White justice, black suffering: Extracting false confessions

For the entirety of my childhood - all through the '90s, the early noughts - I watched my father go through the same routine. Most days, he rose before the sun, putting on the kettle and sipping coffee as he watched the darkness fade into light. His uniform would be ironed and laid out from the night before, each crease perfectly pressed, just as he learned in the army. He would brush his teeth, comb his bushy hair and kiss us - his children - goodbye, before pushing out the door to make the twenty-minute drive to the Etna Creek jail, just outside Rockhampton.