Steve Braunias at Philip Polkinghorne trial: Doctor was a loving husband

The villain of Monday’s pantomime, a lecherous old goat foaming at the mouth at the prospect of having sex with
just days after the tragic death of his wife of 25 years; but on Tuesday, a loving and supportive husband, exchanging heart emojis all day, chatting about dry cleaning appointments, dinners and workouts at the “gym” with their personal trainer “Bazza,” the couple always there for each other: “Hello honey… I love you honey… Thank God I can come home to you.”

The murder trial of Dr Philip Polkinghorne has changed its tune, silencing the Crown’s sex-obsessed ravings as the defence spent hours and hours in the High Court in Auckland on Tuesday reciting many, many sweet texts between the wealthy Remuera eye doctor, 71, and his wife Pauline in the months, weeks and days before he died on April 5, 2021, either by suicide or murder.

No prostitutes. No OnlyFans subscriptions. No smoking of meth, an aphrodisiac. The trial has plunged the nation into a porn addiction for the past five weeks – it has brought us together, across class and race. The other day, on the way to court, I met a woman from the Chatham Islands who is learning te reo, and she told me that everyone in her class discusses the Polkinghorne case in Māori. But on Tuesday, the mahimahi was taken away, and all we heard was of a married couple happily going about their business.

No anger. No arguments. No simmering resentment about to boil over into the act of violence that police say would lead to Pauline’s death at age 63.

The Crown’s duty is to stir up and inflame the situation; the duty of Polkinghorne’s lawyer, Ron Mansfield KC, is to cut the engine and bore the courtroom to the point of insanity. He achieved this result during his lengthy cross-examination of a police detective. On Monday, in his chief testimony, Detective Andrew Frame read aloud the NSFW (not safe for work) messages exchanged between Polkinghorne and his long-term partner, sex worker Madison Ashton. On Tuesday, Mansfield asked Frame if he would be so kind as to read aloud the Zzzz messages exchanged between Mr and Mrs Polkinghorne.

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Pauline Hanna and Philip Polkinghorne at an event in December 2018. Photo / Norrie Montgomery

They texted each other about what they were having for dinner: rack of lamb, pork chops, butter chicken, steak and salad. The last text Polkinghorne had sent Hanna when she was alive: “I picked up the dry cleaning and hung out the laundry. Have you had lunch? Call me when you’re on your way home and I can make you some poached eggs.”

“Big boy,” she addressed her little soul mate. They discussed buying diapers for the grandchildren, buying carpet cleaner, buying pinot and shiraz. “You look beautiful.” They planned to dine at the Soul Bar and Morrels and the Maple Room. “Honey, sweetie.” They caught up on the status of the ironing. “Good morning, beautiful lady…”

It was around the time that the correspondence at the trial, which was to be the most incessant scandal of the century, turned to the subject of ironing that the public gallery in Room 13 began to empty. This story, too, will probably attract fewer clicks than usual. Oh no! God forbid! But wait. Sex! Sex, in this text from the filthy ophthalmologist: “Airport security thought I was carrying a gun in my pants. I said no, but that I was going to see the most beautiful woman on the planet.”

It was a message to his wife. Not to Madison Ashton. Not to Lee, or Alaria, or any of the other sex workers named in court… The observers in the public gallery stood up and left into the damp winter day and the raindrops hanging heavy on the trees of stately Parliament Street. They were disappointed, aggrieved. But this is a complex case, a story without a simple plan.

Throughout his career, the Crown worked hard to present Polkinghorne as, to quote my own helpful descriptions in previous reports, a “malignant sex dwarf,” an “odious sex dwarf,” a “repulsive sex gnome.” (More on that later.) Polkinghorne was a bit more than that. He was an admired and brilliant eye surgeon, specializing in the back of the eye, that last little window of optical light under the threat of darkness. He worked long hours. Pauline worked even longer; she barely seemed to sleep. They made good money (“Waiting on a f***ing patient”) and took great holidays (“There’s a new series on Netflix called Emily in Paris and she has lunch at the place where we went to see each other”) and they loved each other.

“And what’s for dessert? You!”

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“I brought you a coffee!”

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On April 1, 2021, Polkinghorne texts her to say he has fish for dinner. On April 2, Easter Friday, Hanna tells him of an emergency: Farro Fresh is closed. On April 3, the text to make poached eggs for lunch. On April 4, the last day of her life, there is only one text between them. She writes, “On my way home.” As always, she adds a row of three love hearts. Happy wife, happy life; but then she goes home, makes dinner (pork strips), watches Netflix (New Amsterdam), and by the dawn of Easter Monday, Polkinghorne (extremely unexciting text, February 16, 2020: “Taking out the trash”) is a widower.

THE Herald will cover the story in a daily podcast, Accused: The Polkinghorne Trial. You can follow the podcast on iHeartRadio, Apple Podcasts, Spotifythrough The first page stream, or wherever you get your podcasts.