, meriting penalty of dismissal, only to be reinstated every time after
each conviction. Not a few from among his ranks had expressed resentment for
what appeared clearly to them as special treatment that was being accorded to
him by higher authorities.
Not found in
police records but known to practically all men in uniform were how Sir Dikomo,
fresh from graduation at the military academy, had shot and killed two
gangsters with whom a cousin of his had an altercation. Did he kill more?
Nobody would know.
Certainly, unknown
to all—except to a select core of middlemen—was how, while hustling as a hired
gun, he earned his reputation as one who left no trace of evidence that could
implicate him, much less his patrons in all the murders he carried out for
money. For this alone he could have been appointed to any position he wished,
because one or two of those patrons were in control of government at any given
time.
Sir Dikomo
preferred a low-profile standing in the police hierarchy; he was one who
projected an image of being dedicated to his calling. He seemed bent on
building an impeccable track record for arresting petty crimes in the
neighborhood and establishing peace and order wherever his assignment took him.
He wanted to remain labeled that way because while his professional stock
before an adoring public steadily rose, none of his mistresses would suspect
his bank accounts grew in proportion to the rise of his official rank. Even of
greater concern was overexposing himself to public scrutiny that a high-profile
stature normally attracted, because aside from being a hired gun whose price
tag only the wealthy could afford, he dabbled in a shady Mafia-like organization
that espoused foreign interests.
Yet Sir Dikomo was
perhaps the most beloved patrolman in all of Quiapo. Whenever he had his way,
he did not tolerate abuse of ordinary people by persons in authority, and he
was reciprocated with an abundance of respect. Regular devotees, vendors,
tenants, among many others, deferred to him. During Friday masses, the Quiapo
Parish turned to him—complementing the security force of the parish—to ensure
that order within the surroundings of the church was maintained. For this extra
service, the priests showered him and his fellow officers with gifts, either in
kind or in cash.
Sylvia was
indebted to Sir Dikomo for endorsing her to her employer. Excited at the
prospect of being able to finally repay him, she sought him out for a chat.
After a brief “yes-I-know-you” banter, they went down to business.
“I just sort of
remember that orphanage kind of business you told me about…” she said.
“Yes. Have I told
you about Sir Reg, our former chief?” The reference to his former boss was
subtle. Sir Dikomo felt that Sylvia could be a kind of mole or spy within the
organization, and so if she was referring to a side hustle that some people
might find exploitative, there was the venerable Col. Regidor Makatigbas to
either thank for or blame.
“No,” Sylvia
replied. Of course, Sir Dikomo kept a secret like how Father Revo would guard
the seal of the confessional. That meant disclosing but only stray and
unrelated strands of the OXD agenda. That also meant being discreet about any
scant mention of his Sir Reg.
“Well, he wanted
to broaden his sources of information that feed a group of clients in need of
orphanages,” Sir Dikomo mumbled, still trying to probe whatever the point it
was that brought Sylvia to him. “That was probably the context for why you got
the information regarding orphanages.”
“Yes, sir, I have
information for you!” she exclaimed.
“I remember there
were three cases in this area where sources of leads got hefty commissions for
their referrals,” he said, sounding like he was more confident now in what
Sylvia was trying to say.
“No, sir, I am not
only the source of information, but I am also the custodian of an orphan
myself,” she clarified, with matching body language that emphasized she was
worth more than a commission.
OK, so this is a
money transaction, Sir Dikomo thought, feeling more relaxed at this point. His
reaction told Sylvia how pleasantly surprised he was.
It had been four
long years since she felt this confident, and although the fleeting flashback
triggered memories of hate and unbearable pain, she could not deny at this
point that opportunity was teasing her. Hers was a vision of a door being
opened for a realistic streak that could soon bring her back to a familiar
self: being the one who was on top of her game.
“And from those
three cases, I knew, sir, that babies who have no government records commanded
bigger sums…” She paused, waiting for some kind of confirmation from the police
officer.
Sir Dikomo nodded.
“Yes, of course, depending on how seamless you can deliver the child to the
boarding process.”
The boarding
process for the OXD Agenda, sometimes called the OXD (short for Operation Xing
Dynasty) Project, had three long-term stratagems tracks. The first, called
Subic Babies, sent orphans to designated families in the United States where
they would stay long enough to be able to acquire American citizenship. Their
Filipino parentage would qualify them to become dual citizens. As dual citizens,
they could buy real estate properties, including huge tracts of land in the
Philippines. In twenty or so years, the Subic Babies would be able to supply
land, including quarry materials, for the OXD project.
Track two
comprised the Panatag Babies, where orphans would be sent to OXD-affiliated
families. One or two members of these families were likely to have military
backgrounds. Like the Subic Babies, the Panatag orphans would be raised in a
normal environment for kids, like going through grade and high school. In
college, they would be enticed to enroll at the military academy. Their
military training, as well as the progression of their respective military careers,
should be seen as a natural process for them. In thirty to forty years, tens of
military generals in active service would be expected to covertly support the
OXD Project to the point that, where there would be any conflict, their oath of
allegiance to their country could be sacrificed for what OXD’s ultimate mission
demanded.
Track three
comprised the rejects—orphans sent to either one of the two tracks who got
derailed at some point became sources for the organ banks in mainland Qina. The
OXD Secretariat decided on how or when they became donors. Often, they died
from a motorcycle accident, or they could be casualties in a drug buy bust
operation.
Parallel lobbies
supported legislation that aimed, among other things, to harmonize and ease the
procedures for the grant of dual citizenships involving the US and other major
countries of destination for Filipino migrants, revisit laws on orphanages and
adoption, as well as on ownership of real estate properties by dual citizens.
There were also specific interventions for each of the three tracks. For Subic
Babies, OXD helped finance and nurture the election of selected puppets in key
local government posts, especially in areas adjoining to the west Philippine
Sea territories. Local officials who had potential to be groomed as Manchurian
candidates at the national level were tabbed as “special projects.” For Panatag
Babies, OXD worked covertly to help manage the careers of selected military and
police officers. For the rejects, OXD established a network of affiliates among
funeral and memorial services outfits.
OXD made it a
policy to strictly follow Philippine laws on adoption of children from
orphanages. But just the same, it assumed that after completion of each
adoption process, nobody would be able to track either the identity or the
whereabouts of the child, regardless of whether they were in the United States
or in the Philippines. There had been complications, however, such as when a
scam run by a foster care center became the subject of a congressional
investigation, threatening to expose the heretofore invisible industry players
like the OXD. Which was why preference was given, and bigger amounts were paid,
to custodians of abandoned children, because no records of their identities
existed. This also explained why OXD maintained a network of maternity and
birth clinics in major urban centers throughout the country, although some of
them existed only in paper.
After a discussion
on how money would be split (Sylvia actually could do nothing but either agree
or disagree), they decided to discuss the onboarding details at some future
time and date. The whole transaction would amount, in peso terms, to 100K, 25K
of which would be deducted and split among a matrix of brokers and/or
affiliates. That meant Sylvia would net around 75K for her merchandise.
Before she kind of
closed the deal with Sir Dikomo, Sylvia reached out to at least two more
prospective buyers from a list (which she laboriously compiled for at least
five days) of families that had filed applications to adopt a child. The list
contained names and telephone numbers that she collected from Hospisyo ng Maynila
and two other orphanages; with characteristic creativity, she also listed names
of childless families that recently offered masses at the Quiapo Church that
petitioned for divine intervention. Two from her list offered amounts that she
rejected. One was even slightly higher than the one that was already on the
table. She thought that she owed the policeman so much that it would take a
much bigger take-home pay to turn him down.
The effort to
auction off her precious find also led her to more discoveries about the
orphanage business. She found out that there were several layers of
distribution chains. Orphanages sourced their warm inventories not only from
birth and maternity clinics, but also from custodial facilities for homeless
street children. Then they either raised or farmed them out to foster homes,
some of whom were unknown to government regulatory agencies. There were brokers
and "bridge families." Like auto service centers that groomed used
cars before being offered for resale to command higher prices, outsourced
foster families helped refine the manners of orphans (especially street
children) to prepare them for adoption.
OXD had more or
less the same business model, except that trying to hide was a default route. Less
documentation for each transactions made the whole operation more secure.
Before Sylvia could get paid, she had to deliver the baby like he was
contraband. Identities of agents involved had to be concealed; no records were
to be signed; nothing had to change hands except the baby and wads of cash.
Sir Dikomo assured
her that for as long as she kept the code of silence, the deal would be
completed just as they discussed it. One final detail in their verbal
agreement: Sir Dikomo advised her to just "disappear into the night"
as soon as she got paid.
This was not a
problem for Sylvia. Her contract for overseas employment, facilitated by a
recruitment agency that was partly owned by her former husband, and her travel
arrangements were up for final approval; nothing but the full payment of
corresponding recruitment fees stood in the way of her second lease in life.