Two screenwriters and I are finishing a script adaptation of my book The Devil’s Triangle: Mark Judge vs the New American Stasi. The book recounts the nightmare of 2018, when criminals and oppo researchers tried everything from extortion to a honey trap to get me to prevent my friend Brett Kavanaugh from getting on the Supreme Court. One of my main assailants at the time was Kamala Harris, who was feeding the media oppo research and threw tantrums when I wouldn’t knuckle under to her savage plot.
The screenplay’s solid and a couple of people in Hollywood are interested. Yet there’s one scene that’s speculative and maybe fictitious and we’re not sure if we should include it or not. It asks a question.
Did I hook up with Kamala Harris in 1986?
Of course not. The idea is absurd. Still, there’s more evidence that she and I spent a night together than there is that Brett Kavanaugh and I were drugging and raping girls, getting into fights in Rhode Island, attacking girls in cars in California and mauling the hallucinogenic prevaricator Christine Blasey Ford in some house somewhere at some time in 1982.
According to the standard set by Kamala in 2018, she and I could’ve made love. In the screenplay of The Devil’s Triangle, we have a scene where Harris and I meet as college students. We were born just one month apart in 1964, which means that in 1986 we were both 22-year-olds. In 1986 Harris is an undergrad at Howard University. I’m a student one mile down the road at Catholic U.
The future vice president and I run into each other late at night over Christmas at the 9:30 Club. This is based on a real event, where I went to listen to a DJ at the club and wound up spending the evening with a pretty student from Howard University. Was that student Kamala Harris? It wasn’t. I’m almost positive. I was indulging in a lot of Reagan-era fun in 1986, so the night in question is patchy.
The scene: it’s the 9:30 Club. The original 9:30 Club on F Street—the stinky dark punk rock club. It’s Christmas break 1986 and people are festive, partying and dancing to the DJ. A girl and I are passing each other on the dance floor. We cut to a moment’s slow motion as we look at each other. It’s not just attraction, but like we know the other is going to play a role in our future lives. I’m from the East Coast, Irish-Catholic and white, she’s Indian and Jamaican, the child of elite academics in California. The song “Skin Trade” by Duran Duran. We both like sex.
In my view, this brief dance floor pass is enough. It’s subtle, it’s foreshadowing, it makes its point. However, one of my co-writers thinks we should go for broke. “Did you get together with a black girl from Howard in 1986?” he asks. Yes. “Do you remember her name?” No. However, I do remember what she looked like, and I’m 99.99 percent sure it wasn’t our future VP. “That’s not 100 percent!” my co-author cries. “After that shit she pulled you in 2018? We should have you guys knocking boots all night!”
Kamala Harris is a very attractive woman, at least on the outside, so the idea of that scene playing out is flattering. Yet in the screenplay we’ve striven to stick close to the facts, which are damning enough. The oppo researchers. The criminal lies. The honey traps. One central character is a lifelong friend of Blasey Ford’s. This person worked for the FBI for 20 years, was a supporter and vocal defender of Ford for the entire hearing, and then abruptly ended the friendship. In my research I’ve found out that this person, who will not speak to Ford, discovered the dark criminal activity Ford and her goons were involved in. She doesn’t want her FBI reputation ruined over that. It’s a crucial plot point in the story.
That’s far more interesting, substantial, and most importantly, real, than a 1986 encounter between Kamala and me. Why go Oliver Stone when the truth is enough?