My father had always wanted the story preserved.
Maybe I'd been so focused on protecting the machine that I'd almost forgotten why he loved it.
The museum proposed a revised exhibition.
Instead of displaying the intact Phoenix as originally planned, it wanted to preserve selected surviving components and present them alongside photographs, factory documents, and the story of the vehicle's destruction.
I hesitated.
The thought of strangers staring at crushed metal as though it were an attraction made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want my father's work reduced to a dramatic display about an angry HOA president.
The curator seemed to understand.
She explained that the exhibition could focus on the history of the prototype and the people who developed it, while acknowledging the circumstances of its loss without sensationalizing them.
The surviving components could be documented and stabilized.
The original chassis identification plate could be displayed.
And the engineering records could help demonstrate the contributions of technicians whose names rarely appeared in official histories.
I asked whether my father's role would be included.
The curator nodded.
"Absolutely."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then she suggested naming part of the exhibition after the people who kept experimental vehicles alive after their manufacturers disappeared.
I liked that.
My father wasn't famous.
He didn't need a statue.
He would've laughed at the idea of someone calling him a visionary.
But he deserved acknowledgment.
And there were many people like him.
Mechanics.
Test drivers.
Machinists.
Electrical technicians.
People whose skilled hands turned engineers' designs into functioning machines.
The museum could tell their stories.
I agreed to continue discussing the exhibition.
But I made one condition.
The car's destruction couldn't be presented as proof that rare automobiles were valuable only because they were expensive.
The curator smiled.
"I wouldn't want to tell that story either."
Meanwhile, my attorney uncovered more information about the disposal authorization.
The electronic file submitted to Premier Recovery contained metadata and correspondence linking its preparation to the HOA president's administrative account.
That didn't prove she personally created every mark on the form.
Electronic files could be forwarded, edited, and reused by multiple people.
But the records narrowed the questions investigators needed to ask.
The president's lawyer insisted that his client believed the document was authentic.
My attorney requested the supporting identification, signature process, and any original communication from me.
None appeared.
The purported consent wasn't attached to a reply from my email address.
It wasn't supported by a recorded conversation with me.