There are days in this profession when the biggest challenge isn’t the technology, the attorneys, or the deadlines—it’s each other. We court reporters pride ourselves on precision, ethics, and the record. Yet behind the gloss of realtime hookups and CAT software mastery, a quiet toxicity sometimes festers within our own ranks: gossip, passive-aggressive behavior, and petty sabotage disguised as “miscommunication.”
I recently lived through one of those experiences that exposes just how fragile professionalism can become when egos take over. It started with something simple—a block numbering discrepancy in a multi-volume appeal. What should have been a straightforward correction turned into nine volumes of repagination, a mountain of wasted hours, and an even heavier sense of betrayal.
The Slow Creep of Unprofessionalism
Here’s the reality: mistakes happen. Appeals are complex; multiple reporters, multiple venues, page ranges that leapfrog through months of proceedings. The job requires meticulous organization and crystal-clear communication. But when one reporter notices an error and chooses not to speak up—for months—and then reframes that silence as someone else’s oversight, that’s not an error. That’s unprofessionalism.
When I discovered the misnumbering, I traced the email chain. The facts were plain: I had sent the assignments three weeks after the appeal notice. Follow-ups were documented. Coordination was ongoing. The reporter who later accused me of neglecting communication had known there was a problem as far back as May. Instead of flagging it directly, she let it simmer until September—then claimed she had told me all along.
It wasn’t about the pages. It was about power, resentment, and ego.
Passive Aggression in the Profession
Court reporters are human. We spend long hours listening, transcribing, and absorbing every tone and nuance in the courtroom. We see manipulation daily—and sometimes we mimic it without realizing it. Passive aggression becomes a survival mechanism: sarcasm in an email, withholding information, “forgetting” to forward a notice, or making a colleague look disorganized.
But here’s the danger: in an environment built on the record, ambiguity is poison. Passive aggression thrives in ambiguity. A text that says, “I think something might be off,” without specifying what or where, isn’t harmless—it’s a time bomb. It leaves just enough room for plausible deniability when the fallout comes.
We’ve all seen it. The colleague who “meant to say something” but didn’t. The one who tells others, “I tried to help, but she didn’t listen.” It’s pettiness with a professional gloss, and it corrodes trust faster than any machine shortage or pay delay ever could.
The Cost of Pettiness
The emotional cost is real. When someone you considered a friend suddenly weaponizes a misunderstanding, it doesn’t just waste time—it undermines faith in the community. The sting isn’t from the repagination itself; it’s from realizing that someone you trusted wanted to see you stumble.
In our field, reputation is everything. We depend on each other to meet deadlines, share exhibits, cover cases, and maintain consistency in complex records. When pettiness replaces professionalism, everyone loses. Attorneys lose confidence. Judges notice tension. And the next generation of students—who are watching us to learn how collaboration is supposed to work—see the cracks.
The irony is that we’re the guardians of the record, yet some of us struggle to keep our own records straight when ego gets in the way.
Why It Happens
This isn’t unique to one incident or one person. It’s systemic in small professional circles. Court reporting is intense, isolating work. We often operate as independent contractors, constantly measured by our speed, accuracy, and availability. That pressure breeds competition. Competition, when mixed with insecurity, breeds resentment. And resentment, if left unchecked, becomes gossip.
Social media has only amplified it. Entire careers can be reduced to screenshots, whispers, and alliances formed in comment threads. The very people who claim to “support the profession” sometimes do the most damage behind the scenes—by dividing instead of uniting.
Many of these fractures trace back to personalities and power cliques, not policy or pay. Certain industry figures thrive on drama, sowing distrust to maintain influence. Once that rhetoric takes root, even long-standing friendships can sour. One person’s version of events becomes gospel, and suddenly you’re defending yourself against distortions instead of doing your job.
The Professional Standard We Owe Each Other
We can’t control personalities, but we can control protocol. Professionalism isn’t a mood; it’s a standard. It’s the discipline to rise above irritation, to communicate clearly even when emotions run high, and to treat colleagues with the same respect we expect from the bench.
That means:
- If you spot an error, say it plainly and promptly—no games, no vague texts.
- If you disagree, do it respectfully, without innuendo or sarcasm.
- If you can’t stand someone, still uphold the record; your personal feelings don’t belong in the transcript.
- And if you’ve been burned, don’t retaliate—document. The record always wins.
We work in a profession built on truth, clarity, and neutrality. We must live those same values with each other.
Leadership Through Example
Being professional when everyone else is professional is easy. The real test is maintaining composure when someone tries to undermine you. I’ll admit—it’s infuriating. It’s tempting to blast back, to expose the pettiness for what it is. But the better path is quiet documentation and unshakable consistency.
When others gossip, let your record speak. When they rewrite history, keep your receipts. When they lash out with sarcasm, answer with facts. Over time, professionalism outlasts personality. People remember who handled themselves with integrity when things got ugly.
In my case, I responded with evidence—every email, every date, every update—because that’s what we do: we preserve the truth. And when the other person replied, “You win,” it wasn’t victory; it was validation. The professional record stood, and the gossip burned itself out.
Moving Forward
We can’t build a strong profession if we’re tearing each other down behind the scenes. The world is already challenging our relevance—AI, ASR, funding cuts, digital encroachment. We don’t have the luxury of wasting energy on petty rivalries.
Every time we engage in passive aggression or gossip, we prove our critics right—that we’re too fragmented to stand united. Every time we undermine a colleague, we weaken the very credibility we fight to preserve in court.
The solution isn’t complicated. It’s maturity. It’s communication. It’s remembering that the record doesn’t care about our egos. The record only cares about accuracy—and we should too.
A Call to the Profession
So here’s my challenge to every reporter reading this:
When you feel the urge to gossip, pause. When you see a colleague struggling, help instead of judging. When someone makes a mistake, correct it—don’t weaponize it. And if you’ve allowed resentment or outside influence to twist your view of another professional, take a breath and reset.
We’re all in this together. The court reporting profession survives only if we do.
The next time you’re tempted to send a snarky text, withhold information, or vent to another reporter about someone you used to call a friend, ask yourself: Would I want that message read aloud in open court?
If the answer is no, delete it. We can do better. And we must—because the record deserves it.
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.
- The content on this blog represents the personal opinions, observations, and commentary of the author. It is intended for editorial and journalistic purposes and is protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution.
- Nothing here constitutes legal advice. Readers are encouraged to review the facts and form independent conclusions.
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