Michele Hewitson: Enduring love story of partners in crime

Donna Awatere Huata and Wi Huata were in Court Room 8 at the Auckland District Court yesterday. They were there to be sentenced to prison. But if you didn't know this - and for much of the four-hour sentencing they gave every appearance of not knowing or not wanting to know this - you might have thought you were at a ceremony for the renewal of their wedding vows.

She was tiny, doll-like, in her pale suit; beautifully made up. He wore jeans and a jacket, white shirt, no tie.

He's a big man, made bigger by her littleness. He gazed and gazed at the woman who would later be referred to as a girl whose "family had made her feel like a princess". She has been in Arohata Women's Prison since last month. They, mostly, had eyes only for each other.

In the gallery were the elite of Maoridom: Pita Sharples, Titewhai Harawira, Whetu Tirikatene-Sullivan, Willie Jackson, Hone Harawira, Donna Hall. Tariana Turia wasn't there. She was "busy".

The ladies had dressed up for the occasion. Vapi Kupenga wore a wonderful fake snakeskin jacket, and kept her sunglasses on in court. Titewhai's hair was courageously, defiantly purple. She had long, glimmering nails with diamantes and, on one, a bauble on a gold chain. "Well, it's too cold to wear on your belly button."

The couple entered the court holding hands. They sat and held hands for almost four hours. Her gold-streaked mop of ringlets covered much of her face. Sometimes he closed his eyes, tight. His right eyebrow twitched, the only outward sign of tension. And when they stood for sentencing, their hands were entwined. She rubbed his stomach.

Judge Roderick Joyce, QC, made the point that where Donna was, Wi was always in the background. He said: "The closeness of the couple has had some downsides". If they were listening, they showed no sign. "That's all right. That's all right," she whispered.

But then the courtroom became a place of protest. "Oh you, pokokohua," shouted Hira Huata, Wi's sister, who used to be his brother, at the judge. This is like calling someone a devil, but worse. The media were as bad, if not worse. We were all racists. It was raw and frightening, and all control was lost. The media mostly stayed very still. The court was adjourned. The police came. There was a sense of inevitability about all of it.

There is always a funny atmosphere after a wedding, once the bride and groom have left: a flatness.

Here there was the anger, now smouldering. He left first, flanked by guards. She stayed a little longer, her court outfit now looking like what used to be called a "going away" suit.

The judge had used words like "Machiavellian", and "white collar fraud", and "no remorse".

He, like many, remained perplexed about Awatere Huata. He referred to her bright burning passion for education and family, her obvious intelligence. He didn't need to mention her obvious ambition.

He spoke of what she had done as remaining "something of a puzzle". He said of her stomach-stapling operation that even if her husband knew about it he "plainly received no benefit from it". But he did. He got a beautiful slim wife; he plainly revelled in her new body.

They had stolen money, but that wasn't what the trial was about.

For many Pakeha it was about a tacky crime, and a fall from grace. To many Maori it was about a racist justice system.

And a love story. Not a tragic story; an enduring one, said Hilda Harawira, wife of Hone.

Awatere Huata hugged the kids and there were tears. You couldn't help wonder if it crossed her mind to ponder whether it might have been preferable to be fat, but free.