Lasting memories from my time in the ‘mushroom bubble’

Throughout Erin Patterson’s murder trial, an unlikely cast – detectives, lawyers, journalists and mourning relatives – shared coffees and hushed conversations at a quiet cafe just metres from the courtroom. But there were unspoken rules in play.

Ian Wilkinson arrives at Latrobe Valley Law Court after getting coffees from The Daily cafe. Picture: AFP

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I’ve covered plenty of court cases in the city, assignments where you file under pressure while the accused is still giving evidence and where you are under the pump on deadline. I’ve done my share of tricky legal stories that attract a heap of angry phone calls the next day. But nothing prepared me for the emotion, exhaustion and euphoria of my nine or so weeks in the “mushroom bubble” of the rural town of Morwell in Victoria.

I was there along with dozens of other reporters, podcasters, camera crews, snappers – and esteemed Australian writer Helen Garner – for one of the most intriguing trials of recent times.

The story of the female murderer whose weapon of choice was the death cap mushrooms that grow like crazy in the lush Victorian countryside was worthy of the best “true crime” fiction – perfect fodder for the streamers. A woman accused of murdering three elderly relatives – Don Patterson, Gail Patterson and Heather Wilkinson – of her estranged husband with poisoned beef Wellingtons.

But this week as Erin Patterson was found guilty on three charges of murder and one charge of attempted murder – the mother of two likely to spend the rest of her life behind bars as one of the nation’s most high-profile mass killers – I had mixed emotions.

It had been a long haul. I had missed just two weeks of the 11-week trial, bunkered down in an Airbnb about 15 minutes’ drive from the courthouse.

But suddenly I realised that I probably would never stand in line again at the Daily Cafe for my takeaway almond cap with the complimentary Tiny Teddy on the lid. I would not be rushing out from the courthouse in the rain to grab a hot chocolate for my colleague John Ferguson, busy filing from the media overflow room at the Latrobe Valley law courts.

And I’d be unlikely again to be the fly on the wall in a tiny cafe where the detective in charge of the investigation, Patterson’s defence lawyers, the crown prosecutor and assorted international media were trying to avoid each other’s eyes while looking for lunch.

The media pack getting ready for another day outside Morwell.

The Daily is owned by a young woman whose mum runs the kitchen and where a huge, communal farm-style table sits in the centre – and where they remember your order, even when you’ve just got into town. Then again, it was hard to miss those of us attached to the trial, especially the media. For two months and more we swamped the poor locals – blocking walkways, asking for vox pops, putting Morwell on the map for the worst possible reason.

Because while this was a big news story – a career-defining moment for many – it also was a tragedy played out every day in a complex, highly charged, emotional case with witnesses whose lives had been overturned by Erin Patterson’s callous actions.

In those weeks and weeks of listening to evidence and endlessly debating with colleagues the guilt or otherwise of this former regional bookshop owner, it was easy to forget that three people were dead and another was lucky to have survived.

Prosecutor Jane Warren outside court in Morwell. Picture: NewsWire/ David Crosling

Detective Senior Constable Stephen Eppingstall. Picture: AFP.

That man, Ian Wilkinson, was a constant presence across the 11 weeks, attending the court with relatives at times.

The only surviving lunch guest at that infamous Sunday gathering on July 29, 2023, he too was a regular at the Daily.

The newshound in me wanted to bail him up and talk but, like other media, I kept my distance – partly because something felt off about pestering a man, who had lost his wife, right after he had testified against the woman who had killed her, but also for fear of derailing the trial if I were to say anything that affected the evidence. The sole interaction I had with the Baptist pastor was when he kindly offered for me to go ahead of him in line.

These were the unspoken rules we applied to all of the players – everyone aware of the dangers of trying to talk to Patterson’s defence team, led by Colin Mandy SC, or the officer in charge of the investigation, Detective Stephen Eppingstall, or the impressive prosecutor Jane Warren. With so many locals plus 15 international media outlets, the nine authors, seven podcasters, seven documentary crews and one crew from a television drama series, it was the biggest matter media-wise the Victorian Supreme Court has managed.

The pack got bigger as the trial continued.

On the night after the jury began their deliberations, 60 or so people gathered – journalists, camera crews, photographers – for steak night at the Morwell Bowls Club. The staff kindly obliged, preparing dozens of $25 steaks and a few more than a dozen VB schooners for the weary media pack.

The sense in the room was the same as the day before a big exam. Everyone had prepared well – stories had been pre-written for after the verdict, photographers had gathered the shots they needed and had plans in place for if Patterson walked, and so we relaxed, laughed, speculated on the days to come, and reflected on our time in Gippsland.

JayDees owner Laura Heller, whose cafe is located directly opposite the courts, told Inquirer the trial had sent a “buzz” through the town, but she hoped it would force some attention on some of the crime issues it faced.

“We do have quite a high crime rate in the area with youth and homelessness as well. Everyone is sort of talking about how thought-out this crime is, whereas usually the crime here is to do with drugs and stuff like that,” she says.

JayDees cafe owner Laura Heller. Picture: Mohammad Alfares.

Like many of those covering the trial, Ferguson and I both opted to stay at Traralgon – a slightly larger town 15 minutes up the road from Morwell, complete with a Chemist Warehouse, a Zambreros and the best Malaysian food I’ve ever eaten.

Every day at about 9am we would drive out of this crown jewel of the South Gippsland region into Morwell, its slightly more derelict cousin, often commuting through layers and layers of dense fog to the Latrobe Valley law courts.

The two-hour front-to-kerb spaces outside the courthouse was converted into all-day parking for media, conveniently placed right behind where the morning television crews were filming their live crosses.

The early days of the trial felt tense and electric.

On day one, we jammed into Courtroom 5. Someone passed around a box of brownies as the media team drew names out of an empty tissue box for which outlets would be first into the courtroom for the opening addresses. Ferguson and I were balloted one of the six assigned media seats in the courtroom for the third day of the trial. Those allowed into the courtroom for the day were handed rainbow-coloured lanyards hand-made by the court’s media manager. At the end of the day, they would be handed back and passed on to the next group.

The main perk to being allowed into the courtroom was soaking up the colour from the day.

It is hard to describe the shock of the first time of turning around to see Patterson staring back at you. But those in the media overflow room were able to watch the trial through a large projector, could chat, react to moments on screen and take phone calls from news editors asking for the top line of the story.

Patterson’s defence team arrive for another day of hearings. Picture: NewsWire / Diego Fedele

At the end of each week, the media team would put the names of all the outlets back into a bowl to ballot again for the next five days.

I quickly fell into a routine in Morwell. A coffee from the Daily or JayDees, then a quick hello to the photographers stuck for weeks in the cold and rain, grabbing pictures of witnesses as they entered the building.

Perhaps a chat with the regular court-watchers – true-crime fans who had travelled from neighbouring towns to catch a glimpse of the trial that will define the region for decades to come.

The numbers of watchers from the gallery fluctuated as the trial waged on.

When Patterson elected to give evidence – a largely unexpected decision that sent gasps through the media overflow room – the queues stretched well down the front of the courthouse.

The guards who would scan us through security each day were some of the most joyful people in town. In the later stages of the trial, one started leaving large boxes of musk sticks in the media room. Court staff offered recommendations on how to spend weekends in the region. I can vouch for both the steam train ride through the old goldmines of Walhalla and taking a drive to Wilsons Promontory.

My lasting memories from my time in the “mushroom bubble” include that sense in the media pack that – one way or another – we were in this together. With many of us live-blogging the trial from the media overflow room, collaboration ruled.

“Did you guys hear ‘splattered’ or ‘spattered’?” one reporter asked as a police officer gave evidence about finding the food-smeared copy of Patterson’s beef Wellington recipe on her kitchen bench. Some of us had heard splattered, but more had heard spattered. Spattered it was, and on we went covering one of the most extraordinary true crimes most of us would ever encounter. Day after day, until the end – and a return to our other lives.