This is where the two stories differ.
Duncan says she only wanted to stop Mitchell from taking her picture and did not reach out to harm Mitchell or the camera.
Giulio Sciorio
Emily Mitchell
Laura Segall
Emily Mitchell, outside the Mesa Wal-Mart where one of her student groups ran a diaper drive to benefit Crisis Pregnancy Center, an anti-abortion group.
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Mitchell says Duncan violently attempted to grab the camera, breaking it and injuring her hand in the process.
In a statement she wrote for the police report, Mitchell says, "Her short fingernails scratched my hand until I bled . . . I somehow managed to physically pry her fingers out of my skin and off my camera . . . I tried to get them to repeat their hate crime speech . . the only information they would give me was that they were in the College of Fine Arts."
After the altercation, the professors left. In a memo sent to Mary Stevens in ASU's Office of General Counsel, Duncan wrote that she didn't think "much more of it other than it was unpleasant and that the girl was really out of control." However, Mesch filed a complaint with ASU's police department.
Mitchell didn't forget about it, either, though she also didn't go directly to the police. A couple of hours after the incident, she went to the dean's office and spoke to the secretary and the dean, "still shaking like a leaf," according to the report. She showed them the video, but no one recognized the professors.
She did not file a police report for several days. She wrote in a victim's statement: "Five days later, the injury is still sore and scabbed over." In a photograph taken of her hand by ASU police, it is difficult to see the marking. The report says only that the skin around the injury was pink and "appeared to be a surface scratch."
On the day Mitchell reported the alleged assault, she directed students to post fliers around campus featuring pictures of Duncan and Mesch under the heading "wanted for assault." The fliers listed the number for ASU Police but were not associated with the official investigation. The fliers violated several parts of ASU's sign-posting policy and were taken down. Meanwhile, Mitchell was kicked off campus and allowed back only on official business.
On the Arizona Growler, a conservative blog based in Tucson, Mitchell offers her defense: "The 'WANTED . . . for assault' that the professor believes may have implicitly indicated her in the crime was just a them on the Old Wild West kind of posters. We do live in Arizona, after all . . . there was absolutely no vindictive or premeditated motive at work here."
Under Morton Blackwell's direction, Mitchell decided to press assault charges. The case was dismissed in March.
Mitchell says she was told the case was thrown out because there wasn't enough evidence to show a reasonable likelihood of conviction "beyond a reasonable doubt that an injury occurred."
Duncan, a quiet woman who prefers to spend her time in Alaska's Yukon Valley studying indigenous beadwork, declined the request for an extensive interview but did say she's glad the ordeal is behind her.
Mitchell was perturbed that the charge was dismissed, and she's not thrilled with the legal system. "Doesn't it defeat the purpose of defense if they won't defend you unless they're convinced they can win?"
Today, the Caucasian American Men of ASU no longer exists. The club was never officially recognized by the university, and Jezierski acknowledges that interest fell off after a month or so. In April, Jezierski told the ASU student newspaper that he'd decided to join a Polish group on campus and that other members joined such clubs as the German Devils Deutsch Club.
Though one member of the club was quoted as saying the name was pretty much just a publicity stunt, Jezierski denies it.
"It was a serious issue," he told the State Press.
But not serious enough to actively pursue — not without Emily Mitchell around. Not long after CAMASU was founded, Mitchell's turf was expanded to include New Mexico. Without constant care, a club like CAMASU wasn't likely to grow. Mitchell has decided to move on.
Her contract with the Leadership Institute expired in April, and she decided not to renew. Instead, she's decided to become a high school biology teacher.
Some of Mitchell's clubs have survived. The New Sexual Revolution (a group that works for abstinence before marriage) has about a dozen committed members, with a much larger e-mail list. And when the club hosted Dr. Janet Smith, an anti-contraceptive advocate, on campus this spring, more than 100 students showed up to hear her talk.
Another of Mitchell's projects, Choice Magazine, just went to press on its second issue and has a dedicated core of students writing and editing it. In all, she started 57 clubs in Arizona and New Mexico. At $500 each, that's some lucrative activism — but still, she's ready to move on.
"People keep asking me if I'm sad," she says. "But once you're a part of the movement, you never really leave."
