Getting up, she heard shots and ran to the window. "I saw him falling down,'' she said. "Then I saw the one who shot him in the face. He was shot seven times.''

When the assassin's bullets killed Rowell Endrinal, 40, outside his modest home he was just 20 minutes away from local radio station DZRC, where he hosted a daily commentary program.

The shooting was hardly a surprise. It was election season. Local and national polls were held in May 2004 and Endrinal was a political animal. He had been shot before and he was used to threats. In fact, he courted them. The slim chance that whoever was responsible will be caught, the web of political intrigue surrounding the murder and even the minor political gain made out of the investigation make Endrinal's fate emblematic not only of attacks on journalists but of a culture of seeming impunity that infects much of the Philippines.

Endrinal was not a hero and his ethics were often in question, his colleagues said. But as one of dozens of journalists killed in the Philippines since 1986 when democracy was restored and the press was freed from restraint, his murder fits a pattern that has become as familiar as it is disturbing.

Endrinal lived and died in Legaspi City, some 500 kilometers southeast of Manila. Legaspi is a modest city of no particular distinction save its stunning views of nearby Mayon volcano.

Here, the coconut crop still de-termines the fate of the economy, communist guerrillas have long maintained a stubborn foothold and politics is a two-fisted affair.

In the rural Philippines, where government is likely to be corrupt and law enforcement a matter of political connections, radio commentators frequently use their microphones to attack the powerful. But some are also notorious for selling their vitriol.

Either way, it can be a deadly combination that can make it difficult to know with any certainty what the motive is behind a given slaying. It is a climate that creates built-in ambiguities and shifting loyalties. As a result it may be almost impossible to know why Endrinal was killed.

"It was likely that he was killed because of his commentaries,'' said Solon Sison, a city prosecutor. "He hit hard on the radio and so he made enemies. I think the murder was media-related.''

Insisted a tearful Marina Endrinal: "My husband had the power to voice the wrongdoings here. He was very powerful.''

Legaspi City mayor Noel Rosal, however, painted a different picture. "He had a lot of friends at all levels,'' said Rosal. "But he was more than a media man. He had other businesses.''

According to Rosal and a number of journalists here, Endrinal tailored his daily commentaries to fit the highest bidder. If a politician paid, he was either talked up or left alone on the show; if he didn't, the venom would flow.

"I was also one of his sponsors,'' admitted Rosal. "We were friends, of course.''

Explained Jose Torres of the National Union of Journalists in Manila: "We call it AC/DC journalism. Attack, collect, defend, collect.''

Endrinal seemed to be a classic practitioner. He was what they call a "block-timer'' in the Philippines: He purchased an hour a day of radio time from DZRC and could use that time to say pretty much anything he wanted.

He sold sponsorships and many politicians signed on, his colleagues and others said. But he had a sharp tongue when he attacked someone, which he did frequently, going after local mayors and a former governor among others.

Fernando Gonzalez, the newly elected governor of Albay province, of which Legaspi City is the capital, knew Endrinal and said he was no better or worse than many others scraping out a living on the margins of journalism.

``Block-timing is a nasty business,'' said Gonzalez. ``This was disgusting, though. He was gunned down like an animal. I would like to see the masterminds and perpetrators caught. That would be a deterrent. But the chance of getting caught here is pretty minimal.''

Marina Endrinal, who acknowledges her husband sometimes served as a propagandist for local politicians, has her suspicions. She said mayor Rosal was an enemy of her late husband. She also named a former governor with whom Rowell Endrinal also had a falling-out.

Then there is Mayor Jose Arcangel of the nearby town of Jovilar. Once a buddy of the radio man, Arcangel shot Endrinal in 2000 after the two had an argument during a late-night drinking session that may or may not have been related to something said on the radio.

In that incident, Arcangel shot the commentator in the back, nearly killing him. According to Marina Endrinal, her husband was unarmed. Arcangel was arrested but the case dragged on for years. On May 10, a year and three months after Endrinal was murdered, a local court acquitted the still-sitting mayor of the charge of ``frustrated murder'' in the shooting. The case was ruled a matter of self-defense. The only witness, Endrinal, was, of course, un-available.

Endrinal was one of eight journalists murdered in the Philippines in 2004, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) in New York. There have been four such killings so far in 2005, there were another five in 2003. Since 1986, more than 50 journalists have been slain, a fact that prompted CPJ to call the Philippines the ``most murderous country in the world for the press'' earlier this year. While a few cases have found their way to court, no one has been convicted in the slaying of a journalist in the Philippines.

Embarrassed by the grisly toll and the negative publicity it has generated worldwide, the government of President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo has promised to get to the bottom of the mess and arrest those who kill journalists. Arroyo created a special taskforce to pursue the cases and made their solving a priority. ``This is really embarrassing for the government,'' said Conrado de Quiros, a well-known newspaper columnist in Manila. ``I think there is a tacit order that you can pretty much kill anybody else but stop killing journalists, at least for now.''

Police Colonel Frederick Oconer, the deputy commander of the new Taskforce Newsman established by Arroyo said confidently that all four journalist murders in 2005 ``are considered solved by police.'' In other words, Oconer explained, the police have identified a suspect and filed a case with a prosecutor.

But that is a long way from solving anything in real terms. Take the 2002 slaying of Edgar Damalerio. This high-profile murder was one of the reasons so much interest was finally focused on the death of reporters in the country. Gunned down across the street from the local police station, Damalerio was a respected writer and commentator in Pagadian City, a rough town on the strife-torn island of Mindanao plagued by smuggling syndicates, hired killers and rampant crime.

I went to Pagadian and investigated that case about a year after the murder and found a tangle of leads, threats and fear. Only recently has it gone to court after press groups made the dead journalist a cause celebre. The national government pressured the police to arrest the alleged gunman, a former patrolman named Guillermo Wapili, who was identified as the killer by witnesses shortly after the murder and roamed free, apparently under police protection, for years before being picked up.

In the meantime, two of the three witnesses to the killing were themselves murdered. Damalerio's widow, Gemma, is still receiving death threats and there has been no progress in identifying whoever ordered the killing.

Exhausted, Gemma Damalerio says she has had enough. ``I thank God there is a trial now,'' she said. ``But we are still so scared.'' She is making plans to leave the country because she fears her dogged determination to pursue the case will eventually lead to her own murder.

The killings of journalists are only a symptom of a kind of rot infecting the Philippines. It has become virtually impossible to get to the bottom of anything here. Scandals and crimes big and small linger and fester, sometimes for decades, as the rule of law is constantly subordinated to short-term exigencies starting at the very top of the society.

After the massively corrupt dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos was overthrown by people power in 1986, no one was ever convicted or jailed for the many crimes alleged against the regime.

His son is now a governor and one of his daughters is in Congress. And more than 20 years after the fact, questions remain about who ordered the murder of Marcos' chief rival, Benigno ``Ninoy'' Aquino, whose killing at Manila international airport in 1983 triggered the crisis that eventually led to Marcos' undoing and the rise of Aquino's widow, Corazon.

A series of bloody coup attempts led by senior officers against Corazon Aquino resulted in largely symbolic punishments for a very few. The chief plotter of those days, Gregorio Honasan, served for years in the Senate after being pardoned.

President Joseph Estrada was tossed out of office by more people power in 2001 and charged with various kinds of corruption. He is under house arrest in his luxurious residence and even visited Hong Kong earlier this year.

At present, the spotlight is on Estrada's successor, Arroyo. Narrowly re-elected on her own merits in 2004, she is suffering the taint of a scandal that has caused her husband and Con-gressman son to go into self-imposed exile because of their links to gambling syndicates. Then she was caught on wire-tapped conversations with the chairman of the national election commission, released widely into the public arena, apparently discussing details of how to secure her 2004 victory.

Amid calls for her to step down or be overthrown and with impeachment charges filed in Congress, Arroyo gave her state of the nation address last week without mentioning the controversy.

She said the Philippine economy was poised to ``take off'' and pledged to reform the government. The reality is the country's credit standing has been downgraded and she is hanging on because there seems to be no alternative. The economy limps along, supported by the roughly US$8 billion (HK$62.4 billion) in foreign currency remitted each year by the Philippines' chief export - its own people working in domestic service, construction and other fields worldwide.

In such a place, where the top leaders seem immune from the rule of law, government promises that murders will be punished and wrongdoers caught are hard to accept.

``Let me assure you, this government does not tolerate the killing of newsmen,'' Justice Secretary Raul Gonzales said in his Manila office, but he offered few details. He was busy tending to the president's legal troubles as the wiretap issue was breaking.

Downstairs, Chief State Prosecutor Jovencito Zuno, who is charged with pursuing the murder cases in the Justice Department, said his office was doing its best but that the cases are difficult.

``In the provinces, it is personal,'' he explained. And most of the witnesses are afraid of reprisals. Local prosecutors are paid low salaries and resources are stretched thin. ``We are doing our best.'' he said.

Colonel Oconer and others assured me that at least the Endrinal case had been put in the win column for the government because an arrest had been made. Clarito Arizobal, known locally as a contract killer who goes by the nickname Boy Zapanta, was picked up for the murder in late May, just two days before Arroyo was scheduled to come for a visit to the province. On her arrival she took the opportunity to pose for photos, praise police for the arrest and promise to work with the media ``to turn around'' the culture of violence.

But it is unlikely that Arizobal will ever stand trial for killing Endrinal. Convicted in absentia in 2000 for another murder years earlier, he was already under a death sentence when he was accused of murdering the journ-alist. He is now in prison in Manila and no trial on the Endrinal charges has been scheduled. ``It will be hard to bring witnesses to Manila,'' said local prosecutor Solon. ``It will be hard to protect them there. Anyway, the killing was probably just business for Arizobal.''

With the circumstances of End-rinal's death murky at best, it seems almost certain that the truth of this murder will never be known. Marina, meanwhile, lives each day with the memory of the morning when she watched him die. There were five men involved, she says, not just one. She would like to talk to Arizobal and ask him who ordered the killing but she doubts she will be able to. She lives with the fear that something else will happen and her eyes are dark and sad.

She has received an anonymous letter, she said, that linked her husband's killing to the murder of others. ``There are still so many questions,'' she said, folding the letter away.

But with two daughters in college and bills to pay, her hope is simply to leave the country. Maybe, she says, she will be able to emigrate to the United States because one of her daughters is going to marry an American soon.

``That would be the best,'' she said. ``I want to go to California. My husband always said, `If it is the time to die, I will accept it.' And he did. But will we get justice? No.''

Research for this story was conducted on a trip sponsored by the Committee to Protect Journalists