Sat down.
And ate.
The first difficulty arose three weeks later.
Mariah had arranged to transfer Aaron's professional papers to the appropriate public archive, where records could be assessed under established privacy and retention rules.
She had also spoken with the Ridgemont Public Accountability Center about a small selection of personal materials that Aaron had explicitly approved for public use.
The staff welcomed the offer.
But a local documentary production company contacted her with a proposal.
It wanted to purchase exclusive access to Aaron's personal journals, unpublished notes, and family photographs.
The proposed documentary had a dramatic working title.
The Man the Police Chief Should Never Have Arrested.
Mariah stared at the proposal on her laptop.
She disliked it immediately.
The executive producer called the following afternoon.
"We think this could be a very powerful series," he told her.
Mariah sat at her kitchen table.
"What kind of series?"
"Six episodes. His early career, the undercover operation, the arrest, the reveal, the trial, and his legacy."
"Are you planning to discuss the earlier complaints against the department?"
"Of course."
"The residents who filed them?"
"Yes."
"The records clerks and officers who cooperated?"
"We'll cover all of that."
Mariah paused.
"Then why is your proposal centered on the chief discovering that he arrested a powerful state official?"
The producer laughed lightly.
"That's the hook. Viewers need a hook."
"I understand storytelling."
"Exactly."
"But the hook changes the meaning."
There was a brief silence.
He continued more carefully.
"We're not saying that ordinary people lack rights."
Mariah looked at the proposal again.
"Your promotional language says the chief made the mistake of choosing a man who could destroy his career."
"That's dramatic shorthand."
"It's misleading shorthand."
The producer sighed.
"Ms. Cole, with respect, your uncle became famous because of that reveal."
Mariah looked toward the framed family photograph beside her laptop.
"He was not interested in becoming famous."
"That may be true, but—"
"And he left written instructions concerning his papers."
The producer fell silent.
Mariah continued.
"I'm not selling his private correspondence for a version of the story he spent forty years trying to correct."