He was also found not guilty of manslaughter by a jury.
The Crown alleged he strangled her and staged her death to look like a suicide at their Remuera home. The defence said there was no evidence of a homicide.
Niki Bezzant is a freelance journalist. This article was first published on her Substack newsletter This Changes Everything.
Like almost everyone I’ve talked to lately, I’ve been transfixed by the court case that’s been happening in the HighCourt.
The Polkinghorne murder trial. I have been absorbed, like many others, in the details of this trial. It’s compelling and appalling and enraging and incredibly sad. I walked to the court and sat in the public gallery a few times.
I came away feeling a deep sadness more than anything else.
By now, I know more about Pauline than I – or anyone - should know. The contents of her private texts. The contents of her bladder and her blood.
Her fears and insecurities; her spending; the things that kept her awake at night, poignantly visible in her private search history. How to cope when your husband is having an affair. What does P look like.
We are all talking about this case. So, so many of my conversations – especially with other women – are centred around this: how much we would hate our lives to be dissected and exposed in the way Pauline Hanna’s has been. How badly we feel for her.
It’s called the Polkinghorne trial, but it has felt like Pauline Hanna has been on trial, too.
The thing that’s keeping me awake at night now – and at this point the jury is out, weighing the evidence; deciding what happened and who is responsible – is imagining Pauline. Not so much as she was: a generous, smart, highly capable woman who was also confused and betrayed and hurt, and who felt diminished by the man she lived with.
The man who is now the only one alive who knows what really happened on that morning of April 5, 2021.
What I’m imagining is an alternative ending. A different story for Pauline; one where she’s still alive today.
In my alternative universe, Pauline takes action. She realises she’s living in a world where – even though she loves him – she has reached the point where she has come to not know or trust herself anymore.
She realises she does not have to stay and be made smaller. She decides she deserves better.
So she tells him she is leaving. He doesn’t like it. How could she leave him? He is the one with the power; he is the one who is supposed to do the leaving. But Pauline says: f*** that.
Half the proceeds of the houses; half of all the investments. He will have to economise on drugs and sex workers, but that’s not her problem anymore.
In my story, Pauline gets herself a beautiful new place. She gets herself a dog; she goes to therapy and gets her confidence back.
She gets a new trainer. She learns to love and respect her body; she stops dieting and she stops drinking. She feels great. She learns to assert her boundaries and express her needs.
She spends time rekindling her friendships; she travels to see her family. She truly, deeply relaxes. She doesn’t have to walk on eggshells for anyone.
Pauline Hanna was 63 when she died.
In my story, Pauline also gets herself a new lover.
Someone who respects her brain and her expertise and her hopes and dreams. Someone who thinks she is clever and drop-dead gorgeous and tells her that - and shows her that – all the time.
They don’t live together. Pauline has had enough of living with men. But they spend time together doing things they both enjoy. No one coerces Pauline into doing things she doesn’t want to do.
No one tells her she’s doing basic, domestic things - picking up glasses! - wrong. No one puts their hands around her throat.
In my story, Pauline discovers herself again. She finds herself happier than she’s been in a long, long time. She forges ahead in her career. She hits a new peak. I didn’t know Pauline. I think I would have liked her.
This being Auckland, I do know someone who knows someone who knew her; they described Pauline as extremely capable, influential, smart, admired. They said she was immaculately presented; dressed beautifully. Also, that people around her did not think much of her husband, based on what she’d told them.
There were different types of people in the public gallery at court. Pensioners on a fun day out, chatting and laughing. Yes. But there were others. Women, mostly; silent and solemn. Women like me; strangers to Pauline but there to bear witness; feeling a connection to her – maybe a bit like her – there but for a twist of fate.
Pauline’s story could so easily have gone another way.
