2. Power structure within Indonesian criminal justice agencies: The KUHAP and the struggle for power

The current power structure within Indonesia’s criminal justice system is governed by the Indonesian Criminal Procedure Code (KUHAP), a legal framework widely perceived as a relic of Soeharto’s authoritarian military regime, enacted in 1981 (Strang, Reference Strang2008; Lamchek, Reference Lamchek, Ciocchini and Radics2019; Butt and Lindsey, Reference Butt, Lindsey, Lindsey and Pausacker2020). Its very creation was a battleground. A minority of lawmakers championed democratic ideals, seeking a balance between state power and individual rights, echoing the principles of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). But the majority prevailed, arguing for broad discretionary powers for state apparatus to combat crime (Pangaribuan, Reference Pangaribuan2025).

As a result, robust procedural safeguards for individuals were seen as obstacles to effective crime fighting. Human rights conventions like the ICCPR were dismissed as incompatible with Indonesia’s state ideology of “Demokrasi Pancasila,” which prioritizes communal harmony over individual liberties.Footnote ⁵ This ideological foundation serves as a platform for the Indonesian criminal justice system, granting the state apparatus extensive discretionary criminal justice power with minimal checks and balances, especially in the pre-trial investigative stage.Footnote ⁶

This effectively empowers those holding pre-trial investigative powers with broad discretion in handling criminal cases, acting as gatekeepers of the system. Formally, during the New Order regime, this power resided with the police. However, as the police were integrated into the military (ABRI), they were, in practice, subordinate to the military and thus lacked independence in exercising their formal authority (Baker, Reference Baker2012, pp. 37–41; Yulianto, Reference Yulianto2023, pp. 4–6).Footnote ⁷

The winds of change swept through Indonesia with the 1997 Asian financial crisis and the subsequent Reformasi movement, culminating in the fall of Suharto’s regime in 1998. With the waning of military influence over Indonesian society, the police force, once subservient, seized the opportunity to assert its autonomy (Muradi, 2014; Yulianto, Reference Yulianto2023). This stemmed from public pressure demanding that internal security be handled by civilian authorities, not the armed forces. This led to the separation of the military and the police, with the latter gaining civilian status.

Consequently, they ascended to a position of dominance within the criminal justice system. This is largely because the reformasi movement, even to this day, has been unable to replace the KUHAP.Footnote ⁸ In other words, the reformasi movement, intended to dismantle Indonesia’s authoritarian system, has ironically resulted in a situation where one of the most significant authoritarian-era laws—the KUHAP—remains unchanged and continues to serve as an instrument of social control.

Understanding the paradox of reformasi requires an appreciation of its complex dynamics. Although intended to advance institutional reform, the movement inadvertently sparked intense competition among Indonesian criminal justice actors, resulting in a significant realignment of power within the newly restructured institutional landscape. At the heart of this competition lies the unchecked pre-trial criminal justice power, including the authority to establish charges, make arrests, and conduct searches and seizures. Such power is especially prone to exploitation for institutional and personal gain, thus intensifying rivalry among institutions—a theme that will be further explored in the subsequent section of this article. Under Soeharto’s military regime, the competition was suppressed; the police were integrated into the military structure, the chief prosecutor was often hailed from military ranks, and the KPK did not yet exist.Footnote ⁹ The collapse of the military as a centralized authority created a vacuum, and competition intensified. Marginalized by the old regime, prosecutors saw an opportunity to claim their dominance over investigative power, a power they once held during the Dutch colonial era. Meanwhile, the police, realizing their newfound dominance is under attack, activate their self-defence mechanism to shield their criminal justice power.

Further complicating the landscape, the establishment of the powerful and independent KPK in 2002 added another player to the power game. This bold move by Indonesian lawmakers acknowledged the failure of existing institutions to combat deeply entrenched corruption, with both the police and the prosecutor being implicated in Indonesia’s pervasive corruption problem. The KPK’s arrival disrupted the status quo, challenging the established power dynamics.

With the KUHAP’s current design, as mentioned previously, pre-trial investigative power is the ultimate prize, granting broad discretion with minimal oversight. Within this landscape, the exercise of this power can be easily utilized for both personal and institutional goals. That is why any threat to this power invariably triggers a power struggle. As the following discussion will demonstrate, the interplay between the legacy of authoritarianism, democratic aspirations, and ongoing competition for power profoundly shapes the inter-agency conflict within Indonesia’s criminal justice system.

3. The police versus the prosecutor: From partner to rival

As explained earlier, the rivalry between the Police and the Prosecutor in Indonesia centres on controlling the pre-trial investigation process. This is particularly critical in an inquisitorial system, where the pre-trial stage is the cornerstone of criminal case construction. Here, crucial decisions like arrests, searches, and seizures are made, shaping the case files (known as case dossiers or Berkas Perkara) that become the centrepiece of a trial. Unlike adversarial systems emphasizing oral arguments in court, inquisitorial trials primarily confirm the pre-trial investigation documented in the case files.Footnote ¹⁰

These files comprise written records of all investigative and enforcement actions, including warrants, interrogation minutes, and investigator opinions. Due to this reliance on the case files, the principle of oral arguments in court, common in adversarial systems, holds little weight. In simpler terms, whoever controls the pre-trial investigation controls the entire criminal justice process.

The competition over pre-trial investigation power has been a significant battleground since Indonesia’s formal independence in 1949, following the departure of the Dutch colonial administration. Under the old colonial legal framework, the police served as assistants to the prosecutor (known as “hulp-magistraat”) in resolving criminal cases.Footnote ¹¹ During this period, the prosecutor operated within the judiciary, assuming the role of “magistraat,” a common feature in inquisitorial legal systems like that of the Dutch. In simple language, under the colonial legal framework, prosecutors held a superior position to the police, wielding a combination of executive and judicial authority. However, with the withdrawal of the colonial government, these vacated positions triggered a return to a state of flux in the power dynamics between the police and the prosecutors.

The conflict culminated in 1961 with the enactment of separate prosecutorial and police laws, ultimately favouring the police. As a result, the police became integral to national security as a military force, wielding full criminal justice powers without being answerable to the prosecutor.Footnote ¹² Meanwhile, the prosecutor’s investigative authority diminished, restricted to conducting additional investigations (following investigations by the police) and fulfilling prosecutorial duties during court proceedings.Footnote ¹³ However, these two laws did not operationalize in detail the working relationship between them. For instance, a key point of contention persists regarding the prosecutor’s authority during additional investigations: whether they have the power to directly conduct inquiries and carry out enforcement actions such as arrests, searches, and seizures. This ambiguity regarding the division of power and responsibilities between police and prosecutors continues to spark debate whenever criminal procedure regulations are discussed, as the following examples will illustrate.

The period between 1979 and 1981 saw renewed scrutiny of the working relationship between Indonesian police and prosecutors during parliamentary discussions on the KUHAP. Concerns arose due to the ambiguity of the 1961 laws, which led to overlapping roles between these two agencies (Badjeber and Rosjadi, Reference Badjeber and Rosjadi1979, p. 250; Pangaribuan, Reference Pangaribuan2025). KUHAP aimed to address this by establishing a rudimentary communication channel, the pre-prosecution process, where police are required to submit investigation results to prosecutors for review. However, the code provides limited details on the scope of this review and imposes a tight timeframe (7–14 days). Failure by prosecutors to meet this deadline automatically renders the investigation complete.Footnote ¹⁴ This legal framework effectively grants dominance to the police, relegating prosecutors to the role of presenting police case files in court. This shift towards distinct roles for police and prosecutors within the criminal justice process was formalized in the “functional differentiation” doctrine.Footnote ¹⁵ As the title suggests, the doctrine separates the function of the police and the prosecutor, granting the police significant autonomy in conducting pre-trial investigations without mandatory collaboration with the prosecutor. As a consequence of this doctrine, the prosecutor was relegated to a passive role in the pre-trial investigation process. Indonesian legal scholarship often refers to prosecutors under this system as mere “postmen” for the police, simply delivering case documents to the courts (Afandi, Reference Afandi and Crouch2019). The enactment of KUHAP further cemented this dynamic, diminishing the prosecutor’s influence within the power hierarchy of the criminal justice system.

The 1991 prosecutorial law marked another chapter in the ongoing debate about power distribution between police and prosecutors. The government, seeking to reduce these tensions, proposed an “integrated criminal justice” system to foster harmony between the two entities. They argued that any fragmentation within the criminal justice apparatus undermined the shared pursuit of justice. However, these pronouncements rang hollow for prosecutors. When the issue of their investigative authority arose, the government maintained a strict interpretation of KUHAP, limiting the prosecutorial investigation to misdemeanour cases.Footnote ¹⁶ This essentially reaffirmed the functional differentiation doctrine, relegating prosecutors to a non-dominant role in handling most crimes. As a consolation prize, the government reassured the prosecutor’s authority to investigate economic crimes like corruption. Despite this legislative effort, the 1991 prosecutorial law ultimately failed to deliver any meaningful change in the power dynamic between police and prosecutors.

As previously noted, the tension between the police and prosecutors during Soeharto’s military regime (1966–1998) was easily suppressed due to the regime’s top-down, authoritarian approach. This is exemplified by the fact that military generals occupied most chief prosecutor positions. Furthermore, the regime’s emphasis on military-led centralized authority led to the creation of institutions like the Command for Security and Order (Kopkamtib and Bakostranas) and coordinated forums that included the police, prosecutors, and judiciary (Mahkejapol). These institutions served the regime’s interests, suggesting a lack of true separation of powers. However, as explained earlier, the Reformasi movement in 1998 dramatically altered the power dynamic. Comprehensive reforms took place across the political and legal sectors, including a re-evaluation of the roles of criminal justice agencies such as the Court, the police, and the prosecutor.Footnote ¹⁷ The police achieved formal separation from the military following the reformasi movement in 1999, subsequently establishing their own legal framework in 2002.Footnote ¹⁸ Additionally, the 2004 Prosecutorial Law successfully reinstated the prosecutor’s authority to conduct additional criminal investigations (as outlined in Article 30 of the law)—a power previously limited by the 1981 KUHAP.

The conflict between the police and the prosecutor reached its new height during the KUHAP reform process between 2007 and 2013. Sensing the momentum brought by the reformasi movement, prosecutors tried to seize the opportunity to strengthen their position within the system. During the drafting process of the new KUHAP, they campaigned for the concept of “dominus litis,” citing global trends that argued for prosecutor-led criminal justice systems.Footnote ¹⁹ Prosecutors asserted that as the ultimate representatives of the case in court, they should be the ones directing pre-trial investigations, not the police.Footnote ²⁰ The final draft reflected this push, with significant concessions to the prosecutors. It mandated active coordination between police and prosecutors during investigations, requiring police to seek prosecutorial advice. Moreover, the prosecutor can take over the investigation from the police due to the police’s perceived passivity or inaction in the investigative process.Footnote ²¹

The draft also imposed strict time limits on police investigations (60–90 days, depending on suspect detention), empowering prosecutors to assume control if those deadlines were missed. Furthermore, the proposed introduction of a preliminary investigation judge (hakim pemeriksa pendahuluan), borrowed from modern inquisitorial systems, aimed to curtail unchecked police power through judicial oversight of the criminal justice process.

This proposed power shift sparked fierce resistance from the police throughout the drafting process. A high-ranking government official directly involved in the discussions noted the police’s vehement opposition (“ngotot” in his exact words).Footnote ²² The police openly contested the draft, asserting their independence and arguing that the functional differentiation doctrine should be used as a platform in governing the relationship between criminal justice actors—a principle they felt the draft violated. They further claimed the problem lay not in legal theory but in the practical implementation of existing laws. Dismissing the prosecutor’s reliance on global trends of dominus litis, they argued that the dominant role of police in the system was a matter of political perspective and that legal models beneficial to other countries might not automatically translate to Indonesia.Footnote ²³ Interviews with high-ranking police officials revealed deep suspicion that the reform was politically motivated, designed to strengthen the prosecutor’s role at the police’s expense. They pointed to the appointment of Andi Hamzah, a former prosecutor, as head of the reform team as evidence of this bias.Footnote ²⁴ Ultimately, the 2013 KUHAP reform efforts were unsuccessful, with the 1981 KUHAP remaining in effect—a failure likely attributed, at least in part, to this resolute opposition from the police (Lamchek, Reference Lamchek, Ciocchini and Radics2019).

The failed reform process ignited further tensions, culminating in high-stakes arguments before the Indonesian Constitutional Court in 2008 and 2016. The 2008 case centred on a former military general, Subarda Miradja. Identified as a corruption suspect in managing the military pension fund (ASABRI) by the prosecutor in 2007, Miradja’s situation exposed the power struggle. Previously, in 2004, the police had dismissed the case for lack of evidence, and the Ministry of Defence shielded him from charges. Miradja, facing this impasse, petitioned the Court, claiming his rights were violated based on double jeopardy. More pointedly, he challenged the very foundation of the prosecutor’s authority to investigate corruption, arguing it was unconstitutional.

During the litigation process, the police sided with Miradja and defended the dismissal of the case. The police argued that the prosecutor’s investigation power created legal uncertainty for the accused. According to the police, if new evidence or circumstances emerge, the prosecutor should notify them and allow them to conduct the investigation. The police further contended that the prosecutor’s actions to reinvestigate the case would make them appear unprofessional and imply that the prosecutor was superior in handling corruption investigations.Footnote ²⁵ Ultimately, the police requested the Court abolish the prosecutor’s investigation power, claiming it violated the functional differentiation doctrine—a core principle of Indonesia’s criminal justice system. They argued that granting the prosecutor investigative and prosecutorial authority eliminated checks and balances, concentrating power within a single institution.

In defence of their position, the prosecutor argued their authority to investigate corruption cases had deep roots, predating the KUHAP and extending back to the 1960s. They pointed to historical examples, such as President Soeharto in 1967, establishing an anti-corruption team with investigators under the Attorney General’s supervision.Footnote ²⁶ Additionally, they bolstered their claims to authority by highlighting their proven track record, citing data from 2003 to 2007 which demonstrated that prosecutors handled a substantial 80% of corruption cases, in contrast to the police’s 15% and the KPK’s 5%.Footnote ²⁷ This statistic, they argued, demonstrated their superior investigative expertise in corruption cases. Further bolstering their position, the prosecutors again cited international norms advocating for a proactive prosecutorial role in the criminal justice process, referencing guidelines and practices from countries like the United States, Portugal, Georgia, the Netherlands, and France.

The nine judges of the Constitutional Court declined to directly address the contentious issue of prosecutorial power. Instead, they dismissed Miradja’s petition on technical grounds, citing his lack of legal standing. Their reasoning hinged on the argument that challenges to criminal investigation procedures do not necessarily translate to violations of constitutional rights, as they pertain to specific individuals rather than universally applicable principles. However, the Court did not completely sidestep the issue. While acknowledging the prosecutor’s existing legal authority to investigate corruption cases, they issued a strong nudge to legislators. The Court urged them to enact clearer legislation defining the working relationship between the police and prosecutors. This implicit call for reform left open the question of whether the Court itself harboured doubts about the current power dynamics within the criminal justice system, suggesting that the underlying tensions between the police and prosecutor remained unresolved despite the Court’s decision.

Rekindled in 2016, the debate over pre-trial power flared anew when legal activists petitioned the Court to illuminate the rivalry between police and prosecutors.Footnote ²⁸ At its core, the enduring question remained regarding the extent to which prosecutors could influence police investigations, considering the KUHAP’s lack of clarity on their power dynamics. The petitioner argued that the pre-prosecution process, with its ambiguous design, fosters an unclear working relationship between police and prosecutors.Footnote ²⁹ This ultimately disadvantages those seeking justice. The petitioners, aiming for a more proactive prosecutor and seeking to break the deadlock in the criminal justice system, once again used the term dominus litis to justify their reasoning. To bolster their case, the petitioners not only referenced international norms favouring a robust prosecutorial role in investigations, citing the convention on the role of the prosecutor, but also presented data on the negative impact of the current system. They argued that the lack of clear cooperation between police and prosecutors led to over 600,000 cases going unresolved between 2005 and 2012. This statistic highlighted how the unclear division of power hindered effective investigations.

In response, the police first challenged the petitioners’ legal standing. They argued that the petitioner lacked the direct connection necessary to claim a violation of the articles in question. On the merits of the case, the police reiterated their position regarding the functional differentiation doctrine. They insisted that investigations remained the exclusive domain of the police, while the prosecution process (defined as representing cases before judges) belonged solely to prosecutors. The police emphasized that this doctrine reflected a political consensus established by lawmakers during the KUHAP’s creation in the 1980s.

The Prosecutors’ Labor Association, Persatuan Jaksa Indonesia (United Prosecutors), aligned itself with the motion. They argued for a more active prosecutorial role in investigations, citing the need to streamline the process and avoid unnecessary bureaucratic delays. Early involvement, they claimed, would allow prosecutors to ensure the completeness of case files, leading to stronger cases and, ultimately, a higher conviction rate.

The Court, once again, sidestepped the core issue. They reasoned that the problem was not the law itself but its implementation. The KUHAP, they argued, already allowed for collaboration between police and prosecutors through the concept of the preliminary prosecution process. In their view, the issue stemmed from the practices of legal institutions, not the law on the books. However, acknowledging the KUHAP’s lack of specific timeframes for police notification of investigation, the Court mandated notification to relevant parties (prosecutor, complainant, and suspect) within seven days of investigation initiation. This decision did little to clarify the power dynamics between police and prosecutors.

In 2021, the prosecutor made another bid to solidify their dominance within the justice system.Footnote ³⁰ This time, they strategically bypassed a direct confrontation with the police by leveraging Parliament to revise the prosecutorial law. As revealed by a Member of Parliament (MP), they initiated the revision to prevent further tension (gaduh) between the police and prosecutors.Footnote ³¹ Unsurprisingly, the revision reignited the debate surrounding the prosecutor’s role in investigations. A key issue was whether to incorporate the term dominus litis into the law. Proponents argued that including the term, even untranslated, would benefit Indonesian legal scholarship. Opponents, however, raised various concerns: one MP felt using a Latin term was unsuitable, while another believed the core principle of dominus litis was already implied since investigations fall under prosecution. In mediating this debate, the meeting chair repeatedly cautioned against using the term due to potential conflict with the police.Footnote ³²

Alarmed by Parliament’s proposed revisions to the prosecutorial law, the police mobilized their wing organization, Ikatan Sarjana dan Profesi Kepolisian (ISPI or Association of Indonesian Police Scholars and Professionals), to voice their concerns to the public.Footnote ³³ ISPI’s chairman, Sisno Adiwinoto, who also serves as special staff to the police chief, argued that the new law undermines police authority. He and his organization view the revisions as a regressive step for Indonesia’s legal system, claiming they echo an outdated colonial model (Faisal, Reference Faisal2020). Their primary objection centres on the prosecutor’s expanded power to conduct independent investigations after the police have completed theirs.

The revised prosecutorial law ultimately did not enshrine the concept of dominus litis or grant prosecutors independent investigative powers. However, it offered several significant concessions. First, prosecutors gained expanded authority in asset recovery and wiretapping during specific criminal investigations. Second, they were empowered to utilize “penal mediation,” an alternative dispute resolution tool in certain cases. Third, the law brought oversight of military jurisdiction under the purview of the chief prosecutor. Finally, in a symbolic gesture, the revision granted prosecutors the privilege of carrying firearms and utilizing special military-style licence plates similar to the police.

The revised law reflects a political compromise struck by Indonesia’s legal establishment. It preserves the status quo, with the police retaining control over pre-trial investigations and their dominant position within the system. Prosecutors, on the other hand, receive expanded authority without directly challenging police influence. This solution is, at best, a temporary reprieve. By skirting the core issue of power dynamics, Indonesian lawmakers have merely postponed the inevitable conflict, failing to deliver a lasting resolution.

Unsurprisingly, the Tin corruption case in 2024 (PT Timah) further revealed the power struggle between the police and the prosecutor. This time, the conflict transcended beyond argument within the courtroom as the police were able to mobilize their force to siege the Attorney General’s office in Jakarta and spied on the Deputy Attorney General who was working on the corruption case. According to credible media reports, this action was triggered because such a corruption case is linked to the involvement of the Police General and the Police’s external patron (Hasan, Reference Hasan2024; TEMPO, 2024). In response to this incident, the national police chief only issued a normative statement, essentially saying that his institution had no problem with the prosecutor. Meanwhile, the Deputy Attorney General said the public must ask the police to question their motives for using force against his institution (Achmad and Ramadhan, Reference Achmad and Ramadhan2024). Responding to this situation, Mahfud MD, former coordinating minister for law and security (Menkopolhukam), further confirmed this friction, essentially saying that he is aware the national police chief and Attorney General do not want to be in the same room except for cabinet meetings (Setuningsih, Reference Setuningsih2024). Ultimately, the police opted not to impose any sanctions on the officers involved in these incidents, a decision that drew significant public criticism.

This current situation clearly demonstrates that the unresolved power struggle has escalated into a direct turf war, with the police mobilizing their force against the Deputy Attorney General, the second-highest-ranking prosecutor in the nation. Without political commitment and concrete solutions to mediate this conflict, it is highly likely to resurface in the future, a point that will be further explored in the analysis section of this article.

4. The police versus KPK: Battle between the crocodile versus the gecko

Before delving into the conflict between the police and the KPK, it is essential to offer a brief overview of the KPK to establish context. In comparison to the police and the prosecutor, the KPK is a relatively new agency established in 2002, born out of the demands of the Reformasi movement to combat systemic corruption. Recognizing that existing law enforcement (police and prosecutors) was often entangled in corruption itself, Indonesian lawmakers empowered the KPK with the ability to prevent, investigate, and prosecute corruption cases, particularly those involving law enforcement and public officials (Butt, Reference Butt2009; Schütte, Reference Schütte2012). This broad discretionary power reflects the KPK’s legitimacy, stemming from the Reformasi movement’s fight for clean governance. The law positions the KPK as the leading force in tackling corruption, granting it authority above the police and prosecutors in such cases.

The KPK leadership structure was established with five commissioners at its helm. This commission comprised a chairperson and four deputy chairs. Notably, the agency’s personnel were a unique blend, consisting of seconded police and prosecutors working alongside investigators recruited through a separate, independent process. This distinctive structure, designed to foster impartiality and effectiveness, proved instrumental in the KPK’s initial success in combating corruption in Indonesia, as evidenced by widespread praise from both domestic and international commentators (Choi, Reference Choi2011; Schütte, Reference Schütte2012).

The conflict between the police and the KPK transcends mere bureaucratic wrangling or legal technicalities. It runs deeper than the tensions with prosecutors. Since the beginning, we will witness a direct clash of power and purpose, with each side wielding its criminal justice authority as a weapon in a bitter struggle. Indonesian popular culture aptly captures this dynamic through the “Crocodile versus Gecko” analogy. The entrenched police force, symbolized by the powerful crocodile, perceives the younger, more agile anti-corruption agency (the Gecko) as a threat. This evocative imagery echoes the biblical tale of David and Goliath, highlighting the perceived imbalance between the two institutions. This simmering tension has erupted in three distinct “Gecko versus Crocodile” episodes between 2009 and 2019. In each instance, high-ranking police generals implicated in corruption cases fiercely resisted investigations, prompting the police to mobilize against the KPK in an attempt to obstruct investigations and shield their own.

The first conflict between the police and the KPK occurred in 2009 when the KPK investigated a high-ranking police general, Susno Duadji. Duadji was structurally the third most powerful police official in the nation, holding the position of the chief of the detective unit (Kabareskrim). In May 2009, the KPK investigated Duadji’s involvement in several corruption cases. Duadji realized that he was being targeted, and on one occasion, during an interview with the media, when asked to comment about his involvement in the case, he answered:

…how can they [the KPK] not be stupid if they keep looking for something [Duadji’s involvement in the case] that is impossible for them to do? If you compare it, it is like a crocodile here and a gecko there. How can a gecko fight a crocodile? Is the crocodile angry? No, just regretful. The gecko is still stupid. We [the Police] are the ones trying to make them [the KPK] smarter, but after all these years, it is still not smart. We give it power, but it just keeps looking for something that it will never get.Footnote ³⁴

It was this interview that sparked the infamous analogy of the Crocodile versus the Gecko. After the interview was published in June 2009, it ignited a massive public outcry against the police. The Gecko, initially garnering substantial public support in its fight against corruption within the police institution, found that this backing did not initially deter the Crocodile from exerting its influence against the KPK. The police initiated an investigation targeting two KPK deputy chairmen: Bibit Samad Riyanto (a retired police general) and Chandra Hamzah, who reportedly authorized the inquiry into Duadji. Both were named as suspects due to alleged abuse of power and extortion during their investigation of other corruption cases.Footnote ³⁵ Seeking to counter the police’s actions, in October 2009, the two KPK deputy chairmen filed a petition with the Constitutional Court, requesting a postponement of their dismissal. They argued that the police had levelled baseless allegations against them. However, just a week after this legal move, the police detained both individuals, citing concerns that they might hinder the investigation by mobilizing public opinion against law enforcement.

Long story short, the pendulum of power shifted to the KPK when the Constitutional Court decided to publicly hear the wiretapped conversation recordings between corruption suspects investigated by the KPK. These recordings revealed collusion between the suspects, police officials, and high-ranking prosecutors to frame Riyanto and Hamzah. Hours after this revelation, with heightened public and political support, the police were forced to release the two KPK chairmen. Additionally, the then-President (Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono) formed an investigative team (Tim 8) to uncover the truth. While the details of their investigation remain classified, it is known that the team concluded the investigation against the KPK deputy chairmen was baseless and recommended the police and prosecutors halt it. The police and the prosecutor were left with no other option but to halt the investigation against Riyanto and Hamzah. In December 2009, both of them were reinstated to their old position. Meanwhile, Duadji was sacked from the police force. Further, in March 2010, he was arrested by the police for corruption cases previously investigated by the KPK. This episode effectively marked a victory for the Gecko against the Crocodile.

Four years after the initial conflict, in 2012, tensions between the Police and the KPK resurfaced under similar circumstances. However, the intensity of this second episode was notably lower than that of the first. The conflict emerged in 2012 when the KPK launched an investigation into the involvement of several high-ranking and mid-ranking police officials in a corruption case related to a simulator required for passing the driving licence test. More importantly, the KPK also named Djoko Susilo, a two-star police general and head of the traffic police, as a suspect. In response, the police asserted their own investigation, concluding that no foul play had occurred.

During a search conducted by the KPK at the traffic police office in Jakarta, investigators encountered significant obstacles when attempting to enter and exit the premises. Initially met with resistance from police officials, the KPK officials were only granted access after several KPK leaders intervened. However, when the KPK investigators sought to leave the building with evidence, the police insisted that they leave the evidence behind. After seven hours of negotiations, the police finally permitted the KPK officials to depart with the evidence in the early morning (Febriyan and Sufa, Reference Sufa2012).

Months before the search, the police made a move in an effort to stop the KPK investigation. Novel Baswedan, a key investigator and a former member of the police, was named as a suspect because of allegations of power abuse dating back to 2004, during Baswedan’s tenure as a police official. The Police also instructed its officers seconded to the KPK and involved in the Susilo case to resign from the KPK, ostensibly as a display of loyalty to their original institution. Following this instruction, 16 KPK officials resigned (TEMPO, 2012). Witnessing this power struggle, once again, President Yudhoyono was compelled to intervene in the conflict, publicly declaring that the corruption case involving Djoko Susilo must be handled by the KPK and instructing the Police to revoke its decision to name Baswedan as a suspect (Yustiningsih et al., Reference Yustiningsih2012). This statement effectively halted the police’s investigation. The second episode, though less dramatic, played out similarly. Despite these attempts by the police to obstruct the investigation, the KPK persevered. Their tenacity paid off, as Susilo’s 2013 corruption conviction cemented the agency’s success in this case.

However, the Gecko’s winning streak ended in the third episode of the conflict. This conflict erupted in 2015 when the KPK dared to name Budi Gunawan, a controversial frontrunner for national police chief, as a corruption suspect. The stakes escalated dramatically as the police solidified a powerful coalition with major political forces, turning the tide against the anti-graft agency. This shift in dynamics was largely due to Gunawan’s close affiliation with the ruling party, the Indonesian Democratic Party for Struggle (PDIP).

The saga began in January 2015 when the KPK, led by its chairman Abraham Samad and deputy chairman Bambang Widjojanto, held a press conference announcing their decision to name Budi Gunawan as a corruption suspect. According to the KPK, Budi Gunawan was suspected of receiving bribes during his tenure as the head of the development bureau from 2003 to 2006. This move came just a few days after President Joko Widodo (who was also, at that time, a member of PDIP) had nominated Gunawan as the sole candidate for the position of national police chief. However, Gunawan’s status as a suspect did not stop the parliament from proceeding with the candidacy. Eight factions of the parliament accepted Gunawan’s candidacy, while only two factions wanted to at least postpone the candidacy process.Footnote ³⁶

After Gunawan gained parliamentary approval, several moves were made to delegitimize the KPK and its leaders. First, a romantic photo between Samad and beauty pageant winner Elvira Devinamira went viral in the public and social media. It was not clear who distributed the photo, but it was sent to several national media companies (DetikNews, 2015). Samad, Devinamira, the KPK, and several independent experts claimed that the photo was fake. However, there were also opinions saying that the photo was real (MerdekaNews, 2015).

Second, another attempt to delegitimize Samad came from Hasto Kristiyanto, the secretary general of the PDIP. In an interview, Kristiyanto revealed that he had met Samad privately to discuss the possibility of the KPK chairman running as a vice president in the 2014 election. Kristiyanto explained that Samad was very eager for the vice presidency and was deeply disappointed when he was not appointed as a vice presidential candidate. Kristiyanto further clarified that Samad blamed Gunawan for his unsuccessful bid (Jingga, Reference Jingga2015). This interview clearly aimed to delegitimize the KPK, as its decision to name Gunawan was perceived as politically motivated. Additionally, the law prohibits KPK officials from meeting privately with politicians, as it could create a conflict of interest.

The plot thickened further with the police’s own counteroffensive. Acting on a complaint from Gunawan’s lawyers, they initiated an investigation against the entire KPK leadership—the chairman and all four deputies. The basis for this probe was the alleged unauthorized disclosure of a confidential document by KPK officials from the financial transaction report agency (PPATK) concerning the Gunawan case. But the police did not stop there as they went a step further, arresting KPK Deputy Chairman Bambang Widjojanto shortly after he dropped his son off at elementary school. Their justification: alleged evidence that Widjojanto, a former lawyer, fabricated evidence in a 2010 Constitutional Court case.Footnote ³⁷ However, these accusations lacked any concrete proof and were widely viewed as a baseless attempt to discredit the two KPK officials. Further reports alleged that the Police lobbied and threatened the KPK’s Director of Investigations, who was himself a seconded police officer. Media investigations reportedly revealed that several police officials pressured the Director to terminate the Gunawan investigation (Dyantoro, Reference Dyantoro2015).

Witnessing these tumultuous developments, the public, who largely backed the KPK, called upon President Widodo to step in and address the crisis, echoing the actions taken by his predecessor. In response, President Widodo established a special investigative committee comprised of nine members, known as “Team Nine,” to thoroughly examine the matter. This committee ultimately advised the President to withdraw Gunawan’s nomination due to the lingering suspicions of corruption. Heeding their counsel, President Widodo revoked Gunawan’s appointment as the national police chief. Despite this setback, Gunawan found himself at the centre of further controversy when the South Jakarta Court, in February 2015, quashed his case. The court controversially ruled that the KPK did not possess the requisite jurisdiction to investigate Gunawan, arguing that he did not meet the criteria of a high-ranking government official during the years 2003 to 2006—a decision that provoked widespread scepticism.

In a surprising twist, the following year, Gunawan was rewarded with a significant promotion by the President, who appointed him as a four-star general and the chief of the State Intelligence Agency (BIN), a move that continued to stir debate.Footnote ³⁸ Moreover, a year after this incident, in 2017, Baswedan, a key KPK investigator for Gunawan’s case and former police official, was attacked with hydrochloric acid, causing permanent blindness. The attackers, two low-ranking police officials, cited Baswedan’s work in investigating senior police officials as a reason for the attack. During the trial, the attackers were represented by a police general, raising concerns of institutional bias. In the end, the attackers received a lenient sentence of one-year imprisonment.

The blow to the KPK does not end there. The aftermath continued three years after the conflict ended. In 2019, the Indonesian parliament initiated a revision to the KPK law. The legislative process of the law was held behind closed doors, amid protests from civil society and officials from the KPK (Mudhoffir and A’yun, Reference Mudhoffir and A’yun2021; Butt, Reference Butt2019). According to the elucidation of the law, the primary reason for the revision is to strengthen coordination among criminal justice agencies. Learning from the previous Crocodile versus Gecko incidents, the lawmakers blamed the previous KPK law as the source of the problem. Moreover, according to the introduction part of the law, there is also a need to increase ethical standards for KPK officials.

The revised KPK law has significantly curtailed the commission’s investigative powers, most notably by granting the KPK the authority to discontinue investigations and prosecutions. Previously, this power was prohibited, and in an ideal scenario, the ability to halt proceedings could be viewed as a positive development.Footnote ³⁹ This would allow the KPK to halt proceedings if they recognize an error in their investigation or prosecution, which is a plausible occurrence. The necessity for such a provision stems from the fact that under the old law, once the KPK initiated an investigation, they were compelled to pursue a conviction, regardless of any subsequent realization of a mistake. However, in a nation grappling with widespread corruption like Indonesia, the ability to terminate an investigation or prosecution could easily become a tool for corruption itself, with decisions potentially being influenced by the highest bidder. This potential for abuse is used to justify why the original KPK legislation did not include a mechanism for halting investigations or prosecutions. In defence of this approach, the KPK has argued that they set an exceptionally high threshold for initiating investigations to minimize the risk of errors.Footnote ⁴⁰

Furthermore, the once-broad authority of the KPK to conduct wiretaps and other enforcement actions like search and seizure without prior warrants from any other institution has been restricted. Under the new law, the KPK is now required to obtain warrants from the newly established “Supervisory Board.” This board oversees the investigation process and evaluates the performance of KPK officials. However, the President appoints the Supervisory Board, placing the once-independent KPK under the executive branch’s purview. While a supervision mechanism for criminal justice enforcement can be beneficial in theory, critics view this move by the President as a politically motivated attempt to curtail the KPK’s authority (A’yun and Mudhoffir, Reference A’yun and Mudhoffir2019). The appointment of Police General Firli Bahuri as the new head of the KPK following the legal revisions further solidified these concerns. Ironically, in 2023, The Police named Bahuri a suspect due to his involvement in corruption cases.

5. Analysing the conflict: Patronage bureaucracy, criminal justice power, and Ladang Hidup

When analysing the conflict between the police, the prosecutor, and the KPK, my interview with a senior MP responsible for overseeing criminal justice institutions shed light on this matter. When asked about his opinion on the conflict and the attempts by higher political forces to mediate it, he explained:

This interview reveals two key issues regarding inter-agency conflicts in Indonesia. First, the dominant motives of the conflict are not driven by legal ideals but rather by an ambition for institutional gain and personal gain, which he referred to as ladang hidup. Second, it demonstrates how the instrumental use of law enforcement agencies for political purposes has undermined lawmakers’ ability to act as impartial mediators in inter-agency conflicts, as they may themselves benefit from the conflict. The analysis in this section will focus on these two key issues, which, this article argues, offer insights into the fundamental questions surrounding the core conflicts between the police, the prosecutor, and the KPK.

In this context, the concept of ladang hidup serves as a stark metaphor, illustrating how the criminal justice system is perceived as a fertile ground for exploitation, both for personal enrichment and institutional advancement. To fully grasp the implications of this phenomenon, it is beneficial to examine the intricate relationship between criminal justice power and the deeply entrenched patronage bureaucracy that permeates the occupational culture of both the police and the prosecutor. Moreover, the chronic underfunding of these institutions, which severely hampers their operational capacity, further exacerbates this issue. This combination of factors has fostered a cultural acceptance of corruption within these agencies. Consequently, when conflicts are primarily driven by the need for self-preservation, their persistence and intensity become readily understandable.

In Indonesia, particularly within the government sector, the practice of patronage bureaucracy is widespread. Scholars have even labelled Indonesia a “patronage democracy” or “neo-patrimonial state,” where power is concentrated in the hands of patrons who wield it for their own benefit.Footnote ⁴² Baker’s research characterizes the Indonesian police as operating under this patronage bureaucracy, with numerous interconnected networks akin to a “rhizome state” (Baker, Reference Baker2015). Afandi similarly observes a comparable system within the Indonesian prosecutor service, driven by a combination of militaristic culture and unquestioning loyalty, further entrenched by formal regulations.Footnote ⁴³ In essence, this system operates on an exchange of favours: senior officers provide support, opportunities, and protection to their subordinates in return for loyalty, bribes, and a share of any illicit gains. These personal and often emotionally charged connections form a network within both the police and the prosecutor’s office.Footnote ⁴⁴ In this type of environment, loyalty to the individual and to the institution becomes blurred, intertwining into an inseparable part of their organizational culture.

To maintain such a patronage network, criminal justice power becomes a valuable currency. The ability to exercise this power, often intertwined with practices such as bribery, extortion, selective prosecution, and the politicization of law enforcement, can be easily leveraged for personal and institutional gain. The detective unit of the police (Reskrim) has long been known as the basah (“wet”) field because the exercise of such power can be easily monetized.Footnote ⁴⁵ For instance, a report from NGOs revealed this tendency, where an accused is extorted at every stage of the criminal justice system, particularly in the pre-trial process.Footnote ⁴⁶ Furthermore, in 2014, a commissioner from the police’s supervisory commission (Kompolnas), Adrianus Meliala, went as far as saying that the detective unit of the police functions as an Automated Teller Machine (ATM) for its top officials.Footnote ⁴⁷

Meanwhile, ethnographic research by Afandi also revealed similar practices, highlighting the tendency for low-ranking to mid-ranking prosecutors to monetize their criminal justice authorities in order to pay (setor) their top officials. Afandi even exposed the prosecutors’ justification for obtaining illicit money from the criminal justice process by separating the concept of rezeki halal (legitimate money) and rezeki haram (illegitimate money). In this context, as long as it does not involve extortion, it can be considered rezeki halal and, therefore, acceptable. However, if it does involve extortion, it is not legitimate, hence the term haram (Afandi, Reference Afandi2021, p. 103).Footnote ⁴⁸ As argued previously, these two concepts reveal that Indonesian prosecutors have also developed a cultural acceptance of bribery.

Further exacerbating this situation is the fact that both the police and the prosecutor face budget constraints that limit their operational capacity. This has opened the door to monetize their power. Baker has underscored the police’s reliance on off-budget funding to operationalize their activities, going so far as to say that, because of its heavy reliance on off-budget funding, they have lost track of how to accurately calculate their own institutional needs (Baker, Reference Baker2012, pp. 76–7). Meanwhile, Afandi disclosed that prosecutors consistently feel undervalued by the government regarding the allocation of funds to support their institutional needs (Afandi, Reference Afandi2021, pp. 104–10).

Untung Rajab, a retired police general, vividly illustrates the fierce competition over the monetization of criminal justice power using plain, accessible language. He portrays the relationship between the police and the prosecutor as two male tigers within the same cage. When there is “meat”—defined in his own words as “fulus, rezeki, and bunga kota” (illicit money) obtained from the use of investigative power—the two tigers inevitably fight for it. Rajab also highlights the prosecutor’s dissatisfaction, complaining that due to police dominance in the investigation, there is only bone left for them when the meat is finally passed over (Rajab, Reference Rajab2003, p. 199). This collection of literature further confirms that the exercise of criminal justice power is closely linked to the concept of ladang hidup—though they substitute the term with “meat” and rezeki, respectively.

These facts illustrate that both the police and the prosecutor share an occupational culture deeply ingrained in the interplay of patronage, power, and ladang hidup. Influenced by this culture, both police and prosecutors tend to prioritize their own missions, even when collaboration is necessary. This explains the police’s fierce resistance in their initial conflict with the prosecutor. When the prosecutor threatened their investigative power through law reform and judicial motions, the police likely perceived such moves as nothing more than a power grab, given their shared occupational cultures. This further illuminates the deep suspicion expressed by a police official involved in the conflict with the prosecutor, as revealed in my interview detailed in the previous section. With this tension unresolved, the conflict escalated into a direct confrontation when the prosecutor investigated the alleged involvement of police patrons in the Tin corruption case. It is plausible that the police, perceiving themselves to be no less driven by self-interest and internal priorities than the prosecutors, felt this was an attack on their institution and thus justified their mobilization of force against them. This perspective offers a compelling explanation for the lack of further investigation into the incident.

From this perspective, the police’s second conflict with the KPK becomes easier to comprehend. As a new player with significant investigative power, the KPK posed a direct threat to the very core of the police’s institutional identity, which is deeply rooted in its occupational culture. Consequently, the police perceived the KPK not as an ally in combating corruption, but rather as a rival encroaching on their domain. In contrast to the prosecutor’s institution, which shares a similar occupational culture with the police, the KPK was mandated from its inception to dismantle the culture of institutionalized corruption within the existing criminal justice system, a key objective of the reformasi movement. Within this framework, the KPK is positioned as a pivotal agent of reformasi ideals, representing a clear counterpoint to the deeply rooted culture of corruption within the established bureaucracy (IM 57+, 2022).Footnote ⁴⁹ This explains why, despite being a relatively new institution, the KPK dared to challenge the established police power and garnered massive public support, drawing legitimacy from the widespread desire to eliminate systemic corruption.

Faced with this existential threat posed by the KPK, the police swiftly deployed their criminal justice powers in defence. In the first episode, they leveraged this power to charge two KPK leaders with fabricated corruption allegations. Only through a combination of massive public support and intervention from the Constitutional Court and the President did the KPK prevail. The second episode followed a similar pattern, with the police targeting the KPK’s top investigator. The directive for seconded police officers to resign from the KPK, demonstrating loyalty to their institution when a senior patron was under attack—an instruction duly obeyed—illustrates how these officers retained their police occupational culture. This serves as compelling evidence of the deep internalization of such a culture within the police institution.

It was in the third episode of the conflict that the KPK could no longer resist. This article posits that this collapse was due to two interconnected factors. First, they targeted the police’s main patron, Gunawan, the sole candidate for national police chief, who has a strong political backing. Second, they faced a substantial decline in public support, a vital asset in their bitter fight.

This political backing can be attributed to the fact that politicians often rely on the police to assist them in achieving electoral success. As we can see previously, most of the parliament members, representing the reality of higher political forces in Indonesia, supported the President’s decision to nominate Gunawan as a national police chief—an indication of their vested interest in the conflict. While Gunawan’s nomination was ultimately cancelled, he still secured a promotion to head the state intelligence unit (BIN), a position formally equivalent in rank to the national police chief. Meanwhile, the KPK suffered a significant blow. In 2019, its investigative powers were curtailed, and, even more damagingly, the KPK came to be headed by a three-star police general. This move was widely seen as subordinating the KPK to the police force, which was headed by a four-star general.

Moreover, there is documented evidence that the police and the prosecutor are being used for electoral purposes to help politicians win elections (Muradi, 2014; Ibrahim, Reference Ibrahim2018; Siregar, Reference Siregar2023). This creates a situation where the actors who could mediate the dispute are hesitant to intervene, allowing the conflicts to persist and escalate. The systemic nature of this quid pro quo arrangement poses significant hurdles for any attempt at intervention, including those initiated by the KPK.

This political backing facilitates a systemic approach to undermining the KPK’s public support by propagating the narrative of infiltration by radical Islamic groups, a highly sensitive issue within Indonesia (ICW, 2020; Mudhoffir, Reference Mudhoffir2023, pp. 75–6). The narrative further suggests that this radical Islamic group has evolved into a formidable force within the agency, possessing the power to potentially override the commissioners’ authority.Footnote ⁵⁰ Despite the lack of credible evidence, this tactic is likely a deliberate strategy to exploit public anxieties and influence public opinion of the KPK, which has historically enjoyed solid public backing. A recent public perception survey reveals that public confidence in the KPK now ranks below that of the prosecutor and the police (Indikator, 2024).

In summary, with the combination of these approaches, the police emerged triumphant in this third episode of “Crocodile versus Gecko” through the exercise of criminal justice power and political manoeuvring. These outcomes reflect the cost of challenging the entrenched status quo.

6. Beyond the status quo: Rethinking conflict resolution in the Indonesian criminal justice system

Given the complexities of the conflict between the police, prosecutor, and the KPK, there is no one-size-fits-all solution. Conceptualizing the criminal justice system as a loosely coupled organization provides a valuable perspective, allowing us to understand the actors’ interactions as social exchanges, and particularly how differing ambitions among the police, prosecutors, and the KPK can lead to conflict. This serves as a fundamental framework in attempting to, at the very least, rethink conflict resolution within the Indonesian criminal justice system. Within this framework, the key to achieving a harmonious relationship lies in establishing stability in these interactions, thus minimizing conflict when they work together. Organizational literature offers two models for attaining this state of equilibrium. The first is the natural model, which entails allowing interactions between institutions to persist without intervention from higher or external forces (O’Leary and Newman, Reference O’Leary and Newman1970; Cole, Reference Cole1971; Feeley, Reference Feeley1973). The hope is that, within this network of exchange, their working relationship will stabilize over time, and they will eventually establish their own rules of the game for interaction.

In the conflict between the police and the prosecutor, Indonesian political elites have shown a tendency to employ this model, hoping that the relationship between these two entities will improve organically over time through natural adaptation. This approach was evident during the 2021 reform of prosecutorial law, where Indonesian lawmakers consistently emphasized the need to avoid disruption and maintain a harmonious relationship with the police as a “neighbouring friend.” Moreover, political elites have campaigned for the need to resist any display of ego sektoral or institutional ego, arguing that both the police and the prosecutor essentially share the same goal in criminal case processing, which is to achieve “justice” for society (Pangaribuan, Reference Pangaribuan2022).

The natural model might prove effective in more developed countries, where power struggles within the criminal justice system may not be as deeply entrenched as in Indonesia. For example, in France, Hodgson observes that the police and prosecutor have achieved a state of equilibrium in their relationship, largely due to a shared belief in the importance of mutual understanding as the glue that binds them together. Hodgson argues that this mutual understanding can be seen in the situation where, although French prosecutors possess the authority to oversee police investigations through visits, extended detention periods, and independent questioning of suspects, this power is rarely exercised due to concerns about being perceived as overly interventionist (Hodgson, Reference Hodgson, Langer and Sklansky2017, p. 47).

However, in Indonesia, this solution has a high potential for failure as the power struggle transcends mere procedural disagreements and is intrinsically linked to the concept of patronage and ladang hidup. As previously established, the conflict between the Indonesian police and prosecutor’s office, rooted in historical tensions dating back to the 1950s, demonstrates a persistent and potentially escalating pattern, absent any meaningful intervention. Given the historical and ongoing conflicts between these institutions, it is unrealistic to expect that a harmonious working relationship will develop organically without deliberate and targeted interventions. Relying solely on a natural model of cooperation is more than likely a “bridge too far” for Indonesia’s current situation.

The second model for achieving a harmonious working relationship is the rational model, as exemplified by Weber’s work, which views organizations as instruments designed to achieve specific goals efficiently (Cole, Reference Cole1971; Feeley, Reference Feeley1973). With this design, the roles of criminal justice actors are precisely regulated, eliminating any overlap and aiming for a predictable and controlled process. In contrast to the natural model, the utilization of this framework necessitates intervention from higher external forces, namely the Indonesian lawmakers. With this intervention, a harmonious relationship can theoretically be created, as the law mandates a precise distribution of criminal justice power, leaving no room for potential overlap. On paper, this approach might sound effective. In fact, in the United States, during a period of conflict between the police and the prosecutor in the 1960s to 1980s, the US Federal government mandated a policy recommendation to establish procedures allowing the police and the prosecutor to check each other’s exercise of power. Moreover, the federal government also recommended improving internal procedures to enhance coordination (McDonald, Rossman and Cramer, Reference McDonald, Rossman and Cramer1982). Since the severity of conflict in the United States is not as intense as in Indonesia, such solutions have proven effective, as the relationship between police and prosecutors is generally more cooperative and less adversarial.

Nevertheless, in Indonesia, where the stakes of the conflict are intensely high, this solution would likely prove ineffective, especially without the political commitment from higher authorities to enforce it. Indeed, the Indonesian government has made numerous similar attempts, ranging from creating Memorandums of Understanding between the police, prosecutor, and the KPK to establishing task forces comprising these agencies (Dony, Reference Dony2017; Joint Regulation between Police, Prosecutor and Judge, Peraturan Bersama Mahkumjapol [Joint regulation between police, prosecutor and judge], 2010). Unfortunately, when those in higher political power have vested interests in maintaining the status quo, they are unlikely to sanction clear and precise policies that could disrupt it. Consequently, such policies tend to be vague and ineffective, as the primary consideration when drafting them is to avoid gaduh among institutions.

As explained previously, this hesitance stems from the pervasive politicization of law enforcement in Indonesia. When this occurs, elected politicians become indebted to these institutions, further compromising their ability to intervene impartially when necessary. For instance, although independent oversight bodies exist for the Police (Komisi Kepolisian Nasional or Kompolnas) and the Prosecutor (Komisi Kejaksaan or Komjak), their effectiveness is hampered as the law only grants them advisory powers. Despite calls to strengthen such commissions, lawmakers are hesitant to take bold action due to their compromised positions. Furthermore, as we have seen, the establishment of the KPK initially offered a glimmer of hope for improvement. However, the KPK itself ultimately came to be viewed as a disruption to the well-established status quo, leading Indonesian political elites to perceive the need to neutralize the institution.

These facts underscore that, given the deeply entrenched nature of the issue, resolving this conflict is a formidable challenge, potentially requiring radical solutions. Crucially, there must be an acknowledgement that the inter-agency conflict, driven by patronage, power struggles, and the concept of ladang hidup, has far-reaching consequences for the entire government. It operates as a malignancy within the state, eroding public trust and embodying a form of rent-seeking behaviour within Indonesia’s criminal justice system. Recent surveys indicate a decline in public confidence in law enforcement, while Transparency International’s Corruption Perception Index consistently ranks Indonesia poorly.Footnote ⁵¹ Ultimately, it also jeopardizes Indonesia’s aspiration to become a developed nation, as the principle of the rule of law risks becoming a mere empty slogan.

Furthermore, considering that the power struggle is closely linked to patronage and ladang hidup, it is crucial to lower the stakes of the conflict by narrowing the discretion of criminal justice actors, particularly when exercising enforcement actions such as establishing charges, arrests, searches, and seizures. It is precisely the exercise of these powers that is often monetized for personal gain. Therefore, substantial checks and balances on this power are necessary. With this approach, the patronage bureaucracy can be dismantled, as the wide discretion of criminal justice power that acts as its currency will lose significant value. This is where intervention from higher political forces, as required in the rational model, can be effectively applied. Only then can both the natural and rational models be effectively introduced to mitigate the conflict, along with normative approaches such as adopting a merit-based recruitment system, increasing funding for operationalization, and introducing a robust oversight system.

Indonesian lawmakers may find valuable lessons in the experience of Georgia, a post-Soviet country whose criminal justice system was similarly plagued by patronage and corruption. In 2003, following the Rose Revolution, the Georgian police and prosecutor’s office underwent a radical transformation. Over 30,000 police officers, representing 90% of the existing force, were dismissed (primarily from the traffic police and detective units), paving the way for a massive recruitment drive to bring fresh personnel and dismantle entrenched corruption and patronage networks (Devlin, Reference Devlin2010). The prosecutor’s office also underwent significant reforms, albeit less dramatic than the police overhaul. The primary focus was on enhancing transparency, accountability, and professionalism within the institution. Observers have lauded the radical approach taken by Georgia’s political elites, citing it as a success story in transforming a corrupt system (O’Shea, Reference O’Shea2022). In fact, Georgia’s success has been informally discussed by Indonesian legal and political elites, though met with resistance from the Indonesian police, who deem such a solution too drastic for their country (Samosir, Reference Samosir2022).

Another success story in combating patronage bureaucracy and corruption can be found in American history. In the 1980s, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) launched one of its largest operations, code-named “Operation Greylord,” in Cook County, Chicago, where corruption and patronage were deeply ingrained in the system. This operation led to a complete overhaul, resulting in 3 suicides and over 70 indictments against corrupt judges, prosecutors, defence lawyers, and their intermediaries (Hake and Klatt, Reference Hake and Klatt2015; Nardulli, Reference Nardulli1986, p. 383). The experiences of countries like Georgia and the United States demonstrate that even deeply entrenched systems can be reformed. Indonesia can learn from these examples and forge its own path.

However, applying lessons from those countries might prove inapplicable to Indonesia. Recent developments indicate that, in March 2025, the Indonesian parliament initiated discussions on KUHAP reform, aiming for completion by the end of 2025. In response to questions regarding the distribution of power within the criminal justice system, the parliament promptly asserted that the reform would not alter the existing power arrangement, particularly between the police and the prosecutor, as its primary objective is to align procedural law with the new criminal code, effective in 2026 (Da, Reference Da2025). This response indicates that Indonesian lawmakers continue to place hope in a natural model of cooperation between institutions, despite uncertainty over whether and when such harmony might ever be achieved. Yet, as this article has shown, such hope is undermined by the very political configuration that enables institutional rivalry, creating a devil’s circle in which the lack of political will prevents reform, while the absence of reform perpetuates conflict.