In The Death of Expertise: The Campaign Against Established Knowledge and Why It Matters, political scientist Tom Nichols warns of a cultural collapse in which everyone “knows everything.” Expertise, he writes, is under attack — not through censorship or persecution, but through indifference, arrogance, and the false democratization of truth.
Sound familiar?
Within the court reporting profession, we are living this collapse in real time. For decades, certified shorthand reporters have been the custodians of accuracy — impartial guardians of the record, trained in realtime translation, terminology, decorum, and evidence handling. Our profession is built on verifiable presence: we were there. We heard every word, saw who spoke, and certified that what we transcribed was true.
Today, that foundation is being quietly undermined by a cultural and corporate campaign that mirrors exactly what Nichols describes — a “war on expertise.” The idea that artificial intelligence, digital recorders, or even uncertified human typists can substitute for a trained court reporter has spread like a contagion. It’s convenient, it’s cheap, and it flatters the illusion that technology equals competence. But it is not truth.
The Death of Expertise Comes to the Courtroom
Nichols defines the death of expertise as “a rejection of authority and knowledge by people who are not only ignorant, but proud of being ignorant.” In other words, the more one doesn’t know, the more one believes one’s opinion is equally valid to those who do.
When legislators, judges, or administrators assert that “AI transcripts are just as good” — without any experience reading one, without ever confronting a garbled homonym, misattributed speaker, or untranslated accent — they are participating in that same epistemic decay.
It’s not simply ignorance; it’s defiance of reality. It’s the belief that because technology exists, it must be accurate. That because anyone can record, anyone can report. That because a transcript looks official, it is official.
This is precisely how expertise dies — not in one dramatic blow, but through the slow erosion of respect for training, standards, and truth.
Presence, Certification, and the Integrity of Witness
Nichols argues that genuine expertise is rooted in discipline — in years of training, verification, and accountability. It’s not merely knowing, but knowing how to know. Court reporters embody that principle.
We don’t just type words; we verify their context. We identify speakers, manage exhibits, swear witnesses, and ensure decorum. We preserve not only the sound of proceedings but their meaning. An AI model, no matter how advanced, cannot certify what it cannot witness. And a court reporter cannot ethically “sign off” on a record they did not take. To do so would be fraud — as one astute commenter analogized, it would be as absurd as asking a cardiothoracic surgeon to certify the work of a dermatologist simply because both practice medicine.
The certification stamp of a court reporter is not ornamental; it is a guarantee of truth backed by statutory oath, professional ethics, and the possibility of disciplinary action for error or deceit. To remove the reporter from that equation is to remove the only human accountability in the record-making process.
The Algorithmic Delusion
Nichols writes that the internet has created “a Google-fueled, Wikipedia-based, blog-sodden collapse of any division between professionals and laymen.” Technology has democratized access to information — but not the ability to interpret it responsibly. We now conflate data with knowledge.
In the courtroom, this takes the form of digital recording firms and AI startups selling “verbatim capture solutions” to government entities that no longer understand what makes a record verifiable. They offer the illusion of expertise — the idea that a mechanical witness can replace a certified one. But what happens when that machine mishears? When overlapping speakers are merged? When an accent is mistranscribed into a different word entirely?
The machine cannot raise its hand and swear an oath. It cannot be subpoenaed. It cannot say, “Yes, I was present, and this is the truth.” When expertise dies, accountability dies with it.
Why This Matters Beyond Court Reporting
Nichols’ thesis extends far beyond academia or law. It is a warning to every profession built on specialized knowledge — from medicine to engineering to journalism — that when society begins to value convenience over credibility, collapse follows.
In the legal system, the record is the truth. If that record is corrupted, so is justice. When an AI-generated transcript replaces a human-certified one, every safeguard of due process begins to crumble. Appeals become suspect. Witness credibility becomes unverifiable. Attorneys lose the ability to rely on what was actually said. And the public loses faith in the system itself.
Nichols writes that once expertise is devalued, “citizens become vulnerable to manipulation, because they can no longer tell the difference between the credible and the incredible.” Replace “citizens” with “judges” or “attorneys,” and the warning becomes chillingly literal.
The Courage to Defend Expertise
To resist this trend, court reporters must reassert what Nichols calls “the value of humility before knowledge.” That means continuing to educate attorneys, judges, and policymakers on the irreplaceable role of human presence in the courtroom. It means refusing to lend our certifications to unverified machine transcripts. It means standing firm — even when accused of being resistant to progress — because progress without accountability is not advancement; it’s decay.
Every certified reporter represents more than a stenographic skill; we represent the continuity of truth in a system that depends on it. Our presence is not optional. It is the line between record and rumor, between evidence and error, between justice and conjecture.
Conclusion: Reclaiming the Realm of Knowledge
Tom Nichols’ The Death of Expertise is a mirror held up to a culture that has forgotten the cost of ignorance. For court reporters, it is both diagnosis and prophecy. We are watching, in real time, the institutional unraveling that occurs when established knowledge is replaced by automated convenience. But we also hold the antidote.
Every time we take an oath, every time we certify a transcript, every time we correct a misstatement or ensure the clarity of testimony, we reaffirm that expertise still matters — that facts still exist, and that truth still requires a human witness.
If we fail to defend that principle, we risk becoming another casualty in the death of expertise. But if we succeed, we may yet restore faith in a system that desperately needs it — one accurate record at a time.
StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.
Disclaimer
“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”
The content of this post is intended for informational and discussion purposes only. All opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are based on publicly available information, industry standards, and good-faith concerns about nonprofit governance and professional ethics. No part of this article is intended to defame, accuse, or misrepresent any individual or organization. Readers are encouraged to verify facts independently and to engage constructively in dialogue about leadership, transparency, and accountability in the court reporting profession.
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