Hobbies, heckles and love letters: How Erin Patterson’s life is unfolding behind bars

Erin Patterson has been found guilty of murdering three people and trying to kill a fourth by poisoning them with death cap mushrooms.See all 29 stories.

There’s a lively debate among prisoners about which is the hardest, longest night in jail: the day you are convicted or the day you get sentenced.

Gangland figures, who know that getting caught is part of the cost of doing business, say it’s finding out how long you’ll be inside. For civilians, it’s often the devastating finality of the guilty verdict.

No one knows which will be the worst for Erin Patterson. She sat stoically as the jury, rejecting her long and loud pleas of innocence, found her guilty on Monday of three counts of murder and one of attempted murder. And Patterson, who is facing a lifetime in jail, is yet to be sentenced.

Erin Patterson faces long periods in isolation.Credit: Jason South

But the day after she was convicted, the 50-year-old looked stunned and haggard after spending the first night in what was now, without a shadow of a doubt, her home for a long, long time.

And she will spend long periods of it “slotted” into isolation, potentially years in near-24/7 lockdown conditions.

Patterson has never coped well with the conditions in jail, not since her arrest in November 2023 over the fatal mushroom lunch that killed Don and Gail Patterson and Heather Wilkinson, and nearly killed Ian Wilkinson.

Since then, the introverted, bright mother of two has consistently struggled to accept exactly where she had ended up, say sources familiar with her conditions.

Her supporters would say it’s because she’s innocent. Others point to a life-long tendency to be difficult and unwilling to accept the world as she finds it.

Erin Patterson has never been known to be violent inside the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre, the women’s correctional facility in the western Melbourne suburb of Deer Park where she has spent every day – except for her trial – in a high-security wing for her own protection.

The Dame Phyllis Frost Correctional Centre.Credit: Joe Armao

She doesn’t curse or spit at the guards or bash anyone. But she has put inmates and guards off with her constant complaints, which are often taken as showing her complete lack of awareness of where she is.

“Her cell is too hot or too cold: ‘What are you going to do about it?’ she’d say. It was complaint after complaint after complaint,” says a guard who formerly worked in her unit.

“It’s not a hotel; it’s a prison. Yes, she wasn’t convicted yet. But it’s still a prison. It’s not meant to be customised for your comfort.”

Patterson claimed she was innocent and that the fatal mushroom meal was a horrible accident.

She had been separated from her two children and her dog, sheep and goats, and their life in the “forever home” she had built on a sprawling farmstead-style property in Leongatha.

And the struggle she was facing once police clapped cuffs on her was daunting: a Supreme Court trial for three murders and one attempted murder off the back of a 21-month investigation and prosecution case put together by homicide detectives and the Office of Public Prosecutions.

Patterson, who was considered something of a bookish intellectual among her family, spent her days doggedly reviewing the 50,000 pages of evidence that formed the case against her.

But the high-profile nature of her crime, along with her tendency to appear odd and difficult, left her open to a fair bit of hostility.

“Erin was a constant target for heckling and shouts of shit like ‘Have you got any mushrooms?’ It was pretty regular when she was first there,” the former guard said.

Patterson’s only “friends” were far, far outside the prison walls.

In the course of her trial, it would become obvious that she was the ultimate homebody – she socialised only with her husband Simon’s extended family. Not a single non-family member – friend, in other words – from Leongatha or Korumburra was called as a witness to testify to knowledge about her.

Her only external “friendship” group was based around a series of true-crime Facebook groups obsessed with baby-killer Keli Lane. From these, a smaller group of about a half-dozen women splintered off into a Messenger chat, comprising people spread all over the state and country whom Patterson would never actually meet.

Only one of these online mates would turn up in person – except as witnesses for the prosecution – to stand with Patterson during the trial: Alison Prior. They met for the first time after charges were laid, and Prior would be granted permission to approach Patterson in the dock to speak to her.

But others also tried to get close to her.

Parasocial supporters and obsessives were gathering online; like many figures central to a sensational crime, Patterson would begin receiving “love letters” inside prison. Others showed up for the trial itself to gawk at her from a distance.

As the months dragged on before her trial, Patterson joined a prison knitting circle – corrections authorities allow female inmates to use knitting needles under strict observation – but this would end after she was put into isolation for an unknown reason that has sparked wild speculation about fights and poison plots.

There have been persistent rumours that Patterson got into conflict with another inmate.

Erin Patterson being transferred back to prison after being found guilty of all charges.Credit: Jason South

This supposed altercation spawned rumours that Patterson attempted to poison a fellow inmate. The method? Cleaning chemicals or rotten or intentionally contaminated food were the most common claims.

There is no known evidence to support these claims.

Patterson had been in a maximum security unit for her safety since she was remanded in November 2023 but was moved into the special protection unit last year.

For almost 24 hours a day, she would be left staring at four walls – and her brief of evidence – cut off from almost all human contact except for her guards.

Her outdoor exercise area, where she was only infrequently allowed to go, was a four-metre by four-metre space surrounded by high concrete walls to prevent her from communicating with anyone, except by shouting through them, which is against the rules.

Her trial began in April 2025 at the Latrobe Valley Law Courts in Morwell, bringing new activity and a chance to leave lockdown conditions – but even that would be marred by problems.

Patterson’s unwavering belief that her exoneration depended on being judged by a jury of her peers back in Gippsland also became something of a rod for her own back.

Very early every Monday morning, for 10 weeks, she would be loaded into a prison van for the minimum 2½-hour trip down to the Morwell court. She would return every Friday.

Patterson reading inside her prison van.Credit: Jason South

But the real problems were in the holding cells of the Morwell police station, where she was kept in four-night stretches as the trial ran each week.

The beds in these custody cells were no more than a slab of plastic, a temporary place for holding offenders before they could be processed before a magistrate next door.

Patterson made a big fuss in the first days of her trial when the local officers, for safety reasons, had denied her access to a doona and a pillow brought from the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre.

Worse, from her perspective and that of her legal team, she had no constant access to a laptop to use in preparing for the trial.

Loud complaints made by her lawyer to Justice Christopher Beale eventually led to her being granted access to these key items.

But it won her no favours with the local authorities, who viewed Patterson’s presence in their small-town police station as a massive disturbance – one they were supposed to endure for only five weeks before the length of the trial blew out to 10 weeks.

That ended on Monday, with Patterson’s conviction on all counts. It was back to the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre for her that afternoon.

But there’s reason to believe that even that journey might not have gone exactly as it should have.

In earlier weeks, when the prison van was on the long Friday night drive from Morwell to Deer Park, it would suddenly break protocol and leave the highway.

Inside, Patterson would have had little idea what was going on.

The guards had pulled into a servo, wanting a smoke break.

It was unauthorised, but they probably figured she had an infinite amount of time to wait.

John Silvester lifts the lid on Australia’s criminal underworld. Subscribers can sign up to receive his Naked City newsletter every Thursday.