Sonny keeps 20 percent of the take-about P1.2 million monthly in net profits, after deducting expenses for operations. The rest-about 80 percent or P4.8 million every month-goes to an elaborate, multi-tiered structure of protection that has kept jueteng thriving not only here, but in many other parts of the country. (For obvious reasons, we cannot use Sonny's real name or identify the town where he operates. But this series is based on extensive interviews with him, his network of operators, local officials and residents of his town.)

Protection money goes to the military and the police, the mayor, barangay captains and their tanod, Sonny admits. Some of it goes out in the form of "donations" to key persons in the town, including Sonny's relatives and friends, even the parish priests, who ensure that jueteng operations here are smoothly run.

Sonny himself comes from a political family whose members have been at the helm of this town since 1945 and whose campaign coffers have been enriched by jueteng funds. The grassroots-based jueteng structure is also a ready-made political machine: village cabos-jueteng supervisors-often double up as ward leaders.

Such a symbiotic relationship between illegal gambling operators and those who man the law-enforcement apparatus of the town-a relationship that has lasted almost as long as jueteng has been in existence-illustrates how deeply embedded the illicit numbers game is in local politics and culture.

It also shows how, despite an administration that sees jueteng as a threat to the State, the game will likely persist. Jueteng is a variation of a numbers game held during festivals in ancient China. It dates back to the Spanish colonial era and was introduced to the Philippines by Chinese traders.

Jueteng's tenacity is best demonstrated here, in this thriving modern municipality, where the game's grassroots base, the largesse it bestows on grateful inhabitants and the inteligensiya or protection money it gives to the town's most influential patrons ensure its continuing success.

Protection starts at the grassroots, at the level of the barangay. To safeguard his daily operations, Sonny shells out contributions for the barangay captains of the town. This money is used for village projects, for "special occasions" like fiestas, or for filling up the capitan's campaign kitty during elections.

Policemen patrolling the barangay are likewise given a regular tong or bribe, says Sonny. If a cobrador or jueteng collector is arrested, Sonny's cabos (supervisors to whom the collectors report) bail him out and treat arresting officers to a meal or "night-out" at the local beer garden.

At the municipal level, protection is no big problem. Sonny's first cousin is the mayor. In fact, Sonny often "rents" local policemen to protect the game against possible competitors and other law-enforcement agencies. Bodyguards in uniform accompany Sonny in his regular drinking bouts.

These bodyguards say that jueteng money allows police chiefs to augment their very small operational expenses. It replenishes a station commander's petty cash and is often used to purchase office supplies and gasoline for police vehicles.

Dealing with the Law
Sonny's biggest headache are the national law-enforcement agencies. Raids are usually conducted during visits of higher officials or as proof of the effectivity of an anti-gambling campaign. Raids also occur when a station commander is reassigned. The raid is a subtle indicator of a "change of management" that requires new negotiations over the "terms of protection."

Most times, Sonny is adequately forewarned of a raid by his "friends" within the police force. Oftentimes, instead of resisting, he encourages his cabos and cobradores to get themselves arrested. It is easy to bail them out afterwards, and a few arrests are enough to satisfy the "higher-ups" and cool hotheads at the national level.

The anti-gambling campaigns can be quite a nuisance. It was easy, Sonny reveals, during the pre-martial law days, when one bribed only the provincial commander who took care to "discipline" overzealous and idealistic officers who ran after the jueteng operators. Before 1972, says Sonny, jueteng operations were small and localized, "paunti-unti, sentimo-sentimo ang pinupusta (it was small-time, the bets were in the range of only a few centavos)."

But the character of protection changed with the change in the pattern of jueteng operations. In the past, winnings were limited by collections. In the 1970s, regional gambling lords entered the scene. Jueteng became more exciting as potential winnings increased.

In Pangasinan, Sonny and his operators say, Gusting Roxas of Tarlac started to dominate jueteng, driving away or co-opting small-time operators. The regular draw or "bola" for the whole province was held elsewhere. In areas dominated by Gusting, the bola took place in San Miguel, Tarlac. For those areas that were dominated by certain police generals, the bola was held in Laguna.

The entry of the regional lords coincided with the integration of the police with the military. Gambling operators were forced to give regular bribes not only to the police commander but to various police and military units. "Intelihensiya ang nausong salita dahil sa dami ng intelligence unit mula sa pulis at iba't ibang batalyon ng AFP na lumalapit at humihingi." says Sonny. "Iba ang pagju-jueteng ngayon, dati iisa lang ang kailangang malagyan, ngayon napakarami ang dapat mabigyan (Intelihensiya became the operative word for bribes, because of the many military and police intelligence units which proliferated, all of them wanting a cut. It's a different ballgame now-in the past, all you had to do was pay one person. Today you have to give to so many)."

Lucrative Career
Sonny G. discovered a lucrative career in jueteng in the early 1970s, just before martial law. Prior to this, his main source of income was cuts from lucrative contracts he was able to get through his relatives in the municipal and provincial capitols.

Sonny comes from a political family that had been involved in the power struggles of Pangasinan since 1945. On the side, he enjoyed gambling. At first, his grandfather, who was then the incumbent mayor, scolded him for his involvement with jueteng. But an uncle prevailed on the old man: "If our family does not control jueteng, others will. Besides the earnings could be channeled to projects for the development of the municipality."

With the downfall of Marcos, the situation became more complicated. With the death of the aging jueteng operator, Gusting Roxas, other regional gambling lords rushed into Pangasinan. Sonny and local officials here say that Bong Pineda, who recently starred in a congressional investigation on jueteng, used his connections in Malacañang to make major inroads in all provinces of Central and Northern Luzon.

With his political and military links, Bong Pineda became a major competitor of Pangasinan gambling lords, says Sonny. Many jueteng operators were driven out of business or operated under Bong Pineda through a system of royalties. The exception was this town where Sonny's first cousin, who inherited the municipal mayorship from his grandfather, ensured the jueteng lord's survival.

"Kundi pinsan ko ang may hawak ng jueteng sa bayan na ito, walang jueteng dito (If my cousin didn't control jueteng in this town, there would be no jueteng here)," the mayor of the town says he told police officers sent by Bong Pineda.

Faced with the mayor's tenacity, the provincial law-enforcement officials backed off. Later, some of them figured that dealing with, rather than going against, the mayor could be more lucrative. They could now collect intelihensiya from both Bong Pineda and Sonny G.

The raids would of course continue, as Sonny G. at that time did not have backers in Malacañang, he says. National and Manila-based police and military units would hunt down his operations.

His followers say that Sonny's jueteng operations are of the renegade, guerrilla type. Bolas were often conducted at the back of a Pajero or Hi-Ace Van. And he was not the sole operator in the town. For a time, there were several operations, often confusing the town's jueteng aficionados.

But the existence of several operations created a free market for jueteng: collectors could choose the cabo that offered the best deal. In the end, Sonny's cabos prevailed over the others.

They had transportation (tricycles, motorcycles or bicycles) to make the rounds of the different cobradores. Another important factor was the trust that Sonny was able to establish through his family's political network. Sonny also gave extra monetary "incentives" for cobradores and cabos.

Sonny says that his business peaked with the change of administration in 1992. As Bong Pineda's Malacañang backers fell from grace, so did his monopoly over national connections. Other gambling lords entered the game, providing "alternative" channels of protection. One of them, reveals Sonny, is an engineer named Sanchez, who appears in Rep. Roilo Golez's list of jueteng lords. Sanchez collects royalties from local operators and ensures their protection from national and Manila-based law-enforcement agencies.

The jueteng lord is often cloaked with an aura of mystique and power over the police forces. However, in reality, he is not omnipotent. Protection is a reciprocal engagement based on a negotiated process between various gambling lords, incumbent officials and law-enforcement agencies. Shifts in the patterns of power between these officials cause changes in the patterns of jueteng operations.

Sonny was able to survive these shifts. A major reason for this survival is his affiliation with a political family that had ruled this municipality for several decades.