The Quiet Exploitation Behind the Federal Court Record

For decades, the integrity of the federal court record has rested on the labor of a largely invisible professional class: official court reporters. They sit in courtrooms day after day, capturing every word spoken, resolving ambiguities in real time, editing and proofreading transcripts, and certifying that the final product is a true and accurate reflection of what transpired. Their work underpins appellate review, due process, and the public’s trust in the judiciary.

Yet today, many of those same court reporters find themselves excluded from compensation when their certified work product is sold to the public through federal databases. The system that was meant to modernize access to justice has instead become a case study in quiet exploitation.

The issue traces back to the e-Government Act of 2002, which encouraged federal courts to expand electronic public access to records. To fund this effort, the judiciary relied on the PACER and CM/ECF systems, charging users modest fees for downloading documents. At the time, the judiciary described the fee structure as an experiment—one that would be reviewed to ensure fairness and compliance with statutory limits.

That review never meaningfully occurred.

Over time, PACER fees ballooned far beyond the cost of maintaining the system, generating hundreds of millions of dollars. Lawsuits followed, culminating in a proposed $125 million settlement announced in 2023 to refund users for fees that exceeded lawful cost recovery. The settlement implicitly acknowledged what critics had long argued: PACER had drifted from access facilitation into revenue generation.

But while PACER users may receive refunds, court reporters remain left out of the conversation.

Official court reporters occupy a unique dual role within the federal judiciary. They are employees for purposes of courtroom coverage, but independent contractors when producing transcripts. This distinction matters. Transcript compensation has historically been based on a residual model, not a flat salary. Reporters receive an initial fee for the first delivery of a certified transcript, followed by reduced fees when additional certified copies are ordered by other parties.

This system reflects the reality of the work. Creating a certified transcript is labor-intensive and professionally risky. Reporters assume responsibility for accuracy, formatting, proofreading, and certification. They also carry liability if the record is challenged. Residual compensation recognizes that the reporter’s expertise and work product continue to hold value when reused.

PACER disrupted that model without negotiation.

By inserting itself into the transcript distribution pipeline, the federal judiciary began collecting fees for access to reporters’ certified transcripts—fees that historically would have flowed, at least in part, to the reporter who created the record. The reporter continued to do the work. The judiciary collected the money. The compensation gap became normalized.

This was not the result of a bargained agreement. Court reporters were not offered an alternative compensation structure, nor were they given the ability to opt out of electronic distribution. They were simply told that this was how the system would work going forward.

Compounding the problem is the absence of transparency. Despite repeated calls from the profession, no comprehensive public audit has been released showing how much PACER revenue derives specifically from the sale of certified transcripts produced by court reporters. Without that data, reporters cannot even quantify the income they have effectively lost.

The judiciary, meanwhile, occupies a conflicted position. It administers PACER, benefits financially from its operation, and adjudicates the legal challenges brought against it. That structural tension raises legitimate concerns about accountability, even if no individual actor acts with ill intent.

The human consequences are easier to see.

Federal court reporting has become increasingly difficult to staff. Recruitment pipelines are shrinking. Experienced reporters are leaving the system earlier than expected. Younger reporters, burdened by student debt and rising costs of living, are less willing to accept positions where a significant portion of traditional income has been redirected elsewhere.

This erosion does not just affect reporters. It affects the courts themselves. Delays in transcript production slow appeals. Shortages strain remaining reporters. The quality of the record—something judges and attorneys rely on implicitly—becomes harder to guarantee.

Fixing this problem does not require dismantling PACER or abandoning electronic access. It requires acknowledging a basic principle: the creator of a certified work product should not be excluded from compensation when that product is sold.

Several reforms are both practical and achievable.

First, the judiciary should conduct and publish a detailed audit of PACER revenues attributable to certified transcripts, broken down by court and year. Transparency is a prerequisite to trust.

Second, Congress or the Judicial Conference should establish a statutory or regulatory mechanism to ensure that a portion of transcript-related PACER fees is remitted to the court reporters who created and certified the transcripts. This could mirror the historical residual model in digital form.

Third, court reporters should have representation at the table when electronic access policies are drafted or revised. Decisions about transcript distribution should not be made without the professionals who produce the record.

Finally, any future modernization efforts should be guided by a clear boundary: access to justice must not be financed by uncompensated professional labor.

The PACER settlement addresses one category of harm—the overcharging of users. It does nothing to resolve the parallel harm inflicted on court reporters whose work has been monetized without remuneration. Until that imbalance is corrected, the system remains incomplete.

Justice may no longer be blind, but it should at least be fair. Paying court reporters for the certified records they create would be a meaningful step toward restoring that balance.

Side-by-Side Explainer for Attorneys

Why PACER Refunds Do Not Resolve Court Reporter Compensation

PACER Refund Issue	Court Reporter Compensation Issue
Focuses on PACER users being overcharged for electronic access	Focuses on reporters not being paid for resale of their certified work
Settlement refunds fees to attorneys, nonprofits, and public users	No mechanism compensates the reporter who created the transcript
Addresses statutory limits on PACER cost recovery	Addresses labor and property interests in certified transcripts
Looks backward at excessive fees	Ongoing, prospective loss of residual income
Does not change how transcripts are monetized going forward	Requires structural reform to restore reporter compensation
Benefits court record consumers	Benefits court record creators

Bottom line for attorneys:
Even if PACER fees are reduced or refunded, the underlying compensation model for court reporters remains broken. Refunds correct overbilling to users; they do not cure the diversion of transcript-related income away from the professionals responsible for producing the official record.

Publication disclaimer

This commentary reflects the author’s analysis and opinion on federal court record practices and does not allege criminal conduct by any individual. References to PACER and related systems are based on publicly reported information, including court filings and reporting by Bloomberg Law.

2026: The Year the Record Reasserts Itself

If the last decade in court reporting was defined by disruption, 2026 may be remembered as the year the profession began to stabilize—on its own terms.

The turbulence is not over. Private equity continues to pour money into legal services platforms. Agencies are larger, louder, and more vertically integrated than ever. Artificial intelligence and automated speech recognition (ASR) are no longer speculative technologies; they are actively being marketed as substitutes for human judgment in the creation of legal records.

But something has shifted. And that shift is not being driven by technology alone.

It is being driven by law.

At the center of the coming year is a concept that has quietly anchored the integrity of the legal record for generations: the responsible charge. Courts depend on a single, identifiable human being who is accountable for the creation, custody, accuracy, and certification of the record. That role cannot be outsourced, automated, or diffused without consequences. In 2026, lawmakers and judges are beginning to confront that reality head-on.

The Limits of the Agency Model

One of the clearest lessons emerging from recent legislative debates and courtroom disputes is that agencies are structurally incapable of fulfilling the responsible charge role.

Agencies do not attend proceedings. They do not hear testimony. They do not make realtime judgment calls when speakers overlap, when audio degrades, when legal terminology shifts mid-sentence, or when a witness becomes unintelligible. Agencies manage logistics, billing, marketing, and staffing. Those functions matter—but they are not record creation.

The effort to reposition agencies as “recordkeepers” or guarantors of accuracy has exposed a fundamental mismatch between branding and reality. Courts are increasingly aware that when something goes wrong with a transcript, the responsibility does not rest with a corporate entity. It falls on the individual whose name appears on the certification—or, more troublingly, on no one at all.

In 2026, this distinction will matter more than ever.

Why Technology Still Needs a Human Anchor

Technology is not the enemy of court reporting. In fact, some of the most promising developments on the horizon are being built specifically for court reporters, not in spite of them.

Reporter-centric tools are emerging that enhance realtime accuracy, improve audio redundancy, streamline exhibit management, and preserve verifiable chains of custody. These systems are designed to support professional judgment, not replace it. They recognize that accuracy is not a function of raw transcription speed alone, but of context, experience, and accountability.

By contrast, ASR systems—no matter how well funded—remain fundamentally unaccountable. They cannot be cross-examined. They cannot certify. They cannot explain why a decision was made in the moment. They cannot ethically resolve ambiguities when language, emotion, or legal nuance collide.

Private equity may fund scale, but it cannot manufacture responsibility.

That distinction is becoming harder to ignore as courts confront disputes involving disputed transcripts, missing audio, uncertified records, and conflicting versions of proceedings. These cases are not theoretical. They are working their way through trial courts and appellate pipelines now.

And some of them are likely to land in 2026.

The Coming Judicial Reckoning

Court cases that address who controls the record—and who bears responsibility for it—are poised to shape the next decade of the profession.

Judges are being asked questions they cannot sidestep indefinitely:
Who is accountable when a transcript is challenged?
Who ensures compliance with statutes governing certification and custody?
Who answers when technology fails or data is compromised?

As these cases reach decisions, they will do more than resolve individual disputes. They will establish precedent. And precedent has a way of cutting through marketing narratives with surgical precision.

A ruling that reaffirms the necessity of a human officer of the court in control of the record does not just protect court reporters. It protects litigants, attorneys, and the judiciary itself. It reinforces the idea that the record is not a commodity—it is a legal instrument.

Legislative Wins Are Not Optional

For the profession to emerge stronger in 2026, legislative clarity is essential. Ambiguity has been the oxygen that allowed method-agnostic frameworks to flourish. Lawmakers, often unfamiliar with the mechanics of record creation, were told that technology could neutralize risk and that certification could be abstracted from the act of reporting itself.

That assumption is unraveling.

This year must deliver a few meaningful legislative wins—not symbolic gestures, but concrete affirmations that responsible charge resides with the individual who creates the record. Statutes that draw bright lines around accountability do more than protect jobs; they protect due process.

When lawmakers understand that agencies, vendors, and software providers cannot legally or ethically assume responsibility for the record, the conversation changes. Oversight becomes clearer. Risk allocation becomes rational. And the integrity of the justice system is no longer treated as an experimental variable.

A Profession Reclaiming Its Center

Court reporting in 2026 will not look like court reporting in 1996. It should not. The profession is evolving, adopting new tools, new workflows, and new ways of engaging with courts and counsel.

But evolution is not the same as erasure.

The future belongs to reporters who are technologically fluent, legally grounded, and unapologetic about the value of human judgment. It belongs to systems designed to amplify professional skill rather than bypass it. And it belongs to courts and legislatures willing to say—clearly and on the record—that responsibility cannot be automated.

The year ahead will not be quiet. There will be challenges, resistance, and continued pressure from well-funded interests. But there will also be momentum.

The road to 2026 is marked by uncertainty—but it is pointing forward. And for the first time in a long while, it appears to be pointing back toward the principle that built the profession in the first place: that the legal record deserves a human being in responsible charge.

Disclaimer

This article reflects analysis and opinion on industry trends, legislation, and legal developments. It is provided for informational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice or commentary on any specific pending case or bill.

When Software Tries to Stand In for a License – Why ASR “Cleanup” Is Not Court Reporting

As realtime access to testimony has become an expectation rather than a luxury, a growing number of technology vendors have begun advancing a provocative claim: that licensed court reporters are no longer essential to record creation. Their proposed alternative follows a familiar formula—digitally capture audio, run it through automated speech recognition, and have someone downstream “clean it up.”

On paper, the output may resemble a transcript. In practice, it removes nearly every safeguard that gives a legal record its reliability, neutrality, and legitimacy.

This shift is not merely technical. It is structural. It changes who controls the record, who is accountable for it, and how sensitive information is captured, stored, and potentially exposed.

Tools Are Not Licenses

Court reporters have never been opposed to technology. The profession has consistently adopted tools that enhance accuracy and efficiency—computer-aided transcription software, realtime feeds, remote proceedings, and audio backups are now standard. Some of the most widely used tools in stenography were built by technologists deeply familiar with the field.

One example comes from the ProCAT ecosystem itself. ProCAT’s Flash writer machine and Winner CAT software are widely used by stenographic court reporters nationwide. Both products were created and are owned by Bob Bakva, a software engineer with roughly four decades of experience working in and around the court reporting industry. His familiarity with reporting workflows, CAT software, and transcript production tools is well established.

DepoDash, an automated speech recognition platform, was also created by Bakva.

What is equally clear—and undisputed—is that Bakva is not, and never has been, a licensed court reporter. That distinction matters. Industry proximity and technical expertise do not confer professional standing, licensure, or accountability. Tools can support licensed court reporters; they cannot replace licensure itself.

Yet some ASR-driven models, including DepoDash, have been positioned as functional substitutes for human court reporters, premised on the idea that automated output can later be rendered sufficient through post-processing by scopists or editors. That premise misunderstands both the role of the court reporter and the legal function of a certified transcript. Licensure is not a formatting step that can be added later. It is the foundation on which the legal record rests.

This is where the model breaks down.

The Myth of “Just Cleaning It Up”

Scopists play an important role in stenographic reporting, but their role is often misunderstood by those advocating ASR-first workflows. A scopist works under the supervision of a licensed court reporter. They do not create the record. They do not certify it. They do not assume legal responsibility for its accuracy.

They also do not perform many of the core functions that courts depend on: creating the index, preparing the cover page, executing the certificate page, managing exhibits, or making real-time judgment calls about speakers, interruptions, and record clarity. Scopists are not licensed, are not regulated, and are not accountable to a state authority.

Even highly skilled scopists are not expected to match the reporter’s command of a proceeding. Their work refines a record that already rests on a verified stenographic foundation. Remove that foundation, and the scopist is left editing guesses generated by software—without an independent, contemporaneous record to verify against.

That is not court reporting. It is post hoc interpretation.

Realtime Editing and the Illusion of Control

The risks deepen when ASR systems are paired with live monitoring and realtime “correction.” In some digital reporting setups, a human operator edits the realtime feed as testimony unfolds, altering words, punctuation, or speaker attribution on the fly.

Unlike stenographic realtime—which is derived from shorthand notes that remain intact and reviewable—these edits may overwrite what was originally captured. There is often no version history, no disclosure to counsel, and no way to reconstruct what first appeared on the screen.

Once words appear in realtime, they influence questioning, objections, and judicial rulings. Silent alteration turns the record from a neutral capture into a curated product. That shift alone should give courts pause.

The Cloud Problem No One Wants to Discuss

Beyond questions of licensure and realtime editing lies an even more consequential issue: where ASR systems live, and what they permanently collect.

Today, large-scale ASR used in legal settings is produced by a small number of vendors—roughly four dominant players—each operating cloud-based language models. These systems do not simply transcribe sound. They record audio, transmit it off-site, and process it through predictive language engines designed to recognize and learn speech patterns.

The cloud is indiscriminate.

ASR systems do not understand courtroom norms. They cannot distinguish between “on the record” and “off the record.” They do not know when a sidebar begins, when a bench conference ends, or when counsel believes the record has paused. If speech is captured, it is processed. If it is processed, it exists beyond the physical courtroom.

That distinction becomes critical during jury trials—particularly during voir dire.

Voir Dire Is Not Just Testimony

Jury voir dire is among the most sensitive phases of any trial. Prospective jurors are routinely asked to disclose deeply personal information: names, occupations, family details, prior experiences with crime, medical histories, personal beliefs, and potential biases. These disclosures are compelled by law, offered in good faith, and historically treated with restraint.

When voir dire is captured by an always-listening ASR system, those disclosures are digitized, transmitted, and stored within systems designed to ingest language at scale. Even when vendors promise safeguards or deletion, the architecture of cloud-based language processing raises unresolved questions about permanence, replication, and downstream exposure.

Unlike a stenographic record—created locally by a licensed professional and governed by established rules regarding sealing, access, and redaction—cloud-based ASR introduces uncertainty. Who has access to the raw data? How long does it exist? Can it truly be erased? And what happens when that data becomes part of a broader language ecosystem?

These are not abstract concerns. The perception alone is enough to change behavior.

The Chilling Effect on Jury Participation

The jury system depends on trust. Prospective jurors must believe that fulfilling their civic duty will not result in permanent digital exposure. If individuals begin to fear that their names and personal disclosures could be captured, stored indefinitely, and potentially resurfaced through unknown technological pathways, candor will erode.

Some may withhold information. Others may seek to avoid service altogether. In extreme cases, distrust could contribute to jury disengagement or jury nullification—not as protest, but as a byproduct of fear.

Courts have long recognized the need to protect juror privacy to preserve the integrity of the process. Introducing indiscriminate cloud capture into voir dire risks undermining that protection before the legal system has fully weighed the consequences.

Accountability Is Not Optional

When a licensed court reporter prepares a transcript, responsibility is clear. Their name and license number appear on the certificate page. They are subject to discipline. They can be called to account for their work.

ASR-plus-scopist models diffuse that responsibility. Is the software vendor accountable? The editor? The agency? The answer is often unclear. That ambiguity alone should disqualify such models from being treated as equivalent to licensed reporting.

Legal transcripts are not commodities. They are evidentiary documents that may be relied upon decades later. The chain of custody matters. The integrity of the record matters.

A Line Worth Holding

None of this requires bad intent. The risks arise from architecture, not motive. But courts cannot ignore architecture simply because technology is new or convenient.

Automation can assist court reporters. It cannot replace licensure, judgment, neutrality, and accountability. And cloud-based systems should not be allowed to capture sensitive legal proceedings—particularly jury voir dire—without a serious examination of privacy, permanence, and public trust.

The legal record must remain passive, not predictive. Local, not indiscriminate. And above all, controlled by professionals who are licensed to bear the responsibility that comes with it.

That line has protected the integrity of the justice system for generations. It is not obsolete. It is essential.

DISCLAIMER

This article reflects the author’s professional analysis and opinion based on experience in court reporting and publicly available information about legal technology practices. It is intended for educational and policy discussion purposes only and does not allege misconduct by any individual or company. The views expressed do not constitute legal advice and are offered to encourage informed dialogue about record integrity, privacy, and accountability in legal proceedings.

Regulatory Clarification:
References to specific software products and their creators are included solely to illustrate structural and regulatory distinctions between licensed court reporters and technology vendors. No allegation of misconduct, illegality, or ethical violation is asserted. The analysis addresses professional roles, licensure requirements, and systemic risk considerations relevant to record integrity, evidentiary reliability, and public trust.

Note:
This discussion concerns licensure, accountability, and record-creation frameworks. It does not assess product quality, intent, or compliance with any existing contractual or statutory obligations.

Vendors Are Not Officers of the Court

How Agency “Company Certificates” Undermine the Legal Record

For more than a century, the creation of the legal record has been governed by a simple and deliberate structure. A court reporter—licensed, neutral, and present for the proceeding—administers the oath, captures the testimony, and certifies that the resulting transcript is a true and accurate record. That responsibility is personal, professional, and statutory.

Court reporting agencies have never occupied that role.

Agencies schedule proceedings, process invoices, and provide customer service. They do not attend depositions. They do not administer oaths. They do not capture testimony. They do not hold shorthand notes. And they bear no legal responsibility for the accuracy or admissibility of the record. Their function is administrative, not judicial.

Yet a growing practice among large national agencies threatens to blur that line. In an increasing number of deposition transcripts, agencies are attaching corporate “company certificates”—documents in which the company itself purports to certify the transcript’s accuracy, completeness, and regulatory compliance.

This is not a modernization of court reporting. It is a misrepresentation of authority.

The Legal Role Is Not Ambiguous

In California, the law is explicit. Code of Civil Procedure sections 2025.010 through 2025.620, along with the Business and Professions Code governing Certified Shorthand Reporters (CSRs), establish who may lawfully create and certify deposition transcripts intended for court use.

That authority rests with the licensed court reporter.

A corporation cannot administer an oath.
A corporation cannot take shorthand notes.
A corporation cannot certify a transcript.

No statute confers record-creating authority on an agency. No regulation allows an agency to substitute its own certification for that of a licensed reporter. And no amount of branding changes that reality.

Digital Recording Has Created an Opening—and Agencies Are Exploiting It

The rise of digital recording has introduced a procedural vulnerability that some agencies are now exploiting.

In many depositions, the proceeding is recorded digitally by a “digital reporter” or recording technician—often a notary public—who presses record and administers the oath. The audio is later transcribed by a separate transcriptionist. No stenographic court reporter is present. No shorthand notes are taken. No CSR certifies the transcript.

Under California law, such transcripts are not equivalent to CSR-produced transcripts for court use.

Yet in some of the transcripts circulating among court reporters, the absence of a CSR is masked by a stack of paperwork:

A notary certificate from the digital reporter stating the testimony was sworn and recorded;
A transcriber’s certificate from a non-CSR transcriptionist stating the transcript was prepared from audio;
And finally, a company certificate from the agency asserting that the transcript is accurate, complete, and compliant with “all federal and state regulations governing court reporting services.”

This layering does not cure the defect. It conceals it.

Certification Is Not a Cosmetic Exercise

Certification is not a marketing statement. It is a legal attestation tied to licensure and accountability.

When a licensed court reporter certifies a transcript, that certification carries enforceable obligations. The reporter is subject to discipline, license suspension, or revocation for inaccuracies, misconduct, or violations of law. That accountability is the foundation of trust in the record.

An agency certificate carries none of that weight.

A corporation cannot be disciplined by the Court Reporters Board for errors in a transcript it did not create. It cannot lose a license it does not hold. And it cannot substitute internal policies for statutory compliance.

To suggest otherwise is misleading to attorneys, courts, and litigants.

The Problem Is Not Silence or Stipulation

Some agencies attempt to justify these practices by pointing to deposition notices that state, “absent an objection,” the proceeding may be recorded digitally if a stenographer is unavailable. Others assert that attorneys may stipulate to waive statutory requirements.

That argument misunderstands the law.

Attorneys may stipulate to procedural matters within their authority. They cannot stipulate away statutory protections designed to safeguard the integrity of the judicial process without court approval. Admissibility is not determined by vendor language in a notice. It is determined by judges applying the law.

Silence is not consent to illegality.

Real Consequences in the Courtroom

These issues are not theoretical. According to multiple reporters, California courts have already refused to admit deposition transcripts that were recorded digitally and transcribed by non-CSRs, even when accompanied by agency documentation.

The reasoning is straightforward: the transcripts did not comply with California law.

For litigants, the consequences can be severe. A deposition transcript relied upon in discovery may later be excluded at summary judgment or trial. Months of strategy, briefing, and expense can unravel because the record itself is defective.

For attorneys, the risk is professional. Reliance on an inadmissible transcript invites malpractice exposure. For courts, it threatens the integrity of the evidentiary process.

The Ethical Dimension – Independence and Control

The agency certificate also raises ethical concerns about independence.

In some cases, the agency employs the digital reporter, employs the transcriptionist, controls the technology, sets the pricing, and then certifies the transcript under its own name. In some agencies, attorneys sit on corporate boards while simultaneously using the agency’s services.

Court reporters are prohibited from having a financial interest in the outcome of litigation. Corporations are not bound by the same ethical constraints. When agencies insert themselves into certification, they blur the distinction between neutral record creation and commercial litigation support.

That is precisely the distinction the law was designed to preserve.

Agencies Are Vendors—Nothing More

None of this is an indictment of scheduling, billing, or customer service. Agencies play a legitimate role in facilitating litigation logistics. But that role ends at administration.

The legal record is created by a court reporter or it is not created lawfully at all.

Attaching a company certificate does not transform transcription into court reporting. It does not confer authority retroactively. And it does not insulate a defective transcript from judicial scrutiny.

A Regulatory Question That Cannot Be Avoided

For regulators, the issue is stark.

If agencies are permitted to certify transcripts they did not create, then licensure becomes meaningless. The statutory scheme collapses. And the protections embedded in California’s reporting laws are rendered optional.

That outcome is incompatible with due process.

The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments exist to prevent exactly this kind of informal erosion of legal safeguards—where economic convenience displaces statutory compliance, and private entities redefine public obligations without legislative or judicial approval.

The Record Still Belongs to the Reporter—or It Fails

The deposition transcript is not a product. It is a legal instrument.

Only a licensed court reporter can create it. Only a licensed court reporter can certify it. And only a transcript produced in compliance with law is guaranteed to be accepted in court.

Agencies may schedule the proceeding. They may bill for it. They may transmit the finished transcript.

But they are not the record.

And they never will be.

Sidebar for Attorneys

Why an Agency Certificate Does Not Cure an Invalid Transcript

Short answer: Because certification authority is statutory, not contractual.

Here is what attorneys should know:

1. Certification follows licensure
Only individuals licensed under state law (e.g., California CSRs) have authority to certify deposition transcripts for court use. Corporations do not hold licenses and cannot certify on behalf of others.

2. Multiple certificates do not equal compliance
A notary certificate + a transcriber certificate + an agency certificate does not substitute for a CSR certification where the law requires one.

3. “Absent an objection” does not legalize a defective record
Failure to object at the deposition does not waive statutory requirements for admissibility. Judges decide what comes into evidence—not vendors.

4. Agency assurances are not binding on courts
An agency’s statement that it “complies with all federal and state regulations” is not determinative. Courts look to how the record was actually created.

5. Risk shifts to counsel
If a transcript is excluded because it was not lawfully produced, the risk does not fall on the agency. It falls on the party who relied on it.

Best practice:
If the transcript matters, confirm who took the record, who certified it, and whether that certification satisfies the governing statute.

Disclaimer

This article is provided for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. The views expressed reflect analysis of publicly available materials, statutory provisions, and reported practices. No factual determinations are made regarding any specific proceeding or entity, and readers are encouraged to consult applicable statutes, court rules, and qualified legal counsel regarding admissibility and compliance issues.

Petition to the National Court Reporters Association – Request to Deny CEU Approval for Programming that Undermines Stenographic Capture

Submitted by Concerned NCRA Members

Introduction

We, the undersigned members of the National Court Reporters Association (NCRA), submit this petition to formally object to the approval of continuing education units (CEUs) for vendor-produced programming that advances the premise that capture method is immaterial to the integrity, admissibility, and evidentiary status of the record. This petition is prompted by a pending 2026 CEU webinar series produced by Veritext and similar programming that promotes method equivalence among stenographic reporting, digital recording, and automated speech recognition (ASR).

While continuing education is essential to professional development, CEU approval by NCRA carries institutional legitimacy. That legitimacy should not be extended to programming that conflicts with NCRA’s mission, core values, and ethical foundations—or that conditions members to accept the erosion of stenography as the evidentiary gold standard.

The Core Concern

The unifying thesis of the referenced CEU programming asserts that the strength of the court reporting profession derives primarily from individual professionalism rather than the method of capture. This framing is incompatible with long-established legal principles recognizing that contemporaneous stenographic capture by a sworn, licensed court reporter is what distinguishes an original verbatim record from derivative, reconstructed hearsay.

Stenography is not merely one of several interchangeable tools. It is the method that enables immediate verification, readback, judicial reliance, appellate review, and enforceable chain of custody. No degree of post hoc training, monitoring, or technological augmentation can convert an audio recording or ASR output into the functional equivalent of a stenographic record.

Conflict with NCRA Governing Authority

Approval of CEUs built on method-neutral or method-equivalence premises conflicts with multiple governing principles of NCRA, including:

1. NCRA Mission Statement

NCRA’s mission commits the Association to advancing the profession of stenographic court reporting and captioning and protecting the integrity of the record. CEU approval for programming that minimizes or obscures the legal significance of stenographic capture undermines this mandate rather than advancing it.

2. NCRA Core Values

Such approval is inconsistent with NCRA’s stated core values, including:

Professional Excellence, which presupposes mastery of a method designed for evidentiary reliability;
Public Trust, which depends on clear, enforceable standards for record creation; and
Advocacy, which requires the Association to defend—not dilute—the profession’s unique legal role.

3. NCRA Code of Professional Ethics

The Code of Professional Ethics imposes duties of accuracy, impartiality, independence, and safeguarding the record. These duties assume reporter-controlled, contemporaneous capture. CEU programming that treats capture method as incidental erodes the ethical framework NCRA requires its members to uphold.

The Risk to the Profession

When NCRA approves CEUs for vendor-curated education that reframes displacement as evolution, it signals to courts, attorneys, regulators, and the public that method parity is acceptable. Over time, this narrative weakens statutory protections, evidentiary standards, and the professional standing of stenographic reporters.

CEU approval should not be used to normalize business models that depend on replacing licensed court reporters while simultaneously relying on reporters’ credentials to legitimize that transition.

Our Requests

We respectfully request that NCRA:

Deny CEU approval for any programming that asserts or implies equivalence between stenographic reporting and digital or ASR-based capture methods;
Require CEU content to expressly acknowledge that stenographic capture by a licensed court reporter is the evidentiary gold standard;
Adopt clear CEU review criteria that prohibit approval of education designed to condition members toward acceptance of professional displacement;
Reaffirm publicly NCRA’s commitment to stenography as the method that protects the integrity of the record and access to justice.

Conclusion

This petition is not an objection to education, technology, or ethical discussion. It is an objection to the misuse of NCRA’s CEU authority to legitimize narratives that undermine the profession the Association exists to protect. We submit this petition in good faith, in defense of the record, and in reliance on NCRA’s stated mission and ethical obligations.

Respectfully submitted,

Signatories

(To be appended as a running signature page)

Name	Credentials	State

Name:
NCRA Member Number (if applicable):
Credentials (CSR, RPR, RMR, CRR, etc.):
State / Jurisdiction:
Date:

How to Participate: This is a single, unified petition. To add your name, leave a comment below with your full name, credentials (RPR, CSR, RDR, etc.), and state. Comments will be compiled into an official signature page and appended to the petition. Once collected, the petition and signature list will be formally submitted to the NCRA Board of Directors and CEU Review Committee while CEU approval is still pending.

Sign the Petition on Change.org

Clarification: This petition is not about machine stenography versus voice writing. Both are forms of stenographic court reporting, performed by licensed professionals who contemporaneously capture, monitor, and certify the record. This petition draws a clear line between stenographic capture (machine or voice) and method-agnostic recording systems, including digital recording and ASR-first workflows, which rely on post hoc reconstruction rather than real-time professional control of the record.

Celebration or Contradiction – When Corporate CEU’s Collide With the Reality of the Record

If You Want Lower Transcript Costs, Help Create More Court Reporters

By the time most attorneys complain about transcript prices, the damage has already been done.

The shortage is real. The invoices are higher. Delivery times are longer. And the frustration—on both sides of the record—is palpable. What is often missing from the conversation, however, is a basic truth that every first-year economics student learns: prices rise when supply is constrained, and prices fall when supply expands.

Court reporting is not immune from the laws of supply and demand. In fact, it may be one of the clearest examples of them in action.

For more than a decade, the legal profession has steadily reduced the pipeline of stenographic court reporters while simultaneously increasing demand for transcripts, realtime feeds, expedited delivery, and appellate-quality records. The result is predictable: fewer qualified reporters doing more work under greater pressure, at higher cost.

If attorneys truly want to see transcript prices stabilize—or even decrease—the solution is not to chase cheaper capture methods or outsource the record to digital audio vendors. The solution is to help rebuild and retain the human court reporter workforce.

The Economics Are Not Complicated

The current shortage of court reporters is not a mystery. It is the outcome of deliberate market behavior.

Court reporting schools have closed. Enrollment has dropped. Training takes years, not months. Meanwhile, experienced reporters are leaving the profession due to burnout, physical strain, and increasingly hostile working conditions.

When supply shrinks and demand grows, prices rise. No amount of frustration changes that equation.

The legal industry’s response has often been to seek alternatives—digital recording, remote monitoring, or agency-controlled models that promise lower upfront costs. But these alternatives do not increase the supply of qualified reporters. In many cases, they actively suppress it by discouraging new entrants and driving seasoned professionals out.

Lower prices do not come from replacing skilled labor with inferior substitutes. They come from expanding the pool of skilled labor itself.

Stop Undermining the Pipeline

If attorneys want more court reporters, one of the most effective steps they can take is also one of the simplest: stop using digital reporters in proceedings where a stenographic record is feasible.

Digital recording does not create new court reporters. It does not train students. It does not mentor apprentices. It does not retain talent. Instead, it siphons work away from the very professionals who would otherwise sustain the pipeline.

When courts and firms rely on digital recording, they signal to students that stenography is a shrinking career with diminishing opportunity. Rational people do not invest two to four years of intensive training into a profession that appears to be under constant threat of replacement.

If the legal community wants more reporters, it must stop treating stenography as optional.

Reduce Dependence on Agency Middlemen

Another quiet but powerful force constraining supply is the agency model itself.

Many agencies control rates, schedules, deadlines, and policies that accelerate burnout. Reporters absorb the physical and cognitive labor, while agencies capture margins and impose production pressures that make long-term sustainability difficult.

Attorneys who work directly with reporters—or who support models that allow reporters greater autonomy—help keep experienced professionals in the field longer. Retention matters just as much as recruitment.

A reporter who leaves after 10 years is not easily replaced. The profession loses not only a skilled practitioner, but a potential mentor, instructor, and example for the next generation.

Retention Is an Attorney Issue, Too

Recruitment alone will not solve the shortage. Retention is equally critical—and attorneys play a direct role in whether reporters stay or leave.

Court reporting is physically demanding, mentally exhausting, and unforgiving of chaos. Yet many proceedings continue at a pace and volume that borders on hostile to the record.

Crosstalk. Interruptions. Rapid-fire questioning. Attorneys talking over witnesses. Judges allowing multiple speakers at once. Long days without meaningful breaks.

None of this is necessary.

Slowing down does not weaken advocacy. Clear, deliberate questioning strengthens it. Allowing witnesses to finish their answers improves the record. One person speaking at a time is not a courtesy; it is a prerequisite for accuracy.

When reporters are treated as invisible machinery rather than skilled officers of the court, they leave. When proceedings become miserable to report, they opt out of trials, realtime, or the profession altogether.

If attorneys want lower costs tomorrow, they must help make the job survivable today.

A Missed Opportunity in the Jury Box

One of the most overlooked opportunities to rebuild the court reporting workforce occurs at the end of every jury trial.

Jurors are attentive. They are engaged. They have just spent days or weeks watching a court reporter perform an intellectually demanding, highly specialized role in real time.

And then they are dismissed—without ever being told that they just witnessed a viable, lucrative, and meaningful career.

Courts could change this with a single paragraph.

Judges routinely give closing remarks when releasing jurors. Adding a brief statement about court reporting would cost nothing and could yield enormous returns.

A sample blurb might read:

“Before you leave, I want to briefly acknowledge the court reporter you’ve seen throughout this trial. Court reporting is a highly skilled profession that plays a critical role in our justice system. If any of you—or someone you know—are looking for a challenging career that values accuracy, technology, and public service, court reporting offers strong earning potential and long-term opportunity. Information about training programs is available through state and national associations.”

That is all it would take.

No lobbying. No funding. No curriculum changes. Just awareness.

Many court reporters entered the profession by chance—after hearing about it from a teacher, a counselor, or someone in the courtroom. Jurors represent an untapped recruitment pool that already understands the importance of the role.

Attorneys Are Market Participants, Whether They Like It or Not

Some attorneys bristle at the idea that they bear responsibility for workforce dynamics. But the legal profession is not a passive consumer of court reporting services. It is an active market participant.

Every choice—whether to use a digital reporter, whether to push for impossible speeds, whether to tolerate crosstalk, whether to insist on last-minute rushes as a default—shapes the market.

Complaining about prices while contributing to scarcity is not a strategy. It is a contradiction.

If attorneys want lower transcript costs, they must help expand supply. That means supporting stenographic reporting, retaining experienced professionals, and making the courtroom a place where skilled reporters want to stay.

The Long View

Court reporting is not a commodity. It is a profession that requires years of training, ongoing skill development, and extraordinary concentration. You cannot turn the pipeline on and off at will.

The choices the legal community makes today will determine whether there are enough reporters five years from now—or whether prices continue to rise due to chronic scarcity.

The solution is not technological substitution masquerading as efficiency. The solution is investment in people.

Supply and demand are not ideological concepts. They are economic realities.

If you want more court reporters, help make the profession viable, visible, and humane.

If you want lower prices, help increase the supply.

It really is that simple.

Disclaimer

This article reflects the author’s professional observations and opinions regarding court reporting workforce dynamics and litigation practice. It is intended for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. Views expressed do not represent any court, agency, bar association, or regulatory body. Readers should evaluate practices and policies in accordance with applicable laws, rules, and professional obligations.

Court Reporters, Technology, and Reality – Resetting Expectations in a Small Industry

The court reporting profession runs on precision, accountability, and trust. But when it comes to technology—our software, our machines, and the companies that build them—many reporters are operating with expectations that simply do not match reality.

This tension is surfacing more frequently, particularly among newer reporters, in public forums and private conversations alike. The complaints are often familiar: slow call-backs from technical support, unresolved tickets, delays in escalations, unanswered emails, and the sense that help should be immediate, comprehensive, and always available—nights, weekends, and holidays included.

These frustrations feel real. But they are also fundamentally misdirected.

The court reporting world is very, very small. Its technology vendors are even smaller. And pretending otherwise does not improve service, protect livelihoods, or strengthen the profession. It weakens it.

A Cottage Industry, Not Big Tech

Court reporting technology companies are not Google, Amazon, Microsoft, or Apple. They do not have global infrastructure, 24/7 follow-the-sun support teams, or unlimited venture capital funding. They do not sell to millions of consumers. They sell to a finite, shrinking professional market.

That matters.

The limited number of sales of CAT software, stenographic machines, and related tools directly limits the volume of staff, redundancy, and escalation layers these companies can build. There is no hidden army of engineers waiting in the wings. There is no magical overflow department that materializes on weekends. There is no call center in another time zone quietly monitoring tickets while we sleep.

This is not a failure. It is an economic reality.

Most court reporting vendors operate with lean teams. Many support departments are staffed by people who also train, test, document, beta-review, and field dozens of simultaneous issues. When someone is out sick, on vacation, or pulled into a release emergency, response times slow. Not because the company does not care—but because there is no excess capacity to absorb disruption.

That reality is not going to change, no matter how much money an individual reporter paid for their software.

Price Does Not Buy a Personal Technician

One of the most common refrains in complaints is some variation of: “I paid too much money for this kind of service.”

This belief misunderstands what reporters are actually purchasing.

You are not buying concierge IT support. You are not buying guaranteed immediate access to senior engineers. You are buying a professional tool, built and maintained by a small company, intended to be used by trained professionals who are expected to know how to operate it.

When reporters equate the price of software with an entitlement to instant, personalized troubleshooting on demand, they import a consumer-tech mindset into a professional trade. That mismatch breeds resentment on both sides.

Professional tools come with professional responsibility. That responsibility includes learning the software deeply, maintaining your system properly, and developing enough technical self-sufficiency to function even when support is unavailable.

The Cost of Dependency

The most concerning line in many of these complaints is not about missed call-backs or unanswered emails. It is this: “Their lack of response is starting to impinge on my livelihood.”

That statement should give every reporter pause.

If your livelihood hinges on immediate vendor intervention, the problem is not customer service. The problem is dependency.

Court reporters must be able to function independently. We work in courtrooms, deposition rooms, and remote proceedings where there is no safety net. When a machine hiccups mid-trial, there is no tech department stepping in. When realtime drops during a critical exchange, no one pauses the proceeding while you wait for an email response.

Competence in this profession has always included technical mastery. Historically, reporters knew their machines inside and out. They understood dictionary management, backups, audio routing, file recovery, and troubleshooting because they had to. There was no one else.

Somewhere along the way—particularly with newer generations raised on seamless consumer apps—that expectation eroded.

Unrealistic Expectations and Professional Maturity

There is a generational component to this shift that cannot be ignored. Many newer reporters entered the profession in an era where technology is marketed as intuitive, frictionless, and endlessly supported. When something breaks, the assumption is that someone else will fix it—quickly.

But court reporting is not a plug-and-play profession. It never has been.

Expecting a small manufacturer to behave like a multinational tech giant is not just unrealistic—it is professionally immature. It externalizes responsibility and shifts blame in ways that ultimately harm the reporter more than the vendor.

Grace, patience, and tolerance are not acts of charity. They are survival skills in a small ecosystem.

Learning Your Tools Is Not Optional

Every reporter should treat their software and hardware the way a pilot treats an aircraft: with respect, study, and redundancy planning.

That means:

Learning core functions thoroughly—not just the basics needed to get through a job.
Understanding how updates work and when not to update.
Knowing how to diagnose common problems before calling support.
Keeping detailed notes so issues can be communicated clearly and efficiently.
Maintaining backups, mirrors, and contingency workflows.

Support should be a supplement, not a crutch.

When reporters invest time in mastering their tools, they reduce stress, increase confidence, and protect their livelihoods far more effectively than any service ticket ever could.

Vendors Are Not the Enemy

It is worth stating plainly: most court reporting techs are trying to help. They are often overworked, under-recognized, and navigating a backlog they did not create. Publicly venting frustration without context may feel cathartic, but it rarely leads to resolution—and it contributes to a culture of hostility that benefits no one.

Constructive engagement looks different. It acknowledges limitations. It documents issues clearly. It follows up professionally. And it accepts that not every problem can be resolved immediately.

The court reporting industry is small enough that relationships matter. Burning bridges over expectations that were never realistic to begin with is a poor long-term strategy.

A Necessary Reset

This profession is under pressure—from automation, from legislative change, from shrinking pipelines, and from external forces that would gladly replace human reporters altogether. The last thing we need is internal fracture driven by entitlement and misdirected anger.

Resetting expectations is not about excusing poor communication or dismissing legitimate issues. It is about aligning our mindset with the reality of the industry we actually work in—not the one we wish existed.

Lower your expectations. Increase your grace. Be patient. Be self-sufficient. Learn your tools deeply. Accept that small companies cannot behave like tech giants. And recognize that professionalism includes resilience, adaptability, and accountability.

Court reporting has always required independence. Technology has not changed that. If anything, it has made it more essential than ever.

Disclaimer

This article reflects the author’s professional opinion and experience as a working court reporter. It is not intended to disparage any specific company or individual, nor does it constitute technical, legal, or business advice. References to industry practices are general in nature and meant to foster constructive discussion within the profession.

The Lessons of Badran – A Roadmap for How NCRA Must Defend the Legal Record

The dispute in Badran v. Badran is not an outlier. It is a warning flare. As courts confront audio-based reporting, remote depositions, and vendor-controlled workflows, foundational questions about admissibility, professional oversight, and due process are being decided—often without input from the profession charged with creating the official record. When that vacuum exists, efficiency arguments and marketing language rush in to fill it.

Below is a clear, practical roadmap for what NCRA could do now, what it should do in cases like Badran, and how it can systematically ensure it knows about—and intervenes in—cases where the record itself is at risk. This includes immediate public clarification of what “professional oversight” means in law, a court-facing white paper on remote deposition risks, strategic use of amicus curiae briefs, and a standing mechanism to identify and respond to cases that threaten the integrity of the record before flawed reasoning hardens into precedent.

I. What NCRA Could Do Now (Immediately, Without Structural Changes)

1. Publicly Clarify What “Professional Oversight” Means

NCRA should issue a formal position statement—not a blog post, not a member newsletter—stating:

“Professional oversight” in deposition and evidentiary law means a licensed court reporter in responsible charge, not:
- an agency,
- a recording technician,
- a platform,
- or a vendor-controlled workflow.

This matters because courts are currently importing industry marketing language into legal analysis. If NCRA does not define the term, vendors will.

This statement should be written for judges, not reporters.

2. Issue a Legal White Paper on Remote Depositions

NCRA should publish a short, citation-heavy white paper addressing:

What defines the “record” in a remote proceeding
Why microphones ≠ testimony
Why post-hoc transcript expansion violates evidentiary rules
Hearsay and authentication risks in audio-only workflows
Why stipulation cannot waive statutory and constitutional safeguards

This would give courts something neutral and authoritative to rely on instead of vendor briefs.

3. Correct the Record Publicly—Without Naming Parties

NCRA could release an educational bulletin responding to cases like Badran without attacking a specific judge or litigant, explaining:

What the ruling does not stand for
What risks arise if courts treat it as precedent
Why efficiency-based reasoning is not an evidentiary standard

This protects the profession and the judiciary from relying on a flawed framework.

II. What NCRA Should Do in Cases Like Badran

4. File Amicus Curiae Briefs—Selectively and Strategically

Badran is exactly the kind of case where an amicus brief is appropriate because:

The dispute implicates systemic issues beyond the parties
A non-party vendor intervened to defend a business model
The court relied on industry framing, not evidentiary analysis
The ruling risks being cited nationally

An NCRA amicus would not argue who wins the case. It would educate the court on:

The legal meaning of “officer of the record”
The difference between recording and record creation
Why professional presence matters more in remote proceedings
Why transcript alteration is a red line

Courts are far more receptive to educational amici than advocacy amici.

5. Intervene Early—Not After Damage Is Done

In Badran, the record had already been altered before the issue was litigated.

NCRA should intervene at the motion stage in future cases, when:

a vendor seeks to validate audio-only transcripts,
a court is asked to bless a recording workflow,
or a transcript is being expanded post hoc.

Early intervention changes the framing before “efficiency” becomes the default justification.

III. How NCRA Can Know About These Cases in Time

This is the real structural failure—and it is fixable.

6. Create a Standing “Litigation Monitoring & Amicus Committee”

NCRA needs a dedicated body whose sole job is to monitor and evaluate cases affecting:

transcript admissibility,
reporter licensure,
audio/digital recording practices,
agency-controlled workflows,
remote deposition standards.

This committee should include:

licensed reporters,
appellate counsel,
evidence-law experts,
and regulatory specialists.

This cannot be done ad hoc by staff.

7. Establish a Confidential Case-Alert Intake System

NCRA should create a secure reporting channel where:

court reporters,
attorneys,
judges,
or state associations

can alert NCRA to cases involving:

motions to exclude or admit transcripts,
disputes over recording vs. reporting,
agency intervention,
transcript alterations,
or novel technology arguments.

This could be as simple as:

“Report a case affecting the integrity of the record.”

Right now, NCRA learns about these cases after vendors have already framed the issue.

8. Coordinate With State Associations and Ethics Counsel

State associations often hear about these cases first.

NCRA should:

formalize an early-warning network with state groups,
offer to co-author or support amicus briefs,
share research and drafting resources.

This distributes the burden and avoids the perception of NCRA acting unilaterally.

IV. What NCRA Must Stop Doing

9. Stop Treating This as a Workforce Shortage Problem

Badran is not about a shortage of reporters.
It is about who controls the record.

When NCRA frames everything as “access” or “shortage,” it:

concedes the legal high ground,
allows vendors to redefine professionalism,
and leaves courts without a principled framework.

This is an evidence-law problem, not a staffing problem.

10. Stop Deferring to “Innovation” Language

Courts do not need reassurance that technology is good.
They need clarity about what the law requires.

NCRA’s role is not to bless innovation.
It is to explain why the law has always required:

human judgment,
contemporaneous perception,
and accountable certification.

V. The Bottom Line

If NCRA does nothing, cases like Badran will quietly become “accepted wisdom,” cited not because they are correct, but because no one educated the court in time.

What NCRA can do—right now—is reclaim its role as:

the neutral explainer,
the guardian of the record,
and the institutional memory of why these rules exist.

Courts are not hostile to court reporters.
They are operating in an information vacuum.

If NCRA fills that vacuum with clear, legally grounded amicus advocacy, cases like Badran become teachable moments—not precedent.

I. Model NCRA Amicus Curiae Brief Outline

(For cases like Badran v. Badran involving remote depositions, audio reporting, and transcript integrity)

A. Interest of Amicus Curiae (NCRA)

NCRA is the national professional association representing licensed and certified court reporters, including stenographic and voice reporters, who serve as neutral officers of the court.
NCRA has a substantial interest in cases involving:
- admissibility of deposition transcripts,
- definition of the “official record,”
- and the legal requirements for professional oversight in remote proceedings.
The outcome affects not only the parties, but the integrity of the judicial record nationwide.

B. Summary of Argument

Admissibility does not turn on the existence of a recording, but on who was in responsible charge of the record.
Remote audio capture without a licensed reporter exercising contemporaneous judgment creates hearsay, authentication, and due process defects.
Post-hoc expansion of transcripts based on audio review improperly enlarges the record beyond what was perceived as testimony during the proceeding.
Parties cannot stipulate away evidentiary foundations or constitutional safeguards.

C. Argument

1. The Legal Record Is Defined by Contemporaneous Human Oversight

Courts have long required a neutral officer of the record to:
- administer the oath,
- observe the proceeding,
- determine what constitutes testimony,
- and certify the record based on firsthand perception.
Technology may assist this function; it cannot replace it.

2. Remote Proceedings Increase—Not Decrease—the Need for Professional Judgment

In remote depositions:
- participants lack shared sensory context,
- microphones capture speech not perceived as testimony,
- and incidental or private utterances are more easily misclassified.
Without a licensed reporter in responsible charge, no one defines the boundary of the record in real time.

3. Post-Hoc Transcript Alteration Creates Hearsay and Authentication Failures

Statements added after the fact, based solely on audio review:
- are out-of-court statements,
- lack a competent authenticating witness,
- and cannot be reliably classified as testimony.
A recording is not a witness and cannot supply evidentiary foundation.

4. “Professional Oversight” Does Not Mean a Vendor or Agency

Commercial reporting vendors are not sworn officers of the court.
They do not exercise independent judgment over the scope of the record.
Vendor intervention to defend transcripts highlights a conflict between business interests and evidentiary neutrality.

5. Stipulation Cannot Waive the Law

Parties may stipulate to procedures, not to:
- statutory licensure requirements,
- evidentiary foundations,
- or due process protections.
Efficiency is not an evidentiary standard.

D. Conclusion

The court should not rely on vendor-controlled, recording-based workflows to define testimony.
Admissibility requires licensed human oversight, contemporaneous perception, and accountable certification.
To hold otherwise undermines the integrity of the judicial record.

II. Proposed NCRA Board Resolution

(Member-driven, formal, and regulator-ready)

Resolution: Protection of the Integrity of the Legal Record in Remote Proceedings

WHEREAS, licensed court reporters serve as neutral officers of the court responsible for preserving the integrity, accuracy, and reliability of the legal record;

WHEREAS, courts increasingly rely on remote proceedings and audio-based technologies that, if improperly implemented, risk undermining evidentiary safeguards;

WHEREAS, disputes have arisen in multiple jurisdictions concerning the admissibility of transcripts created without a licensed reporter in responsible charge, including disputes involving post-hoc alteration of transcripts based on audio recordings;

WHEREAS, commercial vendors and agencies are not officers of the court and do not satisfy the legal requirement of professional oversight;

THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED that the National Court Reporters Association:

Affirms that “professional oversight” in deposition and evidentiary law requires a licensed stenographic or voice court reporter in responsible charge, present and accountable during the proceeding;
Opposes the admission of transcripts that are substantively altered after issuance based solely on audio review without contemporaneous human judgment;
Authorizes the creation of a Standing Litigation Monitoring and Amicus Committee to evaluate and participate in cases affecting transcript admissibility and record integrity;
Directs NCRA to file amicus curiae briefs, where appropriate, to educate courts on evidentiary, authentication, and due process concerns;
Commits to educating courts, attorneys, and regulators on the distinction between recording audio and creating an official legal record.

Adopted this ___ day of ______, 2026.

III. Member-Driven Reform Proposal

(How reporters can rally support and force institutional action)

Title: Reclaiming the Record — A Member Initiative for Amicus Advocacy

The Problem

Courts are deciding foundational questions about the legal record without hearing from the profession that creates it. Vendors are filling that vacuum with marketing language disguised as legal analysis.

The Solution

NCRA members call for a structural commitment to:

early case monitoring,
targeted amicus intervention,
and clear, court-facing education.

What Members Are Asking For

A permanent Litigation Monitoring & Amicus Committee.
A confidential case-alert intake system for reporters and attorneys.
Budget allocation for selective, high-impact amicus briefs.
Public-facing white papers written for judges, not marketing audiences.

How Members Can Act

Submit this proposal to the NCRA Board and House of Delegates.
Request a vote at the next business meeting.
Encourage state associations to pass parallel resolutions.
Collect attorney endorsements supporting NCRA amicus participation.

The Message

This is not about resisting technology.
It is about preserving lawful evidence, due process, and the integrity of the record.

If NCRA does not speak, others will define the record for us.

Final Thought (Strategic Reality)

Courts are not hostile to court reporters.
They are operating without guidance.

An amicus brief from NCRA—grounded in evidence law, not nostalgia—would carry extraordinary weight in cases like Badran. The silence is not neutral. It is being filled.

Case Summary: Badran Adel v. Badran Amro

Caption

Badran Adel v. Badran Amro

Court

Superior Court of New Jersey
Middlesex County, Civil Division

Presiding Judge

Hon. Lisa M. Vignuolo

Docket Information

Docket Identifier: MIDL005690-25
Civil Docket No.: MID-C-117-23

Parties

Plaintiff

Adel Badran

Defendant

Amro Badran
- The underlying dispute is between two brothers, Adel and Amro Badran.

Representation (Counsel of Record)

Counsel for Defendant Amro Badran (and Fred S. Dubowsky)

Paul Carbon, Esq.
Margolis Edelstein
Berkeley Heights, New Jersey

Fred S. Dubowsky, originally counsel for Amro Badran, was also named as a defendant in the matter, creating an atypical procedural posture in which defense counsel became substantively involved in the dispute.

Non-Party Intervenor

Precision Reporters, LLC, d/b/a Remote Legal

Role:
Precision Reporters, operating as Remote Legal, took the deposition transcripts at issue using audio-based capture methods and intervened as a non-party to defend the admissibility of those transcripts.

Counsel for Precision / Remote Legal

Cory J. Rothbort, Esq.
Mazie, Slater, Katz & Freeman LLC
Roseland, New Jersey

Additional Briefing for Intervenor

Michelle Stratton, Esq.
Murphy Ball Stratton
Houston, Texas
Authored a brief submitted on behalf of Remote Legal in support of transcript admissibility.

Nature of the Dispute

While the underlying litigation concerns a civil dispute between two brothers, the case gained broader legal significance due to a collateral evidentiary dispute over deposition transcripts.

Nine deposition transcripts were challenged.
The depositions were conducted remotely.
The transcripts were not taken by a licensed stenographic or voice court reporter.
Instead, they were produced by Precision Reporters / Remote Legal using audio recording.

A motion was filed seeking to exclude the transcripts on the grounds that they were not lawfully or reliably created and lacked proper professional oversight.

Critical Transcript Integrity Issue

A central issue—largely unaddressed in the trial court’s ruling—concerned post-hoc alteration of the transcript:

The remote deposition was conducted with the deponent individually mic’d.
Certain vulgar or offensive remarks were allegedly captured by the microphone.
Those remarks were not perceived by other participants in real time as part of the deposition testimony.
As a result, the remarks did not appear in the initial transcript.
After a complaint and review of the audio recording, the transcript was altered to include the remarks, based solely on the recording.

This raised serious issues regarding:

what constitutes the official deposition record,
whether non-testimonial or incidental speech can later be transformed into testimony,
hearsay and authentication,
and the propriety of expanding the record after the proceeding has concluded.

Trial Court Ruling

Judge Vignuolo denied the motion to exclude the transcripts, reasoning that:

the parties had stipulated to the method of recording, and
excluding the transcripts would result in unnecessary cost, delay, and judicial inefficiency.

The court emphasized consent and efficiency and did not meaningfully analyze:

whether a commercial vendor qualifies as “professional oversight,”
whether the altered transcript was properly authenticated,
or whether later-added statements constituted inadmissible hearsay.

Transcript Integrity and Evidentiary Concerns

The case highlights a fundamental distinction between recording and creating a legal record:

A microphone captures sound indiscriminately; it does not determine relevance, intent, or whether speech is testimonial.
In remote proceedings, the risk of record inflation—adding material later that was not understood as testimony in real time—is heightened.
Without a licensed court reporter in responsible charge, no neutral professional exercises contemporaneous judgment over the scope of the record.

The intervention by Precision / Remote Legal underscores this concern: a commercial vendor, rather than a sworn officer of the court, defended the integrity and content of the transcript.

Possible Appeal and Broader Significance

Because the ruling rests on stipulation and efficiency rather than evidentiary foundations, it is widely viewed as vulnerable on appeal.

Potential appellate issues include:

whether testimony may be expanded after the fact based on audio review,
whether such additions constitute hearsay lacking authentication,
whether parties may stipulate away statutory and constitutional safeguards,
and whether vendor-controlled recording workflows satisfy due process.

The case is increasingly cited in discussions about audio reporting and the decline of stenographic reporters, but it stands as a cautionary example, not a definitive endorsement of non-reporter-controlled deposition practices.

Disclaimer

This article is for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. It reflects analysis and opinion based on publicly reported information and legal principles. Readers should consult qualified legal counsel regarding specific cases, jurisdictions, or procedural questions.

When the Record Becomes Elastic – Why Badran v. Badran Misunderstood Admissibility

In Badran v. Badran, a New Jersey trial court confronted a question that courts across the country will increasingly face: Are nonstenographic deposition transcripts legally admissible? The court answered yes, emphasizing stipulation, efficiency, and the supposed presence of “professional oversight.”

That answer is comforting. It is also wrong.

The problem with Badran is not that technology was used. It is that the legal boundaries of the record were abandoned, and in their place, the court substituted convenience, volume, and after-the-fact acceptance. In doing so, the ruling misunderstood what makes testimony admissible, who qualifies as a professional, and why the law has always required a human officer of the record to be present and in responsible charge.

The Case, Reexamined

The defense in Badran moved to exclude nine deposition transcripts that had been captured electronically rather than stenographically. The court denied the motion, reasoning that the parties had stipulated to the method of recording and that excluding the transcripts would cause unnecessary cost, delay, and judicial inefficiency.

But buried within the procedural framing is a far more troubling set of facts—facts that go directly to hearsay, authentication, and due process.

A licensed stenographic reporter was not hired to report and was not present during at least one of the depositions. During the proceeding, certain vulgar comments were allegedly made by a party under his breath, not directed to counsel, not addressed to the room, and not heard by the stenographer or others present.

As a result, those comments did not appear in the original transcript.

Later, after a complaint was raised, the transcript was changed. The vulgarities were added—not because the reporter recalled them, but because a microphone recording captured them. The deponent had been mic’d. The room had not heard the comments. There was no officer of the record present to perceive them. But the recording did.

This is not a minor correction. It is the heart of the problem.

What Is—and Is Not—the Record

The official record of a deposition is not everything a device happens to capture. It is what is spoken on the record, in the proceeding, as perceived and recorded by the sworn officer administering the oath.

This distinction is foundational. Courts have always recognized that:

side comments,
private mutterings,
off-the-record remarks,
and speech not intended for the proceeding

are not testimony, even if they are audible to someone, somewhere.

A stenographer does not merely transcribe sound. The stenographer defines the boundary of the record. What is heard, identified, and recorded contemporaneously becomes testimony. What is not does not later transform into testimony simply because technology discovered it.

When the transcript in Badran was altered to include comments that were not perceived by the reporter, the record ceased to be a contemporaneous memorial of the proceeding. It became something else entirely: a post hoc reconstruction assembled from surveillance.

The Hearsay Problem the Court Ignored

Once those comments were added after the fact, based solely on a recording, they became out-of-court statements offered for their truth. No amount of stipulation cures that.

Who can authenticate those statements?

Not the stenographer, who was not hired.
Not the agency, which was not present.
Not the recording, which cannot testify.

There is no competent witness who can swear that the words were spoken as transcribed, that they were spoken loudly enough to be part of the proceeding, or that they were intended as testimony rather than private speech. That is classic hearsay, layered with interpretation, introduced through an altered transcript.

The court did not analyze this. It should have.

Why Recordings Create This Exact Danger

This case illustrates the inherent danger of elevating recordings over human perception.

Microphones do not understand relevance, intent, or audience. They do not distinguish between testimony and private speech. They do not know when something is “on the record.” They capture everything indiscriminately.

Stenographers do not.

When recordings are later mined for additional content, the record becomes elastic. Its scope expands beyond what occurred in the room. Testimony is no longer limited to what was actually given and perceived in the proceeding. Instead, it is augmented after the fact by sounds no one understood to be part of the record at the time.

That is not modernization. It is distortion.

“Professional Oversight” Does Not Mean an Agency

The court relied heavily on the notion that admissibility rests on “professional oversight.” That phrase does not mean what the court appeared to think it meant.

An agency is not a professional officer of the record. Agencies do not attend depositions. They do not administer oaths. They do not observe witnesses. They do not resolve ambiguities in real time. They do not certify transcripts based on firsthand knowledge.

The professionals contemplated by law are licensed court reporters—stenographic or voice—who are present, impartial, and in responsible charge. That professional oversight was missing here.

Why the Intervention Matters

The intervention by Precision Reporters, LLC, d/b/a Remote Legal is legally significant for reasons that go beyond technology.

First, it confirms that the deposition transcripts were not created under the responsible charge of a licensed court reporter — stenographic or voice — who was present, sworn, and accountable for defining the scope of the record during a remote proceeding.

Second, it underscores that a commercial reporting vendor, rather than a neutral officer of the record, assumed control over:

how the audio was captured,
how the transcript was later assembled,
and what content was ultimately included as “testimony.”

In a remote environment, where microphones can capture speech not perceived by other participants, the absence of a qualified reporter in responsible charge is especially consequential. There was no human professional exercising judgment in real time to determine whether certain utterances were part of the deposition record or incidental, private, or non-testimonial speech.

Finally, the intervention highlights a structural conflict at the heart of the case:
vendors seeking judicial validation of their transcript products versus courts’ obligation to preserve the integrity and limits of the legal record.

When a vendor intervenes to defend transcripts it produced — including post hoc alterations based on recordings — the court is no longer evaluating neutral evidence. It is adjudicating the legitimacy of a business model.

That is not what “professional oversight” means in evidentiary law.

Stipulation Is Not a Waiver of the Law

The court treated the stipulation as dispositive. It was not.

Parties may stipulate to procedures. They may not stipulate away statutory safeguards, evidentiary foundation, or constitutional due process. Courts have repeatedly held that agreements cannot override requirements designed to protect the integrity of the judicial process itself.

Here, the stipulation was also likely unconscionable. Attorneys were not agreeing to waive a stenographic method in favor of another licensed reporter. They were agreeing—without full understanding—to a process in which no reporter would be in responsible charge, and in which the record could later be expanded based on recordings no one in the room perceived.

That is not informed consent. It is a bait-and-switch.

Efficiency Is Not an Evidentiary Rule

The court justified its ruling by citing cost, delay, and judicial inefficiency. Those considerations are not legal standards for admissibility.

Evidence is excluded every day despite inconvenience because the law demands it. If widespread noncompliance has occurred, the remedy is not to bless it retroactively. It is to stop it.

Allowing altered, unauthenticated transcripts because too many of them exist sends a dangerous message: violate the rules at scale, and the courts will hesitate to enforce them.

Why This Decision Is Vulnerable on Appeal

This ruling is ripe for appellate review precisely because it avoided the hard questions:

What defines the record?
Who qualifies as a professional?
Can testimony be expanded after the fact?
Can hearsay be introduced through altered transcripts?
Can due process be waived by convenience?

An appellate court could reverse without rejecting technology at all—simply by holding that statements not contemporaneously perceived by the officer of the record cannot later be inserted into a transcript and treated as testimony.

The Real Lesson of Badran

The lesson of Badran v. Badran is not that nonstenographic transcripts are inherently valid. Properly conducted voice reporting by licensed professionals has long been recognized.

The lesson is that the record has boundaries, and those boundaries are defined by human presence, professional responsibility, and contemporaneous perception.

When the record is allowed to expand after the fact—when microphones replace judgment and agencies replace professionals—the integrity of testimony collapses.

That is not progress. It is a constitutional problem.

1. Why this fact pattern is legally explosive

Key facts:

Deposition transcripts were not created under the responsible charge of a licensed court reporter — stenographic or voice — who was present, sworn, and accountable for defining the scope of the record during a remote proceeding.
Certain vulgar comments were not heard initially, in the room.
Those comments were allegedly spoken under the breath, not addressed to the room, not part of the examination.
A microphone captured them anyway because the deponent was mic’d.
The initial transcript did not include them.
After a complaint, the transcript was changed later to include those comments.
The change was made based on a recording, not the stenographer’s contemporaneous perception.

That is not a technical correction.
That is a substantive alteration of the record after the fact.

2. The controlling legal principle: what is “the record”?

The legal record of a deposition is:

What is spoken on the record, in the proceeding, as perceived and recorded by the officer administering the oath.

It is not:

everything a microphone happens to capture,
every muttered aside,
every private utterance not intended for the proceeding,
or every sound later “discovered” on playback.

Courts have consistently held that side comments, off-the-record remarks, and private utterances are not part of the official record unless they are:

Audible to the proceeding, and
Made in the context of testimony or examination.

A stenographer’s presence is not ornamental. It defines the boundary of the record.

3. Why the later-added vulgarities are hearsay

Once those comments were:

not heard by the reporter,
not transcribed contemporaneously,
not perceived as part of the proceeding,

they ceased to be “record testimony.”

When they were later added, they became:

Out-of-court statements
Interpreted and transcribed after the fact
Offered for their truth (to show misconduct, animus, or impropriety)

That is classic hearsay.

Worse, it is hearsay without a competent witness to authenticate it.

Who can testify that:

the words were spoken as transcribed?
they were spoken loudly enough to be “on the record”?
they were not misheard, misinterpreted, or contextually distorted?
they were not private remarks outside the scope of testimony?

Not the stenographer — she didn’t hear them.
Not the agency — they weren’t present.
Not the recording — recordings don’t testify.

4. Authentication and foundation failure

For evidence to be admissible, it must be authenticated.

Here, authentication fails on multiple levels:

No contemporaneous officer of the record perceived the statements
No sworn witness can attest that they were made “on the record”
The transcript was altered after issuance
The change was triggered by post hoc review, not live correction

That violates foundational evidentiary rules.

Courts are extremely skeptical of altered transcripts, especially when:

changes are substantive, not clerical
changes introduce inflammatory language
changes are based on recordings no one in the room perceived

This is exactly why stenographers exist: to prevent the record from being expanded later by unseen, unbounded sources.

5. Why recordings create this exact danger

Recordings pick up comments not meant for the room.

That is the core issue.

A microphone does not understand:

relevance
intent
audience
context
whether speech was testimonial or private

A stenographer does.

When recordings are later mined for “extra” content:

the record becomes elastic,
scope expands beyond the proceeding,
and testimony is no longer limited to what was actually given.

That violates:

due process,
confrontation principles,
and basic fairness.

No witness should have their “testimony” expanded after the fact to include private mutterings not offered as testimony.

6. Why the judge got this wrong

The trial court focused on:

stipulation,
efficiency,
volume of transcripts,
cost and delay.

It did not analyze:

hearsay,
authentication,
alteration of the record,
or whether these comments were ever properly “on the record” at all.

That is a legal error.

Efficiency does not convert non-testimonial speech into testimony.
Stipulation does not transform hearsay into admissible evidence.
Volume of prior misconduct does not justify continuing it.

7. Why this strengthens—not weakens—the appeal posture

Ironically, this fact pattern makes the case more vulnerable on appeal, not less.

Appellate courts are far more concerned with:

integrity of the record,
post hoc alteration,
evidentiary foundation,
and constitutional fairness

than with docket management.

An appellate court could easily say:

“Even assuming electronic recording was permissible, the later inclusion of statements not contemporaneously perceived by the officer of the record was improper, unauthenticated, and inadmissible.”

That would allow reversal without even reaching the broader technology question.

8. The bottom line

What happened here was not modernization.

It was record inflation.

The transcript was no longer a memorial of what occurred in the proceeding. It became a curated product assembled later from a surveillance device.

That is not a legal record.
That is not testimony.
That is not admissible.

And this is exactly why professional stenographers — present, licensed, sworn, and accountable — are indispensable.

Appellate-Grade Issue Statement

Whether a trial court errs as a matter of law by admitting deposition transcripts generated through remote audio recording, where no licensed court reporter was in responsible charge of the proceeding, and where the transcript was substantively altered after issuance to include statements captured by a microphone but not perceived by participants in real time as testimony—thereby violating evidentiary rules governing hearsay and authentication, undermining the definition of the official record, and depriving the opposing party of due process.

Case Summary: Badran Adel v. Badran Amro

Caption

Badran Adel v. Badran Amro

Court

Superior Court of New Jersey
Middlesex County, Civil Division

Presiding Judge

Hon. Lisa M. Vignuolo

Docket Information

Docket Identifier: MIDL005690-25
Civil Docket No.: MID-C-117-23

Parties

Plaintiff

Adel Badran

Defendant

Amro Badran
- The underlying dispute is between two brothers, Adel and Amro Badran.

Representation (Counsel of Record)

Counsel for Defendant Amro Badran (and Fred S. Dubowsky)

Paul Carbon, Esq.
Margolis Edelstein
Berkeley Heights, New Jersey

Fred S. Dubowsky, originally counsel for Amro Badran, was also named as a defendant in the matter, creating an atypical procedural posture in which defense counsel became substantively involved in the dispute.

Non-Party Intervenor

Precision Reporters, LLC, d/b/a Remote Legal

Role:
Precision Reporters, operating as Remote Legal, took the deposition transcripts at issue using audio-based capture methods and intervened as a non-party to defend the admissibility of those transcripts.

Counsel for Precision / Remote Legal

Cory J. Rothbort, Esq.
Mazie, Slater, Katz & Freeman LLC
Roseland, New Jersey

Additional Briefing for Intervenor

Michelle Stratton, Esq.
Murphy Ball Stratton
Houston, Texas
Authored a brief submitted on behalf of Remote Legal in support of transcript admissibility.

Nature of the Dispute

While the underlying litigation concerns a civil dispute between two brothers, the case gained broader legal significance due to a collateral evidentiary dispute over deposition transcripts.

Nine deposition transcripts were challenged.
The depositions were conducted remotely.
The transcripts were not taken by a licensed stenographic or voice court reporter.
Instead, they were produced by Precision Reporters / Remote Legal using audio recording.

A motion was filed seeking to exclude the transcripts on the grounds that they were not lawfully or reliably created and lacked proper professional oversight.

Critical Transcript Integrity Issue

A central issue—largely unaddressed in the trial court’s ruling—concerned post-hoc alteration of the transcript:

The remote deposition was conducted with the deponent individually mic’d.
Certain vulgar or offensive remarks were allegedly captured by the microphone.
Those remarks were not perceived by other participants in real time as part of the deposition testimony.
As a result, the remarks did not appear in the initial transcript.
After a complaint and review of the audio recording, the transcript was altered to include the remarks, based solely on the recording.

This raised serious issues regarding:

what constitutes the official deposition record,
whether non-testimonial or incidental speech can later be transformed into testimony,
hearsay and authentication,
and the propriety of expanding the record after the proceeding has concluded.

Trial Court Ruling

Judge Vignuolo denied the motion to exclude the transcripts, reasoning that:

the parties had stipulated to the method of recording, and
excluding the transcripts would result in unnecessary cost, delay, and judicial inefficiency.

The court emphasized consent and efficiency and did not meaningfully analyze:

whether a commercial vendor qualifies as “professional oversight,”
whether the altered transcript was properly authenticated,
or whether later-added statements constituted inadmissible hearsay.

Transcript Integrity and Evidentiary Concerns

The case highlights a fundamental distinction between recording and creating a legal record:

A microphone captures sound indiscriminately; it does not determine relevance, intent, or whether speech is testimonial.
In remote proceedings, the risk of record inflation—adding material later that was not understood as testimony in real time—is heightened.
Without a licensed court reporter in responsible charge, no neutral professional exercises contemporaneous judgment over the scope of the record.

The intervention by Precision / Remote Legal underscores this concern: a commercial vendor, rather than a sworn officer of the court, defended the integrity and content of the transcript.

Possible Appeal and Broader Significance

Because the ruling rests on stipulation and efficiency rather than evidentiary foundations, it is widely viewed as vulnerable on appeal.

Potential appellate issues include:

whether testimony may be expanded after the fact based on audio review,
whether such additions constitute hearsay lacking authentication,
whether parties may stipulate away statutory and constitutional safeguards,
and whether vendor-controlled recording workflows satisfy due process.

Disclaimer

This article is for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. It reflects analysis and opinion based on reported facts and legal principles. Readers should consult qualified legal counsel regarding the application of law to specific matters or jurisdictions.

When Efficiency Overrides the Law – Why Badran v. Badran Got Admissibility Wrong

Courts are often asked to balance efficiency against principle. In Badran v. Badran, a New Jersey trial court chose efficiency—and in doing so, may have crossed a line that appellate courts exist to correct.

At issue were nine deposition transcripts created through electronic recording, rather than stenographic reporting. The defense sought to exclude them, arguing that the absence of a stenographic reporter rendered the transcripts invalid. The court denied the motion, reasoning that the parties had stipulated to the method of recording and that exclusion would cause unnecessary cost, delay, and judicial inefficiency.

On its face, the ruling appears pragmatic. On closer examination, it is deeply flawed.

The decision rests on a dangerous premise: that consent alone can substitute for statutory compliance, and that “professional oversight” can be satisfied by an agency-controlled recording process devoid of a licensed court reporter. Neither proposition is supported by law, evidence doctrine, or constitutional due process.

Admissibility Is Not a Popularity Contest

The court framed admissibility as a matter of agreement. But admissibility has never turned solely on whether parties went along with a process. It turns on whether the process itself satisfies legal standards.

Rules governing depositions and transcripts are not aspirational. They exist to ensure that testimony—often dispositive testimony—is preserved by a neutral, qualified officer of the record. That officer is not an agency. It is not a vendor. It is a licensed court reporter.

Stipulations are procedural tools, not blank checks. Parties may agree to scheduling changes, remote appearances, or sequencing. They may not stipulate away licensure requirements, certification rules, or foundational safeguards that protect the integrity of evidence.

Courts have long held that litigants cannot, by agreement, waive requirements that serve the public interest or the integrity of the judicial process itself. The official record is one such interest. It does not belong to the parties. It belongs to the court.

“Professional Oversight” Was the Missing Element

The court emphasized that admissibility depends on “procedure and professional oversight, not the technology used.” That sentence contains the seed of its own undoing.

Professional oversight was precisely what was missing.

A person assigned to press “record” is not a professional within the meaning of court reporting statutes or evidentiary law. They are not licensed. They are not sworn. They are not trained to resolve speaker identification, manage objections, address inaudibles, ensure completeness, or certify accuracy based on firsthand presence.

Agencies are likewise not professionals for these purposes. They do not attend the deposition. They do not administer the oath. They do not observe demeanor. They do not create the transcript. They do not certify it based on personal knowledge. Their role is administrative and commercial, not evidentiary.

The law has always drawn a sharp distinction between recording and creating a record. The latter requires a human being in responsible charge. Without that person, the transcript is not a legal record; it is a derivative product.

The Unconscionable Stipulation Problem

The court treated the stipulation as informed and voluntary. That assumption deserves scrutiny.

Stipulations obtained through misrepresentation or omission are not enforceable. If attorneys were led to believe that a “reporter” would be present—when in fact no licensed reporter attended, and testimony was merely captured electronically—that is not mutual agreement. It is a bait-and-switch.

Most attorneys are not experts in court reporting law. They rely on representations made in deposition notices and scheduling communications. When those communications obscure or sanitize the absence of a licensed reporter, consent is not informed.

An unconscionable stipulation is one entered into without a meaningful understanding of what is being surrendered. Here, what was surrendered was not trivial: the right to a transcript created and certified by a neutral officer of the court.

That is not a minor procedural preference. It is a core safeguard.

Cost and Delay Are Not Legal Standards

Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the decision is the court’s reliance on cost, delay, and judicial efficiency as justification for admitting the transcripts.

Efficiency is not an evidentiary rule.

Courts exclude evidence every day despite cost and inconvenience because legality, not expedience, governs admissibility. If widespread noncompliance has occurred, the remedy is not to ratify it retroactively. It is to stop it.

The logic employed here—that exclusion would be disruptive because the practice has become common—rewards systemic misconduct. It effectively tells vendors that if they scale a legally questionable process widely enough, courts will hesitate to unwind it.

That is not how rule of law works. That is how shortcuts metastasize.

Hearsay and Foundation Were Never Resolved

A transcript created from an electronic recording by someone who was not present raises immediate evidentiary problems. Who can testify that the transcript is accurate? Who resolved ambiguities? Who ensured completeness? Who can be cross-examined about errors?

Without a reporter who attended the deposition, the transcript itself becomes an out-of-court statement offered for its truth. That is hearsay unless a proper foundation is laid.

The Badran court sidestepped this analysis entirely. Consent does not cure hearsay. Agreement does not establish foundation. Professional presence does.

Due Process Cannot Be Stipulated Away

At bottom, this is a due process problem.

Due process requires that evidence used against a party be reliable, traceable, and subject to meaningful challenge. A system that removes the human witness to the record—while substituting a vendor-managed workflow—undermines that right.

You cannot cross-examine a workflow. You cannot subpoena a cloud. You cannot ask an agency to testify to events it did not observe.

The Constitution does not bend to convenience.

Why This Decision Is Ripe for Appeal

Trial courts are afforded discretion, but that discretion is not unbounded. Appellate courts exist to correct errors of law, especially where lower courts conflate agreement with legality.

An appeal would force a higher court to confront questions the trial court avoided:
Who qualifies as a “professional” for purposes of creating a legal record?
Can parties waive statutory reporter requirements by stipulation?
Does efficiency justify admitting evidence created through an unlawful process?

Those are not niche issues. They strike at the heart of modern litigation.

The Real Lesson of Badran

The lesson of Badran v. Badran is not that nonstenographic transcripts are inherently inadmissible. Properly conducted voice reporting—performed by licensed, present, responsible reporters—has long been recognized as valid.

The lesson is that professional oversight means a professional, not a vendor, not an agency, and not a person pressing a button.

Courts are right to say that technology does not determine admissibility. But when technology is used to displace the very professional the law requires, admissibility fails—not because of nostalgia, but because of law.

If this decision stands, it will not modernize justice. It will hollow it out.

Disclaimer

This article is for informational and educational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. It reflects analysis and opinion based on publicly available information and established legal principles. Readers should consult qualified legal counsel regarding the application of law to specific cases or jurisdictions.

🧾 Court-Reporting / Deposition Rules

Federal Rules of Civil Procedure Rule 30(b)(5) — transcripts must be provided, unless parties agree otherwise.
Federal Rule of Evidence 801–807 (Hearsay rules) — foundation and authentication requirements for any testimonial record.

These rules reflect the longstanding principle that vehicle isn’t dispositive — process, foundation, and responsible witness testimony are. Even when technology is used, admissibility still hinges on these requirements. (You can pull them from official sources like Cornell’s Legal Information Institute or the U.S. Courts site.)

⚖️ Foundation & Authentication Standards

FRE 901 Authentication — requires sufficient evidence to support that what the proponent claims the record to be is what it is.
FRE 803(6) Business Records Exception — may apply to deposition transcripts with a proper record-keeping witness.

Those rules emphasize that it is who certifies and how the transcript was produced that matters — not who hit record.

Ethics and Licensure Law

Most states require court reporters to be licensed or certified to create an official court record.
Courts routinely treat non-certified transcripts differently for evidentiary purposes.

Petition to the National Court Reporters Association – In Re Stronger Regulatory Reforms for AI Innovation in Federal Court Proceedings

In Defense of the Official Court Record and the Role of Licensed Stenographic Court Reporters

Petitioners:

Members of the National Court Reporters Association, licensed court reporters, captioners, legal professionals, educators, and stakeholders in the integrity of the judicial record.

Statement of Purpose

We, the undersigned members and supporters of the National Court Reporters Association (NCRA), submit this petition to formally request that NCRA adopt a stronger, clearer, and more assertive advocacy position regarding the use of artificial intelligence (AI), automated speech recognition (ASR), and digital recording technologies in court proceedings.

The integrity of the official court record is foundational to due process, appellate review, and public trust in the justice system. Any policy position that weakens accountability, admissibility, or record reliability places litigants, courts, and the profession itself at risk.

Background

On October 27, 2025, NCRA submitted comments to the Office of Science and Technology Policy titled Regulatory Reforms for AI Innovation in Federal Court Proceedings (Docket ID: OSTP-TECH-2025-0067).

While the submission correctly identifies known technical and ethical shortcomings of AI-generated transcripts and affirms stenographic court reporting as the “gold standard,” many members believe the filing does not go far enough to protect:

The constitutional rights of litigants
The integrity and admissibility of the official court record
The role of licensed, accountable court reporters
The long-term viability of the profession

In particular, the submission frames AI integration as an inevitability requiring further study, rather than as a threshold legal and constitutional issue requiring firm opposition and clear boundaries.

Core Concerns

We respectfully assert the following concerns:

An optional “gold standard is not a standard.
Without a clear mandate requiring licensed stenographic court reporters to create the official record, the designation of stenography as the “gold standard” lacks enforceability and practical effect.
AI-generated transcripts lack certification and accountability.
AI systems cannot certify transcripts, cannot attest to completeness or accuracy, and cannot be called to testify regarding the authenticity of the record—fundamental requirements under existing legal frameworks.
Incremental deployment creates irreversible harm.
“Pilot programs,” task forces, and provisional use of AI systems often become permanent before their legal consequences are fully understood, making later correction unlikely.
The issue is constitutional, not merely technological.
Errors in the official record affect due process, confrontation rights, appellate review, and judicial outcomes. These risks demand stronger advocacy than procedural caution.

Petition Requests

Accordingly, we petition the National Court Reporters Association to adopt and publicly advance the following positions:

1. Oppose AI-Generated Transcripts as the Official Record

NCRA should formally and unequivocally oppose the use of AI-generated or ASR-generated transcripts as the official court record in any judicial or quasi-judicial proceeding.

2. Advocate for Mandatory Use of Licensed Stenographic Court Reporters

NCRA should advocate that federal and state courts require licensed stenographic court reporters to create the official record, with any digital or AI tools limited strictly to non-authoritative, supplemental purposes.

3. Reject “Capture-Method Neutrality” Where It Undermines Due Process

NCRA should reject policies suggesting that all capture methods are equivalent when such equivalence compromises admissibility, accountability, certification, or constitutional protections.

4. Demand Clear Legal Standards Before Any AI Deployment

NCRA should insist that no AI or automated transcription system be authorized for courtroom use without explicit legislative or judicial findings that such systems meet existing evidentiary, certification, and due process standards.

5. Communicate These Positions Clearly and Publicly

NCRA should communicate these positions transparently to:

Members
Judges and court administrators
Lawmakers and regulators
The legal community and the public

Closing Statement

This petition is submitted in good faith and with deep respect for NCRA’s leadership and history. We recognize the complexity of emerging technologies. However, the official court record is not an area where experimentation, gradual erosion, or managed transition is acceptable.

The justice system depends on a record that is accurate, accountable, and defensible. Licensed stenographic court reporters uniquely provide that safeguard.

We respectfully urge NCRA to take a firmer, clearer, and more protective stance—one commensurate with the constitutional importance of the record and the seriousness of the moment.

When Caution Becomes Capitulation – NCRA’s AI Filing and the Quiet Risk to the Court Record

By any historical measure, moments like this do not announce themselves loudly. They arrive wrapped in professional letterhead, careful language, and procedural restraint. They look reasonable. They sound responsible. And by the time their consequences become clear, the damage is already embedded in the system.

NCRA Regulatory Reforms for AI Innovation in Federal Reporting

That is why the National Court Reporters Association’s recent submission to the Office of Science and Technology Policy—titled Regulatory Reforms for AI Innovation in Federal Court Proceedings—has left many court reporters unsettled, disappointed, and deeply uneasy.

On its face, the document does not endorse artificial intelligence as a replacement for stenographic court reporters. It affirms stenography as the “gold standard.” It acknowledges AI’s accuracy failures, bias risks, and lack of accountability. It urges caution. It calls for study.

And yet, for all its professionalism, the submission reveals a troubling truth: in a moment requiring firm opposition, it chooses procedural accommodation.

This is the good, the bad, and the ugly of that choice—and why it matters more than many may yet realize.

The Good: What the Submission Gets Right

The filing is not careless. It does not blindly cheerlead automation. It accurately identifies real technical and ethical problems with AI-generated transcripts, including homophones, overlapping speech, numerical inaccuracies, and bias across demographic groups. These are not theoretical concerns; they are documented failures already appearing in courtrooms.

The submission also rightly emphasizes accountability. Human court reporters attach certification pages. They can be subpoenaed. They can testify to the integrity of the record. Artificial intelligence cannot do any of those things. That distinction is not cosmetic. It is foundational to how courts authenticate evidence.

Most importantly, the document states—on the federal record—that stenographic court reporting remains the gold standard. That phrase matters. It can be cited. It establishes institutional position. It prevents misrepresentation by vendors claiming professional endorsement.

These are not trivial contributions. They are necessary truths.

But necessity is not sufficiency.

The Bad: What the Submission Fails to Do

The document’s central weakness is not factual. It is strategic.

From the opening paragraph forward, the submission assumes that AI integration into court proceedings is inevitable. The only question posed is how quickly and under what guardrails it should occur. This framing quietly surrenders the most important argument court reporters have: that some functions of the justice system should not be automated at all.

Instead of drawing a bright line, the submission asks for a task force. An 18–24 month study. A measured approach. Consultation before implementation.

That may sound prudent. In practice, it functions as a stall while deployment continues.

Courts are not waiting. Vendors are not waiting. Digital recording systems are already normalized in many jurisdictions. “Pilot programs” quietly become permanent fixtures. And once an inferior system is embedded, courts rarely reverse course.

The filing also stops short of demanding what would actually protect the profession—and the public: mandatory use of licensed stenographic court reporters for the creation of the official record. Without that demand, the “gold standard” becomes merely aspirational.

A standard that is optional is not a standard. It is a suggestion.

The Ugly: What This Signals About the Future

The most troubling aspect of the submission is what it signals implicitly.

By positioning court reporters as stakeholders in AI deployment rather than as guardians of the official record, the profession is subtly recast as legacy infrastructure—valuable, but negotiable. Advisory, not essential.

This is the language of managed decline.

History is full of professions that made this mistake. Newspaper journalists were told automation would “free them” to do higher-level work. Travel agents were told online booking tools would expand their reach. Each was invited to help manage the transition. None retained control once the transition was complete.

The justice system is not a market. The court record is not a convenience. And yet this submission treats AI integration as an innovation challenge rather than a constitutional one.

There is no discussion of appellate risk. No reference to due process. No confrontation with the reality that an uncertified, unauditable record undermines the fairness of proceedings long after the hearing ends.

The ugliness lies not in what is said, but in what is normalized by omission.

A Line-by-Line Rewrite: How This Could Have Been Stronger

Below are representative examples of how key sections could have been rewritten—not rhetorically, but substantively.

Original:
“We respectfully urge the Administration to establish a Department of Justice Task Force on AI in the Justice System before implementing any regulatory changes…”

Stronger:
“We respectfully urge the Administration to impose an immediate moratorium on the use of AI-generated transcripts as the official court record until Congress and the judiciary have determined whether such records satisfy constitutional due process, evidentiary reliability, and appellate review requirements.”

Original:
“Federal policy must prioritize stenographic court reporting as the gold standard…”

Stronger:
“Federal policy must mandate licensed stenographic court reporters as the exclusive creators of the official court record in federal proceedings, with any digital or AI tools limited strictly to non-authoritative, supplemental functions.”

Original:
“AI struggles with homophones, number figures, overlapping speech…”

Stronger:
“These failures are not mere technical defects; they constitute material alterations of testimony that expose litigants to reversible error, sanctions, and loss of appellate rights.”

Original:
“AI transcripts do not have certification pages…”

Stronger:
“An uncertified transcript cannot satisfy evidentiary standards for authenticity, chain of custody, or judicial notice. Any system that produces such records is incompatible with the justice system’s obligations.”

A Member Resolution Calling for a Harder Line

Resolution of the Membership of the National Court Reporters Association

WHEREAS, the official court record is a foundational safeguard of due process and appellate review; and

WHEREAS, licensed stenographic court reporters are uniquely trained, certified, and legally accountable for the accuracy and integrity of that record; and

WHEREAS, artificial intelligence and automated speech recognition systems lack certification, accountability, and the ability to testify to authenticity; and

WHEREAS, incremental or “pilot” deployment of AI systems risks permanent erosion of record integrity;

BE IT RESOLVED, that the National Court Reporters Association shall oppose the use of AI-generated transcripts as the official record in any judicial proceeding;

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that NCRA shall advocate for mandatory use of licensed stenographic court reporters in federal and state courts;

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that NCRA shall reject “capture-method neutrality” where such neutrality compromises admissibility, accountability, or constitutional rights;

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that NCRA shall communicate these positions clearly and publicly to courts, lawmakers, and the legal community.

What a Stronger Alternative Submission Should Have Said

A stronger submission would not ask for permission to study harm already documented. It would state plainly:

AI-generated transcripts are inadmissible as official records
Uncertified records undermine due process
Courts adopting such systems assume legal risk
Licensed reporters are not optional infrastructure

It would frame stenography not as tradition, but as constitutional compliance.

The Bottom Line

This filing is not malicious. It is cautious. But in moments of structural change, caution can become complicity.

Court reporters do not merely document justice. They make justice reviewable. And a profession that forgets that role—however politely—risks being written out of the future it helped build.

If the record is to remain trustworthy, advocacy must be firmer than this. The moment demands clarity, not accommodation.

Disclaimer:
This article reflects the author’s analysis and opinion regarding policy positions and public statements related to court reporting, artificial intelligence, and the integrity of the judicial record. It is based on publicly available information and professional experience within the legal system. Nothing herein is intended as legal advice, nor as an assertion of fact regarding the motives, intent, or conduct of any individual or organization. Readers are encouraged to consult primary sources and applicable law when evaluating these issues.

Celebration or Contradiction – When Corporate CEU’s Collide With the Reality of the Record

Using AI to Strengthen Your Voice – How Court Reporters Can Advocate Powerfully for Our Profession

For years, court reporters have been fighting to protect the integrity of the legal record—with limited time, limited resources, and a constant uphill battle against misinformation. Between agency marketing spin, legislative misunderstandings, and the relentless push from digital-recording and AI-transcription companies, reporters are often left feeling drowned out long before their voice ever reaches a decision-maker.

But something is shifting.

Across industries, professionals are discovering something unexpected: AI, when used strategically, isn’t a threat to their voice—it’s a microphone for it. It helps people show up more prepared, more confident, and more clearly articulated than they ever could alone.

And in a profession where clarity, precision, and advocacy matter more than ever, AI is becoming one of the most powerful tools court reporters can use to make sure we are heard.

This article is about how.

A Familiar Problem – How Do We Make Sure Our Voices Are Truly Heard?

Every reporter has felt it.

You read a legislative summary that misstates what we do.
You hear a colleague say, “I want to speak at the CRB/NCRA/DRA meeting, but I don’t know how to say what I mean.”
You see digital proponents spin a narrative so confidently that even seasoned attorneys start to question what’s accurate.

And often, despite having years of courtroom experience, hundreds of trials under your belt, or a lifetime of service—you still hesitate.

Not because you don’t know the truth.
But because putting your truth into words, in a way that feels polished, professional, and persuasive, takes time most reporters simply don’t have.

This is where AI becomes transformative.

AI as Your Advocacy Partner—Not Your Replacement

When most reporters hear “AI,” they think of ASR. They think of machine-generated transcripts, errors, homophones, and the long-term threat automation poses to our livelihoods.

But that’s not the AI we’re talking about.

We’re talking about AI as a thinking partner—a tool for writing, refining, planning, and preparing your arguments, letters, speeches, and public comments so that your expertise comes through powerfully and unmistakably.

Using AI for advocacy is not about replacing your voice.
It’s about clarifying it, structuring it, and amplifying it.

Think of it like this:

You provide the lived experience.
AI helps shape that experience into a message that lands.

That combination—human expertise + enhanced articulation—is what moves legislators, persuades judges, and educates the public.

Reporters already have the truth on our side.
AI simply helps us present that truth in a way people cannot ignore.

A Simple Framework for Making AI Your Personal Advocacy Engine

To help reporters get started, here is an adaptation of the CRIT method—designed specifically for court-reporter advocacy:

C – Context

Feed AI the background it needs.
For example:

Your state’s current shortage situation
What digital proponents are claiming
The realities you observe in the courtroom
Your personal experience as a working reporter
Relevant statutes, rules, or cases
Why this issue matters to due process

The richer the context, the stronger the output.

R – Role

Tell AI who to “be.”
You might assign it the role of:

A seasoned legislative policy advisor
A legal-ethics scholar familiar with ABA 498/512
A journalist writing a neutral explainer
A professional speechwriter
A communications strategist for a statewide association

Role-assignment is where the magic happens.
It changes the quality, depth, and tone of everything you receive.

I – Interview

Instead of dumping information at AI, let AI interview you.

Ask it:
“Please interview me with smart, targeted questions to uncover what I want to say.”

It will ask:

What outcome do you want?
What concerns do you hear from attorneys?
What misunderstandings need correcting?
What personal stories demonstrate your point?
What data points or statutes do you want referenced?

As you answer question by question, your message becomes clearer—even to yourself.

T – Task

Only after the interview do you ask AI to create something.

For example:

A letter to a legislator
A public-comment statement
Talking points for a meeting
A speech for a CRB hearing
An op-ed for a newspaper
A professional email to an attorney
A concise LinkedIn post that will be shared 300+ times

This is where your raw passion becomes a polished, powerful advocacy product.

What Happens When Reporters Use AI This Way

Something incredible happens.

Reporters who were nervous suddenly feel prepared.
Reporters who felt small suddenly feel strategic.
Reporters who didn’t think they had a voice suddenly discover they have dozens of ways to use it.

AI levels the advocacy playing field.

It gives every reporter—not just the loudest, not just the writers, not just the policy-savvy—an equal chance to speak with clarity and confidence.

It democratizes influence.

And in a world where well-funded tech companies are moving fast, we cannot afford to sit quietly because we “don’t know how to say it.”

With AI, every reporter can say it—strongly.

Examples of What AI Can Help You Create in Minutes

Here are real, practical advocacy outputs reporters can generate using just a few structured prompts:

✔ Persuasive letters to legislators and committees

Explaining the difference between stenography and digital recording in terms they understand.

✔ Clean, powerful public-comment statements

For CRB meetings, judicial councils, or legislative hearings.

✔ One-page fact sheets

That attorneys can hand to partners or firm leadership.

✔ Social-media posts that cut through noise

Correcting misinformation quickly and professionally.

✔ Data-driven comparison charts

Judicial error rates, cost breakdowns, shortage myths, or workflow timelines.

✔ Personal stories framed for maximum impact

Turning your experience into narrative advocacy.

✔ “Explainer” scripts for videos or podcasts

Helping you reach lawyers, students, or the general public.

✔ Polished responses to digital-recording misinformation

So you never again feel outgunned by corporate PR.

This is not theoretical.
Reporters are already doing this—and winning hearts and minds with it.

The Moment the Room Shifts

When court reporters walk into legislative offices, board meetings, or judicial chambers with clear, structured, well-reasoned talking points created collaboratively with AI—people notice.

They hear you differently.

They understand your expertise more quickly.
They grasp the stakes more clearly.
They respond with more respect and more curiosity.

The room shifts.

And you realize:
Your voice was powerful all along.
You just finally had the right tools to project it.

A Call to Action – Where Can AI Help You Speak Up More Boldly?

Every reporter reading this has somewhere in their professional life where your voice matters—but may not be heard:

Your state association
Your court reporters board
Your presiding judge
Your local legislators
Your attorney clients
Your law school contacts
Your social-media audience
Your fellow reporters who need encouragement

Ask yourself:

Where could AI help me show up more prepared, more confident, and more fully myself?

We don’t need to wait for someone else to advocate for stenography.
We are the advocates.

And now, for the first time, we have tools that let every reporter—new, veteran, shy, outspoken, rural, urban—speak with the power of a unified, articulate, unstoppable chorus.

Your voice matters.

AI just helps the world finally hear it.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

I’m not a CPA or financial planner — I’m sharing what I’ve learned as a working reporter navigating these same decisions. Everyone’s financial situation is different, so please talk with your accountant or tax professional before making changes based on this guide.

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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When the Machine Gets It Wrong, the Court Still Blames the Human

When Practice Drifts From the Code – How Informal Norms Are Reshaping the Courtroom Record

Relaxed, Rhythmic, Relentless – Why Letting Go Is the Fastest Way Forward in Stenography

In 2025, court reporting students are learning stenography in a world defined by speed. Audio plays faster. Certification timelines feel tighter. Social media amplifies every success story and every failure. Students know more than ever what is at stake: certification, employment, income, and professional survival in a rapidly changing legal landscape.

And yet, amid all the apps, drills, realtime theory, and high-pressure testing environments, many students are discovering the same unsettling truth their predecessors faced decades ago. Trying harder does not always make them faster. Sometimes, it makes them worse.

This contradiction lies at the heart of modern stenographic training. The skill demands intense discipline, but it punishes tension. It requires repetition, but resists force. It rewards commitment, but sabotages obsession. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the speedbuilding phase, when students hover just below passing speeds, watching their progress stall despite countless hours of practice.

Instructors have long observed this phenomenon, but recent attention to performance psychology has sharpened the picture. High-level stenography, it turns out, depends less on raw effort than on internal state. How a student approaches the machine—mentally and physically—often matters as much as how many hours they have logged.

At the core of this realization is a deceptively simple idea: progress accelerates when students stop treating every take as a referendum on their future.

Court reporting programs in 2025 are more technically advanced than ever. Students use digital dictionaries, analytics dashboards, real-time feedback tools, and adaptive drills. Yet none of these tools can overcome one fundamental obstacle: a nervous system locked in fight-or-flight. When a student sits down believing that every dropped word confirms they are “not cut out for this,” the brain responds by tightening muscles, narrowing attention, and disrupting the precise motor coordination stenography requires.

The result is familiar. Fingers stiffen. Breathing becomes shallow. Writing grows choppy. Accuracy declines just when clarity is needed most.

By contrast, students who approach practice with emotional neutrality—who treat drills as data rather than judgment—often progress more quickly, even with fewer total hours. They are not indifferent. They are engaged without being consumed. Their focus is on rhythm, not rescue. On listening, not chasing.

This distinction matters more than ever in 2025, when many students are balancing training with full-time jobs, family responsibilities, and financial stress. The temptation is to equate anxiety with seriousness. But in stenography, anxiety is not evidence of commitment; it is often evidence of interference.

Learning stenography is fundamentally different from learning a traditional typing skill. It is predictive, not reactive. The brain must stay ahead of the speaker, not behind them. This requires cognitive bandwidth—space to anticipate phrasing, grammar, and structure. Pressure collapses that space. Calm expands it.

Modern learning science supports what experienced reporters have always known intuitively. Motor learning improves when practice occurs just beyond comfort, not at the edge of panic. Retention increases when mistakes are treated neutrally. Performance stabilizes when the learner feels safe enough to experiment rather than defend.

For court reporting students, this means rethinking how speedbuilding is approached. The goal is not to “survive” faster takes, but to normalize them. A 200-word-per-minute dictation should not feel like an emergency. It should feel like unfamiliar territory that will soon become home.

One practical shift involves how students frame their goals. Instead of thinking, I need to pass this test or else, students benefit from reframing certification as a natural milestone in an ongoing process. This does not lower standards. It reduces psychological load. When the brain no longer treats the exam as a threat, performance improves.

Another shift involves physical awareness. Many students write with unnecessary tension—locked wrists, raised shoulders, clenched jaws—without realizing it. Training programs in 2025 increasingly emphasize body mechanics alongside theory and speed. Small adjustments in posture and breath can unlock significant gains in fluidity.

Equally important is identity. Students who see themselves as “future reporters” often perform differently than those who see themselves as perpetual trainees. Identity shapes behavior. When students begin to act like professionals—arriving prepared, practicing deliberately, and trusting their notes—they gradually align with the performance level required to pass.

This alignment does not happen overnight. But it compounds. A relaxed practice session today leads to a cleaner take tomorrow. A calmer test attempt builds confidence for the next. Over time, speed stops feeling foreign and starts feeling inevitable.

Veteran reporters often describe their own breakthroughs not as moments of heroic effort, but as moments of release. They stopped gripping the machine. They stopped monitoring every stroke. They trusted their training. And suddenly, the speed they had been chasing appeared.

In 2025, as court reporting education continues to evolve, this lesson deserves renewed attention. Technology can support learning, but it cannot replace the internal conditions required for mastery. The fastest path forward is not always through more pressure. Often, it is through better presence.

For students currently stalled at 160, 180, or just shy of passing, the message is not to quit pushing—but to push differently. To practice with intention rather than desperation. To treat each take as information, not indictment. To remember that speed is not something to conquer, but something to inhabit.

Stenography rewards those who can remain steady under sound. It always has. And in an era defined by acceleration, the students who learn to stay calm may be the ones who move forward fastest.

Because in the end, mastery in court reporting is not about how tightly you hold the goal. It is about how clearly you allow yourself to meet it.

Disclaimer

This article reflects general observations about learning, performance psychology, and stenographic training. It is not intended as legal, educational, or medical advice, nor does it replace individualized instruction, program requirements, or certification standards set by state or national credentialing bodies.

Why “We’re Embracing AI” Is the Wrong Message for Court Reporting

When a profession is under existential pressure, language matters. Comfort can be costly. Precision is survival.

A recent LinkedIn post by a respected industry voice attempts to reassure court reporters—and the legal community—that stenography is thriving in the age of artificial intelligence. The tone is optimistic, collaborative, and future-oriented. Unfortunately, the substance blurs critical legal distinctions that attorneys, judges, and policymakers cannot afford to misunderstand.

Below is a line-by-line examination of that message, not to attack the author, but to correct the record.

“Ever wonder how court reporters are keeping our edge in an age of AI?”

Rebuttal:
This framing assumes that “AI” is simply another competitive pressure—like faster software or better microphones. It is not. Artificial intelligence is not merely changing how work is done; it is being deployed to change who creates the legal record. That distinction is foundational.

Court reporters are not competing with AI for efficiency. They are defending the legal integrity of the record itself.

“It’s the most frequently asked question or comment I get.”

Rebuttal:
That alone should signal urgency, not reassurance. When an entire profession is being asked whether it will survive a technology shift, the correct response is not branding language—it is legal clarity.

Attorneys are not asking this question out of curiosity. They are asking because vendors, courts, and agencies are actively pitching AI-generated transcripts as substitutes for certified human reporters.

“No, we are not resisting technology.”

Rebuttal:
This sentence implicitly accepts a false premise: that opposition to AI-only capture is “resistance to technology.”

Court reporters are not resisting technology. They are resisting the replacement of a legally recognized capture method with an unlicensed, non-certifiable process.

Realtime, CAT software, remote platforms, digital indexing, and secure transcript delivery are all advanced technologies. What reporters oppose is not innovation—but substitution.

“No, we’re not against technology.”

Rebuttal:
Repetition does not strengthen the argument; it dilutes it.

By over-correcting against the accusation of being “anti-tech,” the post avoids stating the truth plainly: some technologies are incompatible with due process. Not all tools belong in the creation of an official record.

The legal system has always limited technology when it threatens reliability, chain of custody, or admissibility. This is no different.

“We’re mastering it.”

Rebuttal:
Who is “we”?

Court reporters do not “master” ASR engines trained on opaque datasets, owned by third-party vendors, processed in the cloud, and governed by proprietary algorithms. Reporters neither control these systems nor certify their outputs.

Mastery requires authority. Authority requires licensure. AI transcription has neither.

“While AI may be changing some dynamics…”

Rebuttal:
This understates the reality. AI is not changing “some dynamics.” It is being marketed as a wholesale replacement for the human creation of the record—often without disclosure to parties, without informed consent, and without clear rules governing retention, access, or secondary use of the data.

That is not a “dynamic.” It is a structural shift with constitutional implications.

“…time has proven that human judgment and intelligence is still essential when every word and context matters.”

Rebuttal:
This statement unintentionally concedes too much.

ASR vendors already claim “human review.” They already claim “editor oversight.” They already claim “quality control.”

What they cannot provide—and what this sentence fails to defend—is contemporaneous human capture by a licensed officer of the record, with the authority to certify accuracy at the moment the words are spoken.

Judgment after the fact is not the same as responsibility at the moment of creation.

“We court reporters are embracing AI as a tool, not a threat…”

Rebuttal:
This is the most legally dangerous sentence in the post.

AI can be a tool when it assists a certified reporter.
AI is a threat when it replaces the reporter entirely.

Without explicitly stating that distinction, this line functions as an endorsement of AI-only capture systems—whether intended or not. Attorneys, judges, and legislators will read it exactly that way.

“…leveraging new tech to boost productivity so we can spend that extra time doubling down on our expertise.”

Rebuttal:
Productivity is irrelevant if the resulting record is inadmissible, challengeable, or ethically compromised.

Expertise in court reporting is not time management. It is accuracy under oath, neutrality under pressure, and legal accountability for the verbatim record. No amount of “extra time” compensates for the loss of those guarantees.

“Our role isn’t disappearing. It’s evolving.”

Rebuttal:
This is aspirational, not factual.

Roles are disappearing—in depositions, arbitrations, administrative hearings, and cost-constrained courts. They are not evolving into higher forms; they are being eliminated and replaced with vendor pipelines staffed by non-reporters.

Evolution implies continuity. What is happening instead is displacement.

“We’re adapting, up-leveling, and protecting our high standards…”

Rebuttal:
Standards are not protected by optimism. They are protected by enforcement.

High standards require:

Licensed capture
Clear statutory authority
Defined chain of custody
The ability to certify, correct, and authenticate the record

AI-only systems meet none of these criteria.

“…proving that real expertise doesn’t go out of style!”

Rebuttal:
Expertise does go out of use if it is not explicitly required.

The legal system does not preserve professions out of respect. It preserves them through rules, statutes, and enforceable standards. Without naming what makes court reporting legally distinct, this closing line reduces expertise to branding rather than authority.

Why This Messaging Matters

Comfortable language reassures insiders—but it educates outsiders incorrectly.

When attorneys hear that reporters are “embracing AI,” they assume substitution is acceptable. When judges hear there is no resistance, they see no procedural risk. When legislators hear optimism, they see no need for guardrails.

The profession does not need better vibes.
It needs clearer lines.

Technology is not the enemy.
But method matters.

And the failure to say that—clearly, publicly, and repeatedly—is how professions lose the record without ever losing the argument.

Disclaimer

This article reflects the author’s professional analysis and opinion based on experience in court reporting, legal procedure, and industry practices. It is not intended as legal advice, does not assert undisclosed facts about any individual, and does not allege misconduct. References to public statements are for commentary and critique in the public interest.

When Capital Moves Faster Than the Courts – AI, Evidence, and the Next Legal Reckoning

The Profession No One Talks About—Until Everything Depends on It

There are careers that children announce proudly at school assemblies—doctor, lawyer, architect, astronaut. And then there are professions so foundational to the functioning of society that they fade into the background, unnoticed until the moment they fail. Court reporting is one of them.

Court reporters do not wear lab coats or robes. They do not deliver verdicts or argue cases. Yet without them, the legal system collapses into hearsay, memory, and dispute. They create the official record—the single authoritative account of what was actually said, by whom, and when. In a courtroom, that record is not a luxury. It is the backbone of justice.

Despite this, court reporting remains one of the most under-marketed skilled professions in the United States. Few high school counselors mention it. Fewer college advisors understand it. And almost no one outside the legal system fully grasps what court reporters do—until an appeal is filed, a witness recants, or a constitutional right hinges on a single sentence.

Long before microphones, recording devices, or cloud storage existed, civilization faced a fundamental problem: how to preserve the spoken word. Laws were debated aloud. Power was exercised verbally. Promises, decrees, confessions, and testimony all lived first in sound. Without a way to capture speech accurately, history itself would fracture.

Disney’s EPCOT captures this truth in a subtle but telling way. In the ride Spaceship Earth, which traces humanity’s communication milestones from prehistory to the digital age, one of the earliest scenes depicts an ancient Phoenician recording events in shorthand. The message is easy to miss, but profound. Before printing presses or computers, before even paper was commonplace, shorthand existed because society demanded a faithful record of what was said.

Court reporting is not a modern invention. It is one of the oldest professional skills humanity has ever relied upon. What has changed is not its importance, but how rarely we acknowledge it.

Why the Record Matters

Every functioning society depends on an accurate record. Without it, laws cannot be enforced consistently, rights cannot be protected, and disputes cannot be resolved fairly. In the legal system, the verbatim record is not background noise—it is the foundation upon which justice rests.

Court reporters are responsible for creating that record. They capture testimony during trials, hearings, depositions, arbitrations, legislative sessions, and public proceedings. Their transcripts become the official account relied upon by judges, attorneys, appellate courts, historians, journalists, and the public itself.

When a verdict is appealed, the appellate court does not revisit the trial. It reviews the transcript. When a witness contradicts prior testimony, the transcript resolves the dispute. When constitutional rights are challenged, the words spoken in the courtroom—precisely as spoken—matter.

The court reporter is the only neutral professional in the room whose sole obligation is to accuracy.

The Skill Behind the Steno Machine

Court reporting is often misunderstood as simple typing. It is nothing of the sort. Stenographic reporting requires the ability to hear, process, and write spoken language at extraordinary speed using a phonetic system on a specialized machine with a limited number of keys.

To become certified, a court reporter must demonstrate the ability to write at a minimum of 225 words per minute with at least 95 percent accuracy. That benchmark alone exceeds the comprehension and production capacity of most people. Advanced certifications require speeds of 260 words per minute, sustained under exam conditions where every error counts.

Elite reporters offer realtime services, streaming their transcription instantaneously to screens in the courtroom. Judges rely on it to issue rulings from the bench. Attorneys use it to track testimony, flag objections, and impeach witnesses in real time. Deaf and hard-of-hearing participants depend on it for immediate access to proceedings.

This is not automation. It is cognitive performance at speed, requiring linguistic mastery, intense concentration, and years of disciplined training.

Certification and Professional Standards

Court reporting is a credentialed profession governed by measurable standards. The most widely recognized certifications are issued by the National Court Reporters Association (NCRA).

The Registered Professional Reporter (RPR) credential represents entry-level professional competence, requiring the 225 wpm, 95 percent accuracy standard. The Registered Merit Reporter (RMR) raises that threshold to 260 wpm. The Registered Diplomate Reporter (RDR), the highest designation, recognizes veteran reporters who have demonstrated exceptional skill, experience, and service to the profession.

These certifications are not honorary. They are earned through rigorous testing and continuing education. In many states, licensure is mandatory, reflecting the legal weight carried by the record itself.

Few professions impose such transparent performance requirements. Court reporting does not reward credentials for their own sake. It rewards results.

More Than the Courtroom

While courtrooms are the most visible setting, court reporters work across a wide range of environments. Freelance reporters handle depositions and discovery proceedings in civil and criminal cases. Captioners provide live captions for television broadcasts, sporting events, concerts, corporate meetings, and political conventions. Communication access providers ensure equal participation in education and public life for deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals.

Some reporters are official court employees with stable schedules and benefits. Others operate as independent contractors, controlling their workload, clients, and income. Many do both over the course of their careers.

What unites these paths is the same core skill: the ability to create a reliable, verbatim record under pressure.

The Economics of a Quietly Lucrative Career

Court reporting offers a financial profile that surprises those unfamiliar with the profession. As of April 2019, the average annual salary for a court reporter was approximately $56,865, with a typical range between $41,000 and $74,000. Those figures reflect a mix of entry-level and experienced professionals across varied markets.

Reporters who invest in advanced certifications, realtime capability, and specialized litigation work frequently earn six-figure incomes. In high-demand markets, a small percentage of elite reporters—particularly those handling daily transcripts in complex, expedited cases—can earn substantially more.

Unlike many professions with unclear advancement paths, court reporting rewards skill directly. Accuracy, speed, and reliability translate into opportunity.

The Shortage No One Is Talking About

Despite strong demand, the profession faces a critical shortage. Training programs have closed. Enrollment has declined. A large portion of the existing workforce is nearing retirement. Courts and agencies across the country struggle to staff proceedings adequately.

This shortage has consequences. Delays increase. Costs rise. Alternative recording methods are introduced not because they are superior, but because qualified reporters are unavailable. Yet those alternatives often fail to deliver the accuracy, accountability, and immediacy that stenographic reporting provides.

The paradox is striking: at a time when the legal system needs skilled reporters more than ever, fewer people are being introduced to the profession.

A Career Hidden in Plain Sight

Court reporting is not glamorous. It does not market itself aggressively. Its practitioners tend to be focused, private professionals more interested in precision than publicity. Yet its impact is immense.

From ancient Phoenician scribes to modern realtime stenographers, society has always depended on those who can capture the spoken word faithfully. Laws, rights, and history itself rely on that skill.

Court reporters may not seek recognition. But their work ensures that when words matter—when liberty, property, and justice are on the line—those words are preserved exactly as spoken.

In a world obsessed with novelty, court reporting endures because it performs a function that no civilization has ever outgrown.

When Speed Replaces the Record – What “FTR Now” Reveals About the Future of Court Transcription

Last week, a LinkedIn post quietly signaled a profound shift in how parts of the legal industry are beginning to think about the court record.

“We built and launched FTR Now in two days,” wrote Scott Kveton, CEO of CaseMark. The product, he explained, allows users to upload courtroom audio recorded on FTR systems and receive a “searchable transcript with speaker labels and AI summaries” for as little as seven dollars per hour of audio—delivered in minutes rather than days.

To many attorneys, particularly those under relentless pressure to reduce costs and accelerate litigation timelines, the pitch may sound like progress. Courtroom audio that has historically been cumbersome and opaque suddenly becomes searchable, summarized, and inexpensive. What’s not to like?

Quite a bit, as it turns out—particularly if one cares about the integrity of the record itself.

This article is not an argument against technology. Nor is it a nostalgic defense of tradition for tradition’s sake. It is an examination of what is gained, what is lost, and what is quietly assumed when automated transcription is positioned as a substitute—or even a proxy—for the official court record.

What FTR Now Actually Is

Stripped of marketing language, FTR Now is a post-processing tool layered on top of existing courtroom audio. It does not create the record. It does not monitor proceedings in real time. It does not intervene when speakers overlap, whisper, move away from microphones, or speak through emotion, accent, or obstruction.

Instead, it takes what already exists—audio captured by digital recording systems—and runs it through automated speech recognition (ASR), speaker diarization, and summarization models. The result is text. Quickly produced, inexpensive, and searchable.

That distinction matters.

Court reporters create records contemporaneously. They interrupt when a witness is inaudible, request clarification when speech is unclear, and mark the record when something cannot be accurately captured. Their role is not merely mechanical; it is judgment-based. ASR systems, no matter how advanced, do not exercise judgment. They calculate probabilities.

The “Two-Day Build” Should Raise Questions, Not Applause

Perhaps the most revealing claim in the post is not the price point or the turnaround time, but the speed of development.

“We built the entire product in two days,” Kveton wrote.

In software circles, this is framed as a triumph of modular infrastructure. CaseMark reused existing APIs—storage, transcription, format conversion, summarization—to spin up a new product almost instantly.

But in the legal context, this speed should prompt a different reaction. If a tool that purports to generate something called a “transcript” can be deployed in 48 hours, what vetting occurred? What legal standards were consulted? What court rules were examined? What ethics opinions were considered?

The answer appears to be: none that are mentioned, and none that are central to the pitch.

The Word Doing the Most Work: “Transcript”

Language matters in law, and the term “transcript” is not neutral.

A transcript is not simply text derived from speech. It is a formal representation of the official record, governed by statutes, court rules, and long-standing evidentiary principles. Certified transcripts carry legal weight precisely because they are created by authorized officers of the court who are accountable for their accuracy.

An ASR-generated text file—even a highly accurate one—is not the same thing.

Yet products like FTR Now blur that distinction intentionally or otherwise. To an untrained eye, a “searchable transcript” looks like a transcript. Attorneys may quote from it. Clients may rely on it. Judges may be presented with excerpts. Appeals may be influenced by it.

The legal system has seen this movie before: informal tools gradually assume formal authority without a corresponding change in rules or safeguards.

What Is Missing from the Pitch

The LinkedIn post highlights speed, cost, and convenience. It omits discussion of:

Accuracy benchmarks under courtroom conditions
Error correction workflows
Human review thresholds
Redaction and sealing protocols
Privilege handling
Chain of custody
Certification
Audit trails for edits
Speaker misattribution risks
Compliance with jurisdiction-specific rules

These are not minor details. They are the very features that distinguish an official record from a convenience product.

At seven dollars per hour of audio, there is no plausible economic model for meaningful human oversight. That is not a criticism; it is a mathematical reality.

The Real Problem Isn’t FTR Audio—It’s the Assumption That Audio Is Enough

The post correctly identifies a frustration shared by many attorneys: FTR audio files are difficult to work with. They are proprietary, often unwieldy, and poorly suited for fast review.

But that frustration should not be confused with proof that audio is an adequate substitute for a stenographic record.

Courtroom audio is subject to innumerable variables: microphone placement, room acoustics, sidebars, bench conferences, overlapping speech, and human behavior that does not conform to clean input-output models. Court reporters manage these variables in real time. Digital recording systems do not.

ASR systems inherit every flaw in the underlying audio—and add their own.

Cost Savings vs. Legal Risk

The promise of $7-per-hour transcription will inevitably attract attention from budget-conscious firms, particularly in discovery-heavy litigation. But cost savings achieved at the expense of reliability can become extraordinarily expensive downstream.

Misattributed testimony, missed objections, inaccurate quotations, or misunderstood rulings do not merely inconvenience attorneys; they can alter case outcomes. Unlike a certified reporter, an ASR system does not raise its hand to say, “That cannot be accurately captured.”

It simply outputs text.

A Familiar Pattern

Legal professionals have watched this progression before. Emergency measures become normalized. Convenience tools become default practices. “Temporary” solutions quietly replace established safeguards.

The pandemic accelerated many changes that were necessary and beneficial. It also lowered the industry’s resistance to unvetted technological shortcuts.

FTR Now fits neatly into that pattern. Its rapid development and deployment are not signs of inevitability; they are signs of how quickly standards can erode if speed is mistaken for progress.

Why Court Reporters Are Sounding the Alarm

Court reporters are often framed as stakeholders with something to lose. That framing is incomplete. They are also stakeholders with something to protect: the integrity of the judicial record.

Reporters understand, often better than anyone else in the room, how fragile that record can be—and how easily errors propagate once they enter the system.

When reporters raise concerns about ASR-based “transcripts,” they are not resisting innovation. They are pointing out that not all text is created equal, and not all records are interchangeable.

The Question Attorneys Should Be Asking

The relevant question is not whether products like FTR Now will exist. They will. The question is how they will be used, and whether attorneys understand the difference between a convenience tool and a record that can withstand scrutiny.

Searchable text is useful. AI summaries can be helpful. But neither replaces a certified transcript created by a human officer of the court with a legal duty to accuracy.

Speed is valuable. So is cost efficiency. But neither is a substitute for due process.

Progress Without Guardrails Isn’t Progress

FTR Now is not a scandal. It is not a villain. It is a case study.

It shows how easily automated transcription can be layered onto existing courtroom infrastructure, how quickly such tools can be deployed, and how tempting it is to conflate usability with reliability.

For attorneys, the takeaway should not be fear—but discernment.

The court record is not just data. It is the foundation upon which motions, appeals, and judgments rest. Treating it as a commodity rather than a legal instrument carries consequences that rarely appear in marketing copy.

Court reporters, uniquely positioned at the intersection of technology and the law, are raising these issues not to protect a profession, but to protect a system.

Attorneys would be wise to listen—before speed becomes the standard and accuracy becomes optional.

Disclaimer

This article is an editorial analysis intended for educational and professional discussion. It does not allege misconduct by any individual or company and does not constitute legal advice. References to products or technologies are based on publicly available statements and are discussed in the context of broader legal, ethical, and procedural considerations affecting the creation and use of court records.

A Court Reporter Christmas

The Polite Language of Professional Displacement

Yesterday, Dec 23, 2025, Veritext circulated a polished email inviting reporters, videographers, transcriptionists, and “industry partners” to participate in a year-long series of complimentary CEU webinars. On its face, the messaging is reassuring—language about professionalism, ethics, adaptability, and “the human in the room” is designed to sound unifying and forward-looking. But when a corporation whose core business strategy depends on replacing licensed court reporters positions itself as the educator, convener, and ethical authority for the profession, that messaging deserves close scrutiny. Education is never neutral when it is funded, framed, and curated by a party with a direct financial stake in the outcome.

The most troubling signal is not any single seminar title, but the unifying thesis running through the entire series: that “the strength of the court reporting profession lies not in the capture method, but in the professionalism of the individual.” This assertion directly contradicts the legal reality that stenographic capture by a sworn, licensed court reporter is what makes a transcript original evidence rather than reconstructed hearsay. By deliberately flattening the distinction between stenography, digital recording, and ASR-assisted transcription, Veritext’s programming advances a long-term narrative shift—one that reframes displacement as “evolution,” substitutes corporate assurances for evidentiary standards, and gradually conditions professionals to accept a future in which their own skills are rendered optional. That is why this email should not be received passively. It should be read critically, with a clear understanding of who is speaking, why they are speaking, and what they stand to gain if the profession accepts their framing unchallenged.

The Core Falsehood: “It’s Not the Capture Method”

Veritext’s framing rests on a foundational error: the claim that “the strength in our profession comes not from capture method, but from the skill, judgment, and professionalism of the individual.” This is not merely misleading—it is legally wrong.

The capture method is the profession. Stenographic capture by a licensed court reporter is not interchangeable with audio recording, digital monitoring, or post-hoc transcription. The method determines whether the resulting record is original evidence or derivative hearsay. A stenographic transcript is created contemporaneously by a sworn officer of the court, subject to statutory duties, ethical rules, chain-of-custody requirements, and judicial oversight. Audio recordings and ASR outputs are not. They are secondary artifacts that require interpretation, reconstruction, and substitution.

No amount of “professionalism” can convert hearsay into original evidence.

This is not ideology. It is black-letter law, embedded in rules of evidence, appellate standards, and decades of jurisprudence recognizing the court reporter as the guardian of the record precisely because of the method of capture.

To suggest otherwise is not neutral education. It is narrative conditioning.

January: The State of the Profession

CON: Reframing erosion as evolution

This session promises an “honest look” at change while carefully avoiding the central question: What changes are legally permissible, and which ones degrade the evidentiary record? By lumping stenography, digital recording, and transcription into a single “profession,” the webinar blurs distinctions that courts and statutes intentionally preserve.

This is not a state-of-the-profession discussion. It is a normalization exercise—preparing professionals to accept diminished standards as inevitable, rather than challenge them as improper.

February: Setting the Record Straight

CON: False equivalence masquerading as balance

The claim that “every capture method must evolve through consistent training and certification” implies parity where none exists. Stenographic reporting is not simply one “method” among many—it is the only method that produces a verbatim record without an intermediary layer of interpretation.

Digital recording does not “evolve” into stenography through training. It remains dependent on later transcription, editorial discretion, and machine inference. Treating these as equivalent paths to accuracy is a category error, not a policy position.

March: Advocating in the Real World

CON: Teaching reporters to sell their own obsolescence

This session trains professionals to defend “the profession” without allowing them to defend stenography as the gold standard. It asks reporters to become ambassadors for a diluted message: that all roles on the “record-creation team” are interchangeable.

Advocacy that forbids naming the problem is not advocacy. It is compliance training.

April: A Day in the Life

CON: Shifting allegiance from the record to the firm

By centering the experience of internal scheduling and engagement teams, this session subtly reorients reporters away from their primary duty—to the record—and toward operational loyalty to the firm. Court reporters are not cogs in a logistics machine. They are independent officers whose ethical obligations do not yield to workflow convenience.

Understanding support staff is fine. Redefining the reporter’s role as a service appendage is not.

May: All About ASR

CON: The most dangerous session of all

ASR does not “enhance accuracy across all methods of capture.” That statement is demonstrably false. ASR introduces probabilistic guesswork, undocumented error rates, and opaque correction layers that cannot be audited in real time.

Worse, this session reassures reporters that ASR “supports rather than replaces” them—while Veritext’s business model, acquisitions, and staffing decisions point in the opposite direction. This is classic displacement rhetoric: soothe the workforce while building the infrastructure that eliminates it.

June: Guardians of the Record in a Digital Age

CON: Ethics without enforcement

Ethics divorced from capture method are performative. Confidentiality, neutrality, and chain of custody cannot be meaningfully protected when the record itself is fragmented across platforms, vendors, and algorithms.

Technology does not “strengthen integrity” by default. It does so only when subordinated to a method designed for evidentiary reliability—which ASR and digital recording are not.

July: Certification: The Power of Credentials

CON: Credential laundering

By promoting credentials “across all methods of capture,” this session dilutes what certification means. A stenographic certification reflects mastery of a skill that directly produces the record. Certifications attached to monitoring, recording, or transcription do not.

Equating them erodes public trust rather than strengthening it.

August: Independent Contractor Essentials

CON: Independence in name only

True independent contractors control their work, pricing, and professional judgment. Encouraging “collaboration” while centralizing control within a corporate intermediary is not independence—it is dependency with paperwork.

September: Virtually Unstoppable

CON: Normalizing fragility

Remote proceedings are inherently more fragile, not more reliable. Training professionals to manage technical failures does not cure the underlying problem: a system that fails silently, without a sworn human capturing the record in real time.

October: AI, Ethics, and Data Security

CON: Trust us, we’ve got it handled

This session asks professionals to accept assurances about AI use without transparency, auditability, or meaningful consent. Ethics cannot be outsourced to corporate policy decks.

November: The Habit of Excellence

CON: Individual virtue as a substitute for structural integrity

No amount of punctuality or good attitude compensates for a structurally inferior record. Excellence begins with method, not manners.

December: Year in Review

CON: Celebrating adaptation instead of preservation

The year closes not by reaffirming stenography as the evidentiary standard, but by celebrating “growth” within a model that steadily marginalizes it.

A Direct Rebuke to Participating Reporters

Reporters who lend their credibility to this programming—who sit on panels, collect CEUs, and repeat the talking points—are not neutral participants. They are helping legitimize a framework designed to make them unnecessary.

This is not collaboration. It is assisted displacement.

If you believe stenography matters, you cannot simultaneously endorse the idea that capture method does not. You cannot defend the record while helping a corporation redefine it downward. And you cannot claim surprise when the replacement you were told was “supportive” becomes permanent.

Why this series should concern NCRA members specifically

These webinars are not neutral skills training. They advance a core thesis that directly conflicts with NCRA’s stated mission to protect the stenographic record:

That capture method does not matter.

If NCRA approves CEUs built around that premise, it:

Undercuts stenography as the evidentiary gold standard
Lends institutional legitimacy to a corporate displacement narrative
Signals to courts, attorneys, and regulators that method parity is acceptable

That is not a small policy choice. It is existential.

Bottom Line

Veritext’s CEU series is not about strengthening the profession. It is about managing resistance during a transition away from stenographic reporting. The language is careful, the tone is inclusive, and the result is corrosive.

Do not participate. Do not lend your license, your credentials, or your reputation to a narrative that undermines the very thing that gives this profession legal meaning.

The record is not a brand.
The method is not optional.
And the profession does not survive by pretending otherwise.

A Call to Defend NCRA’s Mission—and the Record It Exists to Protect

For these reasons, NCRA members should not remain silent. The Association’s own mission statement commits NCRA to advancing the profession of stenographic court reporting and captioning and protecting the integrity of the record. Approving CEUs that promote capture-method equivalence conflicts with that mandate. It also cuts against NCRA’s Core Values—particularly professional excellence, public trust, and advocacy—by lending institutional legitimacy to programming that minimizes the very method that makes a transcript original evidence. Further, the NCRA Code of Professional Ethics, including the duties of impartiality, accuracy, and safeguarding the record, presupposes a contemporaneous, reporter-controlled method of capture; those duties cannot be meaningfully satisfied when the record is reconstructed through recording or ASR. Members should write to NCRA leadership and the CEU Review Committee now—while these programs are still pending—to formally object to CEU approval, to request that NCRA require clear acknowledgment of stenography as the evidentiary gold standard, and to urge the Association to refuse continuing education credit for content that undermines its bylaws, mission, and ethical foundations. Silence will be read as consent. A written objection is how members protect the record—and the profession—before the window closes.

Disclaimer:
This article reflects the author’s professional opinion and analysis based on publicly available materials and longstanding industry standards. It is not intended to assert undisclosed facts, impugn the character or motives of any individual, organization, or association, or provide legal advice. References to companies, associations, or educational programming are made solely for the purpose of discussing policy, governance, and professional practice issues affecting the court reporting profession. Readers are encouraged to review original source materials and applicable NCRA governing documents and to form their own independent conclusions.

Who Trained the Machine?

The Masks Court Reporters Wear—and the Cost of Wearing Them Too Long

In every profession there are unspoken rules about survival. In court reporting, those rules are rarely written down, but they are learned early, absorbed quietly, and enforced socially. Do not rock the boat. Do not ask too many questions. Do not challenge the association line. Do not contradict the agency. Do not criticize the judge. Smile. Be agreeable. Be grateful to be there.

And above all, do not think too loudly.

For a profession that prides itself on accuracy, independence, and fidelity to the record, court reporting has developed a culture that often discourages independent thought. The irony is difficult to ignore. The very people entrusted with capturing the truth verbatim are frequently pressured—subtly and sometimes overtly—to suppress their own.

Sociologist Erving Goffman once described everyday life as a performance, divided between the “front stage” self we present to others and the “backstage” self we keep private. Over time, he warned, the performance can harden into identity. The mask calcifies. The actor forgets where the role ends and the person begins.

In court reporting, that process begins early. Students are told—sometimes lovingly, sometimes ominously—that there is a “right way” to be a reporter. The good reporter is easygoing. The good reporter does not complain about rates. The good reporter does not ask whether a new technology is ethical, legal, or even accurate. The good reporter does not challenge leadership, policy, or long-standing institutional decisions. The good reporter keeps their head down and their mouth shut.

What starts as professional caution becomes professional conformity.

This is not unique to court reporting, but the profession’s small size amplifies the effect. When your entire career depends on reputation, referrals, and being perceived as “easy to work with,” dissent feels dangerous. Questioning prevailing narratives—about digital recording, artificial intelligence, agency consolidation, or regulatory changes—can feel like professional suicide. So many reporters perform agreement instead.

Economist Timur Kuran coined the term “preference falsification” to describe this phenomenon: the act of misrepresenting one’s true beliefs in public due to social pressure. It is not lying in the dramatic sense. It is quieter than that. It is nodding along when something feels wrong. It is staying silent when a line is crossed. It is convincing yourself that discomfort is just the price of professionalism.

Over time, the silence compounds.

Court reporters privately express concerns about being replaced by technology they do not control. They worry about the erosion of licensure standards, the outsourcing of transcription, and the increasing power of venture-backed intermediaries. They question whether associations truly represent working reporters or primarily serve institutional partners. They notice contradictions. They see the gaps between rhetoric and reality.

But publicly, many say nothing.

The reasons are understandable. Reporters fear being labeled “difficult.” They fear losing work. They fear being frozen out of professional circles. They fear retaliation—real or perceived. In a profession built on neutrality, there is a persistent belief that having an opinion is itself a violation.

Yet neutrality is not the same as silence.

There is a difference between faithfully recording proceedings and surrendering one’s agency as a professional. The record requires accuracy. The profession requires judgment. Confusing the two has consequences.

When reporters suppress their own analysis, the profession becomes vulnerable to narratives written by others—by agencies, vendors, consultants, and investors whose incentives may not align with long-term professional integrity. Decisions get framed as inevitable. Disruption gets marketed as progress. Concerns get dismissed as fear or resistance to change.

And reporters, having practiced silence long enough, begin to doubt their own instincts.

This is how a profession forgets how to think.

The most insidious effect of prolonged performance is not external control but internal erosion. When reporters repeatedly override their own judgment in favor of social approval, they lose confidence in their ability to evaluate risk, ethics, and consequence. The mask stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like reality.

At that point, conformity no longer feels imposed. It feels natural.

You see it when reporters defend systems that marginalize them. When they repeat talking points that undermine their own leverage. When they police one another more aggressively than they challenge external threats. When dissenters are treated as embarrassments rather than early warning signals.

The profession does not lack intelligence. It lacks permission.

Permission to ask uncomfortable questions. Permission to say, “This doesn’t make sense.” Permission to acknowledge that being agreeable has not protected the profession from economic pressure or technological displacement. Permission to admit that loyalty, when unreciprocated, becomes self-betrayal.

There is a deep sadness beneath the surface of this dynamic. Many reporters entered the profession because they valued truth, precision, and accountability. They believed in the importance of the record. Yet they find themselves participating in a culture where truth is selectively spoken and accountability is unevenly enforced.

This dissonance takes a toll.

Burnout in court reporting is often framed as physical—repetitive stress injuries, long hours, intense concentration. But there is also moral fatigue. The exhaustion that comes from repeatedly performing compliance while privately feeling misaligned. The fatigue of watching decisions being made “for the good of the profession” without meaningful input from those doing the work.

At some point, the question becomes unavoidable: Who is this performance for?

When reporters start asking that question, something shifts. The mask becomes visible again. And once seen, it becomes harder to wear.

Thinking independently does not mean being reckless or adversarial. It means engaging honestly with reality. It means distinguishing between professionalism and passivity. It means recognizing that silence is not neutral when it consistently benefits one side of a power imbalance.

The future of court reporting will not be decided solely by technology. It will be decided by whether reporters are willing to think, speak, and act as autonomous professionals rather than compliant performers.

That does not require unanimity. It requires honesty.

A profession that cannot tolerate internal disagreement is not stable; it is brittle. A profession that punishes critical thought in the name of harmony eventually finds itself unprepared for disruption. Consensus achieved through fear is not strength. It is fragility.

Court reporters do not need to be louder. They need to be truer—to themselves and to one another.

The irony is that the very skill that defines the profession—the ability to listen carefully and capture what is actually said—may be the key to its renewal. But that skill must be turned inward as well as outward. Reporters must listen to the quiet unease they have learned to ignore.

The mask has served its purpose. It helped people survive in a constrained environment. But survival is not the same as integrity, and it is certainly not the same as leadership.

At some point, every profession faces a reckoning between performance and authenticity. Court reporting is there now. The question is not whether reporters are capable of thinking for themselves. It is whether they are willing to stop pretending they cannot.

Because the longer a profession mistakes silence for unity, the harder it becomes to recognize its own voice when it finally speaks.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

An Open Letter to Kristin Cabot: A Profession That Understands Second Acts

Kristin Cabot,

Public scandal has a way of flattening people. It reduces decades of competence, grit, and earned credibility into a single frozen image that circulates without context, mercy, or proportion. In your case, a fleeting moment at a Coldplay concert became a viral morality play, one that stripped you of professional standing and, by your own account, left you branded “unemployable.” That word carries a particular cruelty. It suggests not merely consequence, but exile.

There is, however, a profession that understands exile. A profession built almost entirely of second acts, reinvention, and people who arrive not because their lives were tidy, but because they needed something sturdier than reputation: a skill, a craft, a record that speaks for itself. That profession is court reporting.

Court reporters are not public figures. They are not brand ambassadors or cultural symbols. They are guardians of accuracy in rooms where emotions run hot, stakes are high, and human behavior is often at its worst. They sit quietly while people lie, cry, posture, implode, and occasionally redeem themselves. They do not judge. They preserve.

If that sounds appealing, it is because your career has already been adjacent to this world. Human resources, at its best, is about process, fairness, documentation, and accountability. Court reporting is those values, stripped of corporate varnish and enforced by law. The transcript does not care who is popular, who is powerful, or who is disgraced. It cares only about what was said, when it was said, and by whom.

At 53, you are not too old for this profession. In fact, you are precisely the age many of the best reporters entered it. Court reporting attracts people who have lived long enough to understand complexity. Former teachers, journalists, paralegals, musicians, military veterans, single parents rebuilding after divorce—these are common origin stories. People who have already learned discipline the hard way tend to thrive.

The training is rigorous but finite. Unlike corporate leadership roles, which often demand endless credential inflation and opaque gatekeeping, court reporting is brutally transparent. You either write fast enough and accurately enough, or you do not. There is no rumor mill, no whisper network, no performance theater—at least none that determines your livelihood. Yes, freelancers gossip, and yes, there will always be those inexplicably threatened by competent, beautiful, successful women. But unlike corporate environments, that noise does not control your income or your future. The machine records what your hands produce. Merit is measurable.

And unlike HR leadership, where authority is constantly negotiated and often undermined, court reporters operate with statutory backing. In many states, they are officers of the court. Their neutrality is protected because the justice system collapses without a reliable record. Judges may be impatient. Attorneys may be abrasive. But when a dispute arises over what was said, the room turns to the reporter. Quietly. Reliably.

There is also an economic reality worth noting. Court reporting is one of the few professions left where independence is not only possible but common. Many reporters are freelancers. They choose their assignments. They set boundaries. They build client relationships based on trust and competence, not optics. For someone who has experienced how quickly corporate loyalty evaporates under public pressure, that autonomy matters.

You have spoken about the irony of being asked to return to your role after the internal investigation concluded—about the impossibility of standing before employees as the embodiment of values when the internet had already rendered its verdict. Court reporting removes that burden. You are not the moral exemplar. You are the witness to everyone else’s conduct. There is dignity in that distance.

It is also a profession deeply attuned to gendered double standards. Court reporters—overwhelmingly women—have spent decades navigating rooms dominated by male authority, enduring casual disrespect, and maintaining composure under scrutiny. Many know exactly what you meant when you said you spent years pulling men’s hands off you just to do your job. This is not a naïve field. It does not require purity narratives. It requires professionalism.

Most importantly, court reporting offers something rare in modern work: closure. Every day ends with a finished record. A tangible product. A clear contribution. In a culture that thrives on endless outrage cycles and reputational purgatory, there is relief in producing something that cannot be distorted by algorithm or innuendo.

This is not a suggestion to disappear or to accept punishment you do not believe you deserve. It is an invitation to redirect your formidable work ethic toward a profession that does not pretend to be kinder than it is—but is, in practice, far fairer. A profession where your past does not trend, your personal life is irrelevant, and your value is established keystroke by keystroke.

You said, “This can’t be the final word.” It does not have to be. Some people rebuild by reclaiming the spotlight. Others rebuild by choosing a room where the work matters more than the noise outside it. Court reporting is such a room.

If you ever decide to step into it, you would not be alone. You would be among people who understand that life does not unfold cleanly, that reputations can fracture overnight, and that the most honest thing a person can do is learn a skill so solid that no one can take it away.

The record, after all, is forever. And someone has to make sure it is right.

Bridging the Career Services Gap in the Court Reporting Profession

For decades, the court reporting industry has stood at the intersection of tradition and transformation. Skilled stenographers, realtime captioners, legal videographers, and digital deposition specialists play indispensable roles in the justice system, media production, and accessibility services. Yet, the professional associations representing these practitioners face a fundamental challenge: they are still struggling to align their offerings with what members truly value most. This disconnect — between what associations provide and what court reporters prioritize in their careers — risks undermining the cohesion and relevance of the profession at a pivotal moment of technological disruption and workforce evolution.

That challenge is not unique to court reporting, but it is particularly acute within this profession. Recent industry research from the 2025 “Derivative Associations Report” shows that across professions, career opportunities, advancement, and training are ranked far higher by members than they are by association leadership — and this disconnect is costing organizations membership, engagement, and trust.

What Court Reporters Say They Value — and What They Get

Court reporters enter the profession with a clear purpose: mastery of specialized skills (like realtime translation), professional credibility, and access to stable, rewarding work. They invest years — and often tens of thousands of dollars — in training, certification, and continuing education. Yet many feel that their professional associations don’t prioritize the very services that make those investments worthwhile. This aligns with the broader trend identified by the Momentive report, which found that members consistently place higher importance on job opportunities, career advancement pathways, training, and networking than associations recognize or deliver.

In the court reporting context, these priorities translate into specific needs:

Job matching and placement support that connects certified professionals with agencies, firms, freelance opportunities, and captioning gigs.
Clear professional pathways through mentoring, certification mapping, and specialization tracks (e.g., broadcast captioning, CART services, depositions).
Rich continuing education that’s recognized industry-wide, including realtime certifications, technology training, and ethics credits.
Networking that truly fosters business development, referrals, and community — not just conference attendance.

Yet many court reporters report that their associations tend to focus energy on less tangible offerings: largely social events, basic continuing education with limited applicability, or advocacy efforts that feel abstract or out of touch with daily professional struggles. This imbalance, documented in the associations study, creates a perception that the association’s priorities are out of sync with what members actually value, driving membership lapses and disengagement.

Why This Disconnect Matters Now

The court reporting profession stands at a crossroads. New technologies — from AI-assisted transcription to automated live captioning — promise to change how work gets done. Meanwhile, rising educational costs and shifting labor markets mean practitioners need stronger career support than ever. In this environment, a professional association that fails to demonstrate tangible value risks becoming irrelevant.

But the stakes go beyond organizational membership numbers. When associations fail to center career advancement and real-world professional development, the entire pipeline of skilled professionals is jeopardized. Young court reporters seeking stable careers may look elsewhere; mid-career reporters may seek alternative income streams outside their associations; and seasoned reporters may disengage entirely.

This echoes the Momentive report’s finding that career priorities vary by stage of professional journey — and associations that ignore these variegated needs lose members at critical moments. Early careerists want job opportunities, mid-career practitioners want advancement pathways, and late-career members value networking and referrals. Tailoring services to these distinct stages can transform how court reporters perceive the value of membership.

The disconnect between rhetoric and action becomes especially clear when career-forward solutions are placed directly in front of association leadership. In one recent instance, a legal-tech platform built specifically for court reporters offered professional associations a free, white-labeled online tool—fully branded for each organization and designed to help members find work, manage opportunities, and strengthen their professional visibility. The offer required no financial investment and imposed no risk. It was declined. That decision was not about cost or capacity; it was about priorities. When associations turn away tools that materially benefit members’ careers, they reveal an institutional resistance to shifting value away from centralized control and toward individual professionals—precisely the shift today’s workforce is demanding.

Building Career-Centric Associations in Court Reporting

How can court reporting associations — such as state and national chapters of the National Court Reporters Association (NCRA), regional groups, and specialty networks — respond to this challenge? The answers lie in reimagining the association’s role from gatekeeper of tradition to career catalyst for members at every stage.

1. Establish Robust Career Centers and Job Platforms

Many professions now offer dedicated career centers that go far beyond simple job boards. These platforms include AI-powered job matching, curated opportunities based on skill sets, and tools that help members market themselves effectively. Court reporting associations can transform their static listings into dynamic engines that connect members with employers in law firms, court systems, captioning services, broadcast studios, and accessibility agencies.

Associations can also partner with legal staffing agencies and technology firms to diversify the career opportunities available to members. By facilitating direct employer access, associations become indispensable career partners rather than optional membership clubs.

2. Create Structured Advancement Pathways

Career advancement in court reporting is not linear. Traditional stenographic skills intersect with emerging domains like CART (Communication Access Realtime Translation), livestream captioning, and forensic video transcription. Associations should create clear certification trees and specialization pathways that help members plan long-term careers.

This means offering not only continuing education credits but stackable certifications that correspond to market demand — such as realtime speed building, AI-assisted workflow proficiency, or legal technology integration. Membership benefits should include detailed guides on how these certifications translate into higher earning potential and professional distinction.

3. Transform Continuing Education into Competitive Advantage

Continuing education is a core benefit of professional membership — but too often it is delivered as compliance-driven credits rather than career-building skills. Court reporting associations can reverse this trend by curating high-impact, industry-validated courses that:

Teach advanced realtime and captioning techniques.
Demonstrate best-in-class technology workflows.
Provide business development and entrepreneurship training.
Offer practical sessions on emerging legal tech and AI integration.

By aligning coursework with employers’ expectations and practitioners’ aspirations, associations can ensure education translates to actual career impact — not just classroom hours.

4. Modernize Networking to Drive Referrals and Business Growth

Traditional networking events — like annual conferences or local dinners — are valuable but insufficient. Today’s professionals want ongoing, structured networking that leads to business relationships, mentors, and referral pipelines.

Associations can build mentorship networks, online mastermind groups, and regional coworking meetups that help members exchange referrals and business insights. Pairing early careerists with seasoned veterans in formal mentoring programs can make the association indispensable at every career stage.

5. Use Technology to Personalize the Member Experience

The Momentive report highlights the potential of using technology — including AI — to personalize career resources and member interactions. Court reporting associations can adopt similar strategies by using data to tailor:

Job recommendations and alerts.
Learning pathways based on individual goals.
Networking suggestions that align with specialization and location.
Career coaching and support resources customized to career stage.

When members feel that the association “gets” their unique aspirations and helps them achieve real results, loyalty and retention follow.

Beyond Career Services — Advocacy That Matters

While career services must take center stage, advocacy remains an important association function. Court reporting associations already champion fair pay, professional recognition, and legal protections for certified reporters. But these efforts resonate most when paired with tangible personal benefits.

For example, when associations advocate for minimum reporter rates, state-level job protections, or recognition of captioners in accessibility law, framing those wins in terms of career impact — job security, income stability, and professional respect — strengthens the connection between advocacy and member value.

Measuring Success — What a Career-Aligned Association Looks Like

Shifting to a career-centric model requires associations to measure success differently. Instead of tracking attendance at events or revenue from dues alone, associations should evaluate:

Job placement outcomes for members.
Career trajectory improvements tied to association resources.
Engagement with learning and certification programs.
Referral and mentorship network growth.
Member retention tied to career services utilization.

These metrics make the association’s value proposition explicit: membership isn’t just about belonging, it’s about building a career that lasts.

Conclusion

The court reporting profession stands at a crossroads shaped by technology, market pressures, and generational shifts in career expectations. Professional associations that fail to adapt risk becoming relics. But those that embrace a career-first strategy — one that prioritizes job opportunities, advancement pathways, modern education, and meaningful networking — can cement their role as indispensable partners in a court reporter’s professional journey.

The 2025 associations research underscores a universal truth: members don’t join associations for nostalgia; they join for value. When that value aligns with a member’s career aspirations, engagement deepens, membership stabilizes, and the profession as a whole thrives. For court reporting — a profession grounded in precision, service, and adaptability — the time to close the career services gap is now

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

When Two Depositions Are Scheduled but Only One Goes Forward – The Growing Fight Over Same-Day Cancellation Fees

In freelance court reporting, time is not merely a backdrop to the work — it is the work. Reporters sell availability in discrete blocks, often committing entire days around assignments that may or may not ultimately proceed. Yet compensation for that reserved time is frequently governed less by uniform industry standards than by the internal policies of the agencies that broker the work. This tension has become increasingly visible as scheduling practices grow more fragmented and remote.

That friction came into focus when a reporter was scheduled for multiple proceedings on the same day, each treated as a separate assignment. One portion of the day moved forward and was completed as expected. Another, scheduled later, did not. Despite having reserved time and remained available, the reporter was left waiting while the proceeding failed to materialize.

A dispute followed over whether the later assignment qualified for a same-day cancellation fee. The firm took the position that because part of the day had proceeded, no additional compensation was owed. The reporter, by contrast, viewed the unused assignment as a distinct booking — one that consumed time, foreclosed other work, and ultimately produced no record.

This interpretation, while self-serving, runs counter to nearly every established norm in professional services — and to the basic economic structure of freelance work.

Two Job Numbers Mean Two Jobs — Not One Long Day

Separate job numbers reflect separate bookings, distinct commitments, and separate economic reliance. Reporters reserve their day around those windows, often declining or accepting other assignments accordingly. When the afternoon slot evaporates, the reporter is left with an unfillable gap. When a firm says, in effect, “We’re only paying for the morning — the afternoon doesn’t count because the morning happened,” they collapse two assignments into one, but only for the purpose of not paying the reporter.

This reasoning would not survive scrutiny in virtually any other service industry.

How Other Professions Handle Same-Day Cancellations

Court reporting is hardly the only field where time is the core billable asset. But it is one of the few where firms occasionally insist on redefining obvious economic losses as “non-compensable.” Consider how similar industries operate:

Interpreters

Interpreters — including legal and medical interpreters — have firm cancellation structures:

Full fee for same-day cancellations
Each witness or session is billed separately
One proceeding has no bearing on another

If an interpreter is booked for a morning session and an afternoon session, and the afternoon witness no-shows, the full cancellation fee applies. No agency would argue that the morning appearance cancels the afternoon compensation.

Electricians, Plumbers, HVAC Technicians

Service technicians operate under strict trip fees and cancellation policies. If two appointments are booked and the second is canceled last minute, the client is charged for that appointment — not forgiven because the technician happened to be nearby earlier.

Their reasoning is simple:

The technician’s time block was reserved. That time cannot be resold.

Therapists, Coaches, Tutors

Miss a scheduled afternoon session after attending a morning session? The afternoon is charged in full. The earlier appointment does not absolve the later obligation.

Medical Providers

If you have a 9:00 a.m. appointment and a 2:00 p.m. appointment with the same doctor, and you fail to appear at 2:00, you are billed for the missed session. The fact that you attended your morning appointment is irrelevant.

Attorneys

Even attorneys — the ultimate end-clients in depositions — treat each scheduled meeting or task as its own billable event. If a client books two preparation sessions and cancels one, the canceled session is billed. Lawyers do not merge the two into a single billing event.

In short: Across nearly all service-based professions, two bookings are two obligations.
Only in court reporting do some firms attempt to merge them retroactively when it benefits their bottom line.

Why This Matters: Time Is the Product

For freelance reporters, time is not merely the medium through which work is performed — it is the work. Once a slot is reserved, the income potential from that block of time is locked. If the assignment dissolves the same day, the reporter cannot fill that time with another job. The same-day cancellation fee is not a convenience. It is compensation for a real loss.

In this case, the reporter not only reserved the time but actively waited online for more than an hour at the firm’s instruction. That waiting period underscores that the second deposition was live, scheduled, and expected to begin at any moment. When the witness ultimately failed to appear, the event became a no-show — the very scenario cancellation fees exist to address.

Why the Firm’s Argument Fails

The firm’s position relies on a premise that contradicts basic logic:

Morning deposition = compensated
Afternoon deposition = canceled
But because the morning deposition occurred, the afternoon cancellation “does not count”

This reasoning is arbitrary, economically incoherent, and inconsistent with industry norms in every parallel profession.

If the afternoon deposition had been scheduled for a different day, the cancellation fee would be unquestioned. The only difference here is that it occurred later on the same day — a distinction that has no relevance to the reporter’s lost time.

How Reporters Can Protect Themselves: Policies, Contracts, and Clarity

Given the increasing pressure on reporters to absorb uncompensated losses, it is crucial to proactively define billing terms in writing. Reporters can safeguard themselves through three mechanisms:

1. Include Clear Language on Your Rate Sheet

A rate sheet is a binding business document, especially when attached to job confirmations.

Suggested language:

Each scheduled deposition, witness, or proceeding constitutes a separate booking and is billed independently. Same-day cancellations, postponements, and no-shows are billed in full, regardless of whether other depositions in the same matter proceed.

Reporters wait 30 minutes past the scheduled start time unless instructed otherwise. Waiting beyond 30 minutes is billed at the hourly rate.

This eliminates ambiguity and blocks agencies from claiming ignorance.

2. Use a Strong Cancellation Clause in Your Service Agreement

This clause creates a contractual entitlement.

Suggested clause:

The Agency agrees that each confirmed deposition, witness, or proceeding is a separate assignment. Any assignment that cancels, postpones, or results in a no-show on the same calendar day shall incur a same-day cancellation fee, independent of whether any other assignment that day proceeds.

3. Add a Dedicated Section to Your Reporter–Agency Agreement

Codify the structure:

Separate assignments
Cancellation fees
Waiting policies
Economic reliance principles

This transforms an informal expectation into a contractual right.

Rebalancing a Lopsided Industry

The stakes in this debate are not limited to a single afternoon deposition. They reflect a broader issue within the court-reporting profession: a chronic power imbalance between large national firms and the freelancers who enable their business model.

When firms attempt to avoid paying established cancellation fees by redefining what constitutes a “job,” they shift economic risk onto reporters — the very professionals who shoulder the responsibility of capturing the legal record with skill and accuracy.

For the profession to remain viable, reporters must standardize and enforce protections that other industries already take for granted.

Two job numbers. Two depositions. One canceled.
In every other profession, this would be an easy answer.
In court reporting, it is an overdue opportunity to reset expectations — and reclaim fairness.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

California Missed the Moment: What Illinois’ Officialship Training Program Reveals About a Lost Opportunity

When Illinois quietly launched its tuition-free Officialship Training Program in January 2024, it did not issue press releases declaring victory over a court-reporter shortage. It did not celebrate disruption or promise that technology would “solve” the problem. Instead, it did something far more practical—and far more telling. It invested directly in people.

Illinois’ courts created a pipeline that places student stenographers inside courtrooms early, pays them while they train, and supports them through licensure with structured oversight. The program does not abandon stenography. It does not outsource the record. It does not pretend electronic recording is a replacement for a trained human reporter. It uses electronic recording only as a backup while reporters build speed toward full qualification.

That choice stands in stark contrast to what California did—and did not do—when it had the chance.

California had millions of dollars earmarked to promote, recruit, and stabilize the court reporting profession. Estimates place the funding in the range of several million dollars. The stated goal was to address the same crisis Illinois faced: a shrinking pool of licensed reporters, growing courtroom vacancies, and mounting pressure to rely on electronic recording.

But rather than using that money to build a structured, paid apprenticeship model like Illinois’, California allowed the moment to pass. The funds were spent, dispersed, or absorbed without producing a durable, statewide training pipeline to replace the reporters retiring out of the system every year.

The result is not theoretical. It is already visible in courtrooms across the state.

California courts increasingly operate without stenographers present. Attorneys are told—sometimes incorrectly—that reporters are unavailable. Electronic recording fills the gap, not as a temporary measure but as a default. Meanwhile, students who want to become court reporters face the same obstacles they always have: high tuition costs, years of unpaid speed-building, limited access to real courtroom experience, and no guarantee of employment at the end.

Illinois chose to confront those barriers head-on. California did not.

The Illinois Officialship Training Program recognizes a basic truth that California policymakers appear to have overlooked: recruitment alone does not solve a workforce crisis. Training, financial support, and a clear path to employment do.

In Illinois, students are not told to “just get faster” on their own time. They are placed in judicial circuits. They observe proceedings daily. They learn courtroom mechanics alongside working reporters. They earn income while building speed. And when they are ready, they step into restricted licensure roles that still prioritize human stenography, with electronic recording serving only as insurance—not as the official record.

California could have done the same.

With millions of dollars available, the state could have partnered with its courts, its lone NCRA-approved school, and experienced working reporters to build a paid officialship program. It could have subsidized tuition, covered equipment costs, and paid students to apprentice in courthouses with the greatest shortages. It could have created a restricted license pathway paired with intensive mentorship, ensuring quality while accelerating entry into the profession.

Instead, California’s response has been fragmented. Recruitment campaigns encourage interest without removing financial barriers. Students are told the profession is “in demand” while being left to shoulder years of unpaid labor to qualify. Courts quietly shift toward electronic recording, not because it is better, but because the human infrastructure was never rebuilt.

This is the core failure: California treated court reporting as a marketing problem, while Illinois treated it as a workforce problem.

The difference matters because court reporting is not interchangeable labor. It is a specialized skill that takes years to master and decades to replace. When courts lose stenographers, they do not simply lose a service. They lose real-time accountability, a verbatim record, and a neutral officer of the court whose sole job is to preserve what was actually said.

Illinois’ program is not perfect, and it is not without controversy. Some reporters worry that restricted licensure and electronic recording backups could become permanent rather than transitional. Those concerns are valid and deserve scrutiny. But Illinois’ approach at least begins from the premise that stenographers are worth saving.

California’s silence sends a different message.

By failing to create a comparable program when the money was available, California effectively signaled that the profession would be left to survive on individual sacrifice rather than institutional support. Those who make it do so despite the system, not because of it. Those who cannot afford years of unpaid training simply disappear from the pipeline.

The long-term consequences are predictable. Courts normalize electronic recording. Attorneys grow accustomed to imperfect transcripts. Appeals become harder. Judicial efficiency declines. And when the public finally notices, the infrastructure to fix it will already be gone.

Illinois offers a glimpse of an alternative future—one where courts take responsibility for cultivating their own workforce rather than outsourcing the problem to technology. California had the resources to do the same. What it lacked was the will to commit to a long-term solution instead of short-term fixes.

The question now is whether California will learn from Illinois’ example—or whether it will continue to watch other states invest in people while it invests in workarounds.

Because money alone does not preserve a profession. How that money is used does.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

Opinion | Digital Reporting Is Not “Clearly Lawful.” It Is Clearly Inferior — and Legally Dangerous

By now, the talking points are familiar. When a non-stenographic deposition transcript is excluded from evidence, the response from digital reporting agencies is not introspection, but insistence: The problem isn’t the method — it’s the critics.

That is the posture taken in Esquire Deposition Solutions’ December 9, 2025 opinion piece, “Careful Digital Reporting Is Clearly Lawful in Texas.” The article attempts to reframe a trial court’s exclusion of a non-stenographic transcript not as a warning, but as an aberration — a misunderstanding that, Esquire argues, the Texas Supreme Court should swiftly correct.

But beneath the polished language and selective rule citations lies a fundamental problem: digital reporting, as practiced by private agencies, does not satisfy the rules of evidence, does not create a contemporaneous verbatim record, and does not provide the accountability the justice system requires. Calling it “lawful” does not make it reliable. And reliability — not convenience — is what courts exist to protect.

A Transcript That Is Not Taken Down Is Not Evidence — It Is Reconstruction

The central flaw in Esquire’s argument is one it never directly confronts: a transcript created after the fact from an audio recording is not a verbatim record of testimony as it was spoken. It is a reconstruction.

In evidentiary terms, that matters.

If words are not contemporaneously captured by a licensed stenographic court reporter at the moment they are spoken, they exist only as recorded sound until someone later decides what was said. That later act — listening, interpreting, typing, correcting — is precisely where hearsay problems arise.

A stenographic transcript is not hearsay because the reporter is a neutral officer of the proceeding who captures testimony in real time and certifies, under penalty of perjury and license discipline, that the words were taken down verbatim. The record is created as the testimony happens.

By contrast, a digital transcript is created after the event, filtered through audio quality, equipment performance, annotation decisions, and a transcriptionist who was not present for the testimony itself. That chain of interpretation breaks the evidenti link between the spoken word and the written record.

If it was not taken down stenographically at the time it was spoken, it is as if it was not said — at least not in a form that satisfies the evidenti safeguards courts rely on.

Rules Allow Recording. They Do Not Bless Inferior Records.

Esquire leans heavily on Texas Rules of Civil Procedure 199.1(c) and 203.6, which allow parties to record depositions by non-stenographic means. That much is true — and also beside the point.

Permitting a recording is not the same as endorsing the use of a privately produced transcript as a reliable substitute for a stenographic record. The rules allow non-stenographic recording so parties may preserve testimony. They do not eliminate the court’s responsibility to assess whether a transcript derived from that recording is trustworthy, complete, or admissible.

Rule 203.6 explicitly preserves judicial discretion to require a complete transcript from a certified court reporter for good cause. That is not an exception that “proves the rule.” It is a safeguard — one that exists precisely because non-stenographic transcripts are inherently vulnerable to dispute.

When a court excludes such a transcript, it is not rewriting the rules. It is exercising them.

Certification That Carries No Legal Weight Is Not Accountability

Esquire repeatedly invokes AAERT certification as proof of professionalism and accountability. But AAERT certification is not recognized as a court reporter license in Texas, California, or more than 25 other states.

AAERT is a private trade organization. Its credentials do not confer statutory authority. Its members are not subject to state reporter licensing boards. They are not bound by the same ethical rules, disciplinary structures, or public oversight mechanisms as licensed stenographic reporters.

In Texas, only a licensed CSR can act as the officer who certifies a stenographic deposition. In California, the distinction is even clearer: electronic recording is not a verbatim record, and non-stenographic transcripts are explicitly restricted in their use.

Calling an AAERT-certified digital recorder a “court reporter” does not make it so. Titles do not create legal responsibility. Licensure does.

Agencies Cannot Be the “Responsible Charge”

Another critical omission in Esquire’s article is the issue of responsible charge.

In stenographic practice, the court reporter — not the agency — is the officer of the record. The reporter’s name is on the certificate. The reporter’s license is on the line. The reporter can be subpoenaed, disciplined, or disqualified.

In digital reporting, the agency controls the equipment, the workflow, the annotations, the transcriptionist, the review process, and often the certification language itself. That is not independence. That is consolidation of power — with no individual legally accountable for the integrity of the record.

Agencies cannot serve as the responsible charge because agencies cannot testify, cannot be disciplined by licensing boards, and cannot be ethically neutral when they are paid by the party seeking the transcript.

“In the Room” Does Not Mean “On the Record”

Esquire emphasizes that a human professional is “in the room.” But presence is not the same as authorship of the record.

A stenographer does not merely observe testimony. The stenographer creates the record. Every interruption, every overlap, every inflection is captured contemporaneously. When disputes arise, the reporter’s notes — not a recording — are the primary authority.

A digital recorder, by contrast, manages equipment. The record does not exist until later. And when later disagreements arise, the answer is always the same: “Let’s listen to the audio.”

That is not a record. That is a playback.

Access to Justice Does Not Mean Lowering the Bar

The final appeal in Esquire’s article is emotional rather than legal: shortages, rural access, cost pressures. These are real challenges. But the solution to a shortage of licensed professionals is not to redefine professionalism downward.

Courts do not relax evidentiary standards because compliance is inconvenient. They do not replace sworn officers with vendors because it is cheaper. And they do not gamble with the integrity of the record — the foundation of appellate review — in the name of efficiency.

If digital reporting were truly equivalent, courts would not be excluding its transcripts. Judges are not anti-technology. They are pro-reliability.

The Record Is Not a Commodity

At its core, this debate is not about devices. It is about what the justice system considers trustworthy.

A verbatim record is not a file. It is a constitutional safeguard. It exists so that years later — on appeal, in post-judgment motions, in disciplinary proceedings — there is no question about what was said, who said it, and how it was said.

Digital reporting asks courts to trade that certainty for convenience. The Montgomery County ruling suggests at least one court refused.

That is not an overreaction. It is a warning.

And it should be heeded.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.
Legal & Editorial Disclaimer (Recommended for Publication)
This article is an opinion-based analysis of publicly available statements, court rules, and professional standards related to deposition practice and evidentiary reliability. It does not allege misconduct by any individual or entity and does not constitute legal advice. References to “digital reporting” and “non-stenographic transcripts” are general in nature and address systemic concerns regarding evidentiary integrity, licensure, and accountability. Readers should consult applicable statutes, rules of procedure, and qualified legal counsel for jurisdiction-specific guidance.

When Speaking Up Becomes a Liability – How Court Reporting Learned to Punish Action

A Facebook post circulating recently among court reporters struck a nerve. In it, the author lamented the profession’s current state: a shrinking workforce, too few students entering programs, mounting reliance on digital alternatives, and a sense that no one had acted in time to stop the erosion. The post carried an undertone of frustration and disbelief, as though the crisis had arrived unannounced and unchallenged. It suggested that for years, no one had truly cared enough to intervene.

That sentiment resonated widely. It was shared, commented on, and praised for “finally saying out loud” what many now feel. But it also revealed a deeper and more troubling distortion in how the profession remembers its own recent history. People did act. People did warn. People did try. What happened to them is the part rarely discussed.

For years, individuals within court reporting raised alarms about the workforce pipeline, the aging demographic, the failure to modernize training and licensing, and the predictable consequences of ignoring market signals. These were not casual complaints or abstract fears. They were data-driven arguments, often grounded in studies like the Ducker report, which outlined in plain terms the mathematical impossibility of sustaining the profession without structural change. Yet those who treated the findings as urgent rather than theoretical often found themselves isolated rather than supported.

The Facebook post’s assertion that “no one did anything” is therefore less an indictment of inaction than a testament to how effectively action has been punished and erased.

Within court reporting, speaking up has increasingly carried a cost. Reporters who questioned leadership decisions, agency practices, or long-term strategy frequently discovered that visibility invited scrutiny, criticism, and, in some cases, reputational harm. Rather than fostering debate, the culture rewarded quiet compliance. Those who pushed for reform often found themselves labeled divisive, negative, or self-serving, regardless of the substance of their arguments.

This pattern is not accidental. Professions under stress tend to develop defensive reflexes, and court reporting is no exception. When faced with uncomfortable truths, institutions often respond not by addressing the threat but by neutralizing the messenger. Doing so restores a sense of control, at least temporarily, and allows the group to preserve the comforting belief that stability still exists.

What makes court reporting’s version of this dynamic particularly destructive is its social composition. It is an overwhelmingly female profession, and like many women-dominated fields, it has inherited cultural norms that discourage open conflict while simultaneously enabling covert forms of aggression. Disagreement is often personalized. Structural critique is reframed as interpersonal hostility. Those who stand out become targets not through direct confrontation, but through whisper networks, social exclusion, and professional distancing.

In this environment, taking initiative can be interpreted as threatening rather than constructive. Visibility becomes synonymous with vulnerability. Reformers are not debated; they are discredited. Over time, this produces a chilling effect. Others watch what happens to the people who speak up and decide, rationally, that silence is safer.

The result is a profession that appears passive not because it lacks insight or intelligence, but because it has trained itself to punish leadership instincts.

The Facebook post unintentionally illustrates this outcome. By claiming that no one cared or acted, it overlooks the quieter truth: many people cared deeply, but learned that caring publicly came with consequences. Their absence from the current conversation is not proof of indifference. It is evidence of attrition—not from the workforce alone, but from the public sphere of ideas.

There is also a gendered dimension to this pattern that the profession rarely acknowledges. In many women-majority fields, including education, nursing, and social work, internal conflict often takes the form of lateral aggression rather than hierarchical challenge. Power is negotiated socially rather than structurally, and those who disrupt informal hierarchies are often disciplined by peers rather than institutions. Court reporting displays many of these same traits.

Without sufficient male participation, particularly in rank-and-file and leadership roles, the profession lacks a moderating counterbalance that research shows can reduce internal fracturing. Mixed-gender environments tend to externalize conflict—directing energy toward solving problems rather than policing personalities. Homogeneous environments, by contrast, are more prone to internalized conflict and reputational warfare, especially under stress.

This is not an argument about competence or capability. Women have built and sustained court reporting for generations. It is an argument about group dynamics. Diversity, including gender diversity, is stabilizing. The near-total absence of men from the profession has not only worsened the labor shortage, but has removed an important social buffer against self-destruction.

As pressures mounted—economic, technological, and political—the profession increasingly turned inward. Instead of uniting against external threats such as automation without transparency, unethical contracting, or systemic underinvestment in education, reporters often found themselves fighting one another. Those who proposed change were framed as disruptors rather than stewards. Over time, this dynamic hollowed out leadership capacity.

Now, as the consequences become undeniable, the narrative is being rewritten. The crisis is described as sudden. The lack of preparation is framed as collective oversight. The idea that “no one cared” offers emotional absolution, but it also absolves the profession of examining how it treated those who did care enough to risk speaking.

That avoidance is dangerous. If the profession fails to confront why action was punished, it will repeat the pattern. New leaders will emerge, see what happened to their predecessors, and retreat. Innovation will continue to come from outside rather than within. Digital systems will keep filling gaps not because they are superior, but because internal reform remains socially costly.

The Facebook post should therefore be read not as a conclusion, but as a prompt for deeper reckoning. The real question is not why no one acted, but why action became professionally hazardous. Until that question is answered honestly, the profession will continue mistaking silence for consensus and compliance for stability.

Court reporting does not suffer from a lack of intelligence, dedication, or skill. It suffers from a culture that too often confuses unity with conformity and interprets leadership as betrayal. Reversing that culture will require more than acknowledging the shortage. It will require protecting dissent, encouraging diversity—including more men entering the field—and recognizing that survival depends not on punishing those who speak first, but on listening to them before it is too late.

Why Attorneys Should Think Twice Before Accepting Digital Reporting – Stenographers Will Not Fix Your Bad Audio After the Fact

In a profession built on precision, authentication, and the evidentiary integrity of the record, a quiet but consequential shift is unfolding inside American courtrooms. Attorneys—especially those practicing in high-stakes civil litigation—are increasingly discovering that the “cheaper, modern alternative” of digital reporting comes with a hidden cost: there may be no qualified stenographer willing to salvage the record when things go wrong.

And things are going wrong.

Recently, a veteran Florida court reporter recounted an episode that should give every litigator pause. “I had an interesting thing happen recently,” she explained. “I was assigned a trial with a long-time client who does strictly insurance defense. Then a couple days later it was canceled. I texted my client, who is also a good friend. She says the plaintiff wants their own reporter—okay, that’s Florida’s rules. No problem.”

But what followed was something else entirely.

“Next thing I hear, there was a multimillion-dollar verdict against her. Then a couple days later she called me back and asked if I would transcribe from the digital. Whoa.”

Her answer was unequivocal. Years earlier, as a favor, she had attempted a similar task—transcribing a proceeding captured on rudimentary audio equipment.

“It was a disaster. NEVER AGAIN.”

She declined. Her longtime client understood. The agency later found someone willing to attempt the transcription—“God bless them,” she added—but then came the real revelation:

No one had been told that a digital recorder, not a certified stenographer, was covering the trial.
The plaintiff’s side had executed a classic bait-and-switch, and the defense attorney walked into a multimillion-dollar verdict without a trustworthy record of what transpired.

Attorneys who have ever reviewed a digital transcript know the outcome. As the reporter put it:

“If anyone has seen a digital transcript, you know. They are the worst transcripts imaginable. Stuff left out. Wrong speakers. Wrong words. Stuff that makes no sense. Think the appellate courts are happy?”

The New Request: “Can You Just Transcribe the Audio?”

Other stenographers are reporting an uptick in troubling inquiries.

One recently shared:

“I received an email asking if I was interested in doing digital, but I’m a stenographer—that’s kind of disturbing. I’m nervous we’re going to get knocked out.”

Another added:

“Some lawyers think digital is the way to go. Maybe it is if everything settles. But the god-awful transcripts…”

And here is the hard truth attorneys must hear:

Professional stenographers will not—and ethically cannot—clean up or certify a transcript from digital audio.

Doing so would compromise:

Accuracy (audio is frequently incomplete or unintelligible)
Authenticity (stenographers cannot certify a record they did not personally take)
Ethical obligations under state reporting statutes
Appellate integrity, where missing or wrong language is grounds for challenge

Stenographers are guardians of the record, not technicians for broken audio.

Technology Is Changing—but Not Always for the Better

Digital advocates often frame this shift as inevitable. And even within the stenographic community, the technological conversation is evolving.

One respected voice wrote:

“You all realize that the speech-to-text world IS changing, right? It’s not like it’s going to change. It already has… I am 💯 #steno, but I haven’t kept my fingers in my ears. Technology can do our job. It can and does. Please live in the reality of what is happening.”

Another veteran reporter, reflecting on 50+ years in the profession, cautioned:

“As the technology advances, I would encourage my colleagues to embrace it. Who better to harness and manage a viable new reporting technology than reporters? AI is here to stay.”

These statements are not endorsements of replacing stenographers. They are acknowledgments that technology will play an increasing role—but in partnership with, not instead of, trained professionals.

Even those embracing AI also concede a foundational truth:

Digital audio—without a human stenographer managing the record—is not a viable courtroom reporting method.

Not for trials.
Not for appeals.
Not for verdicts measured in millions.

The Attorney’s Dilemma: When “Cheap” Becomes Very Expensive

Attorneys who opt for digital reporting often do so for three reasons:

It looks modern
It looks easy
It looks inexpensive

But like most things in litigation, the apparent shortcut leads to a longer, more expensive route.

The hidden risks include:

inaudible testimony
overlapping speakers
untranslated accents
failure to distinguish witnesses
missing voir dire
omitted sidebars
misattributed objections
entire segments lost to equipment failure

And when the transcript is needed for post-trial motions or appeal?

You will be told to “find a stenographer who can fix it”—and you will quickly learn that stenographers will not touch it.

You cannot retroactively hire accuracy.
You cannot reconstruct a destroyed record.
You cannot appeal without a clean transcript.

What looks cheap on the front end becomes catastrophic on the back end.

The Warning to Attorneys: Digital Has No Safety Net

Stenographers are not refusing out of pride. They are refusing because:

They cannot ethically certify audio created by someone else.
They cannot guarantee accuracy for a record they did not control.
They cannot protect you on appeal if the audio is flawed.

Once you choose digital, you lose the protections that trained stenographers bring:

live error correction
real-time identification of speakers
instant clarification of mumbling or low voices
management of crosstalk
capturing nonverbal gestures or exhibits
ensuring a full, fair, and accurate record

No amount of post-processing, AI, or cleanup can replicate that.

A Final Thought for the Legal Community

The reporting profession is evolving, and technology will remain part of that evolution. But attorneys must recognize the difference between augmenting stenographic reporting and replacing it with something fundamentally less reliable.

As one reporter said plainly:

“Maybe digital looks good. Maybe it’s cheap. But the problem is getting a decent transcript.”

The legal system cannot function on questionable transcripts, missing testimony, or unverifiable records. Attorneys who accept digital reporting are accepting the risk that the only accurate account of what happened in the courtroom simply may not exist.

And when the stakes are measured in million-dollar verdicts, client trust, and appellate review, that is not a risk worth taking.

You cannot fix the record after the fact.
You can only protect it from the start.
Hire a stenographer.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.

A Kentucky Hearing Shows Why Digital Recording Is Not — and Never Will Be — an Acceptable Official Record

Why Most Court Reporters Don’t Quit — And Why That Matters

Every so often, an algorithm decides it understands a profession better than the people who have lived inside it for decades. The screenshot circulating online—an AI-generated explanation for why people “quit being court reporters”—is one of those moments. It reads confidently, ticks all the right modern boxes, and yet fundamentally misunderstands the profession it purports to summarize.

The premise itself is flawed. Court reporting is not a career people typically “try and abandon.” It is a profession people commit to for life. Three decades. Four decades. Often five. It is not uncommon to see multiple generations of court reporters in the same family, or to work alongside colleagues who began their careers before digital recording even existed. This is not the profile of a profession hemorrhaging workers due to unbearable conditions. It is the profile of a craft that rewards mastery, autonomy, and endurance.

That does not mean the job is easy. It never has been. Court reporting is demanding by design. It requires intense concentration, technical skill, emotional discipline, and an unusual tolerance for responsibility. The record must be accurate. The deadlines are real. The stakes are often high. But difficulty alone does not drive people away. In fact, for many reporters, it is precisely the rigor that keeps them engaged for decades.

The AI narrative leans heavily on “trauma” as a central reason reporters quit. That claim ignores a critical distinction within the profession. Many freelance reporters do not work criminal cases at all. They handle civil litigation, depositions, arbitrations, hearings, and proceedings where the emotional content, while sometimes stressful, is not inherently traumatic. For those reporters, the idea that emotional exposure is a defining occupational hazard simply does not apply.

More importantly, court reporting offers something many modern professions no longer do: control. Freelance reporters can turn down work. They can take time off when they need to stay sane. They can pace their careers in ways that protect both mental health and longevity. Burnout is far more likely in environments where workers are trapped, interchangeable, and powerless. Court reporters, by contrast, build careers around independence and choice.

Yes, some days are bad. Some days are truly awful. But that is not unique to court reporting—it is true of any profession that involves real responsibility. The difference is that reporters who stay learn how to manage time and stress as core professional skills, not afterthoughts. They learn quickly that physical activity is not optional. Movement keeps the body functioning and the brain sharp. This is not a lifestyle job for people who expect the work to accommodate them. It is a profession that demands adaptation—and rewards it.

The AI summary also treats “technological demands” as a reason people quit, as though learning and evolving were new burdens imposed on an otherwise static field. Court reporters have always adapted to technology. From manual machines to computerized steno, from paper notes to realtime feeds, from in-person proceedings to remote platforms, this profession has survived precisely because its practitioners are resilient, curious, and technically adept. Those who struggle with that reality self-select out early. Those who thrive stay for life.

And that is the point the algorithm misses entirely: not everyone is cut out to be a court reporter. That has always been true. It is a jealous mistress of a profession—demanding, exacting, and unforgiving of shortcuts. But for those who are wired for it, it becomes more than a job. It becomes an identity. A superpower. Something people proudly say they have loved for 40 or even 48 years, without irony or regret.

Finally, there is flexibility—real flexibility, not the buzzword version. Court reporters are not locked into one narrow path. They can change agencies. They can move geographically. They can pivot into captioning, CART, realtime, mentoring, or teaching. They can reinvent their careers without abandoning the profession itself. Very few careers offer that kind of lateral freedom without starting over.

So when an AI confidently declares why “people quit court reporting,” it is worth asking: which people? Because the overwhelming evidence, written in decades-long careers and generational legacies, tells a very different story.

Court reporting is not a profession people flee from. It is a profession people grow old in—by choice.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.

Trial Etiquette – The Unwritten Code Every Court Reporter Is Expected to Follow

Sliding Into the High-Speed You – What a Russian Physicist’s Theory Teaches Court Reporters About Passing the CSR, RPR, and Every Other “Impossible” Test

In every court reporting program across the country, there comes a moment—sometimes quiet, sometimes devastatingly loud—when a student thinks, I can’t do this. Maybe it’s a plateau at 180. Maybe it’s a string of RPR failures. Maybe it’s a CSR mock where the errors outnumber the correct words. And behind it all is the same pressure: Try harder. Push more. Grip tighter. Don’t let go.

But what if the very act of gripping is what slows us down?

An unlikely insight comes from a little-known moment in scientific history—one that has nothing to do with stenography, and everything to do with how humans experience reality and achievement.

“In 1993, a Russian physicist walked away from his lab forever. Few knew he had discovered a shocking secret about reality itself.
Vladimir Krupin, a quantum physicist, realised that reality might already exist like a movie with infinite versions. Instead of trying harder to make things happen, he taught that changing your inner state could “slide” you into the version you wanted. His radical idea was simple yet revolutionary: treat your goals as no big deal. According to Krupin, when you stop clinging to outcomes and adopt a relaxed mindset, opportunities and success manifest faster than desire ever could. This method challenged traditional thinking in physics and psychology alike and caused a stir in Russian intellectual circles.
Today, Krupin’s insight resonates with people exploring mindfulness, manifestation, and self-transformation. His three-step “no-big-deal” approach encourages modern readers to pause, release stress, and shift perspectives to align with their desired reality. Beyond physics, it’s a lesson in patience, inner balance, and the hidden power of perception. His work reminds us that sometimes the most extraordinary discoveries come not from tools and labs, but from quiet reflection and courage to think differently. History shows that changing your mindset can ripple across culture and personal life alike.”

For court reporters—especially students chasing higher speeds—this strange, almost mystical concept is not as far-fetched as it sounds. In fact, it mirrors what elite reporters, seasoned realtime writers, and certification experts have quietly understood for decades: speed comes not from effort alone, but from the inner state behind the effort.

The Paradox of Speedbuilding

Every stenographic student reaches the paradox eventually:

The harder you press, the more your fingers lock.
The more you obsess over accuracy, the more errors appear.
The more you fear the test, the faster the dictator seems to speak.

This is not imagination. Neuroscience confirms that performance under pressure deteriorates when the brain moves into “fight or flight.” Cortisol rises. Muscles tense. The prefrontal cortex—responsible for precision, sequencing, and fine motor control—begins to shut down.

Court reporting requires the opposite: fluidity, timing, micro-relaxation, and rhythm. It requires the upper brain to remain open, alert, and receptive.

High speed, paradoxically, comes from ease.

Krupin’s insight—that treating your goal as “no big deal” allows you to slip into the version of yourself that already succeeded—aligns almost perfectly with the lived experience of reporters who have passed the hardest exams.

Sliding Into the 225 You

When Krupin suggested that reality contains “versions” of outcomes, he wasn’t offering magic or pseudoscience. He was describing a psychological truth:

You cannot perform at the level you fear.
You perform at the level you embody.

The students who pass the CSR and RPR are not necessarily the ones with the most hours, the biggest dictionaries, or the newest machines. They are often the students who:

Stop acting like the test is a life-or-death moment
Detach from perfection
Trust their muscle memory
And practice from a mindset of inevitability rather than desperation

This mirrors Krupin’s three-step “no-big-deal” approach:

1. Pause

Before writing a take, elite reporters often visualize themselves at the strokewriter, hands loose, breath steady, posture relaxed. They reset their nervous system.

They know mastery begins before the audio starts.

2. Release Stress

You will never write clean if your shoulders are by your ears.

Students who plateau often don’t realize they are writing inside a state of tension. They grip the machine, press too hard, chase words, panic when they fall behind, and then blame their skill—not their state.

Relaxation is a skill.
So is non-attachment.

3. Shift Perspective

The most powerful thing a court reporting student can do before a test is change one belief:

Instead of “I have to pass,”
shift to “I already write at this speed; today I simply record the evidence of that.”

In other words, slide into the version of you who already passed.

This is not delusion. It is alignment.

Your hands follow the story you tell yourself.

Why Treating Your Goal as ‘No Big Deal’ Works

Court reporting students often believe intensity equals progress. But the students who break through to 180, 200, and 225 often describe the moment in strangely similar terms:

“It just clicked.”
“It suddenly felt easy.”
“I stopped caring for a second—and that’s when everything came together.”

This is not coincidence.

When you treat your certification like a monster, the nervous system responds accordingly. But when you treat it like a routine checkpoint, your skills surface naturally.

A reporter who writes 225 in class and 180 on test day is not lacking ability.
They are lacking ease.

Krupin’s theory reframes it: the version of you that passes already exists. Your task is not to claw your way into it, but to drop the resistance that blocks it.

How to Apply the “No-Big-Deal Method” in Daily Practice

The path from 140 to 200 is not only technical—it is psychological, emotional, and often spiritual. The method can be integrated into any practice routine:

1. Begin every practice with breath

Five deep breaths. Shoulders down. Loose wrists. Relaxed jaw. Remind your body that it is safe to perform.

2. Visualize yourself at speed

Not struggling.
Not chasing.
Just writing in rhythm with flow and confidence.

Your brain maps the version of you it believes is possible.

3. Practice from the middle—not the edge

Elite pianists do not hammer their hands to exhaustion. They practice just beyond comfort, not at panic-speed. Court reporters should too.

4. After errors, don’t react

Just reset.
Emotion is wasted energy.
Treating mistakes as neutral trains your nervous system to remain open.

5. Before every test, deliberately act casual

Eat a snack.
Look out the window.
Tell yourself: “This is just another take.”
Because it is.

Your brain performs what it believes is normal.

The Reporter Who Already Exists

The most successful students learn to relate to the “future reporter” not as a fantasy, but as a version of themselves already in progress. They stop thinking, One day I’ll be fast enough, and begin behaving as if that version is already here.

They carry themselves like professionals.
They practice like professionals.
They treat steno like the craft it is — and certification like the natural next step.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, their speed curves shift.
Plateaus melt.
Tension releases.
Tests feel less like cliffs and more like milestones.

This is the essence of Krupin’s insight: to “slide” into a different version of reality by shifting the internal state that interprets it.

Court reporting is one of the rare professions where mindset directly influences physical output. It is not like lifting weights or typing on a QWERTY keyboard. It requires precision at the threshold of human motor capability, a synchronization of rhythm, breath, and micro-movements.

No one brute-forces 225.
They become 225.

Why Students Fail Tests They Are Technically Capable of Passing

Ask any CSR or RPR veteran, and they’ll tell you the same thing: students often fail not because of skill, but because of the psychological weight they attach to the exam.

Students walk into test day holding:

fear of failure
pressure from teachers
guilt about the time they’ve spent
frustration from past attempts
catastrophizing (“If I fail again, my life is over”)
tension from financial stress
embarrassment (“Everyone else is passing but me”)

This is not just emotional noise — it’s a neurological block.

The body constricts.
The fingers stiffen.
The mind begins monitoring instead of performing.
And the smooth automaticity required for high-speed writing breaks apart.

The test becomes a mirror of the internal storm, not the skill they’ve already built.

Krupin would describe this as “clinging” — holding the goal so tightly that you distort your path toward it. His no-big-deal method teaches the opposite: the less pressure you apply, the more fluidly you move into the version of reality where your goal is already achieved.

For court reporters, this is not philosophy — it is the lived experience of every working realtime writer.

Ease produces speed.
Speed produces confidence.
Confidence produces clean notes.

The Three-Step Method, Translated for Steno

Krupin’s “no-big-deal” approach translates exceptionally well into a concrete practice routine for court reporters and students.

Here is the steno-adapted version:

STEP 1: PAUSE — Reset Your Nervous System

Before each practice session or test:

Place both hands lightly on the machine
Close your eyes
Take five slow breaths
Release tension in your jaw, shoulders, wrists, and forearms
Imagine your hands floating rather than pressing

This signals safety to the brain — an essential precursor to speed.

STEP 2: RELEASE — Let Go of the Emotional Charge

Say quietly to yourself:

“It’s no big deal.”

Repeat it if necessary.
Let it land.

The point is not apathy — it is detachment from fear.
A student who treats a 200 Q&A like a life-or-death situation will never write it cleanly.

But a student who treats it like Tuesday afternoon practice?
They unlock their true rhythm.

STEP 3: SHIFT — Step Into the Version of You Who Has Already Passed

Before every take, visualize:

A calm face
Loose fingers
Light strokes
Words landing in your hands with ease
Punctuation falling into place without effort
Rhythm instead of panic

Picture the version of yourself on test day:

collecting your passing certificate
smiling
calling your instructor
texting your family
updating your résumé
walking into a courtroom or deposition as an official reporter

This primes the brain to accept this version as normal.

When you normalize success, you perform at the level required to achieve it.

Why This Works: The Neuroscience Behind the Magic

Krupin’s insight may sound mystical, but the mechanism is grounded in well-established cognitive science.

Visualization activates the same neural circuits as real action, strengthening performance.
Relaxation increases fine motor fluency, allowing fingers to move at high speeds.
Detachment reduces cortisol, preventing the cognitive shutdown associated with pressure.
Confidence increases prediction accuracy, essential for anticipating phrasing and punctuation.
A “no big deal” attitude preserves cognitive bandwidth, letting the subconscious handle automatic writing patterns.

When combined, these elements create an internal environment where speed is not forced — it emerges.

What Experienced Court Reporters Know Instinctively

Talk to any reporter who writes realtime in federal court. They’ll tell you the same thing:

Your hands are only as good as your state of mind.

Realtime writers cannot afford panic. They cannot afford tension. They cannot afford to “chase” what they’re hearing.

They have mastered relaxed precision — the art of writing fast while staying internally slow.

Students often miss this truth. They equate intensity with improvement. But the deeper secret of high-speed stenography is that the body must be calm to perform at its peak.

This is why the best instructors say things like:

“Drop your shoulders.”
“Stop gripping the machine.”
“You’re trying too hard.”
“Let the words come to you.”
“Relax into the speed.”

These are not clichés. They are the operating principles of high-level stenographic performance.

Sliding Into Your Certification Reality

What would happen if every student treated their CSR, RPR, or state exam not as a monster to conquer, but as a natural next step in their evolution?

What would happen if they walked into test day with the same relaxed confidence they have when writing at home?

What if they believed — truly believed — that the version of themselves who writes 225 Q&A already exists?

Students would pass sooner.
They would plateau less.
They would enjoy the process more.
They would stop burning out at 160 or 180.
They would trust their skill rather than judge it.
They would experience breakthroughs that feel sudden but were building quietly within them for months.

This is what it means to “slide” into a new reality: not through force, but through alignment.

The Quiet Power of Thinking Differently

Krupin left his laboratory after discovering a truth that shook his worldview. Court reporting students don’t need to walk away from anything — they simply need to walk toward a new inner state.

The journey to certification is not merely about words per minute. It’s about the psychology of performance, the physiology of relaxation, and the courage to believe that the reporter you want to become already exists inside you.

The path forward is not force.
It is not fear.
It is not obsession.

It is ease.
It is flow.
It is the quiet conviction: It’s no big deal. I can already do this.

And once that belief settles into your bones, the rest — the speed, the accuracy, the certification — comes naturally.

Because you have finally stepped into the version of yourself that was waiting there all along.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.

Opinion: Texas Isn’t Confused About Digital Reporting — Only the Vendors Are

It takes a special kind of audacity to claim that a trial court enforcing basic evidentiary reliability standards is somehow a “self-inflicted wound” to the justice system. Yet that is precisely the argument advanced by Esquire Deposition Solutions, U.S. Legal Support, and Veritext — three national deposition corporations with a formidable commercial interest in expanding digital reporting — in their recent amicus brief to the Texas Supreme Court. Their message is simple: Trust us. We promise this time digital reporting is totally fine. Their brief reads less like a legal analysis and more like a carefully lacquered public-relations campaign designed to reframe a commercial business model as a matter of judicial necessity.

The problem is that Texas courts are not obligated to suspend their skepticism just because three billion-dollar companies insist they should.

Rebranding a Technology Gap as a Legal Right

The amici’s argument rests on a convenient oversimplification: that the “only significant difference” between stenographic and digital reporting is the recording device. In reality, this distinction is not merely technical — it is the core issue. A stenographic record is created by a licensed court reporter bound by statutory duties, ethical canons, and a mandatory certification process that exists for one reason: to protect the integrity of the legal record.

By contrast, digital recording is a method, not a profession. It is not regulated by any Texas licensure regime. AAERT certification — invoked repeatedly by amici as though it were a statutory credential — has no legal authority in Texas. The Texas Judicial Branch Certification Commission does not recognize AAERT certificates, does not regulate digital reporters, and does not discipline them when something goes wrong. That means the “professional accountability” amici trumpet is not accountability at all — it is branding.

It is telling that amici elevate the existence of an in-room human as though presence alone constitutes expertise. Texas requires expertise. The rules require reliability. Courts require a chain of trust that withstands challenge. This is precisely why the trial court excluded the transcript in the first place.

The False Binary – Stenographers or Nothing

In a move we have seen for years, amici invoke the rhetorical emergency brake: the “stenographer shortage.” They present digital reporting as the inevitable solution to a problem whose contours they themselves often exaggerate. While certain regions face recruiting challenges, Texas has not declared a reporting crisis, nor has the legislature replaced licensure requirements, nor has any Texas ethics body suggested that accuracy standards should be relaxed in the name of convenience.

The amici’s narrative implies that Texas courts must choose between unreliable transcripts and no transcripts at all — a framing contradicted by the reality that Texas continues to license, regulate, and train certified shorthand reporters statewide. If the corporate amici truly believed in market solutions, they might invest in training, scholarships, apprenticeships, or rural-coverage programs, instead of lobbying for deregulation disguised as modernization.

The Rules They Cite Undermine Their Own Argument

Amici lean heavily on Texas Rules of Civil Procedure 199.1(c) and 203.6(a), repeating them as though repetition might bestow new meaning. The rules are unambiguous: non-stenographic recordings may be made, and they may be used — unless the court finds good cause to require a certified transcript.

That is precisely what occurred.

Rule 203.6 exists because the drafters of the Texas rules understood that while recording methods may vary, the reliable written record ultimately belongs in the hands of a certified reporter. The rule’s built-in safeguard is not a “mere exception.” It is the mechanism by which courts protect the evidentiary integrity of the transcript. When amici characterize the trial court’s application of this provision as somehow aberrational, they are not interpreting the rule — they are objecting to it.

The Industry’s Favorite Straw Man – “Opponents Say AI Is Evil.”

Another tactic in the amici brief is to portray critics as hysterical technophobes shrieking about artificial intelligence. This is sleight of hand. The objections raised by attorneys, judges, and reporters nationwide have never been about technology itself. They are about the absence of regulation, the lack of verifiable speaker identification, the chain-of-custody vulnerabilities inherent in multichannel recordings, and the inability to cross-examine a digital recorder when the transcript is wrong.

Amici then stress, almost defensively, that they do not use generative AI to create transcripts. Yet nearly all national deposition corporations rely on ASR or post-processing tools at some stage of production, and even “decades-old” audio-to-text tools remain susceptible to the same problems that have plagued digital recording for 40 years: crosstalk, garbled audio, improper mic placement, and the simple reality that people do not speak in clean, machine-friendly sentences during litigation.

If digital reporting were as flawless as amici suggest, the market would not be awash in transcript errata, attorney complaints, certification challenges, missing pages, inaudible segments, and deposition do-overs.

Turning a Business Model Into a Legal Mandate

What ultimately animates the amici position is not doctrine, but economics. Digital reporting drastically lowers labor costs, increases throughput, and redirects profit from regulated professionals to corporate shareholders. By characterizing judicial scrutiny as an obstacle, amici are asking the Texas Supreme Court to bless their business model — one that expands corporate control over the record while diminishing the state’s regulatory authority.

Courts are not required to underwrite that shift.

Texas has the prerogative — and the responsibility — to demand that its evidentiary standards remain anchored in reliability, not marketing claims. If amici wish to transform digital recording into a regulated, licensable, auditable profession, they are free to petition the legislature. What they cannot do is shoehorn deregulation into Rule 199.1 by rebranding commercial convenience as “access to justice.”

The Real Self-Inflicted Wound

The amici brief warns that restricting digital reporting would harm access to justice. But the true danger lies in the opposite direction: allowing unregulated deposition capture methods to proliferate under the veneer of legitimacy manufactured by corporate repetition. Nothing erodes confidence in the justice system faster than an unreliable record — and no amount of marketing gloss can rehabilitate a transcript that cannot withstand evidentiary scrutiny.

Texas courts should not be pressured into diluting standards simply because three national corporations insist that their private workflows are “clearly lawful.” Lawfulness is determined by statute, rule, and judicial discretion — not by amicus op-eds masquerading as inevitability.

If the amici’s processes are as sound as they claim, they should welcome judicial examination. Their attempt to secure a blanket blessing from the Texas Supreme Court suggests they are far less confident than their public relations copy would lead the public to believe.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

The Great Wage Mirage – When Digital Court Reporting Claims Outpace Reality

A recent viral post circulating on social media showcased a set of wage figures purporting to reveal the “Top 5 Best Paying Related Court Reporter Jobs in Los Angeles.” According to the graphic, “Digital Court Reporting” allegedly commands an annual salary exceeding $105,000 and an hourly rate north of $50, eclipsing traditional stenographic roles and even federal court reporting positions. For anyone who has spent time inside a courtroom, deposition suite, or the increasingly hybrid world of remote proceedings, the numbers are not merely surprising. They are deeply discordant with the lived economic reality of the profession.

This is not just a moment of sticker shock. It is a case study in how mischaracterized data, algorithmically generated content, and surface-level job aggregation distort an already fragile ecosystem. The court reporting profession, long grounded in skill, certification, and legal accountability, now finds itself competing with seductive but misleading narratives suggesting that minimally trained digital recorders are not only equivalent, but more financially rewarded.

At the heart of the issue is a fundamental misunderstanding of what constitutes a court reporter. A Certified Shorthand Reporter, or CSR, maintains rigorous licensing requirements, adheres to state and federal statutes, and produces an immediately usable, authenticated transcript of legal proceedings. By contrast, so-called “digital reporters” often perform a passive recording function. Their product is not a transcript but an audio file, which is then outsourced to an anonymous transcriber, frequently paid a fraction of the rate, sometimes overseas, and rarely subject to the same legal standards or accountability.

The claim that such a role commands a higher wage than the professional tasked with creating the certified record defies logic. It also underestimates the complex economics of stenographic work. Court reporters seldom earn a static hourly rate. Their income is derived from a combination of appearance fees, per-page transcript production, rush charges, real-time services, scopist and proofing coordination, and often extended hours that exceed the traditional 40-hour workweek. To view compensation through the simplified lens of hourly equivalence is to erase the multifaceted reality of the profession.

Consider the figure cited for deposition reporters, allegedly earning just over $51,000 per year. In high-volume jurisdictions like Los Angeles, experienced deposition reporters regularly exceed that amount in a fraction of the year. Many operate as independent professionals, not hourly employees, and shoulder the costs of equipment, software, continuing education, and insurance. Their compensation reflects both their technical expertise and their role as the guarantor of an accurate record in proceedings that can have far-reaching legal consequences.

Meanwhile, the suggestion that federal court reporters in Los Angeles earn under $90,000 annually strains credibility. Federal reporters typically receive a salaried base that is augmented by transcript fees. In most metropolitan federal districts, total compensation routinely surpasses six figures. Even entry-level federal positions, especially in high-cost urban markets, exceed the figures presented in the viral post. The disparity between these claims and observable reality raises a critical question: who benefits from this narrative?

The answer may lie in the aggressive recruitment strategies of large national reporting agencies and legal services conglomerates. Companies that have invested heavily in digital-only infrastructures have a vested interest in promoting the perception that digital reporting is not only acceptable but preferable. By inflating wage claims, they create an illusion of upward mobility and financial security, enticing workers into roles that in practice often come with limited oversight, inconsistent workflow, and reduced professional recognition.

This dynamic is further complicated by the lack of transparency in how these wage figures are generated. Job aggregation sites scrape data from broad keyword pools, sometimes conflating job titles, regions, and responsibilities. An advertised hourly rate of $29 in a rural market can be algorithmically transformed into a Los Angeles average, despite no direct evidence to support such equivalence. A static 40-hour calculation is then applied to extrapolate an annual salary, ignoring overtime, per-page billing, and the structural differences between employee and independent contractor status.

The result is a wage mirage, one that undermines both public understanding and professional morale. It tells young entrants that the path of least resistance is not only viable but financially superior, while erasing the value of certification, training, and craftsmanship. It also sends a confusing message to attorneys and litigants, who may assume that choosing a digital reporter is a fiscally sound alternative, unaware of the hidden costs: delayed transcripts, higher error rates, lack of admissibility in certain jurisdictions, and potential ethical breaches.

Court reporting is not a commodity. It is a public trust function. The record produced today may determine the outcome of an appeal, the enforcement of a judgment, or the credibility of a witness. To reduce that responsibility to a race for the cheapest or supposedly highest-paid shortcut is to gamble with the integrity of the justice system.

There is also the matter of oversight. Stenographers operate under the scrutiny of licensing boards, professional associations, and court rules. Digital recording programs, especially those expanded during the pandemic, often operate in regulatory gray areas. While some jurisdictions permit digital recording under limited circumstances, the expansion of such practices into arenas where certified reporters are readily available raises significant ethical and legal concerns.

The irony is stark. At a time when artificial intelligence and automation are encroaching on nearly every profession, court reporting remains one of the few disciplines where human expertise, judgment, and accountability cannot be replicated by software alone. The claim that the least involved role in the process commands the highest wage is not a sign of progress. It is a symptom of systemic confusion.

What the viral graphic ultimately reveals is not a new economic hierarchy but a narrative failure. It exposes the growing gap between algorithmic storytelling and lived professional reality. It invites scrutiny of who writes these narratives, what data they use, and how such content shapes the decisions of workers, firms, and policymakers.

The court reporting profession deserves clarity, transparency, and respect. It deserves wage data that reflects not just averages but the complexity of its compensation structure. It deserves public understanding that the person who produces the official record is not ancillary but essential. And it deserves a future built on truth rather than trending misinformation.

Until such clarity prevails, every misleading graphic and inflated claim must be met with careful analysis and professional advocacy. The integrity of the record, and the livelihoods of those who safeguard it, depend on nothing less.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.

The Familiar Face Fallacy & Why Court Reporters Must Question the Platform Narrative

Sliding Into the High-Speed You – How a Forgotten Quantum Theory Helps Court Reporters Break Plateaus and Pass the CSR, RPR, and Every Other “Impossible” Test

In steno schools across the country, thousands of students sit behind machines every day trying to do the hardest thing a human being can attempt with their hands: writing cleanly at speeds most people cannot even speak. And yet, for all the drills, the hours, the plateaus, and the self-doubt, court reporters understand something the rest of the world does not—speedbuilding is as much a psychological act as it is a technical one.

It turns out that an unlikely figure, a Russian quantum physicist from the early 1990s, may have stumbled onto an insight that applies directly to the struggle of passing the CSR, RPR, and every other high-stakes exam in this profession.

“In 1993, a Russian physicist walked away from his lab forever. Few knew he had discovered a shocking secret about reality itself. Vladimir Krupin, a quantum physicist, realised that reality might already exist like a movie with infinite versions. Instead of trying harder to make things happen, he taught that changing your inner state could “slide” you into the version you wanted. His radical idea was simple yet revolutionary: treat your goals as no big deal. According to Krupin, when you stop clinging to outcomes and adopt a relaxed mindset, opportunities and success manifest faster than desire ever could. This method challenged traditional thinking in physics and psychology alike and caused a stir in Russian intellectual circles. Today, Krupin’s insight resonates with people exploring mindfulness, manifestation, and self-transformation. His three-step “no-big-deal” approach encourages modern readers to pause, release stress, and shift perspectives to align with their desired reality. Beyond physics, it’s a lesson in patience, inner balance, and the hidden power of perception. His work reminds us that sometimes the most extraordinary discoveries come not from tools and labs, but from quiet reflection and courage to think differently. History shows that changing your mindset can ripple across culture and personal life alike.”

Krupin may have abandoned physics, but his insight perfectly describes what every seasoned realtime reporter knows: you cannot write at high speeds while clinging to fear. You cannot pass an exam by obsessing over passing it. And you cannot force your hands into mastery by sheer willpower. In stenography, ease is often the gateway to speed.

The Paradox of Speedbuilding

Court reporting students quickly discover a cruel paradox: the harder they try, the worse they write. The more they grip, the more their fingers stumble. The more they chase words, the faster the dictator seems to accelerate. The more they fear failing the test, the more inevitable that failure begins to feel.

This is not a character flaw. It is neuroscience. When the body senses threat—whether a tiger or a five-minute Q&A at 200 words per minute—it responds the same way: muscles tighten, breaths shallow, and cognitive processing narrows. This is disastrous for stenographers, who require fluidity, relaxation, rhythmic breathing, and high-level cognitive flexibility. The brain cannot operate at peak performance while in fight-or-flight mode.

Krupin’s theory—that reality contains “versions” of outcomes and that shifting your inner state allows you to “slide” into the desired version—mirrors what instructors see daily. When students stop treating certification as a life-or-death event, their speed curves suddenly rise. When they detach from perfection and focus on rhythm, the errors fade. When they adopt the mindset of a working reporter instead of a panicked student, mastery begins to surface.

Sliding Into the 225 Version of Yourself

Whether or not infinite realities exist, a psychological truth remains: you perform at the level you believe is normal for you. Students who constantly tell themselves they are stuck, slow, or not ready reinforce the version of themselves that stays stuck, slow, or unready. Those who begin to embody the version of themselves who already writes 225—even if only mentally—often see dramatic breakthroughs.

This is not magical thinking. It is self-alignment.

If you walk into an exam believing it determines your value, your future, and the legitimacy of your dreams, your nervous system interprets it as a threat. But if you walk in treating it as just another take—one small checkpoint on the way to becoming the professional you already see yourself as—the body unlocks its real capability.

Students often describe that breakthrough moment with phrases like:

“It just clicked.”
“Everything suddenly felt easier.”
“I stopped caring for a moment, and that’s when I passed.”

That is the essence of sliding.

Why Students Fail Tests They’re Already Capable of Passing

Ask instructors who have trained thousands of CSR and RPR candidates, and you’ll hear the same explanation: students fail not because of ability but because of pressure. They have the skill. They have the hours. They have the machine strokes. What they lack is the emotional neutrality required to access their skill under stress.

Fear constricts. Self-judgment interrupts. Perfectionism slows the stroke. And obsession with the outcome blocks the flow of the moment.

The result? Their hands no longer write what they know. They write what they fear.

Krupin would describe this as “clinging”—the emotional equivalent of gripping the writer too tightly.

Adapting the Three-Step “No-Big-Deal Method” for Steno

Krupin’s theory offers a surprisingly practical framework for stenographic performance. Applied to daily practice, it looks like this:

1. Pause — reset the nervous system.

Before writing, place both hands lightly on the machine, loosen the jaw, and take slow breaths. This simple pause tells the brain: This is safe.

2. Release — drop the emotional charge.

Say to yourself, “It’s no big deal.” Repeat it if necessary. The goal is not apathy but neutrality. The test is not your enemy. The speed is not a monster. It is simply sound in the air waiting to be captured.

3. Shift — step into the version of you who already passed.

Imagine the reporter who emerges the day you receive your certificate. Picture their confidence, posture, breathing, stroke precision, and professional calm. Then write as that person now. This primes the brain to perform from identity, not desperation.

These steps may look soft, but they are rooted in neuroscience. Relaxed visualization strengthens neural pathways. Ease increases fine motor control. Confidence expands cognitive bandwidth. Detachment reduces cortisol and allows rhythm to return. Combined, these skills create the ideal conditions for high-speed writing.

What Working Reporters Have Known All Along

Veteran realtime reporters, especially those who write daily at speeds far beyond test levels, rarely talk about brute force. They talk about:

Relaxation.
Trust.
Flow.
Rhythm.
Loose hands.
Light strokes.
Staying “ahead” mentally while staying calm physically.

They understand something every student must eventually learn: you do not conquer speed. You join it.

And once you stop resisting speed, speed arrives.

Stepping Into Your Certification Reality

What if the path to passing the CSR or RPR isn’t a battle at all? What if it’s a shift—a gentle slide into a version of yourself that has been waiting to emerge?

If students adopted this mindset, they would plateau less, progress more consistently, and suffer far fewer cycles of burnout. They would approach test day not as a decisive judgment of their worth, but as a natural demonstration of their readiness. They would trust their preparation rather than drown in self-doubt. And they would perform with the internal ease required for external speed.

Krupin’s revelation was not about stenography, but its wisdom applies perfectly here: success often appears when we stop treating success like a crisis. The greatest breakthroughs happen not during strain but during surrender. And the doorway to the reporter you want to be opens not through force, but through alignment.

The final truth is simple:
You don’t force 225.
You don’t chase 225.
You don’t fear 225.

You become 225.

And once you step into that version of yourself, the certification follows—because it was already yours.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

Save Us, Elon – The Justice System Is Sleepwalking Into Collapse

In the long mythology of American innovation, crises are often met by visionaries before the rest of the world even understands what is at stake. Today, a crisis is unfolding quietly inside our courtrooms — not in the headlines, not in Silicon Valley boardrooms, but in the fragile machinery of justice where the constitutional rights of millions hinge on an accurate record. It is a crisis that threatens the very idea of due process, and yet it remains largely invisible to those with the power to intervene.

So this is a plea — a genuine, desperate one — to Elon Musk: please look at what is happening in our legal system before it becomes irreversible.

The Disappearing Record

Across the nation, courts, agencies, and private litigation firms are replacing human stenographers — the guardians of our legal record for more than a century — with automated speech recognition systems. These systems promise savings, speed, efficiency, and futuristic convenience. But they deliver something far more dangerous: the slow erosion of truth itself.

ASR does not hear accent, dialect, emotion, nuance, or context the way a trained human reporter does. It misidentifies speakers. It mistranscribes technical language — medical terminology, legal jargon, names, citations, and even the most common words when spoken simultaneously or in heated exchanges. It collapses over crosstalk. It breaks under stress. It cannot swear an oath. It cannot interrupt a witness for clarification. It cannot preserve the integrity of a record when the stakes are life, liberty, or millions of dollars.

Yet it is rapidly replacing the only profession designed to protect the accuracy of testimony: stenographers.

A Death Spiral With No Replacement

The public has no idea how severe the consequences will be when stenographers disappear. And they are disappearing. Not because they are obsolete — far from it — but because:

Training programs have closed under the false narrative that “AI will replace them.”
Equipment manufacturers have stopped investing in hardware development because they see shrinking markets.
Software companies are pivoting away from reporter-focused tools.
Schools, administrators, and legislatures are being pressured to adopt ASR as a low-cost fix for perceived staffing shortages that largely do not exist.

This is how industries collapse: not through lack of value, but through misaligned perception. The disappearance of the stenographic infrastructure — machines, software, education pipelines — means that even if the public wakes up later, the profession may be impossible to rebuild.

You cannot resurrect a profession once the ecosystem that sustains it has been gutted.

Without a Protected Record, There Is No Justice

Ask any litigator: trials do not run on memory, goodwill, or AI confidence scores. They run on the record — the exact transcript of what was said, when it was said, and by whom. The record is the spine of appeals, post-conviction relief, judicial review, and the entire adversarial system.

If the record is wrong, muddled, incomplete, or unverifiable, justice dies quietly, bureaucratically, without any dramatic collapse — just a steady decay of reliability until no one trusts the outcome.

ASR has no chain of custody.

ASR has no method for authentication.

ASR cannot certify accuracy under penalty of perjury.

ASR cannot defend its transcript on appeal.

ASR cannot take responsibility for an error.

When courts replace humans with machines that cannot provide accountability, they create transcripts that cannot be trusted. And when transcripts can’t be trusted, verdicts cannot be trusted.

This is how democracies drift toward authoritarianism — not in one sudden move, but through the systematic erosion of the mechanisms that protect truth.

Tyranny Does Not Begin With Violence — It Begins With Silence

History teaches that governments become dangerous when they can operate without scrutiny. In the United States, the stenographic record is the scrutiny. It is the public’s eyes and ears inside proceedings that otherwise occur behind closed doors or inside intimidating institutions.

Eliminate stenographers and you eliminate the transparency that guards against corruption, misconduct, coercion, and state overreach.

Imagine a future where:

A defendant’s words are mistranscribed because ASR failed to distinguish similar-sounding phrases under stress.
A prosecutor’s misstatement goes uncorrected because no human reporter stops the proceeding to clarify the record.
A witness’s testimony is altered by an algorithmic glitch or microphone interference.
An appeal fails because the ASR transcript contains errors too severe to determine what actually happened.

Now imagine thousands of such cases — because that is not hypothetical. It is already happening.

A justice system without verifiable records is not a justice system. It is a simulacrum of one — a procedural performance whose outcomes cannot be challenged because the record itself is unreliable.

Only Elon can chainsaw through the ASR wrecking ball aimed at our courts.

Why You, Elon?

Because you understand systemic failure.

Because you understand existential risk.

Because you understand what happens when institutions cling to outdated assumptions about technology’s capabilities and limitations.

Because you understand the fragility of infrastructure — electrical grids, satellite networks, supply chains, governance structures — and how quickly they can collapse when neglected.

And because you are one of the few public figures who can spotlight this issue loudly enough to interrupt the momentum toward something catastrophic.

This is not a request for money or endorsements or involvement in industry politics. It is a request for awareness. For amplification. For someone with global reach to say:

“Stop. Look. Think. If we lose the ability to reliably capture the record of our justice system, everything downstream collapses.”

You have repeatedly warned the world about AI’s unintended consequences. Here is one unfolding right now in real time: AI is being deployed in the one place where error is intolerable.

Jury Nullification, Miscarriages of Justice, and the Quiet End of Rights

When the record fails, juries cannot be properly instructed, appellate courts cannot properly review cases, and litigants cannot properly challenge wrongdoing. This creates fertile ground for:

jury nullification based on incomplete or inaccurate transcripts
wrongful convictions sustained because appeals courts cannot rely on the record
civil litigants losing millions because an ASR system could not transcribe overlapping speech
government entities avoiding accountability because no human intermediary exists to certify the truth of what happened

This is not dystopian fiction. It is where the current trajectory leads.

The Last Line of Defense

Human court reporters are not replaceable cogs. They are the last line of defense in a system that survives only if the truth is captured accurately the first time. They do not merely record words; they ensure that the record is correct, complete, and legally defensible.

They are not a cost center. They are constitutional infrastructure.

And once they are gone, they are gone.

So, Elon, Please — Say Something

If you were to publicly acknowledge this crisis, policymakers would listen. Courts would hesitate. Legislators would pause before signing contracts that outsource justice to an algorithm. Technologists would question the ethics of deploying ASR in environments where human liberty is at stake.

A single sentence from you could spark national conversation.

A single tweet could change the trajectory of an entire profession — and more importantly, preserve the integrity of a justice system that cannot survive without a reliable record.

Please, Elon. See us. Hear us. The justice system is standing on the edge of a cliff, and most people do not even know we are in danger.

Without stenographers, there is no truth.

Without truth, there is no justice.

Without justice, there is no freedom.

Save us, Elon — before it’s too late.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

An Off-the-Record Recording Takes Center Stage in Judge Hannah Dugan’s Federal Trial

When jury selection begins next week in the federal obstruction case against Milwaukee County Circuit Court Judge Hannah Dugan, the proceedings will unfold under the shadow of a piece of evidence rarely seen in an American courtroom: an off-the-record audio recording captured inside her courtroom during a criminal calendar session. The recording—sealed from public release by state court administrators and disputed in detail by Dugan’s defense team—has already ignited a broader debate about transparency, judicial accountability, and the limits of what constitutes a “record” of judicial conduct.

Federal prosecutors allege that the audio captures moments in which Dugan improperly assisted an undocumented immigrant, a criminal defendant appearing before her, in avoiding arrest by federal immigration authorities. According to prosecutors, Dugan made statements indicating an intent to shield the defendant from detection or apprehension. Defense attorneys sharply dispute the characterization, arguing that the recording is being taken out of context and includes fragments of dialogue from times when Dugan was not even present in the courtroom.

The trial, scheduled to begin December 15 after two days of jury selection on the 11th and 12th, will mark a rare instance in which a sitting state judge stands trial for alleged obstruction arising from conduct on the bench. But the evidentiary dispute surrounding the recording has already drawn nearly as much attention as the charges themselves.

A Recording Not Intended as a Record

The recording at issue was made by courtroom audio equipment designed to capture the proceedings for internal use, including administrative review, staff reference, or later transcription of on-the-record hearings. Courts across the country routinely rely on such systems as backups to the work of court reporters or as supplements to digital recording systems in lower courts. But in Wisconsin—like many states—these audio feeds are not considered “verbatim records” unless they are made during officially convened proceedings with the intention of producing transcripts.

This distinction became central on November 29, when The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel submitted an open-records request seeking access to the recording. Wisconsin court officials denied the request, explaining that the audio was not a verbatim record of a court proceeding and therefore exempt from disclosure. Because the recording captured off-the-record discussion and internal courtroom communications, officials argued, releasing it could compromise the integrity of internal judicial operations and violate rules governing confidential conferences.

The decision immediately drew scrutiny. Open-government advocates called the refusal “legally thin,” noting that Wisconsin’s public records law favors transparency unless a specific exemption clearly applies. Critics argued that if the recording is reliable enough for use in federal court, it should be reliable enough for public inspection.

But supporters of the denial countered that the standard for public release is distinct from the standard for admissibility. A recording may be admissible as evidence—subject to authentication, relevance, and a judge’s discretion—while still falling outside the category of records that must be disclosed to the public.

Amid this debate, one underlying fact remains uncontested: the audio was never intended to be an official representation of what transpired in the courtroom that day. That reality complicates both the legal and ethical dimensions of the case.

Defense Fights to Limit Use of the Recording

Dugan’s defense team has filed a motion asking the trial judge to bar prosecutors from playing portions of the recording that include remarks made when Dugan was not physically present. According to the defense, the government seeks to introduce statements from lawyers, staff, or other individuals in the courtroom and attribute their context, tone, or implications to Dugan herself.

The motion describes the recording as “non-continuous,” containing moments of unclear audio, overlapping conversations, and periods in which the judge’s microphone was not activated. Defense counsel argues that introducing the recording without proper contextual safeguards could mislead jurors about what Dugan personally said or intended.

“Off-the-record discussions are, by their nature, informal and sometimes incomplete,” the defense wrote. “They are not designed to serve as transcripts, nor are they intended to be preserved or interpreted with the formality of sworn statements.”

Legal analysts note that this argument aligns with long-standing concerns about informal recordings in judicial settings. In many states, off-the-record discussions occur precisely because the law recognizes moments when judges and attorneys must speak candidly, confer about scheduling, or clarify procedural matters without creating a binding record. Whether federal prosecutors will be permitted to treat these moments as substantive evidence remains an open question.

As of Friday, the trial judge had not yet ruled on the motion.

Prosecutors Describe Recording as Crucial Evidence

Federal prosecutors, however, frame the recording as indispensable. They contend that Dugan’s intent can be inferred from her tone, her timing, and the surrounding events captured on the audio. The government alleges that Dugan took steps to ensure that a defendant known to be undocumented was released before federal agents stationed near the courthouse could detain him.

Although the exact content of the alleged statements remains under seal, prosecutors have hinted that they believe the recording demonstrates an “affirmative act” of obstruction—an element required to prove the charge.

The prosecution may also argue that by virtue of her position, Dugan understood the potential consequences of the timing and phrasing of her statements, and that she acted with knowledge of the pending federal interest in the defendant.

In the absence of a public copy of the audio, much of this remains speculative. But the mere claim that a judge’s off-the-record remarks could constitute a federal offense has triggered alarm within segments of the judiciary.

Transparency vs. Confidentiality

The dispute has raised complex questions about how courts define the boundaries of transparency. Open-government advocates argue that the public has a right to hear evidence that could influence the outcome of a high-profile federal trial involving a sitting judge. They note that accountability depends on public scrutiny, especially when the alleged conduct involves potential misuse of judicial authority.

But others warn that forcing disclosure of off-the-record audio could have unintended consequences. Judges, attorneys, and court staff routinely discuss scheduling, plea negotiations, interpreter issues, witness accommodations, and procedural complexities outside the official record. If such conversations were subject to release under open-records laws, many fear it would chill candid discussions and impair courtroom efficiency.

The debate has revived long-standing tensions between court reporters—whose work creates the only official verbatim record—and jurisdictions that increasingly rely on digital recording systems. Audio systems, originally implemented as backups or for administrative convenience, are now at risk of being treated as quasi-official records despite their limitations.

This trial, some experts predict, may become a cautionary tale for states that attempt to replace certified stenographic reporters with automated recording systems.

A Case With National Implications

Beyond the immediate questions of guilt or innocence, the Dugan trial may set important precedents for how off-the-record conversations are handled in future legal disputes.

If the trial judge rules that the disputed portions of the recording are admissible, it could signal a judicial willingness to treat informal audio—never intended for public or legal reliance—as probative evidence. Defense lawyers nationwide may respond by seeking clearer rules governing the confidentiality and limits of courtroom audio capture.

Conversely, if the court restricts the use of the recording or excludes portions of it, the ruling may underscore the judiciary’s commitment to protecting boundaries between official proceedings and informal discussions.

“It’s rare that the definition of a ‘record’ itself becomes the subject of litigation,” one former federal prosecutor noted. “This case forces the system to confront whether technology has blurred lines that statutes were never designed to address.”

What Comes Next

With jury selection looming, both sides are preparing for a trial that will likely be as much about the legal culture of courtroom operations as about the alleged conduct of Judge Dugan herself.

The trial is expected to draw significant media attention, not only for the charges but also for what it reveals about the evolving relationship between transparency, technology, and judicial ethics. Advocacy groups are already petitioning for greater access to administrative court audio, while judicial organizations prepare friend-of-the-court briefs warning against setting precedents that undermine judicial deliberation.

For now, the recording remains under seal, the defense motion remains pending, and the public must rely on filings, hearings, and the federal trial itself to understand what transpired in Judge Dugan’s courtroom.

But one thing is clear: the outcome of this case will reverberate far beyond Milwaukee. It will shape how courts nationwide think about the sanctity of the record, the reliability of digital audio, and the fragile, complicated line between what is said openly on the bench and what is meant to remain off the record.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

When the Record Fails – Texas Courts Face a Growing Crisis Over Non-Certified Deposition Transcripts

The warning signs were visible long before the certification pages landed on the judge’s desk. For years, Texas court reporters have cautioned that the quiet expansion of digital-only depositions—recorded by notaries, outsourced to typists, and funneled through national agencies like Veritext Legal Solutions—would one day collide head-on with the rules of evidence and the constitutional rights of litigants who depend on a reliable, certified record. That day has arrived in Texas courtrooms with increasing frequency, and the consequences are no longer hypothetical.

The certification pages in the recent filing are unambiguous: a notary, not a Certified Shorthand Reporter, administered the oath and recorded the testimony. A separate typist—identified only as a “qualified transcriptionist”—later converted the digital audio into a transcript. Both individuals certify neutrality; neither certifies professional competency in stenographic reporting; and neither claims to have been physically present for the Zoom proceedings. The resulting transcript, according to those who reviewed it, does not follow the Uniform Format Manual, contains improper and inflated pagination, and bears no resemblance to a Texas-compliant official record.

Yet the transcript was admitted in a major pending case. And that, for many Texas reporters, is the alarm bell they have feared all along.

A Systemic Breakdown in Disclosure and Objection

For the reporter who raised the issue, the frustration is not abstract. This is the second time such a transcript has appeared in her court. Both times, attorneys failed to object. Both times, the judge, reluctant to delay the case further, allowed the transcript into evidence.

The attorneys, she explained, claimed they were unaware that the five days of Zoom depositions would proceed without a Texas-certified reporter. They assumed a licensed professional would be present. They assumed the record would meet legal requirements. They assumed incorrectly.

Disclosure, in this context, is not a courtesy—it is a statutory requirement. Texas law is plain: if a deposition is taken under Rule 203, the officer must be a certified shorthand reporter unless all parties stipulate otherwise. When an out-of-state agency substitutes a notary without disclosure or stipulation, the entire proceeding stands on questionable legal ground.

But by the time the “transcript” reaches the court, the damage is done. The judge is presented with a choice between exclusion—which jeopardizes trial schedules—and reluctant admission, which risks violating the rules. Both choices burden the court; only one burdens the agency responsible.

A Quiet Crisis Now Playing Out in Open Court

Texas reporters watching these developments are blunt: the rules mean nothing if they are not enforced. They describe the current moment as a crisis not only of procedure, but of professional integrity. Some have voiced concern that agencies are exploiting the post-pandemic normalization of remote depositions to quietly bypass certified reporters, relying instead on notaries who lack training in realtime recording, transcript management, or Texas evidentiary standards.

Those warnings are no longer theoretical. The certification pages tell a story that is now unfolding in real time: cost-cutting is masquerading as modernization, and Texas litigants are paying the price.

The officer who notarized the proceedings certifies that he recorded them digitally and later had them “reduced to typewriting by a qualified transcriptionist.” The transcriber certifies that she prepared the transcript from the digital audio. Neither appears to claim familiarity with Texas transcript formatting rules. Neither certifies specialized training in legal proceedings. And yet, the document is presented to the court as if it were indistinguishable from a certified Texas reporter’s record.

The distinction matters. In Texas civil litigation, the deposition transcript is often the record. It drives summary judgment motions, impeachment at trial, settlement valuations, and—in many cases—the final outcome of the case itself. When accuracy and authentication are compromised, justice is compromised.

The Legal Stakes: When an Improper Record Becomes a Precedent

The reporter who raised the alarm believes the judge should have rejected the transcript outright. The rules of evidence, she argues, leave no room for sympathy or convenience. Accepting a non-compliant transcript not only undermines the statutory role of Texas Certified Shorthand Reporters—it exposes litigants to potential prejudice.

More importantly, she warns, once a court admits such a transcript without objection, a dangerous precedent is set. Other judges may follow suit in the interest of efficiency. Other attorneys may grow complacent. Agencies may push the boundaries even further, emboldened by judicial leniency.

Her proposed remedy is straightforward and legally sound: exclusion. If the transcript is inadmissible under the rules, the judge has an obligation to reject it. Doing otherwise risks compromising judicial neutrality. And when a party is harmed by the use of such a record, they gain a cause of action—not against opposing counsel, but against the agency that produced the defective transcript.

If lawsuits proliferate, she argues, the economic pressure may succeed where regulatory engagement has stalled. “When the floodgates of lawsuits against them open,” she says, “this could then be stopped.”

A Call for Collective Action—and Accountability

The reporter’s warning has sparked the same question across Texas: What role should professional associations play?

Advocates are calling for coordinated action by the Texas Court Reporters Association (TCRA) and the Texas Deposition Reporters Association (TxDRA). Both organizations have long fought to preserve professional licensing standards, protect the integrity of the record, and ensure compliance with state requirements. But this conflict extends beyond routine advocacy. It is a structural challenge to the framework that governs depositions in Texas.

Some reporters believe these associations should petition the Judicial Branch Certification Commission to investigate the conduct of Veritext Legal Solutions and pursue revocation of its Texas firm registration. Others call for formal complaints against notaries acting as deposition officers without proper disclosure or statutory authority. Still others urge legislative engagement, arguing that loopholes in remote deposition procedures must be closed before the problem grows even larger.

Behind these proposals lies a shared conviction: Texas law is only as strong as its enforcement.

The Human Cost of Professional Erosion

The emotional tone of the reporter’s message reflects something deeper than procedural frustration. Texas Certified Shorthand Reporters—professionals who endure rigorous testing, years of training, and ongoing regulation—feel their work is being devalued by agencies seeking cheaper alternatives.

“Why spend so much blood, sweat, and lots of tears trying to pass the CSR,” she asks, “if we can all just be typists?”

The sentiment is echoed statewide. For reporters, this is not merely a fight about jurisdiction or economics. It is a fight for the preservation of a profession built on accuracy, integrity, and accountability—the core elements of a reliable legal record.

When a deposition is recorded by a certified reporter, the court and litigants receive not just words on a page, but a safeguarded evidentiary product: realtime monitoring of testimony, immediate correction of unclear speech, secure custody of exhibits, statutorily compliant formatting, and sworn attestation by a licensed officer of the court. None of these protections are guaranteed when depositions are reduced to audio files and transcribed by unseen typists.

What Happens Next: Enforcement, Litigation, or Collapse

Texas now stands at a crossroads. If judges begin rejecting non-compliant transcripts, the problem may correct itself through natural consequences. If attorneys begin objecting earlier in the process—as the rules require—agencies will be forced to comply or face exclusion. If associations intervene decisively, regulatory bodies may finally confront the scope of the issue.

But if courts continue to admit these records in silence, the professional framework underpinning Texas civil litigation could erode far more quickly than many realize.

Without enforcement, certification becomes symbolic. Without objection, defects become invisible. Without accountability, precedent calcifies.

And once precedent is set, reclaiming ground becomes exponentially harder.

Hold the Line

Texas reporters are not asking for special treatment; they are asking for adherence to the rules that already exist. Rules designed to protect litigants. Rules written to safeguard the record. Rules that preserve the integrity of the judicial process itself.

The call now is simple: uphold those rules.

Reject defective transcripts. Enforce disclosure requirements. Sanction non-compliant agencies. Protect the profession that protects the record.

Because once the official record collapses, everything built upon it collapses with it.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

AI Should Fold the Laundry — Not Replace the Court Reporter

Why the push to automate everything misunderstands the value of human expertise

In nearly every courtroom hallway in America, some version of the same question echoes off the marble: “So… is AI going to replace you?” For court reporters—professionals who train for years to master a craft that looks invisible until the moment precision matters—this question lands with a particular sting. It is not merely a matter of technology. It is a matter of misunderstanding what humans actually do, why experience matters, and what society risks when short-term cost cutting masquerades as innovation.

AI promises convenience. It promises efficiency. But it also promises something more seductive: the fantasy that judgment, expertise, and accountability can be automated at will. And that, increasingly, is the real danger.

Court reporters have entered a cultural moment where the value of human skill is being questioned not because machines have caught up, but because leaders in law, tech, and government are desperate to cut costs. “Innovation,” in many cases, has become a polite way of saying cheaper labor. The uncomfortable truth is that automation is not always deployed because it works better. It is often deployed because it looks better on a budget sheet.

The Myth of Total Automation

The modern narrative surrounding AI carries a quiet but pervasive assumption: if something can be automated, it should be. But this logic collapses the moment we apply it to professions society instinctively respects. Few people would trust an algorithm to argue their criminal defense, diagnose a child’s mysterious illness, or design the beams holding up a bridge. Expertise, nuance, and ethical judgment still matter.

Yet somehow, when the profession involves language—translation, transcription, or realtime stenography—people often assume a machine can “just do it.” The irony, of course, is that language is one of the most context-dependent, culturally-laden, unforgivingly nuanced systems humans have. It doesn’t respond well to shortcuts. It demands attentiveness, agility, and understanding. And it requires something AI does not possess: accountability.

Court reporters operate in a legal environment where every comma and misheard phrase can change meaning, affect testimony, or alter the record in ways that determine someone’s liberty, livelihood, or liability. Machines can approximate language. But they do not understand it. And they cannot be cross-examined.

The Cost-Cutting Illusion

The push to replace experts with technology rarely begins with an honest conversation about quality. It begins with a spreadsheet. When decision-makers see a line item for labor that could theoretically be reduced, the temptation becomes irresistible.

In corporate America, entire divisions have been gutted not because AI performs better, but because it performs cheaply enough. Senior professionals with decades of insight are deemed “too expensive,” while junior workers and automated systems are left to perform tasks that once required mastery. The legal field is not immune to this trend. Some agencies have already embraced a model that replaces veteran reporters with digital systems supervised by inexperienced staff—systems that miss interruptions, misidentify speakers, and sometimes fail altogether.

The notion that the record—the backbone of due process—should be entrusted to an untrained person watching a screen is a profound misunderstanding of what court reporters safeguard. It is the legal equivalent of replacing air-traffic controllers with interns because “the software handles most of it.”

The Human Mind Still Outperforms the Machine

Stenographic court reporters do far more than press keys at high speed. They anticipate, contextualize, and clarify. They listen not only for words but for intention. They interrupt when necessary to ensure accuracy. They identify unclear speakers, mark interruptions, and capture critical moments missed by microphones. They understand terminology in ways that reflect years of exposure to medical testimony, construction defect litigation, technical specifications, accents, dialects, and speech patterns that AI struggles to interpret.

Ask any seasoned reporter about a difficult witness—from the chief surgeon who speaks in acronyms to the emotional victim barely able to articulate between sobs—and they will tell you the same thing: accuracy isn’t just about hearing. It’s about perceiving.

AI lacks perception. It lacks judgment. It lacks the ability to say, “Counsel, two people are talking at once.” In a courtroom, that difference matters.

AI Should Remove Friction—Not Replace Expertise

The future is not binary: humans or machines. The real future, the mature future, is collaboration. AI can eliminate tedious tasks—organizing files, formatting indexes, scheduling jobs, generating rough drafts—so that court reporters can focus on what requires human intelligence: listening, understanding, verifying, and protecting the integrity of the record.

If artificial intelligence truly aims to improve the legal system, then the first job it should automate is paperwork—not the people safeguarding constitutional rights.

When AI is used well, it augments the reporter. It accelerates processes that slow down production. It handles the digital chores, not the core responsibilities. The risk arises when institutions confuse convenience with capability. Faster does not mean accurate. And in law, accurate is the only metric that matters.

The Unseen Risk: Dehumanization of Skilled Work

In many industries, professionals are watching their livelihoods eroded not by better performance, but by the cultural narrative that expertise is optional. Translators, journalists, designers, editors, educators—all have seen their work dismissed as something a chatbot can “pretty much do.”

But proficiency is not the same as precision. Generating text is not the same as capturing sworn testimony. Producing a paraphrase is not the same as creating a verbatim legal record.

The broader issue is not technology—it is the growing societal tendency to undervalue human skill when it becomes invisible. Court reporters have long suffered from this invisibility. Their work is so seamless that observers forget it’s happening. And when something looks effortless, outsiders assume it is effortless.

The Path Forward

AI’s place in the court reporting ecosystem should not be feared—but it must be defined correctly. We need:

Regulation that protects the constitutional necessity of an accurate record.
Standards that mandate human oversight in all critical proceedings.
Education for judges, lawmakers, and agencies about the difference between approximate transcription and certified reporting.
Respect for expertise, not because it is tradition, but because it remains irreplaceable.

Court reporters are not fighting against technology. They are fighting for accuracy, for reliability, and for the fundamental premise that justice deserves the best humans can offer—not the cheapest machines available.

AI can help with laundry. It can help with indexing. It can help with formatting. But it cannot replace the human mind trained to listen with purpose.

The legal system should be clear on this: the record is too important to delegate to something that cannot hear, cannot think, and cannot be held responsible.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

Recording Roulette – When Courtroom Captures Become Costly Compromises

In courtrooms across the country, attorneys are increasingly encountering a problem they did not anticipate: they do not know whether their proceeding will be staffed by a certified stenographic reporter or by a digital recording operator until the matter is already underway. That uncertainty—once unthinkable in a profession built on procedural predictability—has become common in jurisdictions struggling with reporter shortages and cost-cutting pressures. But the consequences extend far beyond mere inconvenience. The shift toward digital recording has introduced profound issues involving accuracy, evidentiary reliability, and the long-term security of sensitive material.

Attorneys familiar with live stenographic reporters understand the value of having a trained professional who can immediately request clarification, identify speakers, and capture complex terminology in real time. Digital systems, by contrast, have no such capacity for intervention. They simply record whatever happens in the room. When multiple speakers overlap—as often occurs during objections, sidebar exchanges, or heated examinations—digital systems cannot distinguish who said what. For proceedings involving technical language, regional dialects, or soft-spoken witnesses, even the most advanced microphones struggle to capture speech with the precision required for appellate-level review.

The legal implications of those inaccuracies are significant. A mistranscribed word can alter the meaning of a witness’s testimony. An inaudible section may obscure an objection that preserves an issue for appeal. Digital recordings that contain errors later replicated in transcripts can compromise the integrity of the evidentiary record. In an era in which appellate courts scrutinize trial transcripts with exacting detail, even minor inaccuracies invite challenges. Successful appeals have already been traced to incomplete or unreliable digital records—an outcome that undermines the foundational expectation that a trial’s transcript reflects what actually occurred in the courtroom.

Moreover, attorneys are increasingly raising concerns about the chain of custody for digital files. Unlike stenographic notes, which are safeguarded by licensed officers of the court who adhere to strict confidentiality obligations, digital audio files often pass through a diffuse and opaque handling process. Recordings may be transferred from courtroom systems to cloud storage, third-party vendors, or automated transcription software—each step introducing opportunities for unauthorized access or data leakage. Once a digital file enters what many practitioners have begun referring to as the “chatosphere,” it becomes all but impossible to retrieve, delete, or fully secure. The idea that sensitive criminal confessions, trade secrets, personal hardships taken during jury voir dire, or privileged attorney-client discussions could circulate beyond the courtroom’s control is deeply unsettling.

These risks raise critical questions about hearsay and the admissibility of statements made outside the courtroom. Any inaccurate reproduction of testimony—whether due to overlapping dialogue, audio distortion, or mistaken transcription—effectively becomes an out-of-court statement offered for the truth of the matter asserted. Under traditional evidentiary principles, such statements constitute classic hearsay, unless they fall under a recognized exception. Attorneys warn that digital inaccuracies, if introduced into litigation, could be challenged as inadmissible hearsay or, worse, could misrepresent the actual testimony, thereby misleading fact-finders. This is not an abstract concern; it goes to the heart of procedural fairness.

Some courts have implemented monitoring protocols intended to mitigate these issues: assigning staff to oversee recordings, requiring quality checks, or mandating backup systems. But even rigorous oversight cannot fully address the unpredictable environment of a live proceeding. Courtrooms are not acoustically controlled studios. HVAC systems hum. Chairs scrape. Clerks run their printers. Papers rustle. Staplers slam. A witness turns away from the microphone. A juror coughs. Digital systems record all of it with equal fidelity—or equal imprecision. When background noise competes with speech, the resulting audio is often unusable, leaving transcriptionists to guess at the content or flag sections as “inaudible,” neither of which satisfies the evidentiary needs of appellate review.

Attorneys have also expressed concern about the widening gap between the sophistication of legal procedure and the limitations of automated technologies. While digital tools have revolutionized many aspects of practice—electronic filing, AI-assisted discovery review, and virtual conferencing, among others—accuracy in the courtroom transcript remains a domain where human skill outperforms purely technical solutions. Stenographic reporters receive years of specialized training that enables them to capture speech at speeds exceeding 225 words per minute with near-perfect accuracy. Their presence creates an immediate feedback loop: they can request repetition, clarify speakers, or signal when audio conditions interfere with an accurate record. Digital systems offer none of these safeguards.

Economics has often been cited as the driving force behind the shift toward digital. But many attorneys note that the hidden costs of inaccurate or insecure transcription far outweigh any short-term savings. When errors surface after the fact, parties are forced to litigate transcription disputes, reconstruct the record, or request evidentiary hearings to correct inaccuracies. These proceedings consume court time and attorney resources, and they rarely yield perfect results. No one can recreate a moment exactly as it occurred, and appellate courts are left to wrestle with imperfect records that may determine the fate of a case.

The broader implications extend even further. Public confidence in the judicial process depends upon the belief that court records are reliable, complete, and preserved with utmost care. If attorneys cannot assure their clients that what occurs in a courtroom will be accurately captured or safely stored, the legitimacy of the process is weakened. Digital systems, when implemented without robust standards and human oversight, risk eroding the trust that underpins the adversarial system.

Advocates for stenographic reporting argue that the solution is not to abandon technology, but to integrate it thoughtfully. Digital tools can enhance, but should not replace, the human expertise essential to accurately capturing legal proceedings. The analogy often invoked is commercial aviation: the technology already exists for planes to fly without human pilots, yet airlines still insist on trained professionals in the cockpit. Why? Because when the stakes involve lives—or, in the courtroom, constitutional rights—human judgment, intervention, and accountability remain irreplaceable. Hybrid models—using stenographic reporters supported by real-time digital backups—offer the benefits of both systems: accuracy, security, and redundancy. But such approaches require commitment and investment. They also require recognition that court reporting is not a luxury; it is a constitutional safeguard.

As attorneys increasingly navigate courtrooms where the method of recordkeeping is unpredictable, the profession confronts a pivotal question: What price are we willing to pay for accuracy? The answer will shape not just the future of transcription, but the integrity of the judicial record itself.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.

The First Impression Bias & How Female Court Reporters Are Judged on Appearance Before Skill

There is a quiet truth in the legal world that most people outside our profession never think about:
Women in court reporting are often seen before we are heard.

Not in the way that honors our skill.
In the way that diminishes it.

For as long as I’ve been a court reporter, I’ve worn tailored suits, structured jackets, and professional attire that mirrors the attorneys in the room. Many times in depositions or court hearings, someone has assumed I was counsel—only to recalibrate when I sat at the reporter’s station and unpacked my equipment.

But the moment an attorney is mistaken for the court reporter?
Suddenly, it’s offensive.

There is a hierarchy embedded in that reaction, an unspoken assumption that our role is somehow “less than.” And when you add gender—especially being a woman in a room historically dominated by men—that hierarchy becomes even sharper.

It’s the subtle comments.
The double takes.
The raised eyebrows.
The “Oh—I thought you were the attorney” followed by an awkward laugh, as if my appearance created an unrealistic expectation.

And none of that is about my skill.

The Weight of Being Seen Before Being Valued

Women in law, in general, are no strangers to being assessed through the lens of aesthetics. For court reporters, though, it takes on a different edge—because so much of our work happens in the background, invisibly, with a level of mastery people rarely understand until they need us.

I can’t count how many times someone has commented on how I look before asking about my experience, credentials, or real-time qualifications.

Not about the thousands of pages I’ve produced under pressure.
Not about the jury trials I’ve reported.
Not about the deep concentration it takes to maintain a verbatim record while parsing overlapping speech at 225 words per minute.

Just… how I look.

Whether the remark is intended as a compliment—or wrapped in patronizing familiarity—it does the same thing:

It reduces professional women to décor.

And it’s not just me.

Over the years, female colleagues have shared nearly identical stories:

A reporter walked into a deposition and was asked if she was the receptionist.
Another was told she looked “too glamorous to be a stenographer.”
One was questioned—every single time she appeared at a new job—about whether she was “old enough” to handle the record.
A colleague was once confused for a paralegal, a translator, an intern, and even “the girl taking notes.”

None of these moments is catastrophic.
But they accumulate.
They change you.

They make you over-prepare your appearance, not for confidence, but for credibility. They make you wonder if your professionalism is being undermined by the simple fact of being an attractive woman—or a young woman—or any woman at all.

They make you put on more armor than your male counterparts will ever understand.

The Double Standard No One Wants to Admit

What stings most is the flip side.

When I am mistaken for the attorney, it’s almost never a compliment.
It’s treated like a mismatch—as if I don’t look like I belong where I actually belong.

But when attorneys—especially female attorneys—are mistaken for court reporters, I’ve seen them get visibly offended.

Not offended because they think court reporters are beneath them (though some do carry that bias).
But offended because society trained them to believe that looking like us is being downgraded.

If that doesn’t make every court reporter’s stomach twist, I don’t know what will.

In a profession that requires:

extreme precision
mastery of complex technology
neutrality under pressure
legal expertise
and unwavering focus

—why is “court reporter” still equated with “assistant,” “note-taker,” or “the person in the corner”?

Why is looking like us—women who literally safeguard the integrity of the record—seen as a step down?

This is the part no one wants to talk about.
But we need to.

When Appearance Overshadows Ability

The irony is that court reporters carry one of the most critical responsibilities in the justice system.
We are:

the official record
the only impartial person in the room
the guardian of accuracy
the last line of defense between truth and distortion

And the work we produce impacts appeals, verdicts, settlements, evidence, and justice itself.

Yet somehow, women in our role are still approached with comments like:

“You’re too pretty to be a court reporter.”
“Are you sure you can keep up with this witness?”
“You look more like a paralegal.”
“I thought you were the court reporter—oh wait, you are the court reporter?”
“Is this your first job? You look so young.”

As if the skill required to maintain the record is less believable when wrapped in femininity.

As if our appearance—and not our training—is the defining factor in how well we’ll perform.

If men experienced even a fraction of these comments, there would be HR memos, trainings, policy updates, firm-wide discussions.

For women?
We’re told to laugh it off.
To take it as a compliment.
To brush it aside.
To “not be so sensitive.”

But minimizing the sting doesn’t erase it.
It embeds deeper.

How It Shapes Us

These moments—small and cumulative—teach women in this field how much or how little people expect from us based on how we look, how old we appear, or whether we fit someone’s stereotype of “what a stenographer should be.”

They shape:

how we walk into rooms
how formally we dress
how much authority we project
how cautious we are about first impressions
how vigilant we become about asserting our role
how fiercely we protect our professional identity

Every woman has a version of the story.
Every reporter carries a small archive of unnecessary remarks that had nothing to do with her skill.

Those comments don’t ruin careers.
But they do alter the emotional calculus of being a woman in the legal system.

The People Who Get It Right

Thankfully, there are bright spots.

The attorneys who treat you as a colleague from the moment you introduce yourself.
The judges who respect the record and the reporter behind it.
The legal teams who learn your name before they learn your appearance.
The partners who don’t confuse your role with anyone else’s simply because you’re a woman.

Those people make you stand taller.

Those interactions remind you how it should be—how professionalism flourishes when assumptions fall away and expertise takes center stage.

The Leader I Hope More People Become

If there’s one thing I try to model in every room I enter, it’s this:

Never make someone wonder whether you judged them on their appearance instead of their ability.

Not once.
Not ever.

We owe each other respect that is unburdened by gender, age, attractiveness, or assumptions about role or rank.

Skill is what earns trust.
Preparation is what anchors credibility.
Professionalism is what sustains the legal system.

Appearances?
They’re the least interesting part of what any of us do.

If the legal profession wants to elevate itself—and if officers of the court truly care about the integrity of the record—then the first step is simple:

See the woman.
But recognize the professional.
And comment on the work, not the looks.

“What Even Is 6-7?” When a Meme Walks Into a Courtroom (And Everyone Over 30 Panics)

Courtrooms are built on precision: exact wording, exact timing, exact rulings, exact records. But every now and then, something entirely imprecise sneaks into the room—usually during a recess, while someone is pouring stale coffee or untangling a laptop charger.

That’s exactly what happened to me this week when a random cultural grenade—the mysterious 6-7 meme—detonated in the hallway outside a California courtroom.

A clerk brought it up. An attorney chimed in. The judge walked over. Another attorney leaned in. And suddenly an impromptu, highly credentialed, multi-jurisdictional legal team was assembled… with absolutely no idea what “6-7” meant.

Everyone stared at me, the resident millennial interpreter of modern slang, but alas—even ChatGPT had shrugged at the question earlier.

I felt, in that moment, older than the stenotype itself.

Welcome to Generation Alpha slang, where memes are born, mutate, dissolve, and rise again before most adults finish their morning emails. And this time, the term waltzed right into our sacred courthouse bubble and left an entire courtroom staff in communicative bankruptcy.

So let’s decode it—or rather, explore why it cannot be decoded—and why that very fact is… strangely perfect in the world of court reporting.

The Meme With No Meaning (And Why That Drives Adults Crazy)

Here’s the plot twist: “6-7” doesn’t actually mean anything in a fixed or dictionary sense.

Depending on which 10-year-old you ask, it can mean:

a hand-waggling “this or that” indecision signal
a joke
a number sequence they yell to be funny
a reference to a viral kid in a basketball crowd
a nod to a rapper’s song
a periodic table observation that “67 = Ho,” which prompts giggles for reasons obvious to all

In other words: a linguistic Rorschach test crafted by minors.

Adults, with our need for clarity and structure, scramble to pin a definition on it. We want rules. We want a statute. We want a canonical meaning we can enter into the record.

But Generation Alpha is operating on a different wavelength—one where nonsense is the point. The absurdity is the humor. It’s the joy. It’s the cultural fingerprint.

“6-7” is the equivalent of kids in the ’90s yelling “WAZZZZZUP,” except even less semantically grounded.

And yet, it is everywhere: recess yards, group chats, TikTok loops, Roblox servers, sports games, birthday cake demands (“I want a 6 AND a 7 or I’ll be mad!”), and yes—even courthouse conversations on a Monday morning.

The meme is popular precisely because it is meaningless.

And in a profession obsessed with accuracy—ours—that is a delightful contradiction.

Why Court Reporters Notice Memes Before Anyone Else

Court reporting is a strange vantage point. We sit in a room and listen to people struggle with language all day—sometimes eloquently, sometimes painfully, sometimes hilariously.

We hear:

mistrials born from a single ambiguous pronoun,
objections hanging on the placement of a comma,
“strike that—let me rephrase,”
and two attorneys using the same word to mean entirely different things.

We live at the intersection of language, law, and chaos.

So when a meme like “6-7” hits the cultural bloodstream, we notice it. We hear it on recess. We hear it whispered between jurors. We hear it shouted in the hallway by someone’s FaceTiming teen. We hear it before it becomes an NPR segment explaining why adults feel old again.

Court reporters are human linguistic seismographs—we detect tremors before the quake.

And this meme’s tremor tells us something important about culture, attention spans, and the evolving way younger generations communicate.

The Meaningless Meme as a Mirror of the Moment

“6-7” emerged in a perfect storm of modern conditions:

Hyper-short content loops
Kids raised on algorithmic randomness
Sports edits merging with music clips
Generational inside jokes that don’t rely on language at all, but vibe
The rise of “brain rot” humor—absurd, nonsensical, intentionally dumb content that is funny because it is nonsensical

Kids are communicating in symbols, numbers, gestures, and inside jokes the way past generations used words, slang, or music.

They have created a cultural currency where meaning is optional.

Adults are left with a familiar sense of confusion.

But this isn’t new.

Every Generation Invents a Language to Confuse the Previous One

We often forget: our parents once had the same bewildered look on their faces about terms we used.

“Cool beans.”
“Da bomb.”
“Totally tubular.”
“Talk to the hand.”
“On fleek.”
“YOLO.”

Even “the bee’s knees,” which we tend to file under “cute 1940s slang,” apparently came from young people shortening “the be-all and end-all” until it sounded like “Bs and Es”—which then morphed into “bee’s knees.”

Language is a shape-shifter.

Memes are just the accelerated evolutionary form.

Kids today aren’t doing anything new—they’re just doing it at TikTok speed, which makes it feel like linguistic whiplash for the rest of us.

Why This Matters in the Courtroom (More Than You’d Think)

At first glance, a meaningless meme seems irrelevant to court reporting.

But it’s actually a perfect lens into a deeper truth: the fragility and fluidity of language, especially as younger generations start entering adult spaces.

Every day, we capture:

misunderstood slang
ambiguous phrasing
personal shorthand
cross-generational miscommunications
accidental double meanings
purposeful double meanings
and, occasionally, utter nonsense

We are the last line of defense between sloppy language and a permanent, citable record.

The “6-7” phenomenon reminds us:

1. Language is not static.

If kids can turn two numbers into a cultural phenomenon, imagine what future slang will do to depositions in 2035.

2. Accuracy requires context.

If an attorney uses slang incorrectly, we capture it as spoken, not as intended. The meaning doesn’t matter. The utterance does.

3. Generational language gaps will widen.

Gen Alpha will be deponents, jurors, witnesses, and even attorneys before we know it. Their casual, meme-driven speech patterns will challenge the record in new ways.

4. Court reporters remain essential.

AI can’t interpret nonsense.
AI can’t detect sarcasm.
AI doesn’t know when someone is joking, mumbling, whispering, or laughing.

And AI definitely won’t know what “6-7” means when the meme gets resurrected ironically in 2040.

My Official Court Reporter Conclusion: 6-7 Means Everything—and Nothing

After conducting my unofficial courthouse focus group, polling the attorneys, the clerk, the judge, TikTok, and a few nearby minors, here is my final professional determination:

6-7 means whatever the speaker intends it to mean… which is usually nothing at all.

It is a place-holder.
A vibe.
A cultural wink.
A generational inside joke that requires no membership card.

And ironically, the lack of meaning is the meaning.

In a world overflowing with words, kids have decided to use numbers as a secret handshake.

In other words: we are not supposed to understand it.

And that’s okay.

Because some things belong outside the transcript.

Though I will say, if a witness ever yells “6-7!” on the stand, I promise—I will capture it verbatim.

Even if none of us knows what it means.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

✔️ Opinion

✔️ Analysis

✔️ Ethical considerations

✔️ General industry norms

✔️ Non-specific warnings

✔️ Professional commentary

Opinion is legally protected, especially in matters of public interest involving a 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.

A Harbinger of Collapse – What One Facebook Post Reveals About the Future of Court Reporting in the United States

Every once in a while, a single comment in a Facebook group hits like a tuning fork—vibrating with a truth so sharp that the entire industry should stop and listen. This week, that comment came from a Canadian reporter who, after earning their RPR, asked a simple question:

“If I get my Washington State certification, would I be able to do online depositions? I’m Canadian and the job market is really bad here. We’re only getting 3–6 jobs a month. Working in the States would be my last option before I go back to school for a career change.”

To the untrained eye, it’s an innocent inquiry about reciprocity and remote work. But for those paying attention, this is not a question—it is a warning.

This is the harbinger of what’s coming to the United States if we do not stop the expansion of ASR, digital recording, and the corporate race-to-the-bottom wage structure that has already gutted the court reporting profession in Canada, the U.K., and dozens of jurisdictions worldwide.

It is the glimpse of our possible future.

It is the sound of a door slamming shut.

And it is happening faster than anyone wants to admit.

When Human Stenographers Lose Ground, Entire Economies Follow

Canada’s collapse didn’t happen overnight. It happened precisely the same way it’s happening now in the United States:

Corporate agencies promised “cost savings” using digital recording.
Government bodies were sold on the fantasy that ASR would “close the shortage.”
Tech companies insisted their speech-to-text systems were “good enough.”
Bar associations were told accuracy was secondary to efficiency.
Courts bought equipment that looked modern but delivered garbage output.
Quality reporters left the field because the work dried up.
Legal systems deteriorated, quietly, silently, until the damage was irreversible.

Now, Canadian reporters—once respected, in-demand professionals—are lucky to receive three to six jobs per month.

Three to six jobs.

For a certified reporter.

In a country of 40 million people.

That is not a shortage.
That is a manufactured collapse.

The Facebook post is not about Washington certification.
It is about a professional refugee trying to escape an industry that was hollowed out by the very technologies now sweeping across the United States.

This Is Exactly How Collapse Looks in the Early Stages

People assume a profession disappears with a loud bang. It doesn’t. It disappears with a series of silent, incremental shifts—none of which feel catastrophic in isolation, but together create irreversible damage.

Collapse begins with:

Clients told they don’t need a reporter because “digital is already assigned.”
Agencies replacing rough drafts with machine output.
Courts cutting human reporters on the promise of “cost savings.”
Judges being misled about ASR accuracy.
Students dropping out because the future looks uncertain.
Talented reporters leaving after months of under-employment.
Foreign reporters seeking American work because their own markets fell apart.

If this sounds familiar, it should.

We are already seeing U.S. agencies replacing stenographers with:

Digital recorders with no formal training,
ASR pipelines in real time,
“Hybrid” models that are stenographer-free,
Offshore transcription labor,
AI-assisted “clean-up editors” who are paid pennies.

We are watching multinational corporations—backed by venture capital—push low-accuracy ASR into depositions and trials at scale, while legislators who don’t understand the legal ramifications repeat whatever industry lobbyists whisper in their ear.

We are witnessing the Canadian future forming in the United States in slow motion.

Why This Matters for Attorneys and the Integrity of the Record

This is not just a court reporter issue.

It is a legal integrity issue.

Every attorney who believes “AI is good enough” has forgotten one crucial truth: the record is not just words. It is the architecture of justice. When that architecture erodes, legitimacy erodes with it.

Look north.

Canada now suffers from:

Transcript delays that stretch for months.
Erroneous transcripts with material misrepresentations.
Lost audio, missing testimony, and irretrievable gaps.
Appeals jeopardized due to incomplete or inaccurate records.
Court backlogs caused by unreliable recording systems.
Litigants denied access to the very words spoken in their own hearings.

This is not hypothetical.
It is not alarmist.
It is real, present, and documented.

When reporters fall from 40 depositions a month to 3–6, the system cannot function.

Attorneys cannot function.

Justice cannot function.

The Professional Refugee Problem Is America’s Warning Sign

The reporter on Facebook isn’t the problem.
The reporter is the symptom.

A symptom of a system so destabilized by ASR that highly trained professionals must leave their country to find work.

A symptom of what happens when governments chase “savings” without understanding the cost.

A symptom of a legal ecosystem that no longer values accuracy, ethics, or skill.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth:

U.S. reporters will face this same future if the industry does not pivot—now.

Already we see:

Reporters scratching for work in markets flooded with digital operators.
Skilled stenographers underbid by agencies using AI transcripts.
Legislative pushes (like AB 711) to normalize ASR in depositions.
National agencies quietly phasing out realtime.
Digital recorders being marketed as “entry-level” workers to reduce labor costs.
A surge of inexperienced workers used as substitutes for certified professionals.
State bars and judicial councils misled by Silicon Valley promises.

The Facebook post is not an isolated question—it is a flashing red emergency light.

If the U.S. Fails to Act, Stenographers Won’t Just Lose Jobs—We Will Lose the Record

Let’s be clear:

Canada didn’t fail because reporters weren’t good enough.
It failed because decision-makers prioritized cost over accuracy.

The United States is repeating that mistake.

If we want to avoid Canada’s fate, we need immediate corrective action:

1. Attorneys must demand certified stenographers in every proceeding.

If attorneys stop tolerating ASR, agencies will stop pushing it.

2. State Bars must issue formal ethics advisories.

ABA Opinions 498 and 512 already support human-captured records. States must follow.

3. Legislators must be educated about the risks of ASR.

Not by vendors—but by real subject-matter experts.

4. Reporters must claim the narrative.

Silence is complicity. We cannot outsource our future to agencies or corporations.

5. Judges must refuse uncertified record-creation in their courtrooms.

Court reporters protect judges as much as litigants.

The Post Wasn’t a Question—It Was a Requiem

The Canadian reporter isn’t looking for opportunity.

They’re looking for survival.

This is the reality of a market where ASR “won.”

This is what the U.S. will become if we do not stop pretending ASR is harmless, if we do not challenge the corporate talking points, and if we do not defend the profession that protects the legal system itself.

The question is not whether ASR is coming.

It is whether we allow it to erase us—quietly, steadily, the way it did in Canada.

The Facebook post is a harbinger.

We ignore it at our peril.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

Surviving the Holidays as a Court Reporter – A Realistic Guide to Family Drama, Deadlines, and the December Blues

The holidays are supposed to be warm, sparkly, and joyful. But if you’re a court reporter, the season often arrives with something very different: transcript hell, family chaos, financial pressure, illness, emotional landmines, and the quiet ache of expectations you can’t possibly meet.

While everyone else seems to be posting perfect family photos and clinking champagne glasses, reporters are often hunched over their machines or laptops, trying to finish work before the year resets and the clock restarts. And somewhere in between, you’re expected to be festive.

This article is for every reporter who feels overwhelmed, stretched thin, or quietly struggling. You are not alone — and you can survive this season with your peace (mostly) intact.

1. Acknowledge the Reality — Court Reporters Don’t Get “Time Off”

The biggest stressor of the season is simple:
Our deadlines don’t pause for the holidays.

While other professions wind down, ours ramps up. Trials get squeezed in. Depositions pile up. Attorneys want transcripts “before the break.” And year-end billing catches up with all of us.

You are not weak for feeling drained — you are operating in a high-stress, high-demand profession during the most emotionally charged time of year.

Give yourself permission to acknowledge that your job makes December harder.
That honesty alone can lift some of the guilt.

2. Family Drama Doesn’t Mean You’re Doing Life Wrong

Every family has its quirks, but holidays magnify them.

Some reporters are juggling complicated relatives.
Some are dealing with divorce, estranged family members, or “helpful” comments from people who think they know your life better than you do.
Some are raising kids with little or no support.
And some are doing it completely alone.

Remember this:
A tense holiday season doesn’t mean your life is broken — it means your family is human.

If your peace requires distance or boundaries, that’s not disrespectful.
That’s emotional survival.

Try this line if you need an escape hatch:
“Let’s talk about that another time — today I’m focusing on keeping things peaceful.”

Boundaries help everyone breathe.

3. If You’re Grieving or Lonely, Your Heart Is Telling the Truth

Holidays heighten absence.

If you’ve lost someone — recently or years ago — those waves of grief are not regression. They’re a natural response to reminders of togetherness.
If you’re in a lonely marriage, or navigating separation, or feeling isolated at family gatherings, that ache is real.
If your life doesn’t look like the happy Instagram photos, that doesn’t mean you’re failing.

Court reporters often feel invisible already. The holidays can make that ache louder.

What helps?

Acknowledge the grief instead of fighting it
Create one ritual that brings comfort (a candle, a photo, a moment of quiet)
Let one person — just one — know you’re struggling
Give yourself permission to have a “light lift holiday” with minimal expectations

Loneliness is not a character flaw — it’s a signal that you deserve more connection and support.

4. Manage Transcript Hell Without Sacrificing Your Sanity

You can’t make the workload disappear, but you can make it manageable.

Triage your transcripts like an ER:

Stat – Rushes, appeals, court-ordered deadlines
Urgent – End-of-year requests
Routine – Everything else

Then break your work into realistic time blocks.

90 minutes on
15 minutes off
Repeat

This approach preserves your focus and avoids burnout.

A few survival strategies:

Don’t take December work you don’t want
Communicate turnaround times clearly
Say no to last-minute rushes unless the rate makes it worthwhile
Don’t try to “earn peace” by overworking

Transcript hell feels endless, but it’s temporary. You will get through it — you always do.

5. Avoid the Financial Stress Spiral

Court reporting income is feast-or-famine, and December often arrives with famine disguised as feast: extra work, but also extra costs.

Overspending is usually emotional, not financial.
It’s a desire to compensate — for stress, loneliness, guilt, or family dynamics.

A few reporter-friendly financial rules:

Set a holiday spending cap before shopping
Give experiences, not things
Don’t compete with other households
Put December income toward January bills first
Avoid “buy now, regret later” purchases when stressed

Your value is not measured in gifts.
Your presence is the present.

6. Protect Your Health — Physical and Mental

Reporters get sick more during the holidays for a reason: stress compromises everything.

Take small steps:

Hydrate (you’d be shocked how much this helps your brain)
Sleep at least 6–7 hours
Take a daily walk or stretch session
Keep vitamins visible
Use a humidifier if you’re editing late into the night

And mentally:

Reduce contact with people who drain you
Give yourself permission to decline invitations
Allow moments of quiet
Talk to someone if things feel too heavy

You don’t need to pretend you’re okay. You just need to take care of yourself in small, consistent ways.

7. Lower the Bar: Expect Less of the Holiday and More of Yourself

Not more pressure — more compassion.

You don’t need a perfect holiday.
You don’t need to host, decorate, bake, or perform emotional labor.
You don’t need to make everyone else happy.

What if this year, the holiday was simply this:

A peaceful home
A moment of joy with your child
A meal you actually enjoy
A day without chaos
A few hours without work
A reminder that survival counts as success

You don’t need a perfect holiday. You need a kind one.

8. Create One Tradition That’s Just for You

Court reporters are always taking care of others — parties, kids, spouses, attorneys, deadlines. Try this:

Choose just one thing that makes you feel grounded.

Maybe:

A coffee ritual on Christmas morning
A cozy movie night with your child
Writing a New Year’s letter to yourself
A sunset walk
Lighting a candle for people you miss
A new book
A day trip with no obligations

Make something yours.
Claim a small corner of the season.
That’s how healing begins.

Final Thought: You’re Allowed to Want a Better Holiday — and a Better Life

The holidays often highlight what’s missing. But they also highlight something else:

Your resilience. Your strength. Your capacity to keep going.

Court reporters carry so much — emotionally, mentally, financially, professionally.
Yet you still show up.
You still love your children fiercely.
You still deliver excellence in a profession most people don’t understand.
You still try, even when no one is trying for you.

This season may be hard, but it won’t break you.

You are worth peace.
You are worth love.
You are worth a holiday that feels gentle.

One season at a time, you’re building something better — for yourself and for the people who depend on you.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.

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.

The Illusion of Unity – When “Movement” Becomes Message Control

Editor’s Note:
This article examines the messaging, branding, and public positioning of Steno in the City™ as reflected in its own promotional materials. It is an opinion-based analysis of rhetorical strategies and community dynamics within the stenographic profession. The purpose of this piece is to encourage critical thinking, transparency, and healthy dialogue—not to allege wrongdoing or to cast judgment on any individual. All observations herein relate solely to publicly available communications and are offered as commentary.

When professional gatherings in the court reporting world first began taking on the tone of rallies and celebrations, rather than continuing education seminars, many reporters welcomed the break in monotony. After years of legislative battles, agency consolidation, anti-steno lobbying, and the creeping spread of digital recording and automatic speech recognition, the idea of “fearless growth” offered a moment of collective exhale.

But in the fifth year of the Fearless Stenographers Conference hosted by Steno in the City™—now rebranded under slogans like “STENO United”—a deeper question emerges: When does empowerment become branding, and when does branding become a shield against accountability?

This is not a critique of conferences. The profession needs spaces to gather, learn, and reconnect. It needs joy. It needs community. It needs pride.
What it does not need is the elevation of one organization’s imagery, language, and mythology into the singular lens through which the steno community is expected to see itself.

Below is a closer look at how inspiration can be used not only to energize a community—but also to insulate the people who claim to lead it.

I. The Festivalization of Advocacy

The Fearless Stenographers Conference began as a grassroots-styled event that promised something the profession deeply craved: solidarity and survival in the face of existential challenges. But each year, the tone has shifted away from substantive advocacy toward spectacle, aesthetic branding, and marketable emotion.

The latest promotional materials read less like a professional conference announcement and more like a luxury lifestyle summit:

“A Legacy in Motion”
“Fearless Evolution Black Tie Affair”
“Steno Legends”
“An unforgettable STENO XPERIENCE”

The imagery is aspirational, celebratory, cinematic. But behind the glittering façade lies a crucial absence: details about policy, reform, accountability, or measurable impact on the profession.

Advocacy becomes performance.
Performance becomes identity.
Identity becomes product.

And the profession—struggling with shortages, legislative threats, and agency overreach—gets reduced to a curated vibe.

This is the festivalization of advocacy: the transformation of professional urgency into an entertainment-driven event cycle, where difficult truths are replaced by downloadable inspiration.

II. When Inspiration Becomes Insulation

Every movement uses uplifting language. The difference is whether the language invites scrutiny or deflects it.

Steno in the City™ repeatedly frames itself as:

“the place where everyone feels seen and heard”
“the movement that unites us”
“a legacy empowering the profession”

But declarations of safety and inclusion can become rhetorical weapons when deployed without transparency.

The more an organization declares itself a refuge, the harder it becomes for anyone to question its leadership, finances, internal practices, or claims of influence. Criticism of the group begins to read—intentionally or not—as criticism of the community itself.

This is a known pattern in branding psychology:
Emotional uplift creates a protective shell.
Within that shell, leaders become unchallengeable, not because they are flawless, but because they have wrapped themselves in the language of empowerment.

Inspiration, when unchecked, stops being fuel.
It becomes insulation.

III. The Risk of Centralized Identity

Perhaps the most concerning rhetorical shift is the elevation of “STENO United” as the implied umbrella identity for the profession. The language suggests a unification not built around institutions, ethics, or democratic input—but around a single brand.

One brand ≠ one profession.

Court reporting is sustained by thousands of independent reporters, educators, officials, freelancers, small firms, captioners, students, and legislators. No single organization—certainly not a private entity—can rightfully claim to be the gathering place, the movement, or the heart of the field.

Yet the promotional framing positions the Fearless Stenographers Conference as precisely that:

“The place where everyone feels welcomed. The gathering place for unity, collaboration, and legacy.”

This language may seem harmless, even heartwarming. But the underlying implication is powerful:
Real unity looks like alignment with us.

And that is where branding crosses the line from celebration into narrative control.

IV. The Silencing of Professional Dissent

In the current messaging ecosystem around Steno in the City™, critical voices are not engaged—they are marginalized. Questions about governance are dismissed as negativity. Requests for transparency are reframed as attacks. Concerns about ethical leadership become “haters,” “jealousy,” or “toxicity.”

“Unity rhetoric” is a known sociological phenomenon. It creates a perceived moral obligation to stay silent in the name of harmony:

If you speak up, you’re breaking unity.
If you question leadership, you’re harming the movement.
If you ask for accountability, you’re destroying the community’s spirit.

This is how dissent is suppressed without ever being censored outright.

The message becomes clear:
There is room for everyone—unless you challenge the narrative.

That is not unity.
That is control.

V. A Call for Distributed Leadership

The solution is not to end conferences, celebrations, or community events. Those things matter, and they matter deeply. But the profession needs distributed leadership, not a singular branded empire claiming to embody the heart and voice of stenography.

True empowerment requires:

Transparency
Multiple voices
Ethical consistency
Accountability
Open dialogue
Respect for dissent
A diversity of organizations and educators
A profession that is bigger than any one movement, personality, or brand

Court reporters do not need to be “united” under a single slogan.
They need to be strengthened by a profession where leadership is earned—not curated.

Steno’s future will not be secured by black-tie galas or stylized messaging.
It will be secured by the daily grind of real advocacy, honest conversations about the challenges we face, transparent leadership, and the refusal to replace substance with spectacle.

The profession deserves celebration—yes.
But it also deserves truth.
It deserves accountability.
It deserves leadership that does not fear scrutiny.
It deserves unity built on ethics, not branding.

Because the real story of court reporting has never been about a single movement.
It has always been about the thousands of reporters who carry this profession on their backs every day—fearless not because a conference told them to be, but because survival has always required it.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

Clarifying Disclaimer:
The reflections and critiques expressed in this article represent the author’s personal interpretations of public-facing statements, branding language, and advocacy narratives. No statements in this article should be read as factual assertions about the internal operations, intentions, or conduct of Steno in the City™ or any of its organizers. Where concerns are raised, they are presented as subjective viewpoints grounded in the author’s experience within the profession.

Legal Disclaimer:
This article is intended for informational and editorial purposes only. It does not purport to make claims of illegal, unethical, or improper behavior by any individual or organization. The analysis provided constitutes protected opinion under the First Amendment and is based solely on publicly disseminated materials. Readers are encouraged to draw their own conclusions and to engage in constructive discussion. Nothing in this article should be interpreted as legal advice.

“This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.”

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.