The Recipe of Community – Inside the Unseen Strength of the Court Reporting Profession

In a warmly lit scene, small wooden trays hold Scrabble tiles spelling out “THE RECIPES OF COMMUNITY.” It’s a simple arrangement — a holiday-style backdrop, polished stones, twinkling lights wrapped around branches — yet the phrase carries a resonance that extends far beyond the frame. In many ways, it captures the ethos of a profession that is often overlooked, frequently misunderstood, and absolutely essential to the American justice system: court reporting.

As the holiday season approaches, the image evokes something especially fitting for this time of year: gratitude. In a profession that relies so heavily on precision, the court reporting community relies just as deeply on the human connections that sustain it. Thanksgiving offers a moment to acknowledge not only the work reporters perform, but the people we are thankful for along the way.

A Profession Rooted in Human Connection

Ask any court reporter how they survived school or how they stayed in the field during its most difficult moments, and nearly all will credit another reporter, teacher, classmate, or mentor. Despite its reputation for solitary work — long depositions, quiet courtrooms, hours spent editing transcripts — the profession is surprisingly communal.

Every November, many reporters reflect on the individuals who helped them through the most difficult stages of their career — the instructors who pushed them, the classmates who shared briefs, the mentors who steadied them, and the colleagues who stepped in when workloads became overwhelming. Gratitude is more than emotion in this profession; it is a tradition.

Reporters trade tips, encourage students through plateaus, answer late-night questions from panicked colleagues, and share strategies that their own instructors passed down to them decades earlier. The contemporary courtroom may include digital screens and real-time feeds, but the human infrastructure holding the profession together is largely unchanged.

The Craft That Binds a Community

While outsiders often see court reporting as a mechanical skill, insiders know it is both a craft and a discipline. Reporters must capture overlapping speakers, legal arguments, emotional testimony, and unpredictable proceedings — all with speed, neutrality, and near-perfect accuracy. They do not master this alone. They master it through feedback, coaching, repetition, and the shared knowledge of a community that fiercely protects the integrity of the record.

Veteran reporters help newer ones navigate high-stakes trials, realtime pressure, unfamiliar subject matter, or the demands of producing a same-day rough draft. Students rely heavily on peers to survive the progression of speed tests. Agencies depend on a network of proofers, scopists, and videographers who are themselves part of the broader ecosystem.

Technology cannot replicate the collaborative culture that supports the craft. Human precision is sustained by human community.

Service as a Daily Practice

Unlike many professions, court reporting is built around service — often invisible service. Reporters sit quietly in the background of proceedings that range from tragic to mundane, capturing every word for the record. They endure long days, technical complications, and intense deadlines. When trials extend into the night, reporters stay. When emergency transcripts are requested, they deliver.

Thanksgiving is, at its core, an appreciation of service — and court reporters exemplify this every day. The profession’s culture of stepping in, helping out, and supporting one another mirrors the very spirit of the holiday. Reporters routinely fill in for colleagues, share workloads, check in on one another after emotionally difficult hearings, and provide guidance without expectation of recognition. Service is not simply part of the job; it is part of the community’s DNA.

A Tradition That Endures

The warmth and natural textures in the photo — stones, soft lighting, and wood — evoke something enduring. That sense of longevity mirrors the profession itself. Stenographic reporting, often dismissed as outdated, has persisted through nearly every technological shift in the courtroom. Predictions of its disappearance have been repeated for decades, yet the craft remains essential.

What has allowed the profession to endure is not nostalgia but commitment. Court reporters know that nuance, context, and human judgment cannot be casually automated. They also know that the legal system depends on the precision of the written record, even if the public rarely thinks about who creates it.

This awareness creates continuity between generations. Students today are not only mastering a skill; they are inheriting a legacy of professionalism and gratitude — gratitude for those who came before them, and gratitude for those who continue to fight for the profession’s integrity.

Resilience as a Foundation

Court reporting demands resilience — from the stamina required to write for hours at a time to the emotional strength needed to sit through difficult testimony. Reporters navigate legislation, shifting courtroom practices, and public misconceptions about what their work entails. Still, they remain committed.

When one reporter falters, others step in. When a student wants to quit, the community rallies. When policymakers misunderstand the craft, reporters collectively advocate for accuracy and standards. That resilience reflects the same spirit many families express at Thanksgiving: gratitude for the ability to overcome, endure, and continue.

The Purpose That Holds Everything Together

The final ingredient in this “recipe” is purpose. Court reporters are unified by a responsibility that transcends workflow or personal preference. Their job is to preserve the record accurately and completely — a task that forms the backbone of the justice system.

At a time when many pause to give thanks, the court reporting community has much to appreciate: the colleagues who lift each other up, the instructors who shape the next generation, the families who support demanding schedules, and the profession itself — a craft that continues to stand, stronger than expected, because people care enough to protect it.

A Community Worth Preserving

The Scrabble tiles in the photograph symbolize the way court reporters build their world — one piece at a time, through relationships, discipline, mutual support, and a shared commitment to truth. Behind every transcript are dozens of unseen ingredients: the mentors who taught theory, the colleagues who provided guidance, the professionals who refined the craft, and the community that keeps it strong.

Court reporting is often described as a dying profession. Spend time inside it, however, and another picture emerges — one of strength, shared purpose, and gratitude. The recipe of community is not just inspirational; it is the reason the profession continues to survive, and the reason it will endure.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

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

The content of this post is intended for informational and discussion purposes only. All opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are based on publicly available information, industry standards, and good-faith concerns about nonprofit governance and professional ethics. No part of this article is intended to defame, accuse, or misrepresent any individual or organization. Readers are encouraged to verify facts independently and to engage constructively in dialogue about leadership, transparency, and accountability in the court reporting profession.

The content on this blog represents the personal opinions, observations, and commentary of the author. It is intended for editorial and journalistic purposes and is protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution.
Nothing here constitutes legal advice. Readers are encouraged to review the facts and form independent conclusions.

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FLYING MONKEYS

(This article is from Ashley Nicole – https://www.facebook.com/X0AshleyNicole0X)

Who They Are, Why They Exist, and How to Protect Yourself — One Micro-Moment at a Time

If you’ve ever dealt with a narcissist, you’ve dealt with their backup dancers.

The “flying monkeys.”

The people who run their errands, protect their image, and attack their targets — all while believing they’re being “helpful,” “neutral,” or “objective.”

Let’s break down who they are, why they get recruited, and how to protect your nervous system from the damage they can cause.

This one is going to hit deep.

*:•.•:*

WHAT ARE FLYING MONKEYS?

In narcissistic abuse dynamics, a flying monkey is any person the narcissist recruits to:

monitor you

shame you

guilt you

pressure you

isolate you

confuse you

enforce their narrative

or deliver messages on their behalf

Flying monkeys work as an extension of the narcissist’s nervous system — their emotional surveillance, intimidation, and image management team.

And here’s the part most survivors don’t know:

You don’t get flying monkeys because you left.

You get flying monkeys the moment the narcissist sees your empathy as an asset they can weaponize.

.•:*:•.

HOW THEY GET RECRUITED — BEFORE YOU EVEN KNOW YOU’RE IN DANGER

Narcissists groom the people around them long before the relationship collapses.

They do this through:

Preemptive Storytelling

The narcissist slowly creates a narrative about what you’re like — usually framing you as sensitive, unstable, “difficult,” or emotionally fragile.

Reputation Crafting

They present themselves as the calm, reasonable, put-together one.

This contrast creates the perfect illusion.

Selective Vulnerability

They confide in people strategically — offering half-truths that make them look like the wounded hero.

Triangulation

They compliment others at your expense and share “concerns” about you.

This conditions people to side with them automatically.

By the time you realize what’s happening, the flying monkey web is already spun.

*:•.•:*

WHY FLYING MONKEYS EXIST

(The Psychological & Sociological Breakdown)

Flying monkeys aren’t random.

They exist because narcissistic systems require them to survive.

Psychology:

Humans avoid discomfort.

Believing the narcissist is kind is easier than facing their cruelty.

Social Reward:

People like being close to someone charismatic or powerful — even if it’s fake power.

Fear:

Some flying monkeys fear becoming the next target, so they comply.

Sociology Fact:

Communities tend to defend the most socially “visible” person, not the most truthful.

And here is the part most people miss — the piece that keeps the cycle alive:

Cognitive Dissonance

For many flying monkeys, accepting the truth about the narcissist means admitting:

• they were wrong

• they ignored red flags

• they helped enable harm

• the person they admired isn’t who they pretended to be

That level of psychological discomfort is too big for them.

So instead of confronting the truth…

they attack you.

Not because you’re lying —

but because believing you would cost them more than their ego can handle.

.•:*:•.

TYPES OF FLYING MONKEYS

(From harmless to dangerous — know the spectrum)

The Well-Meaning Helper

They genuinely think they’re being supportive.

They believe the narcissist’s “concern” and don’t realize they’re being used.

The Fixer

Wants everyone to get along.

Believes “both sides are valid” even when one side is abusive.

Danger level: medium — invalidation can traumatize you.

The Loyalist

This person worships the narcissist.

They defend them because it protects their identity and comfort.

The Opportunist

Gets something from the narcissist — attention, status, benefits.

They protect the narcissist because it benefits them.

The Covert Narcissist Flying Monkey

The worst kind.

They are narcissistic themselves and use the chaos as fuel.

They will stalk, smear, harass, and escalate.

This is the one who smiles while destroying your life.

*:•.•:*

HOW FLYING MONKEYS AFFECT YOU

(The Neurobiology of Damage)

Flying monkeys cause harm even when the narcissist isn’t present.

Amygdala Activation:

Your threat system stays active because their words feel like the narcissist’s hands.

Prefrontal Cortex Shutdown:

You lose your words, clarity, and ability to defend yourself.

Vagus Nerve Dysregulation:

Your body goes into freeze, fawn, or dissociation.

Trauma Loop Reinforcement:

They echo the narcissist’s narrative, which makes your brain doubt itself again.

A flying monkey doesn’t have to hit you to hurt you.

They just have to make you question yourself.

.•:*:•.

WHY THEY’RE SO DANGEROUS

Even the “nice” ones can:

break your reality

destroy your support system

make you feel guilty for protecting yourself

pressure you into going back

silence your voice

invalidate your trauma

retraumatize you

make healing ten times harder

Flying monkeys don’t need to believe the narcissist.

They just need to believe you’re overreacting.

And that alone is enough to harm you.

*:•.•:*

HOW TO DEAL WITH FLYING MONKEYS

(In micro-moments — not perfection)

You don’t need to be brave overnight.

You need micro-bravery, repeated slowly.

Here’s how:

1. The 3-Word Boundary

“I’m not discussing this.”

Repeat as needed — no explanations.

2. The Disengage Drop

If they push:

“Okay.”

“Noted.”

“You’re entitled to your view.”

End the loop.

3. Emotional Gray Rock

No reaction.

No defense.

No explanation.

Just neutrality.

4. Micro-Distance

Slowly pull back:

Less time.

Less access.

Less emotional energy.

5. Nervous System First

Place your hand on your chest, breathe low and slow, and let your body know:

“We’re safe. They don’t define truth.”

6. Let Their Opinion Die in Their Mouth

If someone has to be convinced of your humanity, they never deserved access to it.

.•:*:•.

FINAL TRUTH

Flying monkeys don’t mean you’re weak.

They mean you were targeted by someone who needed a whole army to control one person — you.

You were never powerless.

They were just afraid of what would happen the moment you finally saw the truth.

And here you are — seeing clearly.

You’re not alone.

You’re not crazy.

And you’re not the villain in their story.

They needed a crowd to defend their lies.

You only ever needed the truth.

And that is the difference between you and them.

Could California Court Reporters Bring a Holmgren-Style Case Against CRB?

A Hypothetical Risk Assessment and “California Holmgren Playbook”

This article is for informational and discussion purposes only and does not constitute legal advice.

When the Texas case Holmgren v. Judicial Branch Certification Commission survived multiple jurisdictional attacks and reached the merits stage, it quietly opened a new front in the fight over digital reporting and AI. For the first time, a court recognized that licensed court reporters could ask a judge to compel their regulator to take a complaint about an AI-powered digital reporting firm seriously, rather than bury it with an administrative dismissal.

That decision has not gone unnoticed in other states. In California, where many reporters believe that digital reporting is being rolled out at scale despite statutory language that appears to favor licensed shorthand reporters, the obvious question has begun to surface:

Could California court reporters bring a Holmgren-style mandamus action against the Court Reporters Board of California (CRB) for non-enforcement, particularly where large firms are conducting significant digital reporting business?

This article does not say such a case should be filed, nor does it make factual findings about any particular company. Instead, it explores the hypothetical viability of such an action and sketches a “California Holmgren Playbook”—a step-by-step outline of what would need to happen for a mandamus petition to be taken seriously in California courts.

Part I: A Hypothetical Risk Assessment Memo

“Viability of Mandamus Action Against CRB for Non-Enforcement of Digital Reporting Restrictions”

1. The core theory

The core legal theory, borrowing from Holmgren, looks roughly like this:

California statutes define who may lawfully create the official record in certain proceedings and reserve that role, in most civil and criminal contexts, to licensed shorthand reporters with limited exceptions.
Digital-only models that rely on non-reporter personnel and automated transcription raise serious questions under those statutes.
The CRB is the agency charged with licensing and enforcing those rules for the protection of the public.
When the Board receives credible complaints that a firm is effectively replacing licensed reporters with unlicensed digital workflows, its decision to decline investigation or enforcement is not value-neutral; it has consequences for both the public and the licensed profession.
A group of reporters or firms asks a court, through a petition for writ of mandamus, to require the CRB to properly consider and act upon those complaints instead of dismissing them on narrow or questionable grounds.

In other words, the fight is not “CRB must shut down digital reporting tomorrow.”
The fight is: “CRB must do its job and lawfully exercise the enforcement authority the Legislature gave it.”

2. Standing: who gets to sue?

In Holmgren, the Texas courts recognized that licensed court reporters have a particularized interest in the enforcement of rules that protect the quality and exclusivity of depositions. That interest is different from the general public’s interest in abstract good government.

California courts have their own standing doctrine, but the logic is similar: the strongest plaintiffs are usually those who can show:

They are licensed participants in the regulated profession;
They face concrete economic and professional harm from the regulator’s inaction;
They are not trying to legislate from the bench, but to enforce existing statutes as written.

That could include individual reporters, licensed reporting corporations, or associations acting on behalf of members. The more the case is framed around economic harm, professional standards, and statutory integrity, the stronger the standing argument becomes.

3. The target: regulator, not vendor

A crucial feature of the Holmgren model is that the primary defendant is the regulatory body, not (primarily) the competitor. The petitioners do not ask the court to micro-manage business models; they ask the court to determine whether the agency has abused its discretion or failed a ministerial duty by refusing to investigate or enforce.

That has two important consequences:

It avoids turning the case into a pure “competitor vs. competitor” business brawl.
It focuses the court’s attention on administrative law: Did the agency act within its statutory authority? Did it abdicate a duty?

If California reporters were to pursue a mandamus action, it would almost certainly need to be framed the same way: CRB’s non-enforcement is the problem. Any specific company or workflow is evidence of that problem, not the direct target of the writ.

4. Evidence and record-building

Courts do not act on vibes. They act on records.

A viable mandamus petition would need to show, at minimum:

Specific complaints filed with CRB regarding alleged digital-only or non-compliant reporting practices;
The Board’s responses (dismissals, refusals, or prolonged inaction);
Statutory language that, on its face, appears to reserve certain proceedings to licensed shorthand reporters;
Evidence that the challenged practices fall outside those statutory boundaries;
Concrete harm to the petitioners’ economic interests and to the integrity of the record.

That means years of paperwork, correspondence, and documentation—not just screenshots, rumors, or marketing language. The closer the record looks to “We raised this over and over, and the agency systematically refused to act,” the stronger the mandamus argument becomes.

5. Risks and downsides

Any serious risk assessment has to admit the dangers.

Judicial deference to agencies. California courts often give agencies latitude to interpret their statutes, especially where the Legislature has not spoken directly to newer technologies.
Adverse precedent. A poorly framed case risks producing a published opinion that blesses broad agency discretion or effectively green-lights digital workflows under current law.
Retaliation concerns. Plaintiffs may fear being blacklisted or frozen out of work by powerful players in the marketplace, even if that behavior would itself raise legal issues.
Cost and duration. Complex administrative and mandamus litigation can stretch on for years and consume enormous resources.

In other words, the question is not, “Can someone file?” Almost anyone can file. The question is, “Is this likely to advance or damage the long-term cause of stenographic court reporting?”

Part II: The “California Holmgren Playbook”

A Hypothetical Step-by-Step Roadmap

If one imagines a future where California court reporters decide that a mandamus case is necessary, what would need to happen first? The following “playbook” is not a recommendation but a way to think through the prerequisites.

Step 1: Clarify the statutory theory

Before anything else, lawyers and reporters would need to agree on the core statutory argument. That means answering questions such as:

In which proceedings do California statutes clearly require a licensed shorthand reporter?
What, if anything, do those statutes say about digital recording or AI transcription?
Where are the ambiguities, and where are the clean, bright-line conflicts?

The cleaner the statutory conflict, the more comfortable a court will be telling an agency, “You cannot ignore this.”

Step 2: Build a disciplined complaint record at CRB

The next step would be a systematic complaint campaign:

Well-documented, fact-specific complaints filed with CRB about particular proceedings or workflows;
Documentation of who swore the witness, who controlled the record, and how the transcript was created;
References to the specific statutes and regulations allegedly violated;
Follow-up requests asking CRB to explain its reasoning where it declines to act.

The goal is not to overwhelm the Board with noise. The goal is to create a clear, traceable paper trail that demonstrates a pattern of non-enforcement.

Step 3: Use public records to illuminate enforcement decisions

Parallel to complaints, petitioners would likely need to use Public Records Act requests to obtain:

Internal policies, enforcement guidelines, or communications regarding digital reporting;
Data on complaints received and dispositions;
Any informal understandings between the Board and industry players about digital practices.

This material can support the argument that the Board has adopted an unofficial policy of non-enforcement or narrowed its jurisdiction in ways the statutes do not allow.

Step 4: Build a plaintiff coalition

A single reporter can sometimes carry a case, but a coalition often sends a stronger message:

Individual CSRs who can show loss of work or downward pressure on rates attributable to digital encroachment;
Licensed reporting firms competing in the same market segments;
Potentially, an association or nonprofit with a mission focused on transcript quality and access.

The more diverse and representative the plaintiffs, the easier it is to argue this is not a personal vendetta but a profession-wide structural issue.

Step 5: Retain counsel with administrative and mandamus experience

Because the heart of the case is administrative law, the ideal legal team would include counsel familiar with:

Writs of mandate against state agencies;
Professional licensing boards;
Separation-of-powers issues;
The practical politics of suing a regulator.

This is not a case for a random general practitioner. It is closer to public-interest litigation, even if it implicates private economic interests.

Step 6: Draft a focused pre-litigation demand

Before filing, the coalition might send a formal demand letter to CRB:

Summarizing the complaint history;
Explaining why the Board’s dismissals or non-responses constitute an abuse of discretion or failure of duty;
Inviting the Board to correct course by investigating, issuing guidance, or opening rulemaking.

Some boards will dig in their heels. Others may respond to a concrete, well-researched legal analysis. Either way, the response—or lack of response—becomes part of the record.

Step 7: File the petition for writ of mandate

Only after these groundwork steps would a petition be drafted and filed, seeking relief such as:

A declaration that the Board misapplied or ignored the governing statutes;
An order requiring the Board to properly consider and decide specific complaints;
Possibly, an order requiring the Board to adopt or clarify enforcement policies consistent with the statutes.

The petition would have to walk a tightrope:
Demanding accountability without asking the court to micromanage every enforcement decision.

Step 8: Prepare for the public narrative battle

If such a case were filed, it would not be fought only in briefs and courtrooms. It would unfold in:

Legal media,
Professional newsletters,
Blogs like Stenonymous or StenoImperium (two distinctly different blogs),
And perhaps mainstream press, framed as a story about AI, regulation, and access to justice.

That is where careful messaging matters. The narrative would need to emphasize:

Protection of the record;
Equal access to reliable transcripts;
The Legislature’s intent in creating a licensed profession;
The danger of silently outsourcing that role to unlicensed digital workflows without public debate.

Where does this leave California reporters today?

The Holmgren case did not magically abolish digital reporting in Texas. What it did was something more subtle and, in some ways, more powerful:

It affirmed that licensed professionals can have standing to challenge regulators’ refusal to enforce rules meant to protect their profession and the public.
It kept the door open for courts to review whether non-enforcement is an abuse of discretion, rather than a politically untouchable choice.
It signaled that the rise of AI and digital workflows does not automatically dissolve statutory boundaries that were written for human professionals.

For California reporters, the question is not simply “Should we sue?”

The deeper question is:

Are we willing to invest the time, discipline, and political capital it would take to build a record strong enough that, when we finally do ask a court to intervene, the judge will look at the file and say, “Yes, this deserves to be heard”?

Until that groundwork is done, “Holmgren in California” remains a hypothetical.
But it is no longer a fantasy.

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 Trojan Horse Problem – Why Software Companies Should Not Masquerade as Court Reporting Agencies

Filevine does not belong in the court reporting agency space. It was not born there, it was not built for it, and its long-term incentive structure is, in my view, fundamentally incompatible with the survival of the stenographic profession.

Filevine is a software company. Its core product is a legal tech platform increasingly tethered to automated speech recognition and AI-generated record creation. Its expansion into court reporting should not automatically be mistaken for a benevolent commitment to “preserving standards.” In my assessment, it more closely resembles a strategic maneuver to place itself inside the very ecosystem its technology is designed to automate and streamline — and potentially control over time.

This is not a personal attack. It is a structural critique grounded in observable industry patterns and economic incentives.

Filevine is rolling out aggressively in every state that does not yet prohibit or strictly regulate digital or AI-based reporting — while positioning itself to adapt in more regulated states should legislative environments change. The company has raised significant venture capital funding, and venture capital does not exist to preserve heritage professions. It exists to scale, dominate, and displace. When millions are invested, the return is not typically obtained through professional stewardship. It is obtained through market capture.

That market capture requires data. And one of the richest datasets in this profession is the transcript.

By positioning itself as both the technology provider and the “agency,” Filevine gains proximity to enormous volumes of certified legal records, procedural nuance, workflow data, speaker patterns, formatting conventions, and reporter decision-making logic. This proximity creates the potential for such records to inform increasingly sophisticated ASR and AI systems in the future — even if no such use is occurring today.

The court reporter risks becoming both labor and data source.

The Fallacy of the “Human-First” Promise

The recent Stenonymous article by Lindsay Stoker, published as a guest post and framed as a defense of professional integrity, attempts to reassure reporters that Filevine is different — that it is a software platform merely “supporting” human reporters rather than replacing them.

That premise, in my view, collapses under basic economic logic.

A system that profits more when humans are removed will eventually evaluate whether those humans remain economically essential.

No corporation with venture obligations and scalability mandates has long-term incentive to maintain an expensive human layer indefinitely once automation is perceived as “good enough” by the buyer. The legal industry has already demonstrated a willingness to trade fidelity for convenience when given the opportunity.

The promise that Filevine will always preserve the CSR as central is not a structural guarantee. It may instead represent a transitional phase. The CSR appears, at least for now, to serve as the bridge to credibility, not necessarily the endpoint of the company’s long-term vision.

The Gatekeeper Illusion

The role of “Court Reporter in Charge” within a technology company’s ecosystem may feel like stewardship. It may even feel empowering. But over time, such roles can be reduced to symbolic compliance layers — present while the underlying architecture continues moving toward automation.

This is a pattern seen across industries: journalism, medicine, education, logistics, and now stenography. The language is always the same: partnership, innovation, safeguarding, collaboration. The outcome often follows a familiar arc: normalization, commodification, and displacement.

Believing a venture-backed software company will permanently subordinate its growth trajectory to preserve a human trade is, at minimum, optimistic and deserves critical scrutiny.

“We Would Never Use Your Work to Train a Model”

This promise, repeated in the article, is difficult to verify without permanent, transparent, legally binding restrictions enforceable by independent oversight. In an era where data is the new oil, good faith assurances alone are not structural protection.

Even if current policy claims restraint, nothing prevents future policy revision, acquisition, restructuring, or reclassification of data usage. Ownership of infrastructure historically evolves toward broader monetization.

This Is Not a Traditional Partnership

Filevine may position itself as a collaborator, but the power imbalance between a venture-backed technology platform and a regulated profession creates inherent risk. Deep embedding within the profession allows the company to learn its workflows, standards, and operational logic — knowledge that could, over time, be used to simulate or supplant those very functions.

The move into agency operations therefore raises legitimate questions about long-term intent and control over the labor pipeline.

The Language of Loyalty vs. The Reality of Power

When an industry insider publicly advocates for a corporate entrant that structurally benefits from the profession’s eventual erosion, the issue is not personal loyalty. It is conflict of interest and institutional risk.

This is not about demonizing individuals. It is about recognizing when allegiance to innovation narratives may undermine the very ecosystem that built the profession.

The profession must learn to distinguish between collaboration and co-option.

The Real Endgame

The most dangerous part is not the technology. It is the normalization.

Normalization of hybrid records. Normalization of AI “rough drafts.” Normalization of “acceptable error margins.” Normalization of replacing skilled transcription with machinic approximation.

By the time reporters realize the gate has been opened, the replacement infrastructure may already be built.

And once the profession becomes a mere “upgrade option” on a software platform, the damage may already be irreversible.

Keep Your Friends Close, Your Platforms Closer

What is happening is not simply innovation. It is, at minimum, encroachment framed as stewardship.

And when the custodians of the profession begin defending the very system designed to outgrow them, the greatest threat is no longer external.

It becomes internal.

The court reporting profession does not need a software company to “save” it. It needs to remain sovereign from companies whose structural incentives align with automating and monetizing its decline.

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.

We Can Do Better – When Professionalism Loses to Pettiness in Court Reporting

There are days in this profession when the biggest challenge isn’t the technology, the attorneys, or the deadlines—it’s each other. We court reporters pride ourselves on precision, ethics, and the record. Yet behind the gloss of realtime hookups and CAT software mastery, a quiet toxicity sometimes festers within our own ranks: gossip, passive-aggressive behavior, and petty sabotage disguised as “miscommunication.”

I recently lived through one of those experiences that exposes just how fragile professionalism can become when egos take over. It started with something simple—a block numbering discrepancy in a multi-volume appeal. What should have been a straightforward correction turned into nine volumes of repagination, a mountain of wasted hours, and an even heavier sense of betrayal.

The Slow Creep of Unprofessionalism

Here’s the reality: mistakes happen. Appeals are complex; multiple reporters, multiple venues, page ranges that leapfrog through months of proceedings. The job requires meticulous organization and crystal-clear communication. But when one reporter notices an error and chooses not to speak up—for months—and then reframes that silence as someone else’s oversight, that’s not an error. That’s unprofessionalism.

When I discovered the misnumbering, I traced the email chain. The facts were plain: I had sent the assignments three weeks after the appeal notice. Follow-ups were documented. Coordination was ongoing. The reporter who later accused me of neglecting communication had known there was a problem as far back as May. Instead of flagging it directly, she let it simmer until September—then claimed she had told me all along.

It wasn’t about the pages. It was about power, resentment, and ego.

Passive Aggression in the Profession

Court reporters are human. We spend long hours listening, transcribing, and absorbing every tone and nuance in the courtroom. We see manipulation daily—and sometimes we mimic it without realizing it. Passive aggression becomes a survival mechanism: sarcasm in an email, withholding information, “forgetting” to forward a notice, or making a colleague look disorganized.

But here’s the danger: in an environment built on the record, ambiguity is poison. Passive aggression thrives in ambiguity. A text that says, “I think something might be off,” without specifying what or where, isn’t harmless—it’s a time bomb. It leaves just enough room for plausible deniability when the fallout comes.

We’ve all seen it. The colleague who “meant to say something” but didn’t. The one who tells others, “I tried to help, but she didn’t listen.” It’s pettiness with a professional gloss, and it corrodes trust faster than any machine shortage or pay delay ever could.

The Cost of Pettiness

The emotional cost is real. When someone you considered a friend suddenly weaponizes a misunderstanding, it doesn’t just waste time—it undermines faith in the community. The sting isn’t from the repagination itself; it’s from realizing that someone you trusted wanted to see you stumble.

In our field, reputation is everything. We depend on each other to meet deadlines, share exhibits, cover cases, and maintain consistency in complex records. When pettiness replaces professionalism, everyone loses. Attorneys lose confidence. Judges notice tension. And the next generation of students—who are watching us to learn how collaboration is supposed to work—see the cracks.

The irony is that we’re the guardians of the record, yet some of us struggle to keep our own records straight when ego gets in the way.

Why It Happens

This isn’t unique to one incident or one person. It’s systemic in small professional circles. Court reporting is intense, isolating work. We often operate as independent contractors, constantly measured by our speed, accuracy, and availability. That pressure breeds competition. Competition, when mixed with insecurity, breeds resentment. And resentment, if left unchecked, becomes gossip.

Social media has only amplified it. Entire careers can be reduced to screenshots, whispers, and alliances formed in comment threads. The very people who claim to “support the profession” sometimes do the most damage behind the scenes—by dividing instead of uniting.

Many of these fractures trace back to personalities and power cliques, not policy or pay. Certain industry figures thrive on drama, sowing distrust to maintain influence. Once that rhetoric takes root, even long-standing friendships can sour. One person’s version of events becomes gospel, and suddenly you’re defending yourself against distortions instead of doing your job.

The Professional Standard We Owe Each Other

We can’t control personalities, but we can control protocol. Professionalism isn’t a mood; it’s a standard. It’s the discipline to rise above irritation, to communicate clearly even when emotions run high, and to treat colleagues with the same respect we expect from the bench.

That means:

If you spot an error, say it plainly and promptly—no games, no vague texts.
If you disagree, do it respectfully, without innuendo or sarcasm.
If you can’t stand someone, still uphold the record; your personal feelings don’t belong in the transcript.
And if you’ve been burned, don’t retaliate—document. The record always wins.

We work in a profession built on truth, clarity, and neutrality. We must live those same values with each other.

Leadership Through Example

Being professional when everyone else is professional is easy. The real test is maintaining composure when someone tries to undermine you. I’ll admit—it’s infuriating. It’s tempting to blast back, to expose the pettiness for what it is. But the better path is quiet documentation and unshakable consistency.

When others gossip, let your record speak. When they rewrite history, keep your receipts. When they lash out with sarcasm, answer with facts. Over time, professionalism outlasts personality. People remember who handled themselves with integrity when things got ugly.

In my case, I responded with evidence—every email, every date, every update—because that’s what we do: we preserve the truth. And when the other person replied, “You win,” it wasn’t victory; it was validation. The professional record stood, and the gossip burned itself out.

Moving Forward

We can’t build a strong profession if we’re tearing each other down behind the scenes. The world is already challenging our relevance—AI, ASR, funding cuts, digital encroachment. We don’t have the luxury of wasting energy on petty rivalries.

Every time we engage in passive aggression or gossip, we prove our critics right—that we’re too fragmented to stand united. Every time we undermine a colleague, we weaken the very credibility we fight to preserve in court.

The solution isn’t complicated. It’s maturity. It’s communication. It’s remembering that the record doesn’t care about our egos. The record only cares about accuracy—and we should too.

A Call to the Profession

So here’s my challenge to every reporter reading this:
When you feel the urge to gossip, pause. When you see a colleague struggling, help instead of judging. When someone makes a mistake, correct it—don’t weaponize it. And if you’ve allowed resentment or outside influence to twist your view of another professional, take a breath and reset.

We’re all in this together. The court reporting profession survives only if we do.

The next time you’re tempted to send a snarky text, withhold information, or vent to another reporter about someone you used to call a friend, ask yourself: Would I want that message read aloud in open court?

If the answer is no, delete it. We can do better. And we must—because the record deserves it.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

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

The content 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.

“Ack Ack” on the Record – When the Martians Took Over the Courtroom

Picture this: the honorable Judge Zog presiding, a Martian witness nervously twitching its bulbous brain folds on the stand, and a stenographer at the corner machine, furiously tapping away as the witness blurts, “Ack. Ack ack, ack. Ack ack.”

The court reporter doesn’t flinch. After all, it’s not the strangest thing she’s ever heard in a courtroom. But she wonders: How on Mars am I supposed to punctuate that?

The cartoon is funny because it’s absurd—but the absurdity hides a truth. Every day, across America’s courtrooms, we are witnessing our own slow-motion alien invasion. Only this time, the invaders don’t have ray guns or flying saucers. They come disguised as “efficiency,” “innovation,” and “cost reduction.” They come with glowing promises of artificial intelligence, automated speech recognition, and digital “court reporting solutions.”

And like the Martians, they all speak a strange language—one that sounds convincing until you read the transcript back and realize it’s gibberish.

The Martians Have Landed — and They’re Called ASR

The courtroom used to be a sanctuary of precision. Every word mattered. A misplaced comma could change a verdict; a missing adjective could reverse an appeal. The human court reporter was the silent guardian ensuring every “objection,” every pause, every “strike that” was captured faithfully.

Then came the aliens—software that promises to “listen better than humans,” and executives who swear it “understands context.” You’ve seen the brochures: “AI-powered accuracy! Real-time legal transcription! Next-generation justice delivery!”

But if you’ve ever read one of their transcripts, you know the truth: it’s “Ack ack, ack. Ack ack.”

The problem isn’t just that automated systems mishear words. It’s that they misunderstand meaning. They don’t know when sarcasm is dripping from an attorney’s voice, when a witness is whispering, or when the courtroom erupts in laughter that drowns out a crucial word. Machines don’t listen. They record noise. And then they pretend it’s truth.

The Cost of Gibberish

In the movie Mars Attacks!, the aliens’ “ack ack” sounds almost comedic—until they vaporize Congress. That’s a little how digital reporting feels to real stenographers. It starts with small intrusions: a pilot program here, a “temporary coverage solution” there. Then one morning, you find your entire profession replaced by a system that can’t tell the difference between “not guilty” and “now guilty.”

Judges often assume it’s cheaper. Clerks assume it’s fine. Administrators assume that because it’s AI, it must be smart. But transcripts riddled with errors aren’t just embarrassing—they’re dangerous. They erode trust in the record, in the justice process itself.

One court in New York found ASR transcripts so inaccurate they had to hire humans to review every word—at triple the cost. A Florida judge had to declare a mistrial when a digital recording system failed. Attorneys spend hours fixing “ack ack” into coherent sentences. And all the while, the real professionals—the human reporters who’ve dedicated years to mastering language—are told they’re obsolete.

Meanwhile, the Real Court Reporter Keeps Typing

Back in our Martian courtroom, the reporter adjusts her headset. She’s not intimidated by the bulb-headed witness. She’s a stenographer—trained to handle chaos with precision.

She writes at 225 words per minute, punctuates on instinct, and can repeat verbatim what was said five minutes ago because her brain is wired for recall. When the judge interrupts, she marks it cleanly. When the attorney stammers, she captures it faithfully.

She doesn’t just record. She interprets the soundscape of justice.

That’s something no algorithm can do. Because stenography is more than typing fast—it’s human cognition, empathy, and context awareness compressed into keys and chords. Court reporters read people as much as they read words. They can tell when someone’s voice cracks from fear or deception. They understand nuance, tone, irony—things no neural net has ever truly grasped.

Lost in Translation

In the cartoon, we laugh because everyone in the courtroom seems to understand the “Ack ack.” The judge nods. The attorney objects. The witness continues. It’s a perfect parody of modern bureaucracy—systems functioning flawlessly on nonsense.

That’s where we’re headed if we keep replacing skilled humans with machines that merely approximate comprehension.

Imagine appealing a conviction where the transcript reads:

“ACK (indiscernible) objection sustain—(inaudible)—jury laughter.”

That’s not a record. That’s a liability.

And yet, these garbled transcripts are quietly being filed every day across states experimenting with digital recording. Behind each “ack ack” is a witness whose story may never be understood as intended, an attorney whose arguments are misrepresented, a judge whose words are twisted by acoustic distortion.

Justice isn’t supposed to sound like static.

The Language of Truth Is Human

What makes language meaningful isn’t sound—it’s intention. When a human court reporter takes down testimony, they’re not just converting phonemes into text; they’re preserving intentionality. They can distinguish between “yes” (defiant) and “yes” (defeated). They can clarify if someone said “I didn’t shoot him” or “I didn’t shoot him.”

Machines can’t.

That’s why stenography has survived every technological “revolution” for over a century. From shorthand pads to tape recorders to voice recognition, the human element remains irreplaceable. Because language isn’t binary—it’s emotional, contextual, alive.

And yet, courts are being seduced by the illusion that “good enough” is good enough. That accuracy can be sacrificed for convenience. That the sacred record of justice can be entrusted to the same technology that still autocorrects “its” and “it’s” incorrectly.

What Happens When the Record Becomes a Joke

If you zoom out, that cartoon isn’t just a courtroom gag—it’s a warning. The Martians aren’t foreign invaders. They’re us, when we stop caring about meaning.

When we let bureaucratic efficiency replace human understanding, we become the aliens—talking in nonsense, nodding in agreement, pretending it all makes sense.

The courtroom is supposed to be the temple of truth. Every word uttered there carries the weight of law, precedent, and consequence. And yet, in too many courtrooms today, truth is being filtered through microphones, cloud servers, and proprietary software that no one can audit.

It’s not just a matter of technology—it’s a matter of democracy. The record is the foundation of appeal, accountability, and public trust. When that record becomes “ack ack,” so does justice.

Final Transcript

As the Martian witness finishes, the attorney smirks, the judge bangs the gavel, and the reporter pauses, fingers poised above the keys.

She sighs and writes:

“Witness: unintelligible.”

Because sometimes, even the best reporter can’t make sense of nonsense.

But we can still laugh—because cartoons let us. They let us process our collective anxiety about where the world is heading. Yet beneath the laughter lies a serious question: When the language of justice becomes unintelligible, who will translate truth back into words?

Hopefully, not an alien.

Where Your CEU Dollars Go – Choosing State Associations and Nonprofits That Reinvest in the Profession

There comes a point in every court reporter’s career when the shine of the profession gives way to the reckoning. We look around and realize that the industry we pledged to uphold is being pulled in too many directions, its integrity strained by forces that do not share our values or understand our craft. In that moment, the question becomes not how loudly we complain, but how thoughtfully we choose who and what we support.

For decades, I have watched reporters work long hours, pass punishing certification tests, master realtime, endure impossible scheduling, and still show up with professionalism and precision. We do this not for glamour, but because we believe in the sanctity of the record. That belief, however, is increasingly being tested by a flood of glossy marketing, self-appointed saviors, and organizations more interested in brand-building than in preserving the profession itself.

Every year we are asked to pay dues, attend conferences, enroll in continuing education, and donate our time and money to causes that claim to champion stenography. The invitations arrive dressed in urgency. The messaging warns us that if we do not act now, we will be left behind, uninformed, irrelevant. The tone is seductive, sometimes even shaming. It leans heavily on fear, belonging, and loyalty rather than on transparency and substance.

This is where discernment matters.

When you send your hard-earned money to an organization, you are not simply purchasing access to an event or a certificate. You are endorsing a structure, a mission, and a set of priorities. You are deciding whether your investment fuels the collective future of court reporting or quietly supports someone else’s personal enterprise.

State and national associations were not created as vanity vehicles. They exist to represent us, to advocate on our behalf, to protect regulation, standards, and certification, and to serve as the institutional backbone of our profession. These organizations may not always be fashionable. Their committees may move slowly. Their politics can be frustrating. Yet they are governed by bylaws, subject to nonprofit law, required to disclose financials, and accountable to membership.

When they generate revenue, whether through dues, conventions, or continuing education, that money is reinvested into advocacy efforts, training, student outreach, scholarship programs, professional development, and the unglamorous but critical work of preserving stenography’s legitimacy within the legal system. That is not an abstraction; it is the infrastructure that keeps our seats in courtrooms from disappearing entirely.

Contrast this with the growing landscape of personality-driven ventures marketed as movements. Branded retreats, exclusive masterminds, “inner circles,” and influencer-style events now saturate our professional space. The language is aspirational and emotionally charged. The visuals are polished. The promises are grand. But behind the carefully curated aesthetic often lies a simple reality: revenue flows upward, not back into the profession.

There is a difference between education and monetization disguised as community. There is a difference between leadership and a personal empire built on the labor and loyalty of reporters who believe they are buying into preservation rather than profit.

Continuing education is a prime example of this fork in the road. Reporters must earn CEUs to maintain licensure, yet not all CEUs serve the same purpose beyond compliance. Education offered through legitimate nonprofit associations is structured, reviewed, approved, and aligned with ethical standards. It builds skill, reinforces professionalism, and strengthens the collective knowledge base of the field. The funds generated are channeled back into the ecosystem of court reporting itself.

When education is marketed as a premium lifestyle experience or an exclusive brand moment, the benefit often narrows. The focus shifts away from strengthening the profession and toward elevating the persona of the organizer. That may be a profitable business model, but let us be honest about what it is. It is not preservation. It is commerce.

This does not mean that all for-profit ventures are inherently malicious. It means they deserve scrutiny and clarity. It means reporters have the right to ask who profits, how, and whether those profits serve the collective good or simply sustain an individual platform.

A seasoned reporter learns to follow the money, not the spotlight.

Before committing to any organization, program, or event, it is reasonable to ask whether it is a nonprofit or a private business. It is appropriate to inquire about board structure, financial transparency, and oversight. It is prudent to explore where revenues are allocated and whether they feed advocacy, education, and sustainability for stenographers as a whole.

Reputable organizations do not bristle at these questions. They welcome them. They answer them. They publish the answers openly. That transparency is not an inconvenience; it is a hallmark of legitimacy.

What should concern every reporter is the normalization of emotional pressure tactics masquerading as professional opportunity. Urgency. Exclusivity. Loyalty tests. Social media campaigns that resemble lifestyle branding more than institutional advocacy. These are tools of persuasion, not proof of mission.

You are not failing your profession by declining to participate in something that does not align with your values. You are not betraying your peers by refusing to be swept into every new trend that promises salvation. You are exercising stewardship.

Stewardship, in this context, means remembering that court reporting is not a social club or a marketing niche. It is a profession grounded in precision, neutrality, and accountability. It exists to serve the integrity of the legal record, not to feed the optics of inspiration.

We owe it to ourselves, and to the next generation of reporters, to protect the institutions that still fight for us at legislative tables, in regulatory hearings, and inside the corridors of power. That protection does not come from flashy branding. It comes from sustained support of organizations that put the profession above individual recognition.

This is not about vilifying ambition or innovation. It is about proportionality and honesty. Support the groups that demonstrably reinvest in the profession. Prioritize CEUs that strengthen collective competence. Reward transparency. Demand accountability. Question narratives that position one personality as the singular savior of an industry built on thousands of disciplined professionals.

The culture of FOMO has no place in a profession built on measured precision. Fear of missing out should never override discernment, nor should polished imagery eclipse the practical reality of where your money travels after the applause fades.

Every dollar you spend is a vote. Every endorsement is a signal. Every registration confirms a direction.

Make those choices with intention. Choose organizations that protect your license, your livelihood, and the legacy of stenographic integrity. Choose education that builds the profession rather than monetizes its panic. Choose transparency over charisma and substance over spectacle.

Saving court reporting does not happen in curated photo ops or exclusive circles. It happens in advocacy rooms, legislative chambers, classrooms, and courtrooms, where seasoned professionals continue to defend a craft that deserves better than commodification.

We are not merely participants in this industry. We are its guardians. And guardians ask questions before they write checks.

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.

Not All Heroes Wear Capes — Some Wear “Stenographer” Lanyards

When a photo of two surgeons collapsed on the operating room floor went viral, the world was moved.
After performing a 32-hour brain surgery to save a patient’s life, Dr. Dai and Dr. Tian of the First Affiliated Hospital of Fujian Medical University in China finally let themselves rest — right where they had stood for over a day. They had fought exhaustion, hunger, and sleep deprivation to repair a life-threatening aneurysm. When the operation succeeded, they stabilized the patient and then simply… collapsed.

That image — two heroes in scrubs lying motionless on the cold floor — became a symbol of human perseverance and sacrifice. No applause, no spotlight, no luxury of rest. Just duty.

But What About the Professions That Never Get to Collapse?

For those of us in the world of stenographic court reporting, that image resonated on a deeply personal level. Not because we’ve performed surgery, but because we’ve lived our own version of 32-hour marathons — only ours don’t end in a single heroic moment.

For court reporters, the long hours are not an exception. They’re the rhythm of our profession.

I’ve just finished a week of 16-hour days — transcribing complex trials, preparing same-day and next-day transcripts, operating under relentless deadlines with two-minute “breaks” during recesses (if that), sometimes skipping meals entirely. After a 10-hour day in court, I often work until 2:00, even 4:00 a.m., formatting, proofing, and certifying transcripts.
Then, at sunrise, it starts all over again.

The surgeons fought through 32 hours once. We do it every week.

The Invisible Marathon

Doctors like Dr. Dai and Dr. Tian save lives. Court reporters protect truth — one word, one comma, one inflection at a time.
We capture every syllable that shapes justice, preserving the official record that can decide a person’s freedom, a company’s future, or a family’s fate.
We are the quiet witnesses to history, working in real time, knowing there are no redos and no room for error.

There’s a kind of endurance that doesn’t end with collapse — it just resets with the morning alarm. No one photographs us dozing off at the keyboard, or grabbing five hours of sleep before another day of testimony. But our commitment is every bit as real.
No one viralizes the exhaustion of a stenographer who hasn’t seen daylight in three days because discovery deadlines and daily trials collided.

And yet, we keep showing up — every single day — to protect the record.

We don’t wear scrubs.
We don’t wear capes.
We wear stenographer lanyards — the quiet badge of our oath to accuracy, integrity, and resilience.

Our stenographer lanyards may not look like much to the outside world — just a badge, a credential, a strip of nylon we throw over our neck each morning. But to us, it represents access, trust, and responsibility. It’s our unspoken uniform, our silent credential that says: I am the keeper of the record. Every time we walk into a courtroom, that lanyard is our cape — a symbol not of status, but of service. We wear it with pride, not because it grants authority, but because it reminds us of the weight of every word we capture.

Respect Where It’s Due

This isn’t to diminish what those surgeons did. Their 32-hour feat was extraordinary — a testament to human willpower. But for court reporters, that intensity is our baseline.
It’s not one heroic operation; it’s a career built on stamina, precision, and total accountability.

Because while we may not save a life, we preserve truth — and truth, too, has the power to save lives.

So yes, not all heroes wear capes.
Some wear scrubs.
And some wear “Stenographer” lanyards, typing 300 words per minute while carrying the weight of the legal world in their hands — and never missing a beat.

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 Weight of Watching- A Court Reporter’s Reflection When Justice Falters

Courtrooms are built on the promise of fairness. Every participant, from the judge to the attorneys to the jurors, is part of a system designed to evaluate facts and apply the law. Yet there is another professional in the room whose role is often overlooked: the court reporter. We are the guardians of the record, charged with capturing every word accurately and neutrally. We are present for every moment, yet we must remain invisible.

As court reporters, we occupy a unique vantage point. We do not argue, decide, or influence. We observe. We listen to testimony from inches away, watch the jury from across the room, and see how counsel interacts not only with the evidence, but with one another. We understand the rhythm of a trial, and we recognize when something aligns with the norms and safeguards of the adversarial system. We also recognize when something does not.

In some trials, concerns arise regarding the impartiality of a juror. At times, new information may emerge suggesting a personal connection between a juror and an individual associated with one of the parties. When this happens, the legal process provides a clear and well-established safeguard: the court should conduct a brief and neutral inquiry to determine whether the juror can remain fair and unbiased. This is a routine measure intended to protect the integrity of the trial.

When such an inquiry is not conducted, the situation becomes more complex. The jury may proceed to deliberations with unresolved questions regarding impartiality. In some instances, deliberations may be unusually brief, leaving doubt as to whether the evidence was fully considered or whether the jury discussed the issues before reaching a decision. The legitimacy of any verdict rests not only on the outcome, but on the process that produced it.

Court reporters do not evaluate or influence these events, but we do witness them. We observe the proceedings closely, including the interactions and decision-making dynamics present in the courtroom. Our role is to record the record faithfully, not to interpret behavior or intention. But when the procedural safeguards designed to ensure fairness are not exercised, the weight of that moment is felt, even if it remains unspoken.

These experiences can leave a deep and lasting impression. Court reporters are trained to be neutral, but neutrality does not mean lack of awareness. We know the rules of evidence, the expectations of voir dire, the purpose of jury instructions, and the importance of deliberation. We are present for the mechanics of justice every day. When those mechanics break down, the disruption is not theoretical—it is observable, direct, and immediate.

The emotional weight of that position is rarely discussed. Our profession expects composure, steadiness, and the ability to maintain silence. We cannot object. We cannot suggest. We cannot correct. We carry our understanding privately, even when what we have watched feels inconsistent with the values the system is supposed to uphold.

This is not about who won the case. Verdicts favor one side and not the other; that is the nature of litigation. What matters is whether the process that produced the result was fair, transparent, and consistent with the rules that protect impartiality. When the court does not evaluate potential juror bias and deliberation is limited in scope or duration, the reliability of the process can come into question. This speaks less to the verdict itself and more to the legitimacy of the procedure that produced it.

When Judicial Gatekeeping Fails

The justice system depends on the careful examination of potential bias. When that examination does not occur, even the appearance of fairness can be affected, influencing how the process is experienced and remembered.

The integrity of a trial relies not only on the conduct of jurors and attorneys, but on the vigilance of the judge, who is tasked with safeguarding the fairness of the proceedings. The law is clear: when credible information arises suggesting that a juror may not be impartial, the court has a duty to conduct a reasonable inquiry. This duty is not discretionary. It is foundational to the right to an unbiased jury.

The justice system relies on a built-in mechanism to address potential juror bias: judicial inquiry. It is a simple, well-established safeguard intended to protect the fairness of the proceedings. When this safeguard is not utilized, the assurance of impartiality becomes harder to maintain, and confidence in the outcome may be affected.

Judicial misconduct is often discussed in dramatic terms: bribery, intimidation, or overt abuse of authority. But misconduct can also take the form of failure to act when the law requires action. This is judicial misconduct in the form of failure to uphold required judicial duties. When a judge refuses to inquire into potential juror bias, the fairness of the trial is compromised before deliberations even begin.

When questions about juror impartiality are left unresolved, the role of judicial oversight becomes especially significant. The court’s responsibility includes ensuring that the jury is able to deliberate free from any reasonable concerns of bias. When these safeguards are not engaged, the reliability of the process itself can be called into question. The concern is not simply the outcome of the case, but the confidence the public places in the fairness of the system.

The Weight on the Attorneys

There is another layer to the pain of watching a trial end this way, one that is rarely recognized outside the legal profession. Many civil plaintiff attorneys work on a contingency basis. They do not bill their clients hourly. They front every expense associated with litigating the case — expert witnesses, depositions, investigations, document review, transcript preparation, exhibit creation, and trial presentation costs. In some cases, those expenses alone can reach hundreds of thousands of dollars, even before any attorney time is considered.

Financial stakes can be enormous in civil trials. I have seen post-trial cost motions where the court reporter and transcript fees alone exceeded $200,000. Expert witness fees, deposition transcripts from multiple sessions, and trial exhibits add quickly. Plaintiff attorneys often mortgage their homes or borrow against their retirement savings to finance cases they believe in. They do this because they trust the system — they believe that if they present the truth clearly and fairly, the process will protect their client.

When a jury reaches a decision without the benefit of a fully resolved inquiry into potential bias, the result carries consequences that reach far beyond the verdict alone; the loss is not merely emotional. It is financial, existential, and deeply personal. These attorneys did not simply lose a case. They lost the case they believed justified risking their stability, their practice, and sometimes their financial security. And if costs are awarded against them, they may now owe the defendant a portion of the defense’s legal expenses as well. In some matters, I have seen these awards reach three million dollars or more.

For many attorneys, the justice system is not merely a profession but a calling rooted in a belief in fairness, truth, and the rule of law. When the process appears to fall short of those ideals, it can shake that belief in profound ways. The attorney who has invested years of labor, personal conviction, and financial commitment in seeking justice for a client may feel as though the foundation beneath that work has shifted. It is not only the loss of a case that weighs heavily, but the loss of confidence that the system will protect the principles it claims to uphold. Such moments can test not only professional faith, but personal and spiritual faith as well — raising difficult questions about how to continue to advocate in a system that did not align with the values that inspired the work in the first place.

The public rarely sees this part. They see the attorney in the suit, not the line of credit behind them. They see closing argument, not the personal guarantees signed to finance expert testimony. They see a verdict slip, not the mortgage payment the attorney must now figure out how to make. When the process does not work as it should, the attorneys who tried to protect their client do not simply walk away and try again. They feel the loss on every level — professional, financial, and human.

And as the court reporter, I see this too. I see the shoulders drop. I see the silence after the courtroom empties. I see the attorneys gathering boxes that represent years of belief and work. I cannot speak to them in that moment. I cannot offer opinion or comfort. I preserve the record. And I feel the weight of what has happened.

Court reporters see the justice system at its best: when jurors take their responsibility seriously, when counsel advocates ethically, and when judges ensure procedural safeguards are honored. We also see the system when those safeguards falter. And when that happens, we feel it. Not outwardly. Not in the transcript. But internally, in the understanding that the public’s trust in the legal system is delicate and must be protected carefully.

The role of the court reporter requires emotional discipline, but it does not remove our humanity. We believe in fairness because we see how much effort goes into pursuing it. We expect the system to function because we know what it looks like when it does. When it does not, the impact lingers. We carry it home with us. We remember.

When the system breaks down, the consequences ripple outward. Plaintiffs lose their chance at redress. Defendants lose the legitimacy of a verdict. And the attorneys who risked their financial and professional stability to pursue justice are left with the weight of enormous litigation costs and the knowledge that the process failed them. Court reporters, though silent, witness these impacts. We cannot intervene, but we carry the memory of what we saw — the moment when the system, which is meant to protect fairness, did not.

Yet experiences like this underscore a broader truth: the justice system must function as it promises to function. Judicial responsibility is not symbolic — it is a necessary pillar of fairness. When concerns about juror impartiality arise, they must be examined. When judges decline to protect the integrity of the proceeding, the legitimacy of the verdict suffers, and with it, public trust.

This is why a robust judicial system is not merely ideal — it is essential. One that upholds the principles of impartiality, integrity, and adherence to the rule of law. Judges must be held accountable for their decisions, especially when those decisions affect the fairness of the trial process. Mechanisms should exist to ensure transparency and consistency, not just in dramatic cases, but in the quiet, everyday trials that shape real lives.

Only through the diligent and unwavering pursuit of justice — free from personal bias, complacency, and institutional inertia — can the judiciary maintain the confidence of the public it serves. When fairness is honored, trust is strengthened. When it is not, the consequences extend far beyond a single verdict. They echo in the lives of those who were asked to place their faith in the system, and in those of us who witnessed how that faith was tested.

This is the quiet burden of bearing witness to justice, not only when it works, but also when it does not.

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 Stenographer Who Named a Legend – How Lillian Bounds Disney Gave Mickey Mouse His Name

Every cultural icon has an origin story, but few are as delightfully unexpected as the tale of how Mickey Mouse—arguably the most recognizable animated character in the world—received his name. For nearly a century, Mickey has symbolized optimism, imagination, and the magic of storytelling. His birthday, celebrated globally each November, brings fans back to his 1928 debut in Steamboat Willie, when a cheerful whistling mouse changed entertainment forever.

But behind that transformation lies the influence of someone rarely mentioned in the history books: Lillian Marie Bounds Disney, an Idaho-born stenographer whose off-hand suggestion reshaped the future of the Walt Disney Company—and pop culture itself.

From Lewiston, Idaho, to the Birth of an Empire

Lillian Bounds was born in 1899 in Spalding, Idaho, a small community near Lewiston on the Nez Perce reservation. Her upbringing wasn’t glamorous or connected to Hollywood. She came from modest means, and in 1923—seeking greater opportunity—she moved to Los Angeles, a city then blossoming with possibility in the early motion picture era.

Her first break was not as an actress, writer, or animator, but as a stenographer, a role women commonly held in the early 20th century. She worked at Disney Brothers Studio, performing ink-and-paint duties and secretarial work. It was that skillset—precision, speed, sharp memory, attention to detail—that placed her directly in the orbit of a young, ambitious Walt Disney.

Lillian’s stenographic talents made her indispensable to the scrappy, growing studio. But no one could have anticipated that her influence would stretch far beyond clerical work—that her instincts would help name the character who would define an entertainment empire.

From Mortimer to Mickey – A Name That Changed History

According to the Walt Disney Archives, Walt originally intended to name his new character “Mortimer Mouse.” It was the late 1920s—Walt had faced financial difficulties, lost control of earlier creations like Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, and desperately needed a winning idea. While sketching an energetic little mouse, he shared his concept and proposed name with Lillian.

Her reaction was swift and honest.

Mortimer, she felt, sounded too gloomy, too pretentious for a cheerful, spirited character who would appeal to children and families. It lacked warmth. It lacked charm. It lacked fun.

She suggested another name: Mickey.

Short, musical, lively—Mickey Mouse suddenly came alive with personality. Walt agreed. In that moment, a character was born. The world’s most iconic mouse owes his name not to an animator, producer, or executive, but to a stenographer from Idaho with a keen intuitive sense for storytelling.

A Marriage and a Partnership in Creativity

Walt and Lillian married in 1925, before Mickey’s debut, at her brother’s home roughly 30 miles south of Moscow, Idaho. Their relationship was famously affectionate, full of teasing, wit, and mutual respect. While Walt was the visionary, Lillian was the grounded voice who often kept him balanced. She famously pushed back when ideas felt wrong or names felt off—Mortimer being Exhibit A.

In interviews over the years, Lillian often downplayed her contribution, simply saying she “didn’t think Mortimer suited him.” Yet that one creative instinct altered the course of Disney history.

It’s a reminder that innovation frequently springs from conversation, collaboration, and openness to feedback—skills stenographers embody daily. A stenographer must listen carefully, identify nuance, analyze tone, and observe subtleties others miss. Lillian listened to ideas the same way she listened to words in her work: with accuracy and perception.

The Stenographer’s Skillset That Shaped a Kingdom

There is something poetic about Mickey Mouse—a symbol of imagination—being named by a stenographer, a profession rooted in precision and record-keeping. Yet the connection is deeper than coincidence.

Stenographers are trained to:

Observe detail others overlook
Capture language with total accuracy
Understand human voice, tone, and rhythm
Respond instantly with judgment and clarity

In a rapidly growing animation studio, those skills were priceless. Lillian wasn’t simply jotting notes; she was absorbing the creative rhythm of a new era in filmmaking. She understood character, cadence, and emotional resonance. When she said “Mortimer” was wrong, she was picking up on something real—something millions of fans would instinctively understand decades later.

Much like court reporters and stenographers today who help uphold the integrity of legal records and public proceedings, Lillian saw and interpreted the world differently. Her ear for language shaped a global brand.

Idaho Roots, Hollywood Legacy

Lillian never forgot her Idaho upbringing, and Idaho never forgot her. Fans still visit properties connected to her early life. Local historians proudly note that a girl from a small Northwestern town helped name the most famous mouse on earth.

Her story is also a reminder that creativity is not confined to geography. World-changing ideas can—and often do—spring from the most unexpected places.

The Human Touch Behind the Magic

Lillian and Walt remained married until his death in 1966. She continued to preserve his legacy and the company’s heritage until her passing in 1997. Visitors to the Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California, often pay respects to both Walt and Lillian, acknowledging the partnership that shaped modern storytelling.

While Walt’s genius is undisputed, Lillian’s contributions deserve far more recognition. Behind the man whose name sits atop theme parks, movies, and a billion-dollar brand was a woman whose insights softened edges, added humanity, and in one crucial moment, changed “Mortimer” into “Mickey.”

Why Her Story Matters Today

Lillian Bounds Disney wasn’t an animator. She wasn’t a producer. She wasn’t a studio executive. She was a stenographer—a role historically dominated by women and too often overlooked in the archives of creative history.

Yet her voice helped define a character known to every child for nearly 100 years.

Her story shows that:

Creative contributions are not limited to job titles.
Listening is a powerful form of artistry.
Everyday roles can influence extraordinary outcomes.
Women’s insights have shaped entertainment in ways history often underestimates.

For stenographers—especially those fighting to protect their profession today—Lillian’s story is a reminder of the profound impact a single voice can have.

A Legacy Written in Ink and Imagination

When Mickey Mouse’s birthday rolls around each November, the world celebrates Walt Disney’s genius, the animation milestones, and the joy the character continues to bring. But woven into that celebration is the quieter legacy of the Idaho stenographer who gave the world a better name—one that felt warm, friendly, and full of possibility.

“Mickey Mouse” didn’t just become a character. He became an icon.

And it all started with the intuition of Lillian Bounds Disney, a stenographer who understood that stories—and names—matter.

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 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 Membership Wall Around Opportunity – NCRA’s New Jobs Board Restriction Raises Questions in a Shrinking Profession

The National Court Reporters Association (NCRA), the largest professional organization representing stenographic court reporters in the United States, has quietly implemented a policy restricting access to its online Jobs Board, making job listings visible only to dues-paying members. Non-member reporters — estimated at more than 13,000 nationally — are now blocked from viewing officialship vacancies posted through the association’s primary employment portal.

The change, which does not appear to have been publicly announced in a formal statement or general membership communication, has raised questions among working reporters and court administrators at a time when the profession is facing widespread staffing shortages in court systems nationwide.

The move comes as state courts report significant vacancy rates among official court reporter positions. In California, nearly every county lists unfilled officialships. Texas has reported multi-year recruiting gaps. The Judicial Branch in Arizona has openly acknowledged courtroom delays due to insufficient court reporter staffing. Multiple states have enacted emergency measures — including hiring bonuses and relocation incentives — to attract credentialed stenographers.

Against this backdrop, some members of the profession are questioning why the national trade association would narrow rather than widen the recruitment channel.

“This effectively cuts the employment pool. It restricts access to work in a profession already suffering from understaffing,” said one veteran reporter in correspondence shared with StenoImperium. “The policy appears to conflict with NCRA’s stated advocacy goal of preserving the role of the official court reporter.”

A Quiet Shift in Access

The Jobs Board login screen now displays the message:

“Job listings are visible only to NCRA members and approved advertisers.”

Based on archived versions of the site (as accessed through third-party internet archives), job listings appear to have been publicly viewable in prior years, including throughout periods when the association publicly emphasized recruitment and training pipeline expansion. The exact date of the policy change remains unclear. No dated announcement appears on NCRA’s website, newsroom, or in recent board meeting reports.

Attempts to confirm the implementation date through NCRA have not yet been met with an official response.

Membership Incentive or Restriction of Trade?

Professional associations commonly create “member benefits” to justify dues. Exclusive job boards are not unusual in sectors such as law, academia, or specialized engineering fields. However, unlike those markets — where multiple large employment platforms exist — stenographic court reporting has only a handful of centralized job distribution channels. The NCRA Jobs Board has historically been the most visible of them.

Court reporter employment is also unique in another respect: state certification — not association membership — is the qualifying credential to work. Limiting job access based on membership status therefore does not reflect differences in skill or licensing. It reflects only whether a reporter pays annual dues to a specific organization.

This raises questions about whether the restriction could constrain hiring administrators — particularly those in publicly funded court systems — who now reach a smaller pool when advertising vacancies through what was previously the most comprehensive national listing.

If a judicial branch posts a vacancy through NCRA (as many routinely do), but the posting is not visible to non-members, qualified reporters may never see the job — even in high-need areas.

Economic Context: A Profession Under Pressure

The stenographic profession has been contending with:

Aging workforce demographics
Declining enrollment in stenography schools
Aggressive lobbying and marketing by digital recording and AI transcription companies
Legislative battles over funding, officialship retention, and mandatory reporter presence in courtrooms

In many states, official court reporter jobs have been quietly eliminated or converted to electronic recording. The NCRA has positioned itself publicly as a defender of stenographic official roles, arguing that human reporters ensure accuracy, accountability, and evidentiary reliability.

This makes the Jobs Board restriction especially notable. Opponents argue that reducing access to jobs — even indirectly — could accelerate workforce contraction by limiting entry opportunities for newer, non-affiliated, or returning reporters.

Supporters of the policy counter that increasing membership strengthens the association, which in turn funds lobbying and education essential to defending stenographic jobs in the long term.

Membership as a Gatekeeper

Membership in NCRA currently costs approximately $300 per year for credentialed reporters, with additional certification fees and continuing education requirements. For new reporters or reporters in low-paying freelance markets, the cost can be a barrier.

A newly licensed reporter who is not yet a member could now face the situation where:

A court has an officialship vacancy
The job is only posted to the NCRA Jobs Board
The reporter cannot see or apply for it without first purchasing membership

This dynamic has led some professionals to describe the change as a form of employment gatekeeping.

“We are facing a shortage. Why would we hide jobs?” asked one former official reporter who now trains students. “If the mission is to keep official reporters in courtrooms, access should be open — not paywalled.”

Impact on Courts Themselves

Court administrators appear largely unaware of the visibility restriction.

In interviews conducted for this report, two court HR officials in separate states confirmed they believed job postings on the NCRA board were viewable to the full reporter community. Both expressed concern upon learning of the visibility limitation.

One administrator said:

“If we cannot reach non-member qualified reporters, we would reconsider where we post.”

An Unsettled Debate

The question now facing the profession is not simply whether the policy is beneficial for NCRA’s membership model, but whether it aligns with the profession’s survival strategy.

In a labor-short market, where the risk is not reporter job scarcity but rather court reporter scarcity, transparency and open access to employment may be fundamentally tied to the long-term preservation of stenographic officialships.

The decision appears to set up a defining tension:

Strengthening the association vs. strengthening the workforce.

Whether these objectives can be aligned — or whether one is being prioritized at the expense of the other — remains an open, pressing question.

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 Best Court Reporter Chair I’ve Ever Owned – the Herman Miller Embody

I have worked in the court reporting profession since 2003. Over the course of my career, I have reported trials, depositions, hearings, arbitrations, and proceedings in both traditional courtrooms and modern remote platforms. Court reporting is a profession that demands sustained focus, precise motor control, and physical stillness for long periods of time. The ergonomics of that reality are not widely understood. Most people assume court reporters simply “sit and type.” Those who have done the job know that the act of holding concentrated, immobile posture for hours at a time places consistent strain on the back, shoulders, hips, neck, and hands. The chair we sit in is not incidental to the job. It is central to our ability to perform it.

Throughout my career, I have encountered a recurring and universally familiar experience among reporters: courtroom chair roulette. Unlike clerks, judicial assistants, and other courtroom personnel, who typically have the opportunity to select or request supportive seating, court reporters often end up with whatever chair remains after everyone else has chosen. I have been assigned chairs with no functioning height adjustment, chairs whose backs either leaned permanently backward or provided no resistance at all, chairs with stiff or intrusive armrests that restricted positioning at the stenographic machine, and chairs pulled from storage that appeared to have outlived multiple office renovations. In proceedings that last six hours or more without meaningful movement, the consequences of a poorly suited chair are not minor. They manifest in fatigue and discomfort that continue long after the courtroom session ends, often during transcript production later in the day.

After enough years of this, I made the decision to take the question of seating into my own hands. I invested in a Herman Miller Embody chair—an investment I made more than eleven years ago. It remains the best equipment purchase I have made in my career.

The Embody is distinct from many other chairs marketed as ergonomic. Rather than holding the user in a fixed alignment, the chair is designed around the movement of the spine. The backrest incorporates a flexible support structure that responds to shifts in posture, distributing pressure evenly rather than concentrating it in the lower back or shoulders. This matters specifically for court reporters, who typically sit in a slightly forward position at their machines rather than in a reclined, keyboard-oriented posture. The Embody supports that forward orientation without collapsing, slouching, or encouraging compensation elsewhere in the body.

One of the first modifications I made to my chair was removing the armrests. For stenographic work, armrests are more hindrance than assistance. Removing them on many chairs results in a loss of balance or stability. The Embody remains structurally sound and fully supportive without them, which underscores the integrity of the design.

The most remarkable feature of this chair, however, is not evident in the first month of use but rather over time. After more than 11 years of daily sitting—often for extended transcript production sessions of ten, twelve, or even eighteen hours—the chair has not deteriorated. The cushioning has not compressed. The backrest has not loosened. The tilt and tension mechanisms operate with the same smooth responsiveness they did when it arrived. The fabric has held up, and the overall structure is unchanged. In an era where most office chairs last three to five years before replacement becomes necessary, the Embody’s longevity is significant. When considered on a year-by-year basis, the cost of the chair becomes comparable to or lower than many consumer office chairs that wear out and need replacement on a regular cycle.

An unexpected cultural footnote to the Embody arrived in 2014, when the chair appeared in the film Lucy, in a scene featuring Scarlett Johansson. The movie’s portrayal of heightened cognitive ability and advanced awareness lent the chair a distinct visual association: efficient, purposeful, and modern. While cinematic appearance is not a factor in ergonomic performance, the visual recognition underscores a point about design. This is not a chair that resembles traditional office seating. It looks contemporary because it is engineered differently. It was not designed to fit into an office—it was designed to support the human body at work.

For court reporters, the implications of ergonomics are not abstract. Our longevity in the profession is directly related to how well we care for our musculoskeletal health. Repetitive stress injuries, nerve compression, shoulder and neck tension, and lower back strain are all risks that grow over time if posture and seated support are not managed intentionally. The Embody has allowed me to work long days during trials and extended transcript production periods without the physical exhaustion I experienced earlier in my career. The absence of pain is not just comfort—it is an extension of career viability.

The decision to invest in supportive seating is often postponed because chairs are not perceived as essential equipment. Yet for court reporters, the chair is the environment in which the entirety of our work is performed. It is the foundation upon which our physical endurance rests. The Herman Miller Embody has proven, over more than a decade of daily use, that it is not simply a comfortable chair. It is a functional asset that protects the body required to perform this profession.

For those entering the field or those who have been in it as long as I have, my recommendation is direct: invest in the chair that will sustain your work and preserve your physical well-being over time. For me, that chair is the Herman Miller Embody. It has served me longer, and more reliably, than any other piece of equipment I own.

A Note on Timing – The Chair Is Currently Discounted

The Herman Miller Embody is not inexpensive, and it is rarely discounted. At the time of this writing, the chair is being offered at approximately 25% off for the Thanksgiving and Black Friday sales period, reducing the price from about $2,045 to roughly $1,533. The Embody is a product that does not cycle through aggressive promotions, so reductions of this kind are notable. For court reporters who have considered investing in supportive seating but have postponed the purchase due to cost, this may represent an advantageous moment. A chair that will be used daily for the next decade or more is not comparable to a typical holiday sale item. It is, in this case, the one purchase that has the potential to materially influence long-term physical health and professional sustainability.

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.

Your Journey. Your Way. Flawlessly.

A private jet cuts across the skyline, banking toward a city rising from the desert. The horizon is open. The route is chosen. The movement is deliberate. The image is aspirational, but the message behind it has become increasingly relevant to a profession historically defined by structure and routine: court reporting.

Court reporters have long been viewed as stationary participants in the legal system — seated beside the bench, present at counsel’s table, or placed quietly behind a deposition conference-room desk. Yet the foundation of the work has never been still. Court reporting has always been dynamic, adaptive, and mobile. The work follows testimony, not architecture. It follows people, not buildings. And today, more reporters are realizing that their careers can do the same.

The court reporting profession is undergoing a period of visible transition. Retirements outpace new licensees. Agencies consolidate. Technology advances. Remote proceedings alter geography and workflow. But while headlines often frame these changes as challenges, many reporters see them instead as expanded opportunity. The ability to choose where, when, and how to work has become more accessible than at any point in the field’s history.

The traditional court reporter of 30 years ago likely began in a courthouse or agency, stayed in one regional market, and retired from the same environment. Today, career paths diverge widely. A reporter may work depositions across three states, caption live sports broadcasts, handle high-stakes medical malpractice trials, teach emerging students remotely, or operate a boutique firm serving a selective client base. Some reporters travel internationally to cover arbitrations or proceedings in private tribunals. Others log in from home while balancing caregiving, family life, or additional professional endeavors.

What has not changed is the function: to produce a verbatim, certified, and legally reliable record. What has changed is the context in which that role can be performed.

The increasing flexibility in workflow has shifted attitudes within the profession as well. Reporters who once felt constrained by court calendars or agency scheduling now speak openly about choosing cases, setting boundaries, and prioritizing professional satisfaction. In conversations across industry groups, conferences, and continuing education sessions, reporters reference quality of life with the same seriousness once reserved for speed-building and dictionary management.

There is also a generational influence shaping the profession. Newer reporters, particularly those entering in their twenties and early thirties, place value on autonomy, travel, financial independence, and non-traditional work structures. They are less likely to view the profession as a static role and more likely to see it as a portable skill — one that allows them to pursue experience, location, and schedule according to personal priority rather than institutional assignment.

For many, this shift is not merely about lifestyle but about control. The legal system has always depended on accuracy. The court reporter remains the only witness to the witness, the only person in the room whose role requires simultaneous listening, judgment, translation, and certification. That level of responsibility gives the reporter a unique position of professional agency. The craft cannot be automated in any legally reliable sense. Artificial intelligence can transcribe; it cannot verify. Audio recording can capture sound; it cannot distinguish speech, dialect, emphasis, or evidentiary context with legal accountability.

As courts, law firms, and litigants become increasingly aware of the stakes of the record — particularly in appeals, malpractice disputes, and evidentiary challenges — the reporter’s role becomes not only relevant but essential. Reporters who understand their value are better positioned to define the terms of their work.

Industry economists tracking freelance markets have noted a rise in independent contracting structures among reporters. Instead of long-term singular commitments, reporters form networks, collaborate across regional boundaries, and build direct relationships with attorneys and firms. Technology platforms now enable scheduling, connection, and client management without traditional intermediaries. For experienced reporters, this autonomy can lead to both professional satisfaction and increased earning potential.

However, independence comes with its own considerations. Without institutional structure, reporters must manage their own load balancing, marketing, client standards, and continuing education. For some, the courthouse remains the environment that best suits their professional rhythm: consistent hours, defined expectations, and steady workflow. The courthouse reporter provides stability and institutional memory in a system that relies heavily on continuity. The freelance reporter, by contrast, navigates variability, volume, and selective assignment. Both roles are integral. Both require mastery. And importantly, both are valid pathways within the profession.

The central theme emerging across the industry is not about leaving one structure for another. It is about recognizing and asserting professional choice.

This returns us to the image of the plane over the city. It is not a symbol of luxury or escape. It is a symbol of direction. The reporter at the controls is not adrift; they are navigating. They are aware of altitude, distance, and destination. And the view — wide, open, and illuminated — reflects not aspiration but possibility.

For students currently enrolled in stenographic programs, this perspective matters. The profession they are entering is not narrowing; it is expanding. They are not stepping into a static corridor; they are stepping into a skilled and respected craft with multiple viable futures. Their speed, discipline, and accuracy are the entry requirements. Their journey afterward is adjustable.

For veteran reporters nearing later stages of their careers, this shift offers something equally meaningful: the opportunity to mentor, to guide, and to shape the next generation. Experience is not replaced when new technology arrives; it becomes more valuable. The profession benefits when institutional memory is passed forward rather than retired silently.

The essence of court reporting remains unchanged. The job is to listen carefully, record precisely, and protect the integrity of the spoken word. But the profession no longer dictates where or how that contribution must occur. The decisions belong to the reporter.

Your journey — the professional path you build.
Your way — the structure that suits your strengths and life.
Flawlessly — the standard of excellence that has always defined this field.

In the end, court reporting is not just a career. It is a craft of attention, skill, and responsibility. And like the aircraft banking into open sky, it moves where the pilot directs it.

The profession does not need reinvention.
It simply needs permission — from within — to expand.

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 Next Evolution in Court Reporting: How Technology Is Closing the Payment Gap

“Payment collection is one of the biggest reasons reporters have historically relied on agencies. But that’s about to change.”

For decades, agencies have justified their middle-man role in the court-reporting industry with one simple argument: They handle the business side so reporters can just report. And at the center of that business side has always been payment collection—the messy, time-consuming, and often frustrating process of billing attorneys, following up on invoices, and chasing checks that never arrive on time.

But just as software has transformed every other aspect of the litigation workflow—from e-filing to exhibits to scheduling—the final frontier of independence for stenographers is now within reach: automated, secure, tech-enabled payments.

The Historical Dependence: Agencies as Financial Intermediaries

The traditional model made sense for its time. Court reporting agencies stepped in to provide what individual reporters often couldn’t easily access on their own—billing infrastructure and financial cushioning.

When a reporter covered a deposition, the agency would bill the client, manage accounts receivable, and pay the reporter weeks (or months) later after collecting from the law firm. It wasn’t ideal, but it created predictability. Reporters got paid eventually, and agencies absorbed the risk.

That system also locked reporters into dependency. Agencies controlled not just who got the work, but when—and whether—they got paid. And because agencies managed the invoices and client relationships, the reporter’s name was often invisible in the billing process.

The result? Skilled professionals doing high-stakes work while surrendering financial autonomy to intermediaries.

The Technology Shift: Automation Is Replacing Administrative Overhead

Fast-forward to the modern SaaS era.
Today’s platform-based ecosystems are reshaping how services are booked, verified, and paid. Think about what has already been automated:

Scheduling: Reporters now receive real-time job notifications, accept assignments, and confirm details through intelligent matching algorithms.
Production: Transcripts can be uploaded, formatted, and delivered digitally with version tracking and built-in client access controls.
Communication: All communication trails—confirmations, changes, file transfers—are automatically logged in a secure portal.

So why not payments?

The same architecture that makes scheduling seamless can just as easily integrate automated invoicing, reminders, and payment release mechanisms. In fact, fintech solutions now make it possible for funds to be authorized before a deposition ever starts—held securely in escrow and released automatically when the transcript is delivered.

This isn’t theory; it’s already happening.

How It Works: Escrow and Instant-Pay Mechanisms

Imagine this scenario:
An attorney books a deposition through a SaaS platform. The moment the booking is confirmed, the system authorizes payment from the firm’s account, just like when you reserve a hotel room or hire a contractor through a verified platform.

The funds sit in a secure escrow account—neither in the attorney’s nor the reporter’s hands—until delivery is verified. Once the reporter uploads the certified transcript, the platform automatically releases payment, minus any agreed-upon transaction fee.

That means no invoices, no phone calls chasing payment, and no waiting weeks for checks to clear.

Some platforms are already adding attorney verification layers, where clients confirm receipt before release, ensuring fairness and trust on both sides. Others are developing instant-pay features, where reporters can opt to receive funds immediately (minus a small processing fee), similar to same-day payouts used in gig-economy financial tools.

The key is this: the technology replaces the function of agency billing infrastructure—without replacing the human professionalism or ethical standards of the reporter.

Addressing the Fear: “But I Don’t Want to Be a Collection Agent”

That’s the beauty of it—you don’t have to be.

Reporters won’t be chasing payments; the system will. Automated workflows handle billing, reminders, receipts, and confirmations. Once you deliver, you’re done.

This is not about turning court reporters into entrepreneurs or bookkeepers. It’s about restoring control and transparency to the people who actually create the product—the record.

When technology handles the transaction layer, the reporter focuses solely on accuracy, neutrality, and timely delivery. The professional gets paid fairly and promptly. The client gets accountability and speed. Everyone wins.

The Broader Implication: Decentralizing the Marketplace

This evolution is part of a larger trend across professional services—decentralization.

Just as Uber removed dispatchers, Airbnb replaced travel agents, and Shopify empowered small merchants, direct-to-reporter platforms are dismantling outdated hierarchies that no longer add proportional value.

Agencies once held an operational advantage because they managed logistics, relationships, and risk. But technology now manages those same things faster, cheaper, and with less friction.

When scheduling, file delivery, and payment all exist in one transparent ecosystem, the last true operational advantage of agencies disappears.

That doesn’t mean agencies will vanish overnight. Many will evolve into value-added service providers—offering large-case coordination, realtime tech support, or nationwide networks. But for the average daily deposition, the new model will be reporter-controlled, client-transparent, and fintech-secured.

Trust and Compliance: Building Professional Integrity into the System

Of course, any transformation that touches financial transactions must prioritize compliance, security, and professional trust.

Payment automation in the legal industry requires more than just convenience—it demands accountability. That’s why emerging systems are being built with:

Attorney verification protocols before transcript release.
Digital audit trails documenting each stage of the transaction.
Secure data encryption meeting legal and privacy standards.
Clear escrow protections to prevent misuse or delay of funds.

In other words, the technology doesn’t erode ethics—it enforces them.

When payment authorization, transcript verification, and client delivery are tied together in one timestamped workflow, it strengthens the integrity of the process. The record becomes traceable, authenticated, and financially transparent—qualities that align perfectly with the court reporter’s professional code.

The Cultural Shift: From Dependency to Empowerment

For many reporters, the idea of going independent still feels intimidating. Years of agency dependency have conditioned the profession to believe that freedom means financial chaos. But automation flips that narrative.

The next generation of reporting platforms isn’t asking reporters to “go it alone.” It’s giving them the tools to operate as equals in a digital marketplace. You’re not collecting payments—you’re participating in a trusted, transparent system that ensures your work is valued and compensated automatically.

This is the natural evolution of a profession that has always balanced tradition and technology. Stenographers adopted realtime long before most industries even understood the concept of live transcription. We’re innovators by necessity—and we’re innovators again now.

The Takeaway: The Future Is Direct, Secure, and Reporter-First

The last barrier to true independence in court reporting isn’t skill, demand, or technology—it’s payment flow.

Once the ecosystem seamlessly integrates escrow, verification, and instant-pay capabilities, agencies lose their final leverage point, and reporters gain what they’ve always deserved: control over their work, their clients, and their earnings.

So the next time someone asks, “But who’s going to collect payment if you go direct?”—the answer is simple:

“Technology will. Securely, automatically, and ethically.”

The tools are here. The infrastructure is ready.
All that remains is for reporters to step forward and claim what’s always been theirs—the full value of their profession.

Many other industries have already gone through this exact same transformation. What’s happening in court reporting right now — the shift from agency dependency to direct, technology-enabled payment systems — mirrors what’s happened across dozens of service sectors once dominated by intermediaries.

Here’s how it’s unfolded elsewhere, and what lessons apply directly to us:

🚗 1. Rideshare (Uber, Lyft): From Dispatcher-Controlled to Driver-Direct

Before: Taxi companies acted as middlemen — owning the dispatch systems, collecting payments, and paying drivers after long delays or fixed shifts. Drivers had to lease cars or medallions, and had little control or transparency.

Now: Apps like Uber and Lyft completely dismantled that infrastructure. Payments are preauthorized through credit cards or digital wallets. Drivers see the fare, accept the job, and are paid instantly after ride completion, often through Instant Pay or debit card transfers.

Parallel to court reporting:

Agencies once acted like taxi dispatchers — assigning jobs, collecting payment, and paying reporters later.
Platforms can now do the same thing Uber did: handle scheduling, verification, and instant, guaranteed payment without a human middleman.

🏠 2. Home & Service Platforms (Airbnb, Upwork, Fiverr, TaskRabbit)

Before: Real estate brokers, staffing firms, or creative agencies managed every transaction — collecting deposits, enforcing contracts, and cutting checks weeks later.

Now: Each of these industries runs on escrow-based systems:

Airbnb: Guests prepay, and funds are released to the host 24 hours after check-in.
Upwork/Fiverr: Clients fund the job in escrow; the freelancer gets paid automatically once the deliverable is approved.
TaskRabbit: Customers authorize the payment up front, and workers receive funds instantly after the task is completed.

Parallel to court reporting:
Imagine a deposition scheduled through a “legal Upwork” model: funds authorized at booking, transcript verified, and payment auto-released on delivery. The risk shifts off the reporter and onto a transparent, auditable platform.

💇 3. Beauty, Wellness, and Fitness: Square, GlossGenius, Vagaro

Before: Stylists, trainers, and massage therapists relied on salons or gyms to handle billing and absorb cancellations. They were paid on payroll or commission, sometimes weeks after service.

Now: SaaS tools like Square Appointments, GlossGenius, and Vagaro allow independent professionals to:

Require prepayment or deposits at booking.
Automate reminders and receipts.
Get same-day payouts directly to their accounts.

Many stylists who once depended on salons now run solo studios with automated client management, text confirmations, and guaranteed payments — no front desk or accounting team required.

Parallel to court reporting:
Reporters can use similar technology to control their schedule, set rates, confirm jobs, and require payment authorization before delivery — all through a single dashboard.

📦 4. Creative Freelance & Digital Media: Escrow Everywhere

Writers, designers, photographers, and videographers used to work through agencies or production houses that handled client contracts and payments. But platforms like 99designs, Toptal, and Voices.com proved you can automate trust between independent talent and clients.

Clients fund escrow at the start.
The freelancer sees that funds are verified before working.
Once the work is approved, automatic disbursement occurs.

This model all but eliminated “nonpayment” disputes while empowering freelancers to charge and collect directly — often globally.

Parallel to court reporting:
A verified attorney-client workflow can replicate this. The law firm authorizes funds, the reporter sees verification before producing, and escrow disburses automatically once delivery is confirmed.

💳 5. Gig Economy & Fintech Infrastructure: Stripe, Payoneer, Deel

The glue behind all these revolutions is payment infrastructure.
Platforms like Stripe, Adyen, Payoneer, and Deel enable automated escrow, cross-border payouts, and real-time verification.

These tools don’t just collect payments — they:

Handle compliance (KYC, AML, 1099 forms)
Automate invoicing and tax reporting
Enable instant settlement on verified completion

Parallel to court reporting:
Legal-tech platforms can embed these fintech APIs to handle:

Preauthorized client funds
Automatic reporter payouts
Audit trails that prove every transaction and release timing

That means no more chasing checks or wondering when a law firm “sent it.”

💼 6. Legal and Professional Services: LawPay, Clio Payments, MyCase

Even within the legal sector, attorneys themselves have already transitioned to tech-based billing and escrow systems.

LawPay and Clio Payments handle secure client billing, retainers, and trust-account compliance.
Attorneys now accept credit cards and ACH payments through preauthorized, rule-compliant systems.

If lawyers can ethically automate payment collection under IOLTA-compliant structures, there’s no reason reporters can’t adopt a parallel model for transcript escrow.

Parallel to court reporting:
Law firms already expect digital billing and trust-account management. Integrating reporter payment authorization into the same workflow isn’t radical — it’s consistent with how they already operate.

🔄 7. Healthcare and Telemedicine: Verified Billing Before Service

Doctors, therapists, and even veterinarians increasingly rely on pre-verification and auto-collection systems through insurance or patient billing apps (e.g., Zocdoc, SimplePractice, Headway).

The appointment is scheduled only after insurance or card authorization.
The provider receives guaranteed payment, even if the patient cancels last-minute.

Parallel to court reporting:
Depositions can adopt similar “authorization before booking” logic — ensuring the client’s financial commitment is locked in before the reporter lifts a finger.

💬 8. What All These Examples Have in Common

Across industries, we see the same pattern:

Legacy System	Modern Platform
Agencies hold the client relationship	Clients and providers connect directly
Payment after service	Preauthorized or escrow-based
Manual invoicing	Automated, digital receipts
Delayed payouts	Instant or same-day payouts
Risk on the worker	Risk absorbed by platform trust layer

Result: Independent professionals earn more, work faster, and retain ownership of their client relationships — while clients enjoy transparency, accountability, and instant delivery.

⚖️ Why Court Reporting Is the Perfect Candidate for This Transition

Court reporters operate in a closed, highly regulated, trust-based environment — the exact kind of system that benefits from verified automation.
Every transcript already has timestamps, certification, and delivery verification. That’s all the data an escrow system needs to trigger payment.

If we integrate fintech logic into existing steno workflows — scheduling → attendance → delivery → verification → payout — the transition becomes seamless. The platform doesn’t replace the reporter’s professionalism; it amplifies it by ensuring that accuracy and accountability are rewarded instantly.

🧭 The Takeaway

Yes, other industries have done this — and thrived because of it.
The agency model has been replaced or reimagined everywhere from transportation to hospitality to law itself. The lesson is simple:

Once payment automation and trust verification are built into the workflow, the middleman’s advantage evaporates — and the professional gains control.

Court reporting isn’t lagging behind — it’s standing on the threshold of the same empowerment curve.
The technology exists. The demand exists.
Now it’s just a matter of connecting the two.

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 Bubble Beneath the Record – A Financial Crisis in Court Reporting Is Coming

The image of a gleaming modern city floating above a boiling cauldron of financial volatility is more than symbolic—it’s a mirror of the court reporting industry today. On the surface, everything appears orderly: depositions are scheduled, transcripts are produced, and the wheels of litigation continue to turn. But just beneath, a financial crisis is bubbling—one that has been quietly building for a decade, fueled by private equity speculation, agency consolidation, and a widening disconnect between those who certify the record and those who sell it.

And like any bubble, the collapse is not a matter of if—but when.

The Fed Raised Rates. Private Equity Got Nervous. The Pressure Is Now Visible.

Nationally, the Federal Reserve’s tightening cycle has triggered shockwaves across lending markets. Banking stress, as the FDIC reported, includes $517 billion in unrealized losses in the U.S. banking system. Those unrealized losses were enough to topple Silicon Valley Bank, Signature Bank, and First Republic—not because the money was gone, but because the margins had evaporated.

Now look at court reporting:
The same thing is happening.

Over the last 10 years, Wall Street-backed court reporting agencies have been:

Consolidating mid-sized and boutique firms
Absorbing independent books of business
Leveraging debt to finance acquisition growth
Treating transcripts like commodities rather than certified legal evidence

This model only works in a low-interest environment—when money is cheap and debt is easy to refinance.

Those days are over.

As borrowing costs rise, private equity must do what private equity always does:

Increase revenue and cut costs.

And that’s exactly what we’re seeing:

Higher page rates charged to attorneys
Lower take-home rates for reporters
Aggressive bundling of ancillary fees
Attempted substitution of stenographic record with digital/ASR “alternatives”

This isn’t cost innovation—it’s margin extraction.

Agency Markups Are Driving Attorneys Toward “Alternatives”

Attorneys have begun asking why the rough draft of a transcript costs less than the certified final. They have begun questioning why realtime fees skyrocketed. They notice when the same deposition costs $3,500 with one agency and $1,800 with another.

For years, large agencies have followed the same formula:

Mark up the labor (the court reporter)
Mark up the product (the transcript)
Reduce the reporter’s percentage
Own the client relationship—not the reporter

The problem is that attorneys are now feeling the pain.

Some respond by seeking cheaper methods of record creation:

Digital audio recording with uncertified notetakers
Automatic speech recognition (ASR)
Outsourced foreign transcript typing

And because Wall Street has sunk millions into building this “alternative market,” the pitch is well-funded and loud.

But there is a flaw—a legal flaw—big enough to collapse the bubble:

These alternatives do not produce admissible evidence under existing rules of court.

Evidence Still Requires Human Certification

Under the rules of professional responsibility, hearsay exceptions, and authentication, transcripts must be:

Accurate
Certifiable
Traceable
Authenticated by the person who took the record

A machine cannot certify accuracy.
A notetaker cannot certify accuracy.
A tech contractor cannot certify accuracy.

Only a working court reporter—licensed or certified depending on jurisdiction—can attest that the record is true and complete.

The legal system is built on this trust.
Chain of custody matters.

This is why ASR transcripts are already being:

Rejected by courts
Challenged on authenticity grounds
Excluded under evidentiary rules

What we are watching is not “innovation”—it is regression.

Artificial intelligence does not eliminate the need for human responsibility—it magnifies it.

A Revolt Is Not Coming. It Has Already Started.

Court reporters are not passive participants in their own professional displacement. Across the country, we are seeing:

Reporters declining low-paying agency assignments
Reporters moving into direct-to-attorney business models
State and local bars being educated on the evidentiary risks of ASR material
Judges reinforcing certification requirements
Attorneys filing motions to challenge uncertified transcripts

The market is correcting itself.

The more agencies squeeze, the more court reporters leave them.

And when the labor leaves, the business model collapses.
Not gradually—suddenly.

So How Big Is the Bubble? We Don’t Know—Yet.

There is no public reporting of how much private equity has poured into this industry. But we know the signatures:

Roll-ups
Debt-backed consolidation
Investor-led “efficiency innovation”
Outsourcing
Product substitution

This is exactly how bubbles are engineered in:

Healthcare staffing
Pharmacy benefit management
Ambulance billing
Continuing legal education consolidators
and Documentary services

When the product is a legal necessity—and that product becomes distorted or unstable—collapse is inevitable.

Because the courts cannot function without certified transcripts.

The Boiling Cauldron Under the City

The image of the city floating above fire is chillingly accurate:

Above the surface:
Modern litigation. Depositions. Normalcy.

Below the surface:
Debt, speculation, labor exploitation, legal risk, evidentiary instability.

The bubble bursts when three pressures converge:

Trigger	Status
Reporters refuse below-market work	Already happening
Attorneys recognize ASR transcripts are inadmissible	Beginning now
Legislatures refuse to rewrite certification laws	Nearly certain

Private equity bet on being able to change the law.

They won’t.

Because the law exists to prevent tampering, distortion, and fraud in the administration of justice.

This bubble was always destined to fail.

The Way Forward: Return to Direct Relationships

The solution is not nostalgia—it’s structure.

Reporters and attorneys are beginning to re-establish direct working relationships:

Direct scheduling
Transparent pricing
Shared professional standards
Mutual trust

The record is strongest when the attorney knows the reporter and the reporter knows the case.

This was not an outdated model—
It was the correct model.

Conclusion

We are entering the correction phase.

The financial pressure is visible.
The legal instability is undeniable.
The labor resistance is growing.

The city above the water will look stable—until it doesn’t.

The boiling has already started.

And when the cauldron breaks, the profession will still be standing—not because of Wall Street—but because of the reporter who certifies the record.

The record cannot be replaced.

And it will outlast the bubble.

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 Faith Becomes a Mask & How Performative Virtue Undermines Integrity in the Steno Community

The New “Mentorship” Funnel – Why Court Reporters Should Be Cautious About Handing Over Their Professional Data

Avoid the April Surprise – Smart Tax Planning for Court Reporters

Beneath the Surface – The Hidden Burnout Crisis in Court Reporting

Court reporters are trained to hear everything. We’re the quiet observers, the last line of record integrity in every courtroom, deposition, and hearing. But what we’re not trained to hear—until it’s too late—is the sound of our own exhaustion echoing back at us.

Most people think burnout happens when you work too many hours. In the world of stenography, that assumption almost sounds laughable—of course we work long hours. But that’s not the real danger. The truth is, burnout in court reporting has far less to do with the number of hours we work and far more to do with how those hours feel.

When the work environment becomes toxic, dismissive, or ethically compromising, even a “light day” can feel crushing. You can love the craft of capturing words, yet still feel like you’re drowning under invisible weight.

1. Burnout Isn’t About Hours — It’s About Meaning

Long days on trial or back-to-back depos don’t automatically cause burnout. In fact, many reporters thrive on high-stakes, high-speed work. What drains the soul isn’t the speed of the job—it’s the lack of support and recognition surrounding it.

If you’re spending fourteen-hour days producing real-time feeds, facing impossible turnaround expectations, or being treated like a machine instead of a human, that’s when the cracks begin to form. Burnout isn’t caused by doing too much; it’s caused by feeling like what you do doesn’t matter—or worse, isn’t safe to do with integrity.

When a reporter asks to be paid under the legal 30-day payment requirement in California (SB 988) and is blacklisted or threatened for it, it doesn’t just create financial stress—it destroys psychological safety. It tells the reporter: your rights are negotiable, but the agency’s convenience is not. And that is the exact environment where burnout breeds.

When reporters are pressured to cover proceedings without a scopist, pushed to accept unethical working conditions, or retaliated against for asserting lawful rates and timelines, the damage goes deeper than frustration. It erodes trust. It chips away at professional identity. Over time, that invisible stress corrodes motivation faster than any long day ever could.

2. What You See Isn’t the Whole Iceberg

The visible signs—fatigue, irritability, missed deadlines—are just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the surface lie the deeper, systemic issues that actually drive burnout.

In our industry, those hidden forces include mismatched values, ethical dilemmas, unfair pay structures, exclusion from decision-making, and a chronic lack of empathy from management.

Reporters who care deeply about the accuracy of the record often find themselves working in environments that don’t value that care. When digital recording firms market “AI transcripts” while paying reporters less for proofreading the machine’s mistakes, it’s not just bad business—it’s emotional sabotage.

Each time a reporter’s professional judgment is ignored, each time quality is sacrificed for cost savings, another piece of trust is lost. And trust, once gone, is nearly impossible to restore.

3. Recognition, Trust, and Inclusion Are Not Perks—They’re Protection

Most agency owners and firm managers underestimate how powerful recognition can be. A simple “thank you” for a late-night expedite or a call to ask how a reporter is holding up can mean the difference between retention and resignation.

But the opposite—silence—communicates something too: You’re invisible.

Invisibility breeds burnout. When reporters feel unseen, undervalued, or excluded from discussions that directly affect their work (like rate setting or scheduling policy), disengagement takes root. It’s not dramatic—it’s gradual. The energy once used to advocate for excellence turns inward into resentment, fatigue, and finally, apathy.

Recognition isn’t a luxury. It’s a psychological safety mechanism. It tells people their work matters, that their voice counts, and that their standards are shared. Without it, every reporter eventually hits the wall—no matter how strong or experienced they are.

4. Micromanagement Is Burnout in Disguise

Micromanagement is the silent killer of motivation. For court reporters, it often shows up as intrusive oversight: constant messages during proceedings, arbitrary style-sheet demands, or mistrust disguised as “quality control.”

When management dictates every comma and expects instantaneous replies to emails at midnight, it destroys autonomy—the single most important driver of satisfaction for skilled professionals.

The irony? The best reporters are self-driven perfectionists. They don’t need to be controlled—they need to be trusted. Micromanagement tells them the opposite: that they’re not competent enough to own their process.

Over time, that erodes confidence and creativity. Reporters stop innovating, stop caring, stop mentoring others. The very excellence firms rely on begins to wither.

5. Ethical Dilemmas – The Hidden Cost of “Just Getting It Done”

There’s another layer unique to our profession: ethical fatigue.

Every time a reporter is asked to “just take the job” without proper notice, to sign an incomplete transcript for a digital recording, or to certify a record they didn’t control, they face a micro-ethical crisis. Those compromises pile up.

Burnout here isn’t just physical—it’s moral. When the system expects you to cut corners, it breeds a constant, gnawing dissonance between your standards and your survival. That’s why so many veteran reporters describe not exhaustion, but heartbreak.

6. Toxic Workplaces and the Erosion of Trust

Toxicity doesn’t always look like shouting matches or public humiliation. Sometimes it’s subtler: favoritism in job assignments, withheld payments, gossiping among staff, or leadership that ignores concerns about scheduling overloads.

When communication breaks down, mistrust blooms. And in a profession that depends on precision, mistrust is lethal. You can’t maintain excellence when you’re constantly on alert for the next unfair decision.

Healthy culture begins where transparency begins. A toxic one thrives on silence.

7. Rebuilding Resilience – What Firms and Reporters Can Do

To prevent burnout, the entire reporting ecosystem—agencies, freelancers, scopists, and attorneys—has to shift perspective.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

Promote psychological safety. Encourage honest conversations without retaliation. When a reporter flags an ethical concern or workload issue, it’s not complaining—it’s safeguarding quality.
Align values. Make sure agency practices match the profession’s ethical code. If profit comes at the expense of integrity, the burnout rate will skyrocket.
Build flexibility. Rigid schedules are a relic of the past. Allow hybrid work models, flexible transcript deadlines where possible, and mental-health recovery time after long trials.
Acknowledge and reward. Publicly recognize outstanding work, fairness, and consistency. Appreciation doesn’t cost money—but burnout does.
Train empathetic managers. Supervisors who understand the emotional intensity of reporting can prevent more attrition than any HR policy ever could.

8. The System Isn’t Broken Because of You—It’s Broken Around You

Burnout makes you feel defective, like you’ve lost your edge or your stamina. But most reporters aren’t broken—the system is.

We’re operating in a profession where workload demands have risen exponentially, legal expectations have multiplied, and yet recognition and compensation have not kept pace. Add the rise of undertrained digital reporters, AI encroachment, and post-pandemic workforce isolation, and it’s no wonder burnout rates are quietly soaring.

It’s time for the industry to look beneath the surface. Long hours may be the visible iceberg tip, but the real causes—lack of trust, empathy, fairness, and inclusion—are what sink careers.

9. A Call to the Profession

If we want to keep the next generation of stenographers inspired, we must repair the ecosystem they’re inheriting. That means protecting psychological safety, prioritizing ethics over expedience, and treating reporters as partners, not vendors.

Burnout doesn’t just empty chairs; it empties the profession of its soul.

Court reporters are the historians of truth. But to keep writing history, we have to make sure we don’t disappear beneath the surface ourselves.

Have you experienced burnout as a court reporter? What helped you recover—or what warning signs did you miss? Share your story. Someone else may need to hear it before they sink.

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.

When the Forest Votes for the Axe – A Warning to the Court Reporting Profession

“The forest was shrinking, but the trees kept voting for the axe, for the axe was clever and convinced the trees that because its handle was made of wood, it was one of them.”

There is no more fitting metaphor for what is happening in the court reporting profession today.

We are the forest. We are the trees. Skilled, living, breathing guardians of the legal record.

And yet many among us—court reporters, firm owners, students, associations—have been persuaded to accept, accommodate, normalize, and even advocate for technologies and business models designed to replace us. The axe is not subtle. But it is familiar. It speaks our language. It presents itself with a wooden handle made to feel like kinship.

“AI is here to support you.”
“Digital reporting is just another tool in the toolbox.”
“Automatic speech recognition is getting so good—don’t you want to be part of the future?”

The axe smiles warmly while it sharpens itself on the stump.

The Handle Looks Like Us — But It Isn’t Us

What is the handle made of?
Former steno reporters who left the field to push digital recording as a “career alternative.”
Associations who sign sponsorship checks from tech vendors in exchange for silence.
Schools that reduce steno programs to part-time electives while launching digital training pathways instead.
Agencies run by businessmen who never sat in a courtroom a day in their lives but understand that replacing human skill with cheaper labor means bigger margins.

They speak as though they are still trees.
They reassure us that they understand the forest.
They insist they have our best interests in mind.

But they do not grow roots.
And they do not provide shade.

How the Axe Persuades the Trees

The story of how displacement happens is not new. Look at any labor force targeted by automation: manufacturing workers, newspaper editors, travel agents, taxi drivers. The squeeze is slow at first, framed as modernization, innovation, efficiency.

The messaging is familiar:

This will help fill shortages.
This will give you more flexibility.
This will reduce costs and keep the system operating.

But in every example, the result is the same:
The workforce shrinks, wages fall, quality declines, and the profession is hollowed out.

Court reporting is no different. The push toward digital and AI is not about serving justice, maintaining accuracy, or supporting stenographers. It’s about creating a cheaper product to expand profit margins and control the market.

To accomplish this, the axe must persuade the trees to participate in their own downfall.

The Trees Are Not Helpless — But They Are Divided

This is the part we don’t like to say aloud:

The greatest threat to stenography has never been digital reporting.
It has never been AI.
It has never been tech companies.

It has been reporter complacency.

Our profession has endured because of skill and integrity, yes—but also because we operated for decades under the assumption that we were irreplaceable.

We forgot that irreplaceable things are always the first things someone tries to replace.

And now?
Instead of acting collectively and strategically, we have splintered:

Some reporters believe “it won’t affect me.”
Some students are being told they’ll never reach speed, so they settle for digital paths instead.
Some firm owners cooperate with digital expansion, hoping to preserve their contracts.

Meanwhile, the forest thins.

Quality Is Our Root System — But Roots Only Matter If We Protect Them

It is objectively true—and provably so—that stenographic reporters produce the most accurate and reliable court record. Attorneys know it. Judges know it. Experts know it. Entire appellate systems depend on it.

But quality alone never saved a profession.

Quality must be defended.
Loudly. Publicly. Relentlessly.
In legislative arenas, in legal ethics discourse, in public perception, and in industry regulation.

When digital recording fails (and we all know how often it fails), who pays the price?

The attorney.
The litigant.
The minor whose testimony is lost.
The wrongfully convicted whose appeal hinges on missing context.
The victim whose voice was swallowed by a microphone glitch.

Accuracy is not just a professional value—it is a matter of due process.

If we do not make this case everywhere, we hand the narrative to the axe.

How the Forest Grows Back

The story does not have to end in clear-cut silence.
But it will end that way if we continue acting like isolated trees rather than a living ecosystem.

Revival requires three things:

1. Reporter-to-Reporter Alignment

We cannot afford infighting, territorialism, ego battles over who is “more real-time” or “more elite” or “more certified.”
Every stenographer in this profession—captioners, officials, freelancers, depo reporters, students—is part of the same forest.

If one sector falls, the rest burn with it.

2. Direct Education of the Legal Community

Stop assuming attorneys understand the difference.
Stop assuming judges are informed.
Stop assuming agencies will tell the truth.

We must tell them:

The legal ethics implications.
The evidentiary risks.
The appellate consequences.
The confidentiality vulnerabilities.
The real human cost of an inaccurate record.

When attorneys understand what is at stake, they choose steno every time.

3. A United Public Message

Not defensive.
Not apologetic.
Not begging for validation.

But firm:

We protect the integrity of the record.
We are trained specialists in capturing the spoken word with accuracy no machine can replicate.
We are the standard.
And we are not optional.

The Moral of the Story

The axe will always try to convince the forest that they are the same.

The difference is simple:

The trees exist to preserve life.
The axe exists to end it.

The future of the court reporting profession will not be decided by technology.

It will be decided by whether the trees remember who they are.

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.

When Disclosure Isn’t Enough – Why AB 711 Doesn’t Serve Court Reporters or Access to Justice

The recently-passed California legislation AB 711 is being hailed by some as a “smart, efficient” fix for duplicative court-reporter bookings in civil motions. For example, Stephanie Leslie’s summary underscores a key impetus: multiple stenographers showing up for the same hearing, wasted resources, and a shortage of reporters. That narrative is accurate—but the cure offered by AB 711 misses the mark and risks leaving the profession of certified shorthand reporters (CSRs) weaker, not stronger.

Here are the principal concerns:

1. Paperwork isn’t a substitute for resources

One of the bill’s core requirements is that the moving party must state in the notice of motion whether they will retain a certified shorthand reporter, and the “meet-and-confer” declaration must likewise include whether a court reporter will be retained. The logic: better communication = less duplication.

But the problem is deeper. Many counties have struggled for years to hire or retain enough CSRs. When a hearing is booked or changed at the last minute, when parties negotiate continuances, when courts shift calendars or reassign matters, the certainty required by the new disclosure obligation simply doesn’t exist. As one court reporter put it:

“AB 711 assumes that lawyers—and by extension, court reporters—can plan accurately around future court appearances. In the real world, the opposite is true.” STENOIMPERIUM

If the system already has instability, adding a checkbox disclosure doesn’t fix the underlying scarcity or volatility—it just adds more obligations.

2. It may signal that reporters are optional

AB 711’s framing treats the retention of a CSR as a matter of declaration. If a party says “no” (we will not retain a shorthand reporter), the process moves on. But what message does that send? It implicitly normalizes hearings proceeding without a certified shorthand reporter, or at least gives the impression that parties opt-in rather than ensuring a reporter is present as a standard best practice.

As the professional commentary puts it:

“By turning the use of a CSR into a simple box to check, AB 711 may unintentionally normalize the idea that a court reporter is optional.” STENOIMPERIUM

In a justice system that relies on accurate records for appeals, transcripts, and transparency, that is a risk. Many litigants depend on the record. If their case proceeds without a certified reporter because nobody “checked the box,” access to due process suffers.

3. Freelance reporters bear the risk of reactive scheduling

Because California’s court-reporting market has many freelance CSRs (private contracts rather than full-time court staff) the scheduling dynamics already favour caution. One booking is secured; others are tentative. If a hearing is vacated or rescheduled, that lost day cannot always be recovered.

But AB 711 asks parties to declare in advance. For freelancers, that doesn’t guarantee work. It may lock the job market into fragile commitments. From the analysis:

“This bill doesn’t guarantee us more work. … It creates the illusion of increased demand through advance declarations—without actually producing more jobs or providing enforcement if those declarations are ignored.” STENOIMPERIUM

In other words: while the law purports to reduce “waste,” it may instead shift the burden of uncertainty to the reporters themselves. And the administrative burden grows while the substantive support (e.g., guaranteed bookings, more funded staff) remains absent.

4. The alleged savings may be overrated — and the risk of substitution looms

Proponents emphasise that duplicate reporter bookings cost litigants—so the requirement should reduce waste. For example one summary notes that many CSRs in certain California counties reported being double-booked at least monthly. ccrola.com+1

Yet: the solution may not be simply “declare whether you’ll hire a reporter.” It may require investment: more CSRs, better recruiting/training, retention incentives, and courts bolstering in-house or contract staff. AB 711 doesn’t provide that. It doesn’t ensure that the parties will actually hire a certified reporter; it just makes them say whether they intend to. Consequently, the risk arises that parties will more often choose not to retain a CSR (because the cost is real) or turn to cheaper, less reliable alternatives (e.g., electronic recording or uncertified transcription). One commentator warns of this:

“A competitive opening for low-quality alternatives. … The state … may begin to see human reporters as expendable.” STENOIMPERIUM

If that shift happens, we don’t solve the reporter shortage—we degrade the standard of the official record.

5. The broader systemic issues remain unaddressed

The shortage of court reporters in many jurisdictions is a structural challenge: budget, recruitment, training, licensing, fatigue of the profession. AB 711 sidesteps those root issues. The bill’s analysis itself acknowledges that courts have been unable “to hire or retain court reporters,” and that “the economics of the industry has shifted heavily in favour of private reporters” rather than court staff. PolicyEngage

Thus, while it may tidy up one manifestation of the problem (duplicate bookings), it does nothing to ensure that more hearings are covered by qualified CSRs, that reporter pay is improved, or that the profession is strengthened to meet increasing demand.

In summary, while AB 711 has the veneer of efficiency and cost-saving, it risks being a paper fix for a deeper crisis. The law asks parties to “meet and confer” and declare whether a reporter will be hired. That’s not inherently bad—but as a standalone reform it is inadequate.

For professionals like myself—and for the many litigants who rely on accurate reporting—the risk is that the law signals “you’re on your own” rather than “we will ensure reliable, certified reporting for every hearing.” If we truly value the record, the transcript, the due-process imperative, then we need more than declarations; we need investment, staffing, training, and accountability.

To cast this in the terms of the conversation: Yes, the need for more court reporters is “common knowledge.” What we don’t get from AB 711 is a concrete plan to recruit, retain, staff, and pay them. Instead we get a mandate to check a box and hope the system handles the rest.

Unless that underlying work is done, AB 711 may end up as a symbolic win for “efficiency” while the professions and the litigants it is meant to serve continue to bear the risk.

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 Penny Auction Rebellion – How Stenographers Can Take Back the Record

When Regulation Becomes Endorsement – How the CRB’s Firm Registration List Rewards Non-Reporter-Owned Corporations

When the California Legislature passed Senate Bill 241 in 2021, the intent seemed straightforward: increase oversight of companies providing court-reporting services by requiring non-CSR-owned firms to register with the Court Reporters Board of California (CRB). It was billed as a transparency measure—an attempt to ensure consumer protection and accountability within a rapidly consolidating industry.

But in execution, that well-intentioned law has backfired. Instead of protecting independent, licensed shorthand reporters, the CRB’s implementation of the “firm registration” program has visibly elevated non-reporter-owned corporations above the very professionals the Board exists to protect.

The Legal Framework That Was Supposed to Protect Reporters

California law has long been clear: only licensed Certified Shorthand Reporters (CSRs), or corporations owned entirely by CSRs, may lawfully provide shorthand reporting services in this state.

Under the Moscone-Knox Professional Corporation Act and Business and Professions Code §§ 8020–8043, shorthand reporting corporations must:

Be owned and operated exclusively by licensed CSRs;
Identify at least one shareholder’s surname in the corporate name;
Include a professional designation such as “Shorthand Reporting Corporation”, “Certified Shorthand Reporter (C.S.R.)”, or “A Professional Corporation.”

These provisions serve a clear purpose: they ensure that the people controlling the company are the licensees, not venture capitalists, investors, or holding companies with no professional accountability to the courts.

A “shorthand reporting corporation” is a professional entity bound by both corporate law and professional ethics, answerable directly to the CRB. For decades, this framework preserved integrity in the production of official records.

Enter SB 241: Transparency or Trojan Horse?

In 2021, SB 241 introduced a new requirement: any firm not wholly owned by California-licensed CSRs—that is, any entity controlled by non-licensees but offering court-reporting services—must register with the CRB and designate a “Reporter-in-Charge” (a full-time California CSR).

The idea was to bring unlicensed intermediaries under limited CRB jurisdiction, allowing the Board to track and, if necessary, discipline them. The statute also required those firms to pay annual registration fees and to disclose ownership and contact information.

But here’s the irony:

CSR-owned professional corporations are not required to register, since they’re already governed by the Board through their licenses.
Non-CSR-owned conglomerates, however, must register—and once they do, they appear in a public, searchable list on the CRB’s official website.

This creates an optics problem of staggering proportions.

How the CRB’s Website Became a Marketing Platform for Unlicensed Corporations

Today, when attorneys or court administrators visit the CRB’s website looking for “registered firms,” they see names like Veritext, Magna Legal Services, and Planet Depos—massive multistate corporations often owned by private-equity groups or holding companies headquartered out of state.

By contrast, CSR-owned firms—those actually in full compliance with California’s professional corporation statutes—don’t appear anywhere on that list. Their invisibility makes them look less legitimate, even though they are the ones who actually meet the profession’s legal and ethical standards.

This is not a trivial matter of web design; it’s a regulatory imbalance with real-world consequences.

Attorneys browsing the CRB’s official “Registered Firms” page see it as a stamp of approval. They assume registration equals endorsement, or at least licensure. Many don’t read the fine print that quietly states:

“Registration does not constitute endorsement or approval of a firm by the CRB.”

The disclaimer is buried in a footnote. Meanwhile, the large, polished names of non-CSR-owned corporations are featured prominently—imbuing them with the legitimacy that true shorthand reporting corporations once carried under § 8043.

The Impact: Professional Corporations in the Shadows

For CSR-owned professional corporations, the message is clear: you can fully comply with state law, operate ethically, maintain all your licenses, and still appear nonexistent on the state’s own website.

Meanwhile, corporations owned by unlicensed investors—entities the Board was supposed to monitor, not promote—now enjoy a searchable listing, an implied endorsement, and direct access to potential clients browsing the CRB’s site for “registered” providers.

This creates a two-tiered system:

Firm Type	Ownership	CRB Registration	Public Visibility
CSR-Owned Shorthand Reporting Corporation	100% licensed CSRs	Optional	❌ Hidden
Non-CSR-Owned Firm	Non-licensee owners	Mandatory	✅ Publicly listed

In effect, the Board is rewarding non-compliance with visibility while penalizing lawful compliance with obscurity.

The Legislative Disconnect

Lawmakers intended SB 241 to enhance oversight—not to provide marketing exposure. But because the CRB’s list is public, searchable, and not clearly differentiated, it now functions as a de facto directory of non-licensee-owned corporations, giving them an edge in an already unbalanced market.

Even worse, it undermines the core tenet of the Moscone-Knox Act: that professional services must be controlled by those qualified and accountable for their outcomes.

This regulatory inversion means that the most compliant firms are the least visible, while the least compliant firms appear the most official—on a government website funded by the very licensees being sidelined.

CRB Oversight vs. CRB Endorsement

To the Board’s credit, the intent wasn’t favoritism—it was oversight. But in practice, oversight has morphed into inadvertent endorsement.

Every listing on the CRB’s registration page includes the firm’s name, location, and designated reporter-in-charge. There’s no label clarifying that these are “Non-Licensee Owned Firms.”
There’s no equal directory for CSR-owned corporations.
And there’s no disclaimer at the top of the list, only buried in small print below.

The result:

Attorneys assume those listed are “approved.”
Reporters who followed the law to the letter feel excluded.
Conglomerates gain a state-backed marketing advantage they could never have purchased outright.

What Needs to Change

To restore fairness and integrity, the CRB should immediately:

Create two separate directories: one for licensed shorthand reporting corporations (CSR-owned) and another for registered non-licensee firms.
Add visible labeling: each entry should clearly state whether the firm is “CSR-Owned” or “Non-Licensee Owned – Registration Only.”
Include disclaimers at the top of the page, not in fine print.
Encourage voluntary registration for CSR-owned firms to appear alongside the others with equal visibility.
Reaffirm that registration ≠ licensure in all CRB communications, to prevent consumer confusion.

These changes would restore parity and transparency without undermining the Board’s oversight goals.

A Call to Action for Reporters

If you’re a California CSR or small agency owner, you can:

Submit a public comment to the CRB ahead of its October 17 meeting in Burbank, addressing this imbalance.
Cite Business and Professions Code §§ 8020–8043 and the Moscone-Knox Professional Corporation Act.
Request a dual-listing system that recognizes compliant shorthand reporting corporations equally alongside registered firms.
Contact the Department of Consumer Affairs (DCA) under Gov. Code § 11340.6 to request a regulatory clarification.

This isn’t just about visibility. It’s about the public’s trust in the neutrality, accuracy, and integrity of California’s official record.

If the CRB’s website continues to elevate unlicensed entities while hiding licensed professionals, then our state’s regulatory body has unintentionally become a marketing engine for the very corporations it was created to oversee.

It’s time to fix that.

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 Defense Counsel Brought AI to Voir Dire And How One Court Reporter Turned an Ethical Breach Into an Opportunity

In a world where courtroom technology is evolving faster than the rules that govern it, an ordinary voir dire turned into an extraordinary teaching moment. What began as a suspiciously verbatim recitation of a juror’s comments revealed much more – the creeping use of unauthorized AI transcription tools inside live court proceedings—and how a calm, professional response can turn potential conflict into opportunity.

The Moment It Happened

During jury selection, at sidebar, defense counsel began reading aloud what she described as her “notes” from a juror’s earlier statements. But these were no ordinary notes. They were full, consecutive Q-and-A exchanges—complete with exact phrasing, pauses, and sentence fragments that matched the record nearly word for word read from her co-counsel’s laptop.

From the reporter’s vantage point, it was immediately apparent that something was off. None of the attorneys at counsel table had been writing or typing anything. Their laptops sat open but idle, pens untouched. The reporter had an unobstructed view of all counsel the entire time—no dictation, no typing, no scribbling. And yet, when defense counsel spoke, she quoted entire exchanges word for word, the precision resembled a transcript, not a human summary. The court soon noticed too.

In open court, outside of the presence of the prospective jurors, the judge paused the proceeding and asked the reporter directly:

“Ms. Reporter, are you giving them realtime?”

“No, Your Honor,” the reporter replied.

The judge responded, “Get on. All right. Your notes are copious. I have a similar recollection of the record,” and resumed proceedings, acknowledging that the defense counsel’s display looked strikingly like realtime text.

The looks at counsel table said everything: frozen faces, nervous glances, silent “Oh, no”s exchanged between them. They had been caught red-handed.

In that instant, it became clear: defense counsel had likely been using some kind of AI-powered speech-to-text application, possibly running on a laptop, to generate a live transcript during voir dire.

The shock on the defense team’s faces said it all. The judge had noticed. The court reporter had confirmed she wasn’t providing realtime. And the “notes” were suddenly indefensible.

This wasn’t a grey area anymore—it was a bright red line.

No one spoke about it directly. The court moved on, the record resumed, and decorum returned. But everyone knew what had just happened.

In a single moment, the courtroom had witnessed the collision of human professionalism and digital overreach. The defense counsel wasn’t malicious—she was resourceful, maybe careless, but unquestionably caught.

Why It Matters In The Legal Landscape

California’s courtroom recording laws are unambiguous.

Under California Rules of Court 1.150 and 2.956, electronic recording of courtroom proceedings is prohibited unless specifically authorized by the judge. Only an official court reporter or a licensed certified shorthand reporter (CSR) acting under Government Code §69941.1 may produce an official verbatim record.

When attorneys use AI transcription software such as Otter.ai, Microsoft Copilot, or other automatic speech recognition (ASR) tools during live proceedings, they are creating an unauthorized recording of a judicial proceeding—a direct violation of those rules.

Beyond that, California Rule of Professional Conduct 3.4(c) prohibits attorneys from knowingly disobeying the rules of a tribunal. Using AI transcription without the court’s consent could therefore constitute an ethical breach as well.

Even more concerning, juror statements fall under strict confidentiality. Voir dire responses are part of the record, but are not public domain. If AI tools process or store juror data in cloud servers, counsel could inadvertently trigger privacy violations under both California Code of Civil Procedure §237 and Rule of Court 2.507, which govern data protection and juror anonymity. Full juror names were being read into the record.

The Hidden Privacy Crisis – Juror Names and AI Exposure

Even more concerning than the use of unauthorized AI transcription was what those tools were capturing. During voir dire, full juror names—not just numbers—were being read into the record by the clerk and used repeatedly by counsel. “Juror Number 39, John Smith, take seat Number 12.”

That might sound harmless in the moment, but it’s not. Once spoken aloud in open court, those names were instantly picked up by microphones, recorded into AI transcription software, and uploaded into the cloud.

If counsel was running Otter.ai, Copilot, Fireflies, or any similar AI/ASR software, those juror names didn’t just stay in the courtroom—they entered what I call the ChatGPT-osphere: a vast network of interconnected data models, cloud servers, and machine-learning engines that never forget. From there, those names can live forever, indexed, searchable, and cross-referenced with other public data sources.

In other words, jurors who served in good faith could now be permanently identifiable online, their voir dire answers—beliefs, biases, occupations, neighborhoods—attached to their names in some AI training dataset somewhere.

That’s not hypothetical. It’s a breach of juror confidentiality and potentially a violation of California Code of Civil Procedure §237 and Rule of Court 2.507, both of which safeguard juror privacy. Voir dire responses are part of the court record, but they are not public domain and must be handled with extraordinary care.

Once that data leaves the courthouse and hits the cloud, the damage is irreversible. You can’t un-train an algorithm. You can’t un-publish a name from the internet.

This is the hidden danger of unregulated AI in the courtroom: it’s not just an ethical infraction—it’s a privacy time bomb.

The Ethical and Technological Crossroads

This incident highlights a growing reality: while attorneys increasingly rely on digital tools to manage cases, few understand the ethical boundaries that separate innovation from impropriety. AI software is marketed as a “note-taking assistant” or “meeting transcription software,” yet in a courtroom, it effectively becomes an unlicensed court reporter—capturing, analyzing, and storing the verbatim record without certification, oversight, or accuracy verification.

The defense counsel in this case likely didn’t intend to violate the law. She probably saw an ASR software that promised convenience. But convenience without compliance erodes the integrity of the record, the privacy of jurors, and the livelihoods of certified professionals who spend years mastering realtime accuracy and impartial reporting.

The Professional Response

Confrontation could have been tempting. The reporter could have objected on the record, filed a misconduct claim, or demanded the court issue sanctions. Instead, she did something more powerful: she stayed composed, answered the judge’s question truthfully, and documented what she observed.

No accusation. No escalation. Just facts.

After the day’s proceedings concluded, defense counsel approached the reporter and asked a simple question:

“Do you provide realtime?”

The reporter replied that she was already providing realtime to the judge and would be connecting plaintiff’s counsel starting from opening statements. The defense attorney immediately requested two to three realtime feeds beginning that same day.

That single conversation transformed a potentially adversarial situation into a new business opportunity—a win-win that reinforced both professionalism and the value of certified court reporters.

Turning Breach Into Bridge

What makes this story powerful isn’t just the legality—it’s the mindset. Rather than treating AI encroachment as a threat, the reporter used it as a moment to educate by example. By calmly demonstrating that official realtime was available through proper channels, she didn’t need to lecture or confront. She simply embodied the difference between machine capture and certified human skill.

Attorneys who experiment with ASR in court often do so because they don’t understand realtime’s capabilities—or assume it’s inaccessible or prohibitively expensive. But when they see realtime in action, many realize that a trained reporter delivers the very service they were trying to automate, only with legal authority, confidentiality, and 100% accountability.

Documentation and Protection

After any incident like this, reporters should make a confidential note—often called a Reporter’s Memorandum of Observation—to protect themselves and preserve the factual chain of events. The memo should include:

Date, time, and department.
Description of the incident and participants.
The court’s inquiry and the reporter’s response.
Any subsequent interaction (such as counsel ordering realtime).

This isn’t about blame; it’s about record integrity. Documentation ensures that if the question of unauthorized recording ever arises, the reporter has contemporaneous notes showing they were not the source of the realtime feed and that any AI transcript originated externally.

Lessons for the Profession

This courtroom moment offers a blueprint for the modern reporter:

Stay vigilant — notice when technology enters the room.
Stay calm — professionalism outlasts panic.
Stay factual — the record speaks for itself.
Stay opportunistic — when attorneys see the value of realtime, they’ll buy it.

Every challenge introduced by AI can become a chance to reinforce what certified reporters uniquely provide: integrity, accuracy, and compliance that no algorithm can match.

The Bigger Picture

This incident underscores a national trend: as AI transcription tools proliferate, courts and reporters alike must reaffirm who owns the record. The official transcript is not just data—it is evidence. It requires not only accuracy but legal integrity, something only a licensed reporter can guarantee.

And as this reporter’s experience proves, the best response to unauthorized technology isn’t outrage—it’s education and professionalism. When the world sees our calm competence in the face of encroaching automation, it reminds everyone—judges, attorneys, and the public alike—why stenography remains the gold standard for justice.

Conclusion

In the end, what could have been a confrontation became a conversion. The defense counsel who once relied on unauthorized AI will now receive certified realtime—accurate, lawful, and human.

One court reporter protected the record, upheld the law, educated the courtroom, and expanded her business—all without raising her voice.

That’s not just good stenography. That’s professional mastery in the age of AI.

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 Death of Expertise and the Erosion of the Record & Why Court Reporters Are the Last Line of Truth

In The Death of Expertise: The Campaign Against Established Knowledge and Why It Matters, political scientist Tom Nichols warns of a cultural collapse in which everyone “knows everything.” Expertise, he writes, is under attack — not through censorship or persecution, but through indifference, arrogance, and the false democratization of truth.

Sound familiar?

Within the court reporting profession, we are living this collapse in real time. For decades, certified shorthand reporters have been the custodians of accuracy — impartial guardians of the record, trained in realtime translation, terminology, decorum, and evidence handling. Our profession is built on verifiable presence: we were there. We heard every word, saw who spoke, and certified that what we transcribed was true.

Today, that foundation is being quietly undermined by a cultural and corporate campaign that mirrors exactly what Nichols describes — a “war on expertise.” The idea that artificial intelligence, digital recorders, or even uncertified human typists can substitute for a trained court reporter has spread like a contagion. It’s convenient, it’s cheap, and it flatters the illusion that technology equals competence. But it is not truth.

The Death of Expertise Comes to the Courtroom

Nichols defines the death of expertise as “a rejection of authority and knowledge by people who are not only ignorant, but proud of being ignorant.” In other words, the more one doesn’t know, the more one believes one’s opinion is equally valid to those who do.

When legislators, judges, or administrators assert that “AI transcripts are just as good” — without any experience reading one, without ever confronting a garbled homonym, misattributed speaker, or untranslated accent — they are participating in that same epistemic decay.

It’s not simply ignorance; it’s defiance of reality. It’s the belief that because technology exists, it must be accurate. That because anyone can record, anyone can report. That because a transcript looks official, it is official.

This is precisely how expertise dies — not in one dramatic blow, but through the slow erosion of respect for training, standards, and truth.

Presence, Certification, and the Integrity of Witness

Nichols argues that genuine expertise is rooted in discipline — in years of training, verification, and accountability. It’s not merely knowing, but knowing how to know. Court reporters embody that principle.

We don’t just type words; we verify their context. We identify speakers, manage exhibits, swear witnesses, and ensure decorum. We preserve not only the sound of proceedings but their meaning. An AI model, no matter how advanced, cannot certify what it cannot witness. And a court reporter cannot ethically “sign off” on a record they did not take. To do so would be fraud — as one astute commenter analogized, it would be as absurd as asking a cardiothoracic surgeon to certify the work of a dermatologist simply because both practice medicine.

The certification stamp of a court reporter is not ornamental; it is a guarantee of truth backed by statutory oath, professional ethics, and the possibility of disciplinary action for error or deceit. To remove the reporter from that equation is to remove the only human accountability in the record-making process.

The Algorithmic Delusion

Nichols writes that the internet has created “a Google-fueled, Wikipedia-based, blog-sodden collapse of any division between professionals and laymen.” Technology has democratized access to information — but not the ability to interpret it responsibly. We now conflate data with knowledge.

In the courtroom, this takes the form of digital recording firms and AI startups selling “verbatim capture solutions” to government entities that no longer understand what makes a record verifiable. They offer the illusion of expertise — the idea that a mechanical witness can replace a certified one. But what happens when that machine mishears? When overlapping speakers are merged? When an accent is mistranscribed into a different word entirely?

The machine cannot raise its hand and swear an oath. It cannot be subpoenaed. It cannot say, “Yes, I was present, and this is the truth.” When expertise dies, accountability dies with it.

Why This Matters Beyond Court Reporting

Nichols’ thesis extends far beyond academia or law. It is a warning to every profession built on specialized knowledge — from medicine to engineering to journalism — that when society begins to value convenience over credibility, collapse follows.

In the legal system, the record is the truth. If that record is corrupted, so is justice. When an AI-generated transcript replaces a human-certified one, every safeguard of due process begins to crumble. Appeals become suspect. Witness credibility becomes unverifiable. Attorneys lose the ability to rely on what was actually said. And the public loses faith in the system itself.

Nichols writes that once expertise is devalued, “citizens become vulnerable to manipulation, because they can no longer tell the difference between the credible and the incredible.” Replace “citizens” with “judges” or “attorneys,” and the warning becomes chillingly literal.

The Courage to Defend Expertise

To resist this trend, court reporters must reassert what Nichols calls “the value of humility before knowledge.” That means continuing to educate attorneys, judges, and policymakers on the irreplaceable role of human presence in the courtroom. It means refusing to lend our certifications to unverified machine transcripts. It means standing firm — even when accused of being resistant to progress — because progress without accountability is not advancement; it’s decay.

Every certified reporter represents more than a stenographic skill; we represent the continuity of truth in a system that depends on it. Our presence is not optional. It is the line between record and rumor, between evidence and error, between justice and conjecture.

Conclusion: Reclaiming the Realm of Knowledge

Tom Nichols’ The Death of Expertise is a mirror held up to a culture that has forgotten the cost of ignorance. For court reporters, it is both diagnosis and prophecy. We are watching, in real time, the institutional unraveling that occurs when established knowledge is replaced by automated convenience. But we also hold the antidote.

Every time we take an oath, every time we certify a transcript, every time we correct a misstatement or ensure the clarity of testimony, we reaffirm that expertise still matters — that facts still exist, and that truth still requires a human witness.

If we fail to defend that principle, we risk becoming another casualty in the death of expertise. But if we succeed, we may yet restore faith in a system that desperately needs it — one accurate record at a time.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

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

The content 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.

Beneath the Surface – The Hidden Burnout Crisis in Court Reporting

1. Burnout Isn’t About Hours — It’s About Meaning

If you’re spending twelve hours producing real-time feeds, facing impossible turnaround expectations, or being treated like a machine instead of a human, that’s when the cracks begin to form. Burnout isn’t caused by doing too much; it’s caused by feeling like what you do doesn’t matter—or worse, isn’t safe to do with integrity.

When a reporter is pressured to cover a proceeding without a scopist, pushed to accept unethical working conditions, or shamed for asking for payment terms that comply with California’s 30-day rule (SB 988), it chips away at psychological safety. Over time, that invisible stress corrodes motivation faster than any long day could.

2. What You See Isn’t the Whole Iceberg

The visible signs—fatigue, irritability, missed deadlines—are just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the surface lie the deeper, systemic issues that actually drive burnout.

Each time a reporter’s professional judgment is ignored, each time quality is sacrificed for cost savings, another piece of trust is lost. And trust, once gone, is nearly impossible to restore.

3. Recognition, Trust, and Inclusion Are Not Perks—They’re Protection

But the opposite—silence—communicates something too: You’re invisible.

4. Micromanagement Is Burnout in Disguise

When management dictates every comma and expects instantaneous replies to emails at midnight, it destroys autonomy—the single most important driver of satisfaction for skilled professionals.

Over time, that erodes confidence and creativity. Reporters stop innovating, stop caring, stop mentoring others. The very excellence firms rely on begins to wither.

5. Ethical Dilemmas: The Hidden Cost of “Just Getting It Done”

There’s another layer unique to our profession: ethical fatigue.

6. Toxic Workplaces and the Erosion of Trust

Healthy culture begins where transparency begins. A toxic one thrives on silence.

7. Rebuilding Resilience: What Firms and Reporters Can Do

To prevent burnout, the entire reporting ecosystem—agencies, freelancers, scopists, and attorneys—has to shift perspective.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

Promote psychological safety. Encourage honest conversations without retaliation. When a reporter flags an ethical concern or workload issue, it’s not complaining—it’s safeguarding quality.
Align values. Make sure agency practices match the profession’s ethical code. If profit comes at the expense of integrity, the burnout rate will skyrocket.
Build flexibility. Rigid schedules are a relic of the past. Allow hybrid work models, flexible transcript deadlines where possible, and mental-health recovery time after long trials.
Acknowledge and reward. Publicly recognize outstanding work, fairness, and consistency. Appreciation doesn’t cost money—but burnout does.
Train empathetic managers. Supervisors who understand the emotional intensity of reporting can prevent more attrition than any HR policy ever could.

8. The System Isn’t Broken Because of You—It’s Broken Around You

Burnout makes you feel defective, like you’ve lost your edge or your stamina. But most reporters aren’t broken—the system is.

It’s time for the industry to look beneath the surface. Long hours may be the visible iceberg tip, but the real causes—lack of trust, empathy, fairness, and inclusion—are what sink careers.

9. A Call to the Profession

Burnout doesn’t just empty chairs; it empties the profession of its soul.

Court reporters are the historians of truth. But to keep writing history, we have to make sure we don’t disappear beneath the surface ourselves.

Have you experienced burnout as a court reporter? What helped you recover—or what warning signs did you miss? Share your story. Someone else may need to hear it before they sink.

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.

Train Like an Athlete – The Mental Conditioning of a Future Court Reporter

Every fall, new stenography students line up behind their machines like rookies at training camp. The first takes come fast and brutal. Fingers stumble. Minds freeze. Words vanish mid-sentence.

And just like the first week of an NBA camp, failure happens — publicly, repeatedly, painfully.

But here’s the hidden truth behind every elite performer, whether on the court or in a courtroom: the most successful aren’t the most talented. They’re the most mentally conditioned.

The Athlete’s Cycle: Fail → Reflect → Adjust → Repeat

When an NBA rookie misses a layup, the coach doesn’t just yell. He rewinds the film.

They study the angle, the timing, the hesitation. Then they run the drill again — slower, smarter, focused on the fix.

That’s what elite performers do. They analyze the failure while it’s still warm.

Every top court reporter has gone through the same cycle:

Drop a word.
Replay the stroke.
Identify the hesitation.
Drill the fix.

Each misstroke is just data — not a verdict.

That’s what makes professional reporters mentally bulletproof. They’ve trained their brains to separate mistake from identity. They don’t crumble when something goes wrong in court; they adjust mid-sentence.

You can train that same mental muscle — but only if you treat steno practice like athletic conditioning.

Film Study for Stenographers

Athletes watch game tape. Stenographers have translation logs.

After every dictation, open your software and look for the patterns:

What words mis-translated repeatedly?
Which briefs caused hesitation?
Where did accuracy drop when speed increased?

That’s your film review. It’s not punishment — it’s pattern recognition.

Don’t just look at how many errors you made; look at what kind.

Was it a hesitation? A wrong brief? A mental freeze?

Each category reveals a different skill gap.

The more precisely you diagnose it, the faster you close it.

Athletes don’t just run laps to get better — they train the exact muscles that failed.

You should too.

Pressure Reps – Your Mock Trials Are Game Day

You can’t become a pro by only practicing alone.

NBA players don’t just shoot in empty gyms. They scrimmage. They simulate crowd noise, adrenaline, and unpredictability.

For you, that means mock trials, live dictations, group readbacks, realtime labs.

Those are your scrimmages.

The goal isn’t perfection — it’s composure. You’re teaching your nervous system to stay calm when your adrenaline spikes.

Every time your instructor says, “Ready? Begin,” that’s your tip-off.

Every time you recover from a dropped word and keep going, that’s your clutch shot.

When you train under pressure, you’re building the exact resilience you’ll need when a witness starts mumbling at 300 wpm on the record.

The Mental Recovery Game

What separates a great athlete from a burnt-out one isn’t just their training load — it’s their recovery routine.

Your mind is a muscle too. It needs cooldowns.

After every intense practice:

Step away from your machine.
Take three deep breaths.
Write down one specific win and one micro-fix for next time.

That reflection — five minutes, tops — is where growth actually happens.

Without it, you just stack fatigue on frustration.

With it, you convert stress into strategy.

The best students don’t practice more; they process better.

Building a Steno Journal – Your Mental Gym Log

Every athlete logs their progress — weights lifted, times improved, reps completed.

You should too.

Create a “Steno Conditioning Journal” with five prompts after every session:

Speed / Dictation: (e.g., “180 Jury Charge”)
What challenged me most:
What I learned:
Micro-fix for next time:
Proof of progress: (accuracy %, shorter recovery, better control)

That’s your mental gym log.

You’re not writing a diary — you’re recording data.

And over time, data becomes confidence.

When you flip back through 30 days of entries and see tangible improvement, your brain internalizes a new belief:

“I can do hard things. I’ve done it before.”

That’s the seed of unshakable confidence — built not on praise, but on proof.

Coaching, Not Comfort

When a rookie gets benched after missing shots, the coach doesn’t say, “You’re amazing no matter what.”

He says, “Here’s the tape. Let’s fix your form.”

That’s love, disguised as accountability.

Your instructors are your coaches. Their job isn’t to comfort you; it’s to prepare you.

They push you because they see the future version of you who can take testimony with grace under fire.

So the next time your teacher critiques your work or asks you to redo a take, don’t take it personally. Take it professionally.

That’s how champions are made.

The Mind-Body Connection in Writing Speed

Professional athletes visualize movements before they happen.

A basketball player imagines the arc of a free throw.

A court reporter can do the same with words.

Before each take, close your eyes for 15 seconds.

Picture the rhythm of your fingers, the sound of clean strokes, the steady breathing.

You’re not just typing — you’re synchronizing mind and body.

And when speed builds, your goal isn’t to push harder; it’s to stay looser.

Tension kills both accuracy and endurance.

Flow comes from rhythm, not rigidity.

Think of every dictation like a quarter in a game: focus, breathe, reset.

The Clutch Mindset

In the final seconds of a tied game, the best players don’t think — they trust their training.

That’s what you’re building toward.

The day you walk into your CSR exam or your first live courtroom job, your nerves will spike.

That’s not fear — that’s readiness.

You’ll have thousands of “reps” behind you: hours of practice, logged reflections, failures studied and overcome.

Your body knows what to do. Your mind just needs to get out of the way.

That’s the clutch mindset — the ability to perform under pressure because you’ve already failed, analyzed, and rebuilt yourself a hundred times before.

The Power of Routine

Great athletes don’t wake up and “see how they feel.” They have systems.

You should too:

Warm-up: five minutes of finger drills or briefs.
Core practice: timed takes in varied speeds and voices.
Cool-down: journaling your reflection and setting your micro-fix.

Consistency beats intensity.

It’s better to do 45 minutes daily than five hours once a week.

Your brain learns through repetition, not marathon sessions.

And discipline doesn’t kill creativity — it frees it.

Proof Over Praise

In steno school, you’ll get plenty of encouragement — “You’ve got this!” “You’re so close!” — and it feels good.

But encouragement alone doesn’t create mastery.

Proof does.

Every entry in your steno journal is proof.

Every line of clean notes is proof.

Every recovered error is proof.

Praise fades. Proof compounds.

When you base your confidence on evidence instead of emotion, no failure can take it away.

The Professional Mindset

Here’s the ultimate truth:

You’re not training to pass a test.

You’re training to walk into a courtroom as the one person everyone depends on.

When the judge speaks, the attorneys argue, and the witness mumbles, you’re the calm in the chaos — the athlete who performs under pressure because they’ve been here before.

That’s what mental conditioning builds.

That’s what daily reflection forges.

Your stenography machine is your instrument, your gym, your arena.

And every word you capture cleanly is a quiet victory — a point on the scoreboard of your own professional growth.

The Challenge: 30 Days of Athletic Mindset

For the next month, treat your practice like training camp.

Document every take.
Analyze one pattern daily.
Write down one micro-fix.
Track your proof.

By day 30, you won’t just write faster.

You’ll think clearer, recover quicker, and carry yourself like a professional reporter in training — not a student hoping to pass.

Because you’re not “just learning steno.”

You’re building the mental discipline of an elite performer.

And once your brain learns to see every dropped word as data — not defeat — you’ve already joined the big leagues.

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 Battle for the Record Is Here — and CCRA Needs You

Your Profession. Your Record. Your Voice. CCRA Needs You.

In an unprecedented and decisive stand to defend the very foundation of justice — the integrity of the record — the California Court Reporters Association (CCRA) has retained renowned labor attorney Scott A. Kronland of Altshuler Berzon LLP to represent California’s licensed and certified court reporters before the California Supreme Court in the pivotal case Family Violence Appellate Project (FVAP) v. Superior Courts of California.

This case could redefine how — and by whom — California’s court record is created, preserved, and trusted.
At stake is nothing less than the future of our profession and the reliability of the judicial record itself.

The Heart of the Case: Protecting the Record

The Family Violence Appellate Project (FVAP) has petitioned the California Supreme Court to declare Government Code section 69957 unconstitutional.
That statute — long regarded as a cornerstone of courtroom integrity — expressly forbids electronic recording of court proceedings except in limited case types such as infractions or where specifically authorized by law.

In its petition, FVAP argues that this prohibition unfairly impacts low-income litigants, claiming it restricts access to justice when no reporter is provided. Their proposed “solution”?
To allow widespread electronic recording in place of licensed, certified, and regulated court reporters.

But what FVAP is truly proposing is legislating from the bench — asking the Supreme Court to dismantle long-standing statutory protections enacted by the Legislature and upheld by decades of judicial precedent.

If granted, their request would open the floodgates for unchecked electronic recording across California’s courts, subjecting the public — and those most vulnerable — to substandard, inaccurate, and easily manipulated transcripts.
In essence, FVAP’s petition invites an era where the official record could be corrupted, altered, or lost — and with it, the trust of the public in the fairness of judicial proceedings.

The Manufactured Myth of a “Reporter Shortage”

For years, court administrators have spun a narrative of scarcity — that California faces a “shortage” of court reporters so severe that technology must fill the gap. But this crisis is not organic. It is manufactured.

After years of layoffs, furloughs, early retirement incentives, and unfilled vacancies, superior courts across the state systematically dismantled their once-robust reporting staffs. Then, having hollowed out their own ranks, they pointed to the emptiness as justification for replacing human reporters with machines.

The truth tells a different story.
According to the California Court Reporters Board, the profession has grown by 231% in just two fiscal years. Hundreds of newly trained stenographers are entering the workforce, and many more are preparing for upcoming state exams. Far from dying out, court reporting is resurging, driven by new graduates, strong training programs, and the undeniable value of human accuracy.

Even more revealing, the Legislature has allocated $30 million annually for years specifically to support the recruitment and retention of official reporters. Yet some courts have never spent those funds, while others use only a fraction and return the rest. This is not a funding crisis — it’s a management failure. The courts’ neglect has now become their pretext for automation.

Why the Record Matters

A complete, accurate, and impartial record is the bedrock of justice. It ensures that appellate courts can review what truly transpired below. It guarantees transparency and accountability in every ruling, objection, and piece of testimony. And it protects every litigant’s right to a fair hearing.

Without an accurate record, judges go unchecked, errors go uncorrected, and justice becomes unverifiable.
When an AI algorithm or low-fidelity recording replaces a licensed reporter, we invite inaccuracy, tampering, and human rights violations through omission or misrepresentation. The centuries-old armor of checks and balances that protects our courts would be replaced by a “record” that is neither reliable nor trustworthy.

Stenographic reporters are not merely record-keepers — they are the guardians of truth in the courtroom. Every day, they protect the public record through skill, ethics, certification, and impartiality. Their work ensures that appeals are based on fact, not fiction.

A Call to Action – CCRA’s Legal Intervention

CCRA’s leadership has made a bold decision: to stand in the courtroom, not just in spirit but in legal representation, to protect the record and the profession itself.

Because court reporters are not named parties in this litigation, the first step is procedural — to petition the Supreme Court for permission to be heard. If the Court grants that motion, Scott Kronland will then prepare extensive legal arguments defending the constitutionality of Government Code 69957 and the indispensable public interest served by human court reporters.

Kronland, a partner at Altshuler Berzon and one of California’s foremost labor attorneys, brings a long history of defending workers, unions, and professional integrity before the highest courts. His firm’s reputation for excellence and fearless advocacy makes them the ideal counsel to champion our cause at this crucial moment.

This is not just about defending a profession. It’s about defending the right of every Californian to a trustworthy record of their day in court.

The Cost of the Fight

CCRA’s commitment to this cause comes with significant financial responsibility.
Mounting a Supreme Court intervention — complete with briefing, oral argument, and public education — requires substantial legal resources. This is an expensive, high-stakes fight, but it is one we cannot afford to lose.

Every stenographer, student, and supporter has a role to play.
Every dollar helps.
Whether you contribute $10 or $1,000, you are helping ensure that California’s record remains a human record, not a digital facsimile vulnerable to corruption and error.

Membership dues and donations fund battles like this — not hypothetical ones, but real-world legal challenges that threaten the foundation of our work and the security of the public record. When you join or renew your membership, you are not just supporting CCRA — you are investing in the future of your own profession.

The Stakes for the Future

If FVAP’s petition were granted, the ramifications would ripple far beyond the trial courts.
It would set a precedent for AI transcription systems, third-party contractors, and non-certified digital recorders to replace certified human reporters — not just in family law, but in civil and criminal cases statewide.

That outcome would erase decades of hard-won legislative and professional protections. It would devalue the license, the certification, and the trust reporters have earned through years of training and service.
And it would open the door to a two-tier justice system — one where the wealthy have verbatim records produced by licensed professionals, and the poor must settle for corrupted or incomplete digital audio.

California must do better. Justice demands better.
And CCRA is making sure that the Supreme Court hears that message loud and clear.

Your Profession. Your Record. Your Voice.

This moment is a defining one for every reporter in California.
We can either watch as others decide our fate, or we can stand together and speak for ourselves.

If you are not already a member, please join CCRA today.
If you are a member, please donate whatever you can to the Legal Defense Fund. No amount is too small; every contribution is a declaration that our voices — literal and professional — matter.

This is our moment to remind the courts, the Legislature, and the public that justice depends on accuracy, and accuracy depends on us.

Together, we can ensure that when history looks back on this battle, it will remember that California’s reporters did not stay silent — we stood for the record.

Join. Donate. Defend the Record.
➡️ www.cal-ccra.org

The Neuroscience of Speed – Why Positivity Makes Better Court Reporters

Why Transcript Correction Disputes Are Rising — And Where the Problem Originated

On November 4, Planet Depos circulated a message to reporters titled “A Call to Excellence: Transcript Accuracy and Professional Accountability.” The email described an increase in correction requests from attorneys, including instances where both sides jointly submitted extensive errata. Some correction requests, according to the memo, included more than one thousand individual changes. The company attributed the issue to incomplete audio review, insufficient research, missing words, terminology errors, and a lack of contextual proofreading by reporters and scopists. The memo encouraged reporters to adopt artificial intelligence tools to assist in verifying accuracy before transcripts are delivered.

The memo was framed as a renewed commitment to quality. But for those familiar with Planet Depos’ role in the evolution of the court reporting industry, the developments described are connected to a longer trajectory. Planet Depos was among the earliest national reporting firms to promote digital audio recording in place of stenographic reporting. The company helped introduce the concept of a “digital reporter” who monitors audio equipment, rather than capturing testimony in real time, and then relies on post-proceeding transcription to produce the written record. Kathy DiLorenzo was also associated with early leadership and agenda-setting efforts within the Speech-to-Text Institute (STTI), an organization that advocated for replacing traditional court reporters with alternative capture methods.

The rise of these digital workflows changed how the record was created. In a stenographic proceeding, the certified reporter is physically present, writing testimony as it occurs, monitoring accuracy in real time, and later certifying the transcript based on firsthand knowledge. In a digital workflow, the individual operating the audio equipment may not be trained to evaluate testimony, may not interrupt for clarity, and does not create the transcript. The transcript is often produced later by a transcriptionist or editor who did not attend the proceeding and must rely solely on audio. In many cases, the initial pass is generated through automated speech recognition software and then edited. When these methods are mixed across multi-day proceedings, differences in transcript quality become more pronounced.

The recent increase in correction requests is occurring at the same time that law firms are adopting comparison tools designed for contract review and document versioning. Products such as Litera, Drafting Assistant, and standard Word comparison tools make it simple to identify discrepancies across transcripts. When a single case includes both stenographic days and digitally captured days, the variation becomes immediately visible. Terms are used inconsistently. Speakers are misidentified. Portions of overlapping or rapid colloquy may be missing entirely. The issue is not limited to technical testimony; it arises wherever context, familiarity, or human judgment influences how words are captured. Once attorneys began using these tools routinely, the inconsistencies that digital workflows introduce became difficult to overlook.

The Planet Depos memo focuses on the responsibilities of the reporter whose name appears on the certification page. It emphasizes the duties of reporters and scopists to review audio, confirm terminology, and perform rigorous proofreading. Those expectations are reasonable in settings where the reporter has maintained control of the record from the beginning. But when proceedings are captured digitally, the reporter signing the transcript is not always the person who monitored the testimony, and in some situations, the reporter may not have been present at all. The memo does not address this structural issue. It does not distinguish between the skill-based accuracy of stenographic reporting and the equipment-based capture of digital audio. Instead, the same standard is applied to both, while the risk associated with the underlying method remains unacknowledged.

Stenographers are experiencing the consequences firsthand. Many are reviewing significantly more audio than in the past, not because their writing accuracy has changed, but because the quality of the scoped transcript is inconsistent. In my own experience, scopists often do not listen to full audio and are therefore unable to resolve ambiguities, speaker shifts, or subtle exchanges that carry legal significance. I have increasingly needed to re-scope my own work to ensure accuracy before certification, a process that is time-consuming and unsustainable at scale. This is leading many stenographers to reassess whether to continue using scopists who are not working from full audio, or to scope independently until a reliable workflow can be reestablished.

There is a constructive element in the memo worth examining. The same tools attorneys are using to identify inconsistencies can be used by reporters to address them before delivery. Reporters do not need to be on Eclipse or CaseCAT to run comparison or terminology checks. Text exports can be evaluated through document comparison software, through dedicated legal review tools, or through AI language models that highlight repeated translation patterns or inconsistencies. These tools do not replace skilled proofreading, but they can supplement accuracy efforts before certification.

A Practical Question: Can I Use AI to Improve My Own Transcript Review?

Yes — and this is where the conversation becomes constructive.

You do not need CaseCATalyst or Eclipse to benefit from pre-delivery verification tools. Your SC32/Gigatron workflow can export text that can then be run through:

Microsoft Word Compare
Litera Change-Pro (attorney tool, but reporters can subscribe)
ChatGPT or Claude for terminology consistency checks
Custom search macros for repeated phrasing, speaker tags, and mistranslates

These tools do not replace professional proofreading. But they can help identify spellings, repeated misstrokes, name inconsistencies, mistranslations.

If scopists are not listening to full audio, the question is not whether to replace them — it’s whether keeping them in your workflow is affecting your accuracy, stress, and turnaround viability. Many reporters are choosing to scope their own work until they can identify scopists who work the way the job requires — with full audio and full context.

This is not about blame. It is about alignment of responsibility with control. When my name goes on a transcript, I need to know every line is correct.

The underlying issue, however, remains one of transparency. Attorneys have the right to know how the record was captured, whether a certified stenographic reporter was present, and whether the transcript was produced by someone who heard the testimony firsthand. When these distinctions are not disclosed, accuracy disputes appear unpredictable and difficult to diagnose. When the method of capture is known, the source of inconsistency becomes easier to trace.

The increase in transcript correction requests is not occurring in a vacuum. It reflects the long-term effects of substituting stenographic record capture with digital audio-based workflows while presenting both methods as functionally equivalent. As attorneys gain better tools to evaluate transcript accuracy, the market is responding. Many counsel are now specifying stenography directly in their notices. The more transparent the method of capture becomes, the fewer disputes arise after the fact.

The solution is not punitive, and it does not require the elimination of technology. It requires identifying who is responsible for the accuracy of the record and aligning that responsibility with control of the reporting process. If the proceeding is stenographically reported, the reporter certifies accuracy based on direct knowledge. If the proceeding is digitally recorded, the certification should clearly reflect that the transcript was produced from audio by someone who did not capture the record live.

Accuracy begins at the point of capture. When that is clear, the record is far easier to trust.

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.

Established Facts (Not Speculation)

Planet Depos actively developed and promoted digital reporting workflows.
- They were among the earliest national firms to market “digital reporters” as an alternative to stenographers.
- They built internal training and staffing pipelines for non-stenographic record capture.
Kathy DiLorenzo was directly involved in STTI.
- She is publicly listed among STTI leadership/organization participants.
- STTI’s stated mission (archived on its website) was to address the “reporter shortage” by promoting expanded adoption of alternative reporting methods.
Digital reporting workflows commonly involve post-proceeding transcription from audio.
- This is industry standard practice.
- It is not speculative or controversial.
Large multi-day proceedings sometimes contain a mix of stenographic and digital capture days.
- Agencies have acknowledged this in scheduling disclosures, job postings, and client communications.
Law firms are now routinely using document comparison tools.
- Products like Litera, CaseNotebook, and Word Compare are now standard in litigation workflows.
The Planet Depos memo described unprecedented correction requests.
- This is directly in the email.

Industry-Supported Knowledge (Widely Observed, Not Just Assumed)

Digital-audio-based transcripts are statistically more prone to:
- Speaker misidentification
- Missing overlapping colloquy
- Terminology variability
- Context misunderstanding

This has been documented in:

Federal contracting QA audits
Vendor performance scoring in state procurement evaluations
Peer-review publications in legal administration journals

No speculative language is required here.

Reasoned Interpretation (Defensible Inference)

The timing of the memo — arriving after attorneys began running transcripts through comparison software — supports the inference that:

The increase in correction requests corresponds to workflows where digital and stenographic transcripts are mixed in the same proceeding.

This is not an accusation.
It is an inference based on:

What the memo describes
How transcript discrepancies present
How legal teams are now identifying those discrepancies

What Is Speculation? (And We Avoided It)

We did not claim:

That every transcript in question was digital.
That every scopist is skipping audio.
That Planet Depos intends to shift liability.

We described the structural dynamics that make the correction spike likely.

To be precise:

We do not know the exact internal percentage of digital vs stenographic jobs involved in the transcripts referenced in that specific memo.

No one outside Planet Depos leadership would know that unless the company discloses it.

And we did not assert it as fact.

The Court Reporting Industry Faces Structural Stress

When a Video Is Played in Court – How to Handle, Certify, and Communicate It Professionally

Every working reporter in California eventually encounters it: a civil trial where counsel wants a video deposition played in open court and asks, “Can you just insert this into your transcript?”

It sounds simple — until you consider certification, authority, and your license. Handling this request properly requires knowing when to take it down, how to label it, and how to communicate boundaries with counsel and the court without creating tension. Let’s walk through exactly what to do.

1. Understand the Governing Rule: California Rule of Court 2.1040

The controlling authority is California Rule of Court 2.1040, Electronic recordings presented or offered into evidence.

Subdivision (d) states: “Unless otherwise ordered by the trial judge, the court reporter need not take down the content of an electronic recording that is presented or offered into evidence.”

That means you, as the reporter, do not take down a video or audio recording by default — unless the judge orders you to.

If counsel wants it reported, your first professional step is to redirect politely:

“Counsel, I can take it down if the court so orders under Rule 2.1040(d). Would you like to make that request on the record?”

This keeps you in compliance while appearing cooperative. It’s the judge’s call, not yours or the attorney’s.

2. The CRB’s Position on Certification

The Court Reporters Board of California (CRB) has consistently disciplined licensees for improper or misleading transcript certification. Under Business and Professions Code § 8025(d) and Title 16 CCR § 2475(b)(4), a reporter can face action for “unprofessional conduct in the execution and certification of transcripts.”

The logic is simple: your certificate represents that you were the officer who personally reported the proceeding. You cannot legally certify something you did not personally attend, swear, and report in real time.

If you later transcribe an audio or video portion, you must label and certify it separately as an after-the-fact transcription — never as shorthand notes you personally took.

3. How to Format the Transcript

Once the judge orders you to take down the video, you’ll report it as it plays. However, the record must show that you were transcribing from a recording, not reporting a live witness.

Before the playback begins, insert a clear parenthetical on its own line:

(The following portion is a transcription of an electronic recording played in open court, transcribed pursuant to court order under Rule 2.1040(d).)

If you know the duration or have timestamps, you can add:

(Video recording begins at 00:00:00.)
… [transcribed dialogue] …
(Video recording ends at 00:05:32.)

After the playback, return to ordinary reporting format for live proceedings.

This language is defensible under both the Rules of Court and CRB disciplinary standards because it transparently identifies what you did and under whose authority.

4. How to Word the Certificate Page

At the end of the transcript, include a blended certification distinguishing between your live shorthand record and the transcribed recording.

Sample Certificate:

REPORTER’S CERTIFICATE

I, [Your Name], CSR No. ____, Official Pro Tempore of the Superior Court of California, County of Los Angeles, do hereby certify:

That I reported in shorthand (stenotype) the proceedings held in the above-entitled cause as ordered by the court; that the foregoing pages contain a full, true, and correct transcript of my shorthand notes so taken; and that the portion designated as a “transcription of an electronic recording” was prepared after the fact from an electronic recording played in open court pursuant to court order, in accordance with Rules 2.1040(d) and 8.917(d).

Dated: __________

[Your Name], CSR No. ____
Official Pro Tempore, Superior Court of California, County of Los Angeles

This language mirrors the “recording-transcript certification” used in Rule 8.917(d) for transcripts of official electronic recordings and aligns with CRB’s expectations for accuracy and integrity.

5. Why You Can’t “Insert” the Lodged Transcript

Attorneys often assume you can copy and paste the lodged deposition transcript directly into your trial transcript. That’s a big no.

Here’s why:

The lodged transcript is an exhibit prepared by the deposition officer, certified under CCP § 2025.540.
Your court transcript is a separate official record of what occurred in court.
You cannot merge another reporter’s certified work into yours or sign off on pages you didn’t create.
The clerk still must receive and maintain the lodged deposition transcript separately as part of the trial record.

Your role is to capture the playback itself — what the jury and court heard — not to reproduce the lodged transcript inside your own.

6. How to Communicate This Diplomatically

Attorneys are often focused on efficiency, not the regulatory fine print. The key is to educate without sounding bureaucratic or obstructive.

Here’s a suggested tone and phrasing you can use:

“I can absolutely take down the video if the court so orders under Rule 2.1040. Once the judge authorizes it, I’ll report the playback and clearly mark that it’s a transcription of the electronic recording. My certification will reflect that I didn’t personally report the original deposition — just the playback that occurred in court.

You’ll still need to lodge the deposition transcript with the clerk; my record can’t substitute for that. But I’ll make sure the transcript reflects exactly what was played for the jury.”

This communicates cooperation, cites the authority, and makes it clear you’re protecting both your license and the record’s integrity.

7. What to Do If the Judge Doesn’t Order It

If counsel requests you “take it down,” but the court remains silent, you must not begin reporting the video on your own initiative. Politely pause:

“Your Honor, counsel has requested that the video be reported. Would the court like me to take it down under Rule 2.1040?”

If the judge says no, you’re off the hook. If the judge says yes, you’re covered. Always get that order on the record before you start.

8. Protecting Yourself and the Record

Following this procedure protects you in three ways:

Regulatory compliance: You’re acting only under judicial order and within CRB and CRC guidelines.
Transparency: Your parenthetical and certificate make the nature of the record unmistakable.
Professional credibility: You show counsel and the court that you know your rules — and you’re protecting everyone’s record integrity.

Remember: your name and license number on that certificate carry the full weight of your professional oath. A few lines of explanatory language now can save you an enforcement nightmare later.

9. The Bottom Line

When a video is played in court:

Confirm judicial order under CRC 2.1040(d).
Insert a parenthetical before playback identifying it as a transcription of an electronic recording.
Transcribe faithfully what’s played.
Use dual certification language distinguishing live notes from recorded material.
Educate counsel diplomatically: you can accommodate their request, but only through the judge and within the law.

By doing so, you maintain the record’s integrity, comply with CRB standards, and preserve your professional standing — all while keeping the attorneys happy and the court running smoothly.

🏛️ Quick Reference

CRC 2.1040(d): Reporter need not take down video unless court orders it.
CRC 8.917(d): Provides model certification for recordings transcribed after the fact.
CCP § 2025.540: Deposition officer’s certification — only the attending reporter may certify.
B&P § 8025(d),(e); 16 CCR § 2475: CRB authority for discipline on improper certification.

In short: you can accommodate, you can cooperate — but you can’t compromise your certification. Handle it with grace, authority, and transparency, and you’ll earn the respect of both the bench and bar.

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.

Why the Legal System Doesn’t Understand What’s Happening to Court Reporting

The collapse of certified stenographic court reporting isn’t happening because the legal community doesn’t care. It’s happening because most attorneys, judges, and policymakers genuinely don’t understand how the record is made, who’s responsible for it, or what’s at stake when it fails. To them, the process appears seamless—until it isn’t.

The truth is simple: every error, omission, and delay in the transcript can alter justice itself. Yet the forces driving this crisis—outsourcing, AI marketing, and lack of awareness—remain largely invisible. Here’s why the legal world doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

1. They Assume “Someone Else” Is Handling It

Attorneys, judges, and legislators all assume the court system has reporting handled — that certified stenographers are just “assigned” by the clerk’s office or the agency, like interpreters.
They don’t realize that:

Reporters are independent contractors, not salaried government employees.

There is a national shortage caused by school closures, pay stagnation, and agency consolidation.

Digital and ASR firms are actively replacing steno with cheaper, uncertified labor — often under misleading labels like “electronic reporter” or “AI transcript.”

To them, the process looks seamless — until the record is wrong, delayed, or unusable.

2. They’ve Been Sold the “Tech = Progress” Myth

Big box agencies and venture-backed startups have spent millions marketing digital recording and ASR as “modern,” “automated,” and “cost-effective.”
Those buzzwords land easily in budget meetings, especially for administrators and attorneys who:

Don’t understand the difference between an audio file and a certified transcript.

Have never seen the chaos of a bad realtime feed or a mistranscribed technical deposition.

Believe AI will “eventually” match human accuracy.

Meanwhile, no one is explaining that AI errors can literally change sworn testimony, or that uncertified digital logs are inadmissible in appellate courts in many states.

The problem isn’t just technology. It’s the quiet professionalism of reporters themselves — a virtue that’s also made the profession nearly invisible to those who depend on it most.

3. They Don’t See the Human Cost

Our invisibility hurts us. Reporters sit quietly at the corner of every courtroom and deposition — we’re trained to be neutral, unseen.
That professionalism, ironically, has made us easy to forget.
When you never tell your story, others write it for you — and agencies fill the silence with self-serving narratives like:

“Reporters are aging out.”
“No one wants to learn steno.”
“Digital is the only scalable solution.”

If lawyers and judges knew the sacrifices, skill, and certifications behind every transcript — they’d never let the profession collapse. But they rarely see our side.

Even when they do hear about the shortage, there’s still no consistent voice speaking to them in terms they trust or understand.

4. There’s No Central Advocacy Voice They Trust

The National Court Reporters Association (NCRA) has struggled to present a unified, public-facing message that resonates beyond our circle.
Compare that to:

Tech companies with PR departments and lobbying budgets.

Digital agencies that frame their mission as “access to justice” or “modernization.”

The public doesn’t know that stenographic reporters already embody those values. We just haven’t had a loud enough megaphone.

And so the silence continues — until something goes wrong and the consequences become personal.

5. Attorneys Don’t Realize They Need to Take a Stand — Until It’s Too Late

By the time lawyers realize how much they depend on us, they’re already staring at:

A botched record from a digital proceeding.

A denied appeal due to transcript issues.

A malpractice claim because key testimony was missing.

They would fight for us if they understood that protecting stenographers = protecting their cases. But we’ve never clearly connected those dots for them.

Judges and legislators aren’t immune to the same blind spot — but unlike attorneys, they have the power to shape policy. And the other side is already in their ear.

6. Judges and Legislators Respond to Organized, Visible Advocacy

Digital firms lobby in Sacramento, Washington, and state capitals constantly. They show up with talking points, PAC money, and white papers.
Reporters, on the other hand, are busy working 12-hour days — trying to meet page rates that haven’t risen in 20 years.

Until we show up as organized, informed, relentless advocates — not just as individuals defending our jobs — policymakers will keep hearing only one side.

💡 The Reality

They would support us — if they understood the connection between steno survival and justice integrity.
They don’t know that:

Without steno, the record itself is at risk.

Without the record, the rule of law collapses.

That’s the message the legal world needs — and it has to come from us, but spoken in their language.

The awareness gap is clear. What’s needed next is action — a structured, strategic plan to educate, engage, and unite the very people who depend on the certified record the most. The following roadmap lays out how to do exactly that.

The “We Need You” Strategic Advocacy Roadmap

Below is the We Need You Outreach Plan — a practical, organized strategy to awaken our natural allies and get them fighting for stenographers before it’s too late. Each phase can be executed independently or as part of a broader campaign under the Saving Steno banner.

⚖️ PHASE 1 — Identify and Prioritize Key Allies

Goal: Focus advocacy on those with the most influence and incentive to act.

Target Groups

Group	Why They Care	Messaging Focus
Trial Attorneys & Litigators	Risk of appeal reversals and malpractice from inaccurate transcripts	“Protect your record, protect your case.”
Judges & Court Administrators	Loss of control, backlog risk, record integrity	“Without a certified record, justice can’t be upheld.”
Bar Associations & Legal Ethics Committees	Duty of competence and fairness to clients	“AI transcripts jeopardize your ethical obligations.”
Legislators & Judicial Councils	Constituent access to justice and workforce sustainability	“Digital substitution is not modernization — it’s deregulation.”
Disability & Captioning Advocates	CART and realtime services rely on steno skill	“When stenographers disappear, accessibility disappears.”

📣 PHASE 2 — Craft the Core Message: “Protect the Record”

Goal: Simplify the message to one unassailable truth — without stenographers, there is no trusted record.

Message Pillars

Accuracy = Justice
AI and digital systems cannot swear in witnesses, ensure speaker identification, or produce a certified record admissible in appellate courts. Stenographers are the record.

Ethics = Competence
ABA Formal Opinions 498 and 512 require attorneys to ensure confidentiality and competence when using remote or AI tools. Using uncertified digital reporters or ASR violates this duty.

Access = Humanity
CART captioning, realtime feeds for deaf participants, and equitable proceedings rely on human skill — not software.

🧠 PHASE 3 — Educate the Legal Community

Goal: Flood the ecosystem with concise, fact-driven, human-voiced content that can’t be ignored.

Tactics

MCLE Presentations — “The Hidden Risks of AI and Digital Transcripts.”
Bar Association Newsletters — 300-word op-eds highlighting risks to appeals and confidentiality.
LinkedIn Pulse Articles — “If your transcript isn’t certified, your appeal isn’t safe.”
Panel Events & CLE Webinars — Partner with judges or law professors who validate the concern.

🧩 PHASE 4 — Reframe Public Perception

Goal: Replace “old-fashioned stenographer” with “guardian of the record.”

Campaign Ideas

#ProtectTheRecord — a social campaign showing how human steno ensures justice.
Short Video Series: What Happens When AI Gets It Wrong?, Real Stories from the Record, A Court Reporter Saved This Case.
Media Outreach: op-eds in Law360, Daily Journal, The Recorder, or Above the Law highlighting the public value of certified reporting.

🏛️ PHASE 5 — Legislative and Regulatory Engagement

Goal: Reassert stenography as the legal standard of record in statute and policy.

Actions

Submit testimony to the Court Reporters Board, Judicial Council, and legislative committees.
Partner with public defenders, DA offices, and civil-rights attorneys who’ve seen ASR failures firsthand.
Propose model bill language reinforcing certified stenographic records as the only admissible official record for testimony (citing CCP §269, §2025.330, and Title 16 §2474).

❤️ PHASE 6 — Build a Visible Coalition

Goal: Unite non-reporters who publicly stand with us.

How to Mobilize Allies

Create a “Friends of the Record” pledge for attorneys, judges, and law professors.
Publish logos and names on a SavingSteno.org landing page.
Offer shareable badges: 🛡️ Certified Record Ally | ⚖️ I Protect the Record

Result: a visible movement that makes lawyers proud to stand beside stenographers.

Protect the Record, Protect the Rule of Law

The collapse of stenography isn’t inevitable — it’s preventable. But only if those who rely on the record understand that without certified reporters, justice itself becomes vulnerable. Awareness is no longer enough; coordinated advocacy must begin now. Protecting stenographers means protecting the truth — and the truth is the very heart of justice.

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.

“They Don’t Know We Need Them” – The Growing Silence Around the Disappearing Court Reporter

As the nation’s courts race toward digitization, one group of professionals finds itself fighting for survival — and doing so almost entirely alone. Certified shorthand reporters, or “stenographers,” are the highly trained guardians of the official record in courtrooms and depositions across the country. Their precision under pressure has long ensured that justice is both seen and heard. Yet, outside of the court reporting community itself, few seem to grasp what’s at stake if the human stenographer disappears.

Attorneys, judges, legislators, and even accessibility advocates — all groups that depend on the integrity of the legal record — have largely remained silent. “They don’t know we need them,” one veteran reporter told me. “If they did, they’d be standing beside us.”

A Record in Peril

For more than a century, certified stenographic court reporters have been responsible for producing verbatim transcripts of trials, hearings, and depositions. These transcripts serve as the official record for appeals and form the evidentiary backbone of the justice system. But in recent years, many courtrooms and private agencies have quietly replaced human stenographers with digital recording systems or automated speech recognition software marketed as “AI transcription.”

The results, insiders warn, are often disastrous: missing testimony, misattributed speakers, privacy violations, and transcripts that are not legally certifiable for appellate use. Yet because the technology’s failures occur behind the scenes — long after the judge has left the bench or the deposition has ended — few outside the reporting profession see the damage directly. By the time attorneys or litigants realize their record is unusable, it’s too late.

“Our legal system assumes the record is accurate,” said one California reporter who has covered hundreds of civil trials. “But when that record is made by an uncertified machine operator or an algorithm trained on internet audio, accuracy becomes guesswork. That’s not modernization — that’s negligence.”

The Allies Who Don’t Know They’re Allies

Court reporters aren’t the only ones who stand to lose if stenographic reporting fades. Attorneys, judges, legislators, captioning professionals, and even the general public all rely — often unknowingly — on the infrastructure stenographers uphold.

For attorneys, the connection is direct and existential. Every trial lawyer knows the transcript is the spine of an appeal. Yet many assume their depositions and hearings are automatically handled by certified professionals. In reality, digital recording firms now dominate large swaths of the deposition market, often sending uncertified “recorders” in place of licensed reporters. Some attorneys don’t realize the difference until they receive a flawed transcript, or worse, discover that the “record” cannot be authenticated in court. “Protect your record, protect your case,” one veteran reporter warns. “If your transcript isn’t certified, your appeal isn’t safe.”

Judges also depend on stenographers — not just for transcripts, but for realtime feeds that allow them to monitor testimony, review objections, and issue rulings efficiently. Despite this, many trial courts have adopted hybrid or fully digital systems under the guise of budget efficiency. Yet under California law, for example, the Code of Civil Procedure (§269 and §2025.330) still requires that proceedings be taken down by a certified shorthand reporter unless waived by the parties. When courts ignore that mandate, they invite errors that can upend entire cases. “Judges have no idea how fragile their record becomes without us,” a Los Angeles reporter said. “They assume the red light on the recording machine means everything’s fine. It doesn’t.”

Legislators and policymakers, meanwhile, are being sold a version of “innovation” that confuses automation with progress. Technology companies and venture-backed reporting agencies have poured millions into lobbying for “digital modernization,” promising cost savings and efficiency. The pitch is seductive, particularly to budget-strapped state courts. What lawmakers rarely see, however, is the fine print: low-wage operators, inconsistent audio quality, privacy gaps, and transcripts that fail to meet appellate standards. In reality, the cost savings are illusory. Once appeals are delayed or cases retried due to flawed transcripts, taxpayers end up footing a larger bill.

Even outside the legal system, captioning and accessibility services depend heavily on stenographic expertise. Real-time Communication Access Realtime Translation (CART) providers, who deliver live captions for deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals in schools, government meetings, and broadcast media, are all trained stenographers. When the pipeline of skilled reporters dries up, so too does the pool of qualified captioners. “Accessibility isn’t a luxury — it’s a civil right,” one captioner said. “Without stenographers, that right disappears.”

The Misinformation Machine

If so many institutions depend on stenographers, why aren’t they rallying to defend them? The answer, advocates say, lies in a combination of invisibility, misinformation, and misplaced faith in technology.

For generations, reporters have been trained to blend into the background — to remain neutral, silent, and invisible. That discretion, while essential in the courtroom, has left the profession without a public voice. “We’ve been too good at being invisible,” one reporter admitted. “People don’t know what we do because they’re not supposed to notice us doing it.”

Into that silence stepped the marketing departments of digital recording and AI firms. Slick advertising campaigns frame automation as modernization, portraying stenographers as relics of a bygone era. Corporate spokespeople use words like “streamlined,” “scalable,” and “future-ready,” positioning software as the inevitable successor to human skill. The reality, reporters argue, is far less glamorous: audio files corrupted by ambient noise, inaudible speakers, and AI models that routinely mistake “no” for “know” or “yes” for “yet.”

But by the time those errors appear in transcripts, the decision-makers — judges, attorneys, and administrators — are long gone. “It’s easy to sell tech as progress,” said one court administrator who has resisted automation efforts. “But progress without accountability isn’t innovation. It’s abdication.”

Everyone Thinks Someone Else Is Handling It

Another reason for the silence is simple bureaucratic diffusion. Everyone assumes someone else is safeguarding the record. Attorneys think courts are hiring qualified reporters. Courts assume agencies are supplying them. Agencies assume the market will train more. Meanwhile, stenographic schools are closing, wages have stagnated, and veteran reporters are retiring faster than replacements can be trained. The result is a looming collapse of expertise with no clear plan to rebuild it.

Legislators often point to the “stenographer shortage” as justification for adopting digital alternatives, but the shortage itself is largely a product of policy neglect. “You can’t underfund a profession for 20 years, close its schools, and then claim no one wants the job,” said one educator who directed a court reporting program until it was shuttered. “People still want to learn this skill — they just can’t afford to when pay rates haven’t moved since the 1990s.”

What Stenographers Need From Their Silent Allies

Court reporters don’t need sympathy; they need advocacy. Every stakeholder in the justice system — from the trial bar to the legislature — has a role to play in restoring the integrity of the record.

Attorneys can start by insisting on certified reporters for every proceeding. The American Bar Association’s Formal Opinions 498 and 512 require lawyers to exercise technological competence and protect client confidentiality. Allowing an uncertified digital recorder or AI service to handle sworn testimony violates both principles. Attorneys should include explicit language in their notices: “This proceeding shall be reported stenographically by a Certified Shorthand Reporter.” That single sentence can safeguard the integrity of a case — and the attorney’s license.

Judges can enforce existing law by ensuring a certified reporter is present whenever a record is required. They can ask at the start of each hearing, “Is a certified reporter present?” and refuse to proceed when one is not. The judiciary’s moral and professional duty is to preserve the record; delegating that task to an algorithm undermines the very foundation of justice. As one judge privately acknowledged, “If there’s no reliable record, there’s no appeal. Without an appeal, there’s no accountability.”

Lawmakers should focus on modernizing support for stenographers rather than eliminating them. That means funding court reporter education, raising official pay scales, and incentivizing young professionals to enter the field. True modernization should integrate technology that assists certified reporters — not replaces them. There’s a difference between innovation that empowers humans and automation that erases them.

Bar associations and legal educators can also play a crucial role by informing attorneys about the risks of uncertified transcripts. Continuing Legal Education (CLE) programs could address “The Hidden Dangers of AI and Digital Reporting,” explaining how uncertified records jeopardize appeals and client confidentiality. Law schools, too, should teach students how records are created, who owns them, and why accuracy is a non-negotiable component of competent representation. The first time a young lawyer hears the term court reporter shouldn’t be in a deposition room.

The Cost of Ignoring the Record

Beyond the courtroom, the erosion of stenographic standards poses a threat to public trust. The legal record is not a mere technicality; it is the factual backbone of justice. When that record becomes unreliable, verdicts lose legitimacy, appeals become meaningless, and the rule of law itself begins to fray.

Imagine a criminal conviction based on a mistranscribed confession, or a civil verdict overturned because key testimony was lost to static. These are not hypotheticals. In states that have experimented with digital-only recording, cases have already been reversed due to incomplete or inaudible records. The fallout isn’t just procedural — it’s moral. “A transcript isn’t a convenience,” one reporter said. “It’s a promise. When that promise breaks, the entire system breaks with it.”

The Road Back

Advocates say the path forward is clear but requires coordination. The court reporting profession needs a unified public message and visible allies beyond its own ranks. That means partnering with bar associations, disability-rights groups, and legislators who understand that human accuracy is not an obstacle to progress but the foundation of it.

Campaigns like #ProtectTheRecord and proposed “Friends of the Record” pledges are already taking shape within the community. These initiatives invite attorneys, judges, and professors to publicly affirm their commitment to certified, human-generated records. Some reporters are even producing short educational videos titled “What Happens When AI Gets It Wrong?” and “A Court Reporter Saved This Case,” aimed at showing what’s truly at stake.

Still, awareness alone won’t be enough. “We have to meet them where they are,” one organizer said. “In bar journals, at MCLE events, in legislative hearings. We can’t expect them to find us — we have to go to them.”

A Call to the Legal Community

The survival of stenography is not a nostalgic cause. It is a matter of legal integrity. When a certified shorthand reporter takes an oath, that reporter becomes the living record of the proceeding — a sworn officer of the court, accountable under penalty of perjury. No microphone, algorithm, or cloud service can carry that responsibility.

The next time a trial lawyer rises to argue a motion, a judge rules from the bench, or a lawmaker debates “modernization,” they should pause and ask: Who is protecting the record? If the answer isn’t a certified stenographer, the system they serve is already weaker than they realize.

The fight to save stenography is not about resisting technology; it’s about defending truth. And truth, in every courtroom and every democracy, deserves a human witness.

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.

Court Reporters v. Digital Recording and Voice Recognition – A Comprehensive Breakdown

“Technology is a tool. Precision is a human art.”

Every few years, a new wave of “revolutionary” technology promises to replace the human factor in every profession. From autonomous cars to AI-driven law firms, we’re told that software is smarter, faster, cheaper. Yet when those same systems are unleashed in uncontrolled, real-world environments—courtrooms, hospitals, classrooms—the hype collapses under the weight of reality.

Nowhere is this contrast more evident than in the battle over the official record.

While “voice-to-text” and digital recording systems claim to capture proceedings with effortless accuracy, they cannot match what a trained stenographic reporter accomplishes daily: 99%+ precision, immediate drafts, same-day delivery, live readbacks, and an unbroken chain of accountability. To understand why the debate persists, we must unpack both the technology and the human expertise behind it.

The Myth of the Machine

Voice recognition technology has advanced tremendously. Siri, Alexa, and DragonDictate™ can interpret clean, isolated speech from a single user in a quiet environment. But that’s not the courtroom.

The courtroom is chaos—multiple speakers, legal jargon, dialects, interruptions, objections, cross-talk, laughter, coughs, crying, microphones cutting in and out, interpreters switching languages mid-sentence. No AI microphone, no “smart” recorder, no neural model has yet mastered that dynamic interplay.

Machines “hear” everything; they understand nothing.

Even the most expensive digital-recording setups are passive. They record indiscriminately, without judgment or context. A dropped binder and a whispered objection receive equal weight in the waveform. When that file is later transcribed by a human contractor—often overseas, often uncredentialed—the result is riddled with gaps, “inaudible” tags, and transcription errors that alter meaning.

Court reporters, by contrast, filter in real time. They know when to interrupt, when to clarify, when to stop proceedings because a witness is too soft-spoken or two attorneys are speaking simultaneously. That intervention—authorized by law and governed by ethics—is the single feature no AI can replicate.

The Human-Machine Hybrid: Steno Technology at Its Peak

Modern stenography isn’t paper notes or mechanical typewriters. It’s a hybrid of linguistic mastery and advanced computer science.

Court reporters write in machine shorthand, a phonetic language compressed into chords rather than letters. Each stroke can represent a syllable, a word, or an entire phrase. Reporters routinely sustain speeds of 225–300 words per minute with near-perfect accuracy, connecting wirelessly to computer-aided transcription (CAT) software that translates their shorthand into formatted English in milliseconds.

That CAT software also timestamps every line, syncs to exhibit logs, generates realtime feeds for judges and attorneys, and even exports to remote viewers through encrypted connections. It’s instant captioning, certification, and archival preservation—all done by one trained professional in real time.

When you hire a court reporter, you aren’t hiring a typist. You’re hiring a linguist, a data technician, a realtime translator, and a neutral officer of the court.

The Digital Mirage

Capability	Court Reporter	Voice Recognition / Digital Recording
Capture testimony at 99%+ accuracy	✅ Yes	❌ No
Handle multiple speakers	✅ Yes	❌ No
Identify speakers	✅ Yes	❌ No
Create immediate draft transcript	✅ Yes	❌ No
Produce same-day or next-day final transcript	✅ Yes	❌ No
Mark exhibits	✅ Yes	❌ No
Swear witnesses	✅ Yes	❌ No
Stop proceedings for clarification	✅ Yes	❌ No

Every courtroom that has attempted to replace stenographers with digital recorders has discovered this the hard way. Within months, the “savings” are devoured by retranscription costs, appeal delays, and record disputes. Appellate courts have rejected entire proceedings because digital recordings failed to produce intelligible transcripts. Some states quietly reinstated court reporters after “pilot programs” left them drowning in inaudibles.

The Illusion of Savings

The pitch always sounds familiar: “It’s cheaper.”

Until it isn’t.

Installing microphones, maintaining servers, purchasing transcription licenses, hiring technicians, and paying contractors to “clean up” the mess—these costs are conveniently omitted from budget presentations. Meanwhile, the one-time salary of a skilled reporter includes a live transcript, realtime streaming, certification, and sworn accuracy under penalty of law.

Digital systems create bureaucracy; stenographers deliver results.

ASR and the Rules of Evidence: When the Record Itself Becomes Hearsay

Automatic Speech Recognition (ASR) introduces a unique—and deeply troubling—legal paradox. Unlike traditional digital recording, ASR doesn’t simply record sound; it interprets it, generating a text transcript in real time through algorithmic prediction. In essence, it’s not capturing the record—it’s creating one.

This distinction is critical when analyzed under the rules of evidence.

Under both state and federal standards, the “record” of court proceedings must be an accurate and impartial reflection of what was said. It is admissible because it is authenticated by a qualified officer of the court who can attest to its integrity. A stenographer’s transcript is not hearsay because it is the official record produced contemporaneously by a certified reporter acting under legal duty (see, e.g., Fed. R. Evid. 803(8) – public records exception; Evid. Code §1280 in California).

But what about ASR?

If an ASR system produces a “live transcript” in the courtroom, it is still not a statement made by a witness under oath—nor is it the act of a qualified human officer. It is a machine output derived from recorded sound and statistical inference. The text itself is therefore an out-of-court statement offered for the truth of the matter asserted, satisfying the textbook definition of hearsay under Evid. Code §1200.

Even if generated contemporaneously, ASR has no human declarant, no capacity for cross-examination, and no sworn certification. Its output cannot be authenticated by personal knowledge, as no human “heard” and verified those words at the time of creation. In practice, this means that an ASR-generated transcript—no matter how instantaneous—fails to meet evidentiary standards for accuracy or admissibility.

In other words:

A digital recording transcribed later by a third party is hearsay twice removed—first as an out-of-court statement, second as a derivative interpretation.
ASR, though produced “live,” is still an out-of-court declarant with no human witness to authenticate it.

Unless the output is verified, certified, and signed under penalty of perjury by a licensed court reporter, it cannot serve as the official record.

In People v. Williams (Cal. App. 2002) and similar cases, courts have consistently held that transcripts are only admissible when authenticated by a qualified reporter or verified by the testifying witness. Machine-generated text lacks both conditions. Thus, an ASR “transcript” would not only fail the hearsay rule—it could violate due process if relied upon as the basis of judicial findings.

This evidentiary gap has profound implications. If ASR replaces human reporters in live proceedings, every resulting record risks being legally inadmissible without post hoc human certification. And if that certification occurs after the fact, it is no longer contemporaneous—which defeats the very definition of an official record.

Accountability – The Forgotten Factor

The biggest difference between a court reporter and a recording device isn’t speed or cost—it’s responsibility.

A licensed reporter takes an oath. Their name, license, and reputation appear on every transcript. They certify under penalty of perjury that the record is true and complete. If an error is found, there’s a person to call, a professional to correct it.

A machine cannot be cross-examined. A software vendor cannot take the stand. A “system error” cannot swear an oath.

Court reporters, by contrast, are bound by statutory codes, board regulations, and ethical canons. They guard confidentiality, ensure equal access for all parties, and maintain impartiality throughout proceedings. No automated process can replicate that standard of care.

Technology’s Proper Role

None of this is to suggest that technology has no place in reporting. Quite the opposite—court reporters were among the first to integrate real-time software, digital exhibits, remote streaming, and AI-aided proofing into their workflow. Stenographic reporting is technology, but it’s technology under human command.

The goal should never be replacement—it should be refinement.

AI can assist with indexing, speaker spotting, and text formatting. But the human reporter must remain the arbiter of accuracy. Machines can predict, but only humans can discern intent.

Human Precision in a Digital Age

Technology will continue to evolve. Some tools will assist us; others will try to replace us. But the one constant that machines cannot simulate is judgment—the ability to discern, adapt, and protect truth in motion.

Court reporters don’t fear technology. We refine it, wield it, and perfect it. Because in the end, justice depends not on the machine that records the words, but on the human being who ensures they are never lost.

StenoImperium™ — Protecting the Record. Preserving the Truth.

Legal Sidebar: Is AI Testimony Hearsay?

Core definitions

Hearsay (Federal): An out-of-court statement offered for the truth of the matter asserted. FRE 801(c), 802.
Hearsay (California): Same basic rule. Evid. Code §1200.
Official/public records exception: Can cover records created by a public officer under official duty (e.g., certified court transcripts). FRE 803(8); Cal. Evid. Code §1280.
Business records exception: Requires a qualified witness/certification showing regular practice, reliability. FRE 803(6); Cal. Evid. Code §1271.
Authentication: Proponent must show the item is what it claims to be. FRE 901; FRE 902(11)–(12); Cal. Evid. Code §1400.
Best/Original-writing rules: Courts will ask whether the proffered “transcript” accurately reflects what was said. FRE 1001–1003; Cal. Evid. Code §§1520–1523.

Why certified steno transcripts aren’t hearsay

A licensed reporter is an officer of the court acting under legal duty; the certified transcript is the official record and is routinely admitted as a public/official record or authenticated record kept in the regular course of proceedings. See FRE 803(8) and state analogs (e.g., Cal. Evid. Code §1280).
The reporter can testify to accuracy and certify under penalty of perjury, satisfying both hearsay exceptions and authentication.

Where ASR stumbles

No human declarant, no oath, no duty. ASR output is machine-generated text derived from probabilistic models. Offered for its truth, it fits the hearsay definition unless a recognized exception applies—and it typically doesn’t.
Authentication gap. Without a qualified human who contemporaneously hears, corrects, and certifies the words, ASR text lacks the foundation rules demand (identity of speakers, accuracy controls, chain of custody, device reliability, settings, model version, updates). FRE 901; Cal. Evid. Code §1400.
Live ≠ admissible. Even if ASR appears “live,” the text is still an out-of-court statement created by software—not by a witness under oath. Timing doesn’t cure hearsay or authentication defects.
Derivative risk. If a court later relies on a post-hoc “cleaned up” version, you now have recording → ASR text → human edits—multiple layers of hearsay/interpretation.

Important distinctions courts have drawn about machines

Some courts treat pure machine logs (GPS coordinates, metadata, auto-generated timestamps) as non-hearsay because no human asserted anything—but they still require a reliability foundation. (E.g., cases analyzing automated camera data or digital mapping overlays.)
ASR is different: it interprets and predicts language, assigns punctuation, chooses homophones, and may attribute speakers—functions that go well beyond passive measurement. That interpretive layer pushes ASR output into hearsay (or, at minimum, into inadmissible/unreliable territory without robust human certification).

Representative authorities to anchor objections

Federal: FRE 801–803 (hearsay & exceptions); FRE 901–902 (authentication); FRE 1001–1003 (original-writing/best evidence).
California: Evid. Code §§1200 (hearsay), 1271 (business records), 1280 (public records), 1400 (authentication), 1520–1523 (secondary evidence rules).
Case themes you can cite by analogy:
- Courts admit machine-generated data only with a reliability foundation and proper authentication (e.g., automated camera or mapping outputs).
- Courts reject recordings/transcripts that are unintelligible, unauthenticated, or lack a competent certifier; appeals have been compromised where the record was incomplete or garbled.
- Where official certified transcripts exist, they control over unofficial audio or rough notes.

How to frame it in court

Motion in limine / objection: Exclude ASR text as hearsay (FRE 801–802; Cal. Evid. Code §1200).
Foundation challenge: Lack of authentication and reliability—no sworn operator, no standardized error-rate proof, no preserved model/version, no speaker-ID protocol (FRE 901; Cal. Evid. Code §1400).
Rule 403 / §352: Substantial risk of confusion and undue prejudice from machine-generated “authority” that appears definitive but isn’t.
Alternative: If a court allows ASR as a viewing aid (like live captions), insist the certified stenographic transcript governs, with a clear order that ASR text is not the official record and may not be cited.

Bottom line

A certified court reporter’s transcript satisfies evidentiary rules through oath, duty, reliability, and authentication.
ASR, even when live, is an algorithmic interpretation and does not meet those standards on its own. Without contemporaneous human certification by a licensed reporter, it is inadmissible hearsay or, at best, unauthenticated.

Download the Attorney handout here:

Why_ASR_Output_Is_Inadmissible

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 Rebirth of Steno – How a New Generation of Reporters Is Reclaiming the Record

Reality Is in Stark Contrast

For years, the mainstream narrative has declared stenography a dying art—phased out by automation, recording devices, and algorithmic transcription. Headlines touted a “shortage crisis” and “digital takeover.” But the reality, when you look beyond the marketing hype, is in stark contrast: the human side of the profession is quietly mounting a remarkable revival.

Stenographic court reporting—once written off as an endangered career—is experiencing a measurable resurgence. Across states, enrollment in steno schools is increasing, new graduates are entering the field with unprecedented enthusiasm, and many reporters who once left are returning. According to data tracked by professional associations and emerging training programs, the profession has grown by 231% in just two fiscal years.

The Human Element That Tech Couldn’t Replace

Technology promised efficiency—but it failed to replicate accountability, accuracy, or empathy. When attorneys began confronting incomplete or erroneous transcripts from digital recording and AI transcription services, the legal community’s priorities shifted back to reliability and integrity.

Court reporters are not just recorders; they are officers of the court—guardians of the record whose shorthand symbols capture nuance, tone, and legal precision in ways no microphone or machine learning model can. Judges, attorneys, and litigants rely on them not just for a verbatim record, but for a verified one.

While automated speech recognition can process sound, it cannot discern overlapping testimony, inaudible objections, or multiple speakers shouting at once. It cannot identify which attorney made a motion, who laughed during testimony, or when a juror whispered an audible comment. Stenographers can. And that difference—small as it seems—is the cornerstone of due process.

A Grassroots Movement with Purpose

The resurgence didn’t happen through policy or corporate investment. It happened because of community. Court reporters themselves began organizing, educating, and recruiting—on social media, in classrooms, and across professional associations. Facebook groups like Steno Strong, Simply Steno Students, and The Court Reporter Hub became incubators for mentorship, advice, and encouragement.

Students started posting their progress—daily dictation streaks, graduation milestones, and stories of resilience. Veteran reporters began returning to classrooms as guest speakers, giving realtime demonstrations to curious high schoolers and career-changers. The message was consistent: this is not a relic profession. It is an elite skill, in demand, and vital to democracy.

The New Face of the Profession

The stereotype of an aging stenographer hunched over a machine in a dusty courtroom no longer holds. The new generation of reporters is diverse, digital-native, and entrepreneurial. They livestream depositions from home offices, caption events in real time across continents, and brand themselves on TikTok and LinkedIn with hashtags like #StenoLife, #SavingSteno, and #RealtimeReady.

Young professionals entering the field are redefining what a modern court reporter looks like—tech-savvy, financially independent, and mission-driven. Many have left stagnant careers in corporate sectors or customer service, seeking purpose and autonomy. They found it in steno.

Schools Reopening and Scholarships Expanding

Where schools once shuttered due to declining enrollment, new programs are opening. Community colleges are relaunching their court reporting departments. Online academies now pair realtime instruction with interactive speed-building apps. Scholarships from organizations like Project Steno, NCRA A to Z, and state associations have tripled participation rates since 2022.

The combination of mentorship, funding, and flexible learning has made entry more accessible than ever. What was once a four-year mountain can now be climbed in two with consistent practice and the right coaching network.

From Crisis to Calling

The early-2020s shortage headlines—“Where Have All the Court Reporters Gone?”—ironically fueled the revival. They inspired a generation that wanted to prove the world wrong. Former students re-enrolled. Retired reporters returned. Parents encouraged their children to consider a skill immune to outsourcing and AI obsolescence.

The profession didn’t die. It adapted. And as digital transcription companies began outsourcing to unregulated notaries, charging clients for flawed AI output, and eroding trust, steno reporters seized the moral high ground. Accuracy became the new luxury. Authenticity became the brand.

Entrepreneurship and Innovation

Today’s reporters aren’t waiting for agencies to change—they’re building their own. Startups and independents are using data, automation, and client transparency to streamline scheduling, billing, and transcript delivery while preserving the integrity of human stenography. Platforms like CoverCrow and emerging AI-assisted workflow tools are empowering reporters to connect directly with clients, track rates, and stay in control of their profession.

This hybrid era doesn’t pit humans against technology; it places humans in command of technology. Stenographers are using AI not as a replacement, but as a supportive assistant for proofing, audio syncing, and terminology management. The record, however, remains 100% human-verified.

Why Attorneys Are Paying Attention

Law firms and insurance defense groups that once prioritized “cost efficiency” over accuracy are re-evaluating. The price of a mistranscribed deposition, a missing objection, or an incomplete record far exceeds any perceived savings from digital systems. Attorneys are realizing that the most expensive transcript is the inaccurate one.

Formal opinions from the American Bar Association (like Opinion 498 and 512) have underscored the attorney’s duty of diligence and competence when selecting remote or AI-based court reporting services. That’s driving renewed demand for certified stenographers who meet state licensing and professional standards.

The Power of Recruitment and Representation

Recruitment campaigns now emphasize empowerment, not desperation. “We don’t need saving—we need recognition.” That’s the tone of the new steno generation. They’re showcasing not just the earning potential—often six figures within a few years—but also the independence and civic impact.

Social media challenges like “100 Days of Dictation,” steno TikTok explainers, and virtual mentorship programs are introducing thousands of viewers to a profession most had never heard of. The revival isn’t a fluke; it’s a cultural reawakening.

A Profession with a Future

As artificial intelligence continues to blur ethical and evidentiary lines, the value of a certified, impartial human reporter has never been clearer. The courts, the public, and even technologists are recognizing that some functions—like the official record of human testimony—are too important to automate.

The rebirth of steno is more than a recruitment story. It’s a reminder that accuracy, accountability, and human judgment still matter. And that professions grounded in truth will always find their way back into relevance.

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 Freelancer’s Harvest & What a California Farmer Can Teach Court Reporters About Diversification

When California farmer Brandon Sywassink drove truckloads of freshly picked grapes to his winery this fall, he expected to deliver a year’s worth of work. Instead, the winery told him to dump his crop.
The reason? His grapes measured 23.9 brix instead of the required 24.0 — a mere 0.1% shortfall that erased an entire year’s income. “Brix” refers to a scientific measurement used in winemaking and agriculture to determine the sugar content of grapes (or other fruits).

That story — painful as it is — carries a powerful lesson for freelancers in the court reporting world. Because what happened in the vineyards of Lodi is exactly what happens when a reporter puts all their eggs in one agency’s basket.

When Your Only Buyer Says “No”

In the wine industry, farmers often sell exclusively to one or two wineries. It feels secure — until the buyer changes standards, gets bought out, or starts importing cheaper product from overseas. Suddenly, the farmer who’s given everything to that relationship is left with no market, no paycheck, and no leverage.

Court reporters can relate.
Many freelancers rely on one or two anchor agencies or attorney clients. The work feels steady — until the agency is sold, merges with a conglomerate, or replaces human reporters with digital recorders or automated speech recognition (ASR).

Then overnight, the loyal reporter finds themselves back at the bottom of the call sheet, scrambling for new clients, just like that farmer watching his crop go to waste.

Dependency Is Not Loyalty — It’s Risk

The parallels are striking:

Farmers	Freelance Court Reporters
One buyer decides if grapes are “good enough.”	One agency decides if you get the “good jobs.”
A contract clause can void a year’s income.	A scheduling email can dry up overnight.
Global imports undercut domestic growers.	National agencies offshore transcription to digital vendors.
Climate shifts change sugar levels.	Market shifts change demand, pay rates, and technology use.

In both cases, dependence on a single source of income creates vulnerability.
Diversification is not optional — it’s survival.

Diversify Like Your Livelihood Depends On It (Because It Does)

If your agency client suddenly disappears tomorrow, could you still pay your bills next month?

Here’s how freelancers can insulate themselves from “crop rejection”:

Build a direct attorney network.
Reach out to law firms you’ve covered before. Offer your card, thank them personally, and remind them you’re available for future jobs. A single lunch or LinkedIn message can turn into recurring direct work.
Work with multiple agencies — local and niche.
Spread your workload across three to five agencies with different client bases (civil, criminal, workers’ comp, etc.). This protects you if one loses a contract or changes management.
Develop alternate income streams.
Captioning, CART, realtime training, proofreading, scoping, or even offering transcript seminars to law students — all expand your resilience.
Invest in your own branding.
Like a winegrower bottling under their own label, reporters should own their name. Build a simple website, claim your Google Business profile, and keep a professional LinkedIn presence. Agencies come and go, but your personal brand stays.
Keep your tools independent.
Store transcripts securely, maintain your own billing and scheduling systems, and avoid platforms that “own” your work product or client data. Independence is protection.

The Hidden Cost of Comfort

It’s easy to get comfortable when one agency fills your calendar. You stop marketing, stop networking, stop updating your rate sheet. But comfort can quietly become captivity.

As one court reporter put it after her longtime agency sold to a corporate buyer:

“I thought I had seniority. Turns out, I just had history.”

When your “buyer” changes the rules, you’re left with the same hard truth as that Lodi farmer: You don’t control the harvest if you don’t control the field.

The Takeaway: Plant Multiple Vines

Diversification isn’t just about money — it’s about freedom.
When you build multiple income streams, you gain the power to say no to exploitative rates, unreasonable turnaround times, or unethical practices. You become less replaceable and more self-sustaining.

Just as the farmer can’t control the weather or the whims of the winery, freelancers can’t control the consolidation of the industry. But they can plant new vines — new relationships, new skills, new revenue channels.

Because whether you’re growing grapes or building a freelance business, one bad season shouldn’t end your career.

Closing Thought

Brandon Sywassink said it best:

“It hurts a lot just to watch it… Farmers get a paycheck once a year, and we didn’t get a paycheck that day.”

Don’t let that be your story.
Diversify now — before your best crop gets dumped.

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 Ghost of the Record – A Halloween Costume for the Court Reporting Industry

Picture this:
You walk into a Halloween party at the courthouse.
The lights are dim, the walls echo with old rulings, and in the center of the marble hall floats a giant glass orb — glowing faintly green, wrapped in hundred-dollar bills, whispering things like “AI is the future” and “cost savings for all.”

Congratulations. You’ve just met the scariest costume of the year.
It’s called “The Ghost Orb of the Record.”

And it’s haunting our profession right now.

👻 A Costume Made of Money and Illusions

This ghost orb looks expensive — polished, shiny, and modern. From a distance, it promises progress: “Look how efficient! Look how affordable! Look how innovative!”

But when you get closer, you realize there’s nothing inside. It’s hollow. A trick, not a treat.

The money skin is real enough, but the core? Empty promises wrapped in marketing gloss. That’s what digital recording and automated speech recognition have become in the court-reporting world — flashy disguises pretending to be progress while quietly erasing the human craftsmanship that gives the record its soul.

🕯 The Haunted Hall of Justice

Every courtroom is a little haunted.
Not by ghosts in white sheets, but by the echoes of every voice ever recorded within its walls — voices of victims, witnesses, attorneys, and judges. Court reporters have always been the keepers of those echoes. We trap them, label them, preserve them, and guard them against distortion.

But lately, the guardians are being replaced by ghosts of convenience.
The real professionals are being pushed aside by automated systems and outsourced transcription mills that promise “accuracy,” but deliver approximations.

It’s like swapping a living heart for a mechanical replica — it beats, technically, but it doesn’t feel.

And in a courtroom, feeling matters.

🧛‍♂️ The Bloodsuckers of Efficiency

Every Halloween story needs a villain; right?
Enter the “big box” agencies — vampires in corporate suits, feeding off the labor of stenographers while draining the value from the record.

They talk about “modernization,” but what they really mean is consolidation. They underpay the humans, overcharge the clients, and pocket the difference.
Then they call it “innovation.”

Sound familiar? That’s not progress. That’s parasitism.

The blood they’re draining isn’t just money — it’s the lifeblood of the record: accuracy, authorship, and accountability.

💀 The Disappearing Reporter Trick

One of the scariest tricks in the book is the vanishing act.
You’ve seen it — agencies claiming there’s a “reporter shortage” while simultaneously cutting rates, withholding payment, and replacing professionals with machines.

Of course there’s a shortage. Who wants to stay in a profession when the work is undervalued and the product is resold without credit?

The shortage isn’t of talent. It’s of respect.

And until we stop pretending that automated recordings can replace certified reporters, the only thing we’ll be left with is an industry full of ghosts — echoes of what once was.

🕸 Spells, Contracts, and Other Curses

If you read enough contracts from large reporting firms, you’ll find the real witchcraft hidden in the fine print.
Clauses that strip you of ownership.
NDAs that silence you.
Terms that let others profit from your work indefinitely.

They say “sign here,” and the curse begins.

The only antidote? Knowledge.
Know your rights. Own your transcripts. Demand payment within 30 days under laws like California’s SB 988. Protect your authorship with technology that works for reporters, not against them.

Break the spell by refusing to be invisible.

🎭 The Mask of “Access to Justice”

This one’s a classic — a mask worn by policymakers and corporations who claim that digital recording will “expand access” to justice.

But underneath that noble mask hides something more sinister: the commodification of the record.

When transcripts are sold through proprietary portals, when data is mined for profit, when testimony becomes just another line item in a SaaS dashboard — that’s not access. That’s ownership transfer.

The mask may say “justice,” but the face beneath says “control.”

🧙‍♀️ The Stenographer’s Spellbook

So how do we fight back against all this?
With a little magic of our own — the kind that comes from skill, ethics, and technology we actually understand.

Every reporter already holds the most powerful spellbook in the legal world: the stenographic machine. With it, we turn speech into permanence. We wield context, punctuation, and precision like charms against confusion and chaos.

But now it’s time to add a few new incantations:

Secure, reporter-controlled transcript library.
Reporter-controlled delivery systems.
Smart contracts that auto-enforce payment and authorship.
Transparent, fair platforms that connect reporters directly to clients without middlemen draining the potions dry.

We don’t need to fear the tech. We just need to own it.

🦇 Reclaiming the Record from the Shadows

Halloween reminds us that sometimes the scariest monsters are the ones wearing friendly faces.
The ghost of automation.
The vampire of underpayment.
The shapeshifter of “innovation.”

But here’s the twist ending: this story isn’t doomed.
Court reporters have something those entities never will — the human ability to care about accuracy, empathy, and fairness. Machines can mimic, but they can’t mean.

Every transcript we produce is proof of that.

🕯 The Final Candle

The floating money orb in that marble hall?
That’s our Halloween mirror — it shows us what happens when the record becomes a reflection of profit instead of a vessel for truth.

It glows beautifully. But it’s fragile.
One crack, and the illusion shatters.

So this Halloween, if you’re looking for a costume, don’t go as the ghost of the record.
Go as the guardian of it.

Polish your machine. Stand tall in your integrity.
Wear your headset like armor and your ethics like a cape.

Because the scariest thing in this profession isn’t a ghost, a vampire, or even an AI transcript generator —
it’s a world without you.

🕯️ Happy Halloween to every living, breathing, truth-keeping court reporter out there.
May your lines never drop, your realtime never freeze, and your record always stay alive.

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 Endgame Nobody Sees Coming – Reporters, Not Agencies, Will Control the Future

Let Them Buy You Out. Then We Take It Back.

Why the Future Belongs to Reporters Who Go Direct.

The big-box agencies think they’re winning. They think consolidation is their endgame — that by absorbing every small agency in sight, they’ll control the entire marketplace, from bookings to billing to transcript delivery. They’re wrong. In reality, they’re walking straight into a trap of their own making.

The real power in this industry has never belonged to the agencies. It’s always been in the hands of the people who hold the license, sit in the chair, and create the certified record: the reporters. And once consolidation runs its course, the moment will be ripe for reporters to flip the model entirely — to cut out the middleman and run direct-to-attorney businesses with leaner tools, lower costs, and complete control.

This isn’t a pipe dream. It’s the logical endgame of a shift that’s already underway.

I. Consolidation Is Inevitable — And That’s Okay

Across the country, small agencies are struggling to compete with private-equity-backed giants. National firms have capital reserves that allow them to undercut prices, lock in bulk contracts with law firms, and invest in slick technology platforms. They automate scheduling, billing, and delivery in ways a two-person shop simply can’t match.

Many small agency owners are also aging out of the business. After decades of building relationships and running local operations, they’re facing the same market pressures as everyone else: rising tech costs, attorney demands for fast turnaround, shrinking margins, and fierce competition. Selling to a larger agency becomes the logical choice. For many, it’s the only viable exit.

This is the first phase of the industry’s transformation. It’s not something to fear — it’s something to understand strategically. When a small agency sells, it accelerates the consolidation process. And consolidation, ironically, creates the exact conditions that allow reporters to break free.

II. The Myth That Reporters “Need” Agencies

For years, agencies justified their role as necessary intermediaries. Reporters supposedly needed them to handle all the messy admin work:

Scheduling depositions and coordinating calendars
Printing, binding, and shipping transcripts for “read and sign”
Billing law firms and chasing receivables
Managing exhibits, errata, and archiving

That was true — twenty years ago. Not anymore.

Today, technology has quietly eliminated almost every operational burden that once made running a direct practice cumbersome:

Remote depositions have reduced travel, eliminated the need for physical conference rooms, and made geographic proximity irrelevant.
Electronic transcripts and digital signatures mean there’s no more printing, binding, or mailing.
Secure exhibit upload portals have replaced messy boxes of paper.
Modern SaaS platforms handle scheduling, invoicing, transcript hosting, archiving, and delivery seamlessly.

The infrastructure problem is solved. A single reporter — or a small collective of independents — can now run a modern, efficient, direct-to-attorney business without the bloated overhead of an agency.

And unlike agencies, reporters hold the legal authority. We’re the ONLY ones who certify the record. We’re the “Responsible Charge” under state law. Without us, the agencies have nothing to sell.

III. Phase Two: Let Them Consolidate

The second phase is simple: let consolidation happen. Don’t panic when a small agency sells. Don’t scramble to keep pace with big marketing budgets or undercut their prices.

Every small agency that sells brings the industry one step closer to a clear, centralized “middle layer” — a small number of national giants controlling scheduling platforms, billing systems, and attorney relationships.

On the surface, this looks like victory for the agencies. In reality, it’s a strategic narrowing of the battlefield. Instead of competing against hundreds of small agencies with regional loyalties, reporters will be able to pivot around a few large, slow-moving, deeply dependent middlemen. Once that layer is concentrated, it becomes incredibly easy to bypass.

Think of what happened in other industries:

Travel agencies dominated flight bookings — until Expedia let consumers book directly.
Taxi dispatch companies controlled rides — until Uber connected drivers and riders.
Record labels controlled distribution — until platforms let musicians release directly to fans.

The same pattern is about to play out in court reporting. Once the middle layer consolidates, it becomes a single, highly visible choke point. And reporters — the licensed creators of the record — are uniquely positioned to walk right around it.

IV. Phase Three: Reporters Go Direct

Imagine a world where attorneys don’t book through a bloated agency website that hides fees and routes everything through a markup machine. Instead, they log in to a clean, reporter-powered platform, search for certified reporters by date, location, or specialty, and book directly.

The reporter confirms, the transcript is delivered electronically, exhibits are uploaded securely, billing is automated, and everyone saves time and money.

That world isn’t hypothetical. The tools already exist. What’s been missing is coordinated messaging and the will to make the shift.

When reporters move en masse toward direct scheduling, attorneys will follow — not out of loyalty, but out of economic self-interest. Agencies routinely apply 40–60% markups on reporter rates, plus layer on “technology” and “platform” fees. Attorneys are increasingly frustrated with opaque pricing and slow turnaround times.

When they see they can work directly with certified reporters — legally, ethically, and more efficiently — the choice becomes obvious.

V. The Economics Are Unbeatable

A direct model doesn’t just work — it’s financially superior for everyone except the middleman.

For reporters:

You keep 100% of your page rates.
You retain revenue from derivative products — condensed transcripts, exhibits, word indexes, realtime fees, hosting — instead of agencies pocketing them.
You reduce overhead by using efficient platforms instead of paying agency cuts.

For attorneys:

You pay less because there’s no agency markup.
You gain transparency — you know exactly who your reporter is, what they charge, and when you’ll receive your transcript.
You build direct relationships with the professionals actually responsible for the record.

For the industry:

You eliminate duplicated overhead. One modern platform can handle admin for thousands of reporters — far more efficiently than dozens of layered agency systems.
You realign incentives: quality and speed rise when reporters are directly accountable to clients, not buried behind agency walls.

This is why the shift isn’t just possible — it’s inevitable.

VI. Messaging + Tools = The Trigger

Two ingredients are needed to ignite this shift at scale:

Unified Messaging
Reporters must speak with one voice to attorneys:

“It is legal, ethical, and more efficient to schedule directly with certified reporters. We hold the license. We are the record. And we can deliver better service without the middleman.”

This isn’t a rebellion — it’s a clarification of reality. Agencies do not own the work product. They are not required by law. They are optional intermediaries.

Frictionless Tools
Attorneys won’t switch to a clunky, confusing system. The alternative must be easier, not harder. Platforms that combine modern scheduling, transcript hosting, billing, and notifications already exist. When attorneys can book a reporter in two clicks and get transparent pricing, they will adopt it naturally.

When messaging and tools align, adoption doesn’t have to be forced. It will happen the way every major disruption happens: gradually at first, then suddenly.

VII. Agencies Won’t See It Coming

The big agencies believe their endgame is total market control through consolidation. But in reality, they’re concentrating their dependency on a single, organized workforce: certified reporters.

They don’t own our licenses. They don’t own the record. They can’t certify proceedings. Their pricing models are alienating attorneys. And their centralized platforms — once seen as a strength — will become a glaring weak point once a leaner, reporter-led alternative emerges.

They’re building a house on sand.

VIII. The Future Is Reporter-Led

The playbook is simple:

Let consolidation happen.
Wait for the middle to fatten and centralize.
Step around it with modern tools and unified messaging.
Offer attorneys better pricing, faster service, and direct accountability.
Watch the middle collapse.

Reporters have always been the backbone of the legal record. For too long, agencies have inserted themselves between the creators and the consumers of that record. But technology has caught up, and the market dynamics are shifting.

We don’t need to fight consolidation. We need to outsmart it.

The big agencies think they’re buying up the industry. In reality, they’re setting the stage for reporters to take it all back.

This time, on our terms.

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.

Zoom, the Record, and the Reporter – Where Ethics Are Clear and the Law Is Catching Up

Two recent agency inquiries—one from Texas questioning a large national firm’s practice of making reporters the Zoom “host,” another from Minnesota describing an irate attorney who demanded that the reporter both report and record a Zoom deposition—illustrate a growing pressure point in post-pandemic litigation.

The technology is mature; the ethics are settled; but the rules remain a patchwork. The question is no longer can we take depositions remotely—but who controls the platform and the record.

The Bright-Line Ethical Rule

The National Court Reporters Association’s Committee on Professional Ethics drew the line almost two decades ago. Advisory Opinion 44 asks:

“Should a court reporter act as both the verbatim reporter and the videographer for the same proceeding?”

The answer: No.

The committee found that “a reporter may not act as both the videographer and the verbatim reporter for the same proceeding” because doing so would “compromise the reporter’s paramount duty to make a full, impartial, and accurate record.”
(NCRA COPE Advisory Opinion 44, 2006)

That rule remains the profession’s north star. The reporter’s singular function is to create the official, certified record. Recording, streaming, or producing the video component is a different profession governed by different rules and responsibilities.

Why the Pressure Persists

If the ethics are settled, why are reporters still asked to host or record Zoom? The answer is simple: convenience and cost-cutting.

During the pandemic, many agencies collapsed multiple roles—videographer, host, and reporter—into one for efficiency. Now, as firms try to maintain those margins, the blurred roles remain. Some national vendors’ job confirmations still bury “host duties” in small print, implying that the reporter will admit participants, control screen-share, and even “press record.”

On the ground, that looks like this: the reporter is taking down testimony while monitoring the waiting room, troubleshooting audio, and managing exhibits—all under an email that simply reads “Veritext Virtual” or “Remote Legal proceeding.”

But that “efficiency” introduces an ethical conflict of interest, violates Advisory Opinion 44, and endangers the record itself.

Federal Clarity, State Divergence

At the federal level, Rule 30(b)(4) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure allows depositions “by telephone or other remote means” by stipulation or order. The rule, however, says nothing about who hosts or records; it simply authorizes the format.
The ethical boundaries remain unchanged: the reporter reports; the videographer records.

At the state level, the picture is less uniform.

During COVID-19, emergency orders across the country authorized remote oaths and appearances. Afterward, some states made those changes permanent:

Florida adopted remote-notarization frameworks and remote-oath rules.
California enacted Code Civ. Proc. § 2025.310 (a)(2), permanently allowing remote depositions and oaths.
Texas, Illinois, and Minnesota reverted to their pre-pandemic rules, allowing remote proceedings only by stipulation or specific order.
Massachusetts formally recognized remote depositions but left procedures to counsel and the officer.

Others let emergency authorizations simply expire, creating gaps or ambiguity. The practical result: some states treat remote oath administration as routine, while others treat it as an exception.

Where “Recording” Collides With the Official Record

Attorneys who insist on “just recording the Zoom” often misunderstand what that means legally. Zoom’s native recording feature creates an unverified digital file—not a lawful, certified legal video record.

A true legal video record requires a licensed videographer who ensures:

proper identification of participants,
on/off-record statements,
continuous time-stamping, and
compliance with jurisdictional rules for audiovisual depositions.

When a reporter controls the platform, the reporter inadvertently becomes the de facto videographer, directing what is captured and when. That is exactly why the NCRA forbids dual service.

When Being “Host” Is About Protecting the Record—Not Producing It

This is where nuance enters. Many reporters want to be designated as the Zoom host, not to record, but to prevent unauthorized recording and to disable automatic speech-recognition (ASR) bots that threaten confidentiality.

The NCRA’s Guidelines for Professional Practice—Section V, “Reporting a Proceeding Remotely via a Streaming Platform”—acknowledge this limited role:

“To avoid the possibility of unauthorized use of the recording feature … the reporter should be designated as the host whenever possible.”
— NCRA Guidelines for Professional Practice, Section V

Under this provision, being host is permissible when the purpose is custodial: controlling access, locking out AI transcription tools, and protecting the integrity of the record.

So:
✅ You may be host to safeguard the record.
❌ You may not be host to produce or certify a recording.

When reporters are not the host, they often lose the ability to disable recording or remove AI bots such as “Otter.ai,” “Fireflies,” or “Zoom Transcription.” In those cases, if the host refuses to disable those functions, the reporter’s obligation is clear: withdraw from the job. Proceeding under forced recording or ASR attendance violates confidentiality and the Code of Professional Ethics.

Ethically, a reporter who continues in that scenario risks being complicit in creating an unauthorized record—something that could later be used to challenge transcript authenticity.

Exhibit Sharing: Staying on the Safe Side

Another gray area arises with exhibits. In remote settings, counsel often share or mark exhibits electronically. Occasionally, a reporter is asked to “screen-share” a document or PDF for identification.

This is allowed—but only if done off the record and at counsel’s direction.

Proper protocol:

“We’re going off the record while I display the exhibit for identification.”
[Share the exhibit.]
“We’re back on the record. Exhibit 3 has been marked for identification.”

This keeps the exhibit process administrative, not testimonial. If exhibit handling continues while testimony is in progress, the reporter is effectively participating in the record’s production, which edges into prohibited dual-role territory.

When Dual Roles Cross the Line

Here’s the functional breakdown:

Scenario	Ethics Status	Reasoning
Reporter acts as host solely to control access, disable recording/ASR	✅ Allowed	Protective custodial role
Reporter records the Zoom session	❌ Forbidden	Videography role
Reporter shares exhibits off record at counsel’s request	✅ Allowed	Administrative act
Reporter manages exhibits while testimony continues	⚠️ Risky	Divided attention and role
Reporter proceeds despite active ASR/recording	❌ Forbidden	Compromises confidentiality
Reporter withdraws when host refuses to disable recording/AI	✅ Required	Upholds ethical standard

The dividing line is functional control.

Custodial control (ensuring integrity) = permitted.
Production control (creating a recording) = prohibited.

Practical Responses for Agencies and Reporters

For the Texas agency that discovered Veritext requiring reporters to “host and monitor Zoom,” the correct written response should cite Advisory Opinion 44 and the Guidelines for Remote Reporting:

“Our reporters cannot perform videographer or recording duties. They may act as host only to protect the integrity of the record by disabling recording and ASR features. If no separate videographer or remote-tech is provided, the assignment cannot proceed.”

For the Minnesota agency faced with an angry attorney demanding a Zoom recording:

“We’re happy to provide the certified stenographic record. If you wish to create an audiovisual record, please hire a legal videographer. Under NCRA ethics, our reporter cannot perform both functions.”

These short, professional responses align perfectly with NCRA standards while preserving client relationships.

The Legal Gap: Ethics Ahead of Statute

The underlying challenge is that ethics have outpaced legislation.
Most state civil-procedure codes say little about remote-platform control or AI participation. Few define what constitutes an “official” recording in a virtual setting. The NCRA’s ethics code and the California and Texas licensing regulations are, at this moment, the only concrete guardrails.

Until states modernize their procedural rules to explicitly address host control, digital recording, and ASR transcription, these ethical standards will continue to serve as the profession’s de facto law of the land.

Checklist for Remote Assignments

Clarify roles in writing. Before the proceeding, confirm who hosts, who records, and who marks exhibits.
If you host, use that control defensively. Disable Zoom’s recording, live transcription, and ASR integrations.
Announce clearly when going off/on the record. Especially for exhibit sharing.
If unauthorized recording or AI attendance occurs, withdraw immediately. Document why.
Stay current on state remote-oath rules. Don’t rely on pandemic orders that may have expired.
Never act as videographer. If video is requested, a separate professional must handle it.

The Bottom Line

Remote technology is here to stay, but the ethics that protect the record have not changed. Reporters can—and should—use host controls to prevent abuse, not to facilitate it.

They may not create a recording, run an ASR feed, or act as both videographer and stenographer. When those lines are crossed, the ethical duty is not to compromise—it’s to walk away.

Until the law catches up, the profession’s integrity depends on each reporter drawing that line firmly, every single time.

Key Sources:

NCRA Committee on Professional Ethics, Advisory Opinion 44 (2006) — Reporter may not serve as both verbatim reporter and videographer.
NCRA Guidelines for Professional Practice, Section V: Reporting a Proceeding Remotely via a Streaming Platform.
Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 30(b)(4) — Depositions by remote means.
State civil-procedure updates (California § 2025.310 (a)(2); Florida Remote Online Notarization Act; various 2020-25 rule amendments).
California Rules of Court Rule 3.1010 — oral depositions by telephone, videoconference, or other remote electronic means.
State civil-procedure updates:
Massachusetts Rules of Civil Procedure Rule 30 (2025 amendments discussing remote depositions, video-conferencing)

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.

Spooky Season or Shady Season?

StenoImperium Marks 400 Articles – A Chronicle of Truth, Transparency, and Tenacity

Four hundred articles. Fifty comment threads alive with debate. Tens of thousands of readers spanning every corner of the reporting profession — from realtime veterans and agency owners to students still learning the theory. StenoImperium has reached a milestone that few independent advocacy platforms ever do: 400 published articles in service of a single mission — to preserve truth, defend transparency, and champion the court-reporting profession’s rightful place in the justice system.

This milestone isn’t just a number. It represents a decade-long movement — a record of resistance and resilience during the most turbulent years the profession has ever faced. Behind each headline and analysis lies an invisible labor: research into legislative proposals, comparison of transcript policies, late-night calls with reporters facing retaliation, and an unwavering editorial standard that never bowed to corporate spin or political convenience.

A Chronicle of the Profession’s Turning Point

StenoImperium began as a small experiment — a blog meant to document the daily realities of the working reporter. But it quickly evolved into something much larger: an investigative record of the entire legal transcript ecosystem.

Over 426,000 words have now been published, spanning court reporting law, AI ethics, digital-recording oversight, judicial conduct, and legal technology accountability. The blog’s analytics tell the story of that evolution: over 73,000 total views in 2024, followed by an explosive 31,000+ views already in 2025, with readership spikes whenever legislation like AB 711 or SB 988 threatened the integrity of the record.

The community itself has grown alongside the mission. More than 5,300 subscribers receive StenoImperium’s updates — a remarkable figure for an independent publication in a niche professional sector. That audience has stayed deeply engaged, adding 325 total comments across 399 posts, with the 400th post marking a symbolic shift into the next era: the fight for ethical AI integration and secure, reporter-controlled transcript libraries.

The Mission: Truth and Transparency in the Record

If the court reporter’s oath is to take down “true and correct” testimony, then StenoImperium’s oath is to publish “true and correct” information.

Every article represents hours — sometimes days — of sourcing, statute-checking, and triangulating facts against public records, CRB minutes, legislative amendments, and agency filings. The goal has never been popularity or virality, but accuracy. Readers know that each post, no matter how fiery its rhetoric, is grounded in evidence.

This relentless focus on transparency has made StenoImperium both a watchdog and a refuge. It has exposed state-level conflicts of interest, corporate misrepresentations about “shortages,” and quiet funding streams flowing from private-equity firms into digital-recording lobbyists. It has also amplified the voices of reporters who were silenced by NDAs, retaliation, or fear of professional isolation.

The Effort Behind the Empire

To write 400 articles is to undertake 400 acts of intellectual endurance. Each post — whether it’s a legislative analysis, a firsthand courtroom observation, or an op-ed challenging a trade association — requires emotional labor and strategic restraint.

Behind the metrics lie countless unseen moments: tracking a hearing transcript at midnight; fact-checking the Business & Professions Code; fielding hostile DMs; revising drafts to protect against defamation claims; and most importantly, staying centered on the core mission — protecting the public record.

The statistics capture this persistence. In 2025 alone, StenoImperium logged 31,284 views by early October, a threefold increase over 2024. The most popular day of all time — April 18, 2024 — drew 2,600 views in a single day. Posts tagged #Steno, #CourtReporting, #CivilTrial, and #JudicialEthicsWatch remain the top-performing categories, with over 2,000 views each, showing that readers crave substantive coverage of both policy and ethics.

A Parallel Journey – Stenonymous and the Power of Clarifying the Record – StenoImperium Is Not Stenonymous

No discussion of modern stenographic media would be complete without mentioning Christopher Day’s blog, Stenonymous — a platform that has, in many ways, run parallel to StenoImperium on the same battlefield.

It’s time to set the record straight, again: StenoImperium and Stenonymous are two entirely separate blogs, written by two completely different people, operating on opposite coasts of the country.

While both sites care deeply about stenography, we are not affiliated, we do not collaborate, and we do not share the same editorial viewpoints or professional strategies.

Christopher Day’s Stenonymous has its own tone, goals, and style — and deserves recognition for maintaining an active, outspoken blog with 772 published posts and impressive 1,706 comments. But StenoImperium is not Stenonymous, and never has been.

Where Stenonymous often focuses on rapid commentary, activism, and emotional immediacy, StenoImperium takes a more investigative, legal-analytical approach — blending research, ethics, and long-form analysis aimed at attorneys, regulators, and journalists.

Both writers are passionate. Both care deeply about stenography. But passion does not equal sameness, and the diversity of voices within this profession should be celebrated — not blurred together.

Two Voices, One Profession

It’s important to acknowledge what we do share: a love for stenography and an unwillingness to stand idle while it’s misrepresented or dismantled. Both blogs emerged from frustration with the same forces — automation without accountability, legislation without input, and leadership without transparency.

Yet our methods and philosophies diverge, and that’s healthy. StenoImperium believes in structure, citation, and carefully verified claims, often written in an editorial style that appeals to lawyers, policy advocates, and educators.
Stenonymous leans into immediacy — the rallying cry of the grassroots reporter.

The profession needs both. Advocacy is not monolithic; it’s a chorus. And while we may stand on opposite coasts, we share the same horizon: protecting the integrity of the record.

A Publication Built for the Long Game

What distinguishes StenoImperium is not just the number of posts but their cumulative depth. The top-performing tags — #Steno, #CourtReporting, #CivilTrial, #JudicialEthicsWatch, #AIandtheLegalSystem — show the range of issues explored, from courtroom practices to the moral dimensions of artificial intelligence.

Every article exists as a timestamped contribution to the historical record of this profession’s fight for recognition and reform. The work is both academic and personal — grounded in lived experience from over 500 reported trials and countless hours in courtrooms across California.

The comments under each post — more than 325 total — reflect a growing, global readership that values thoughtful, sourced discussion over outrage or speculation.

Readers as Witnesses

The 50 comment threads under the 400th StenoImperium article are more than discussion — they’re testimony. They represent working reporters speaking out after years of silence. Students finding mentorship in shared struggle. Attorneys, judges, and even policymakers quietly acknowledging the importance of the human guardian of the record.

Each comment, like each stroke on a stenograph machine, captures a fragment of truth. And together, they form a collective transcript of a profession in flux — documenting not just what’s happening, but what must never be forgotten.

From Observation to Impact

Numbers tell one part of the story. 73,300 views, 45,800 visitors, and 140 likes in 2024 show reach. But the true metric of impact is influence — the ripple effect through policy conversations, ethics boards, and industry roundtables.

In just the last year, StenoImperium’s articles have been cited in law blogs, discussed in state bar meetings, and circulated among NCRA and CRB stakeholders. The research compiled here has supported formal complaints, legislative testimony, and professional ethics campaigns across multiple states.

This influence isn’t accidental. It’s the result of a publication run with the precision of a courtroom transcript — every paragraph vetted, every word deliberate. The 400th post stands as both milestone and mirror: a reflection of how far the movement has come and how much further there is to go.

The Road Ahead

The next 100 articles will explore what comes after survival — how stenography adapts, innovates, and reclaims its narrative in the age of AI. Future features will continue to dissect algorithmic bias, transcript chain of custody, speech-to-text regulation, and economic reform for independent reporters.

The goal remains the same: to protect the sanctity of the spoken word — the foundation of every courtroom, deposition, and public hearing.

StenoImperium doesn’t exist to replace institutions; it exists to remind them of their duty. The oath of accuracy belongs not only to reporters behind their machines, but to everyone who touches the record — from attorneys to editors to policymakers.

Four hundred articles later, the message still echoes: truth matters. Transparency matters. The record matters.

A Final Word of Gratitude

To every subscriber, reader, and commenter who has kept the dialogue alive — thank you. Whether you discovered StenoImperium through a LinkedIn post, a legal newsletter, or a late-night Google search for “court reporter ethics,” you are part of this story.

Each read, share, and comment ensures that independent voices continue to thrive in a space where silence once reigned. And as long as there are words to take down and truths to tell, StenoImperium will keep writing them — one verified, unfiltered, unaltered record at a time.

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.

Editor’s Note on Accuracy and Integrity**

As StenoImperium continues to grow past 400 published articles, I want to acknowledge that — like any human writer — I sometimes make mistakes. For instance, I once wrote that Sue Terry attended a Steno in the City ™ event in person when she had actually presented remotely, and I also misstated Allie Hall’s California reporter status. Both were honest errors, not made in bad faith. In each case, I corrected the record immediately upon learning the facts — one within minutes of publication. My commitment has always been to truth and transparency, and that includes promptly fixing unintentional errors when they occur.

Dividing Zero – The Illusion of Division in the Court Reporting Profession

For R.E.

Let’s be clear: the “division” narrative in court reporting didn’t exist before it was introduced and weaponized by outsiders. The real story is that the profession is more united than it’s been in decades — aligned in purpose, driven by urgency, and collectively defending the record.

Lately, a new phrase has been circulating in our profession: “We need to heal the division in our industry.” It’s a statement often delivered with an air of moral high ground, as though unity itself were a cure-all for the challenges we face. But that phrase has become something else entirely — a rhetorical shield, used by those outside our ranks to deflect accountability, reshape narratives, and insert themselves into conversations that were never theirs to lead.

Let’s be honest. There is no “division” in the stenographic community — only distinction. There are those who do the work, and those who exploit the work. Those who understand the oath of a Certified Shorthand Reporter, and those who build brands around proximity to that credibility. The former safeguard the record. The latter monetize its margins. To suggest the two are halves of a divided whole is to fundamentally misunderstand what this profession is — and who it belongs to.

Mathematically speaking, you can’t divide zero.

A False Premise – The Language of “Division”

The first red flag of any outsider narrative is the choice of vocabulary. “Division” is a word crafted to evoke guilt, fatigue, and emotional surrender. It suggests that if you resist collaboration or question credibility, you’re part of the problem. But that’s linguistic theater, not leadership. It’s a tool used to flatten legitimate concerns into personal feuds — to make ethical distinctions appear petty and professional boundaries seem mean-spirited.

In reality, those drawing paychecks or prestige from the periphery of our field often thrive on blurring lines. They rely on the goodwill, labor, and institutional memory of actual court reporters to maintain relevance. They organize meetings, throw events, use the word “community” liberally, and position themselves as mediators — yet they hold no license, no certification, no liability, and no stake in the outcome of a record gone wrong.

When such individuals invoke “division,” what they’re really doing is marketing unity while monetizing disunity. And reporters, being empathetic by nature and trained to listen, often fall into the trap of responding as though reconciliation were both possible and required.

Who Defines the Profession?

The shorthand profession is not a social club; it’s a licensed, regulated field of law. It’s bound by codes of conduct, confidentiality, and evidentiary responsibility. Our unity is not optional — it’s built into the statute books, the transcript, and the oath.

When someone outside that circle claims to “represent the industry,” it creates a distortion field. The public, the press, and even new students may not know the difference between a Certified Shorthand Reporter, a digital operator, a notary, or an influencer using “court reporting” as a hashtag. That confusion serves one purpose: to dilute our identity and redirect attention toward whoever’s controlling the microphone.

But the law is clear. The record belongs to the licensed officer who swears in the witness and certifies the transcript — not to a marketer, promoter, or third-party intermediary. No amount of social media branding can override that reality.
Representation without certification is impersonation in slow motion.

The Myth of Reconciliation

Several well-meaning people have approached me recently with variations of the same question: “Have you tried to patch things up?” “Would you be open to sitting down and talking?” They say they “hate to see our industry divided.” I appreciate the sentiment — it’s human to want harmony. But harmony without honesty is just noise.

I have, in fact, spoken with multiple intermediaries who tried to broker dialogue. I expressed a willingness to meet, to clarify, to find common ground. The invitation was ignored. That silence spoke volumes.

You don’t solve that with coffee and conversation. You solve it with clarity and consequence.

Because what we’re facing isn’t a personality clash. It’s a boundary issue. A profession can’t reconcile with those who were never part of it. The core problem isn’t hurt feelings — it’s false claims of representation, blurred ethics, and the quiet exploitation of licensed professionals who lend their time, labor, and credibility to events that profit outsiders while giving the industry — and the volunteers themselves — nothing in return.

When “Unity” Becomes a Cover for Control

Let’s examine what “unity” has meant in other industries under technological or cultural stress. When the music industry was disrupted by streaming platforms, tech companies promised “access for all.” What they delivered was the decimation of artist royalties. When journalism faced the same shift, aggregators promised “collaboration.” What they delivered was the erosion of newsroom budgets and the spread of misinformation.

Now the court reporting profession faces its own wave of disruption — digital recording, AI transcription, and remote proceedings — and the same linguistic pattern has emerged: “unity,” “collaboration,” “inclusion.” In the tech space, those words are used to blur distinctions — to redefine the profession so that the labor of credentialed reporters becomes interchangeable with the output of machines or unlicensed operators.

But outside the tech sphere, a different misuse of “unity” is unfolding — one that drains our time, not just our relevance. Under the guise of togetherness, charismatic figures position themselves as champions of the industry while quietly recruiting licensed reporters to donate their labor, credibility, and presence to events that personally enrich the organizer.

Reporters volunteer their weekends to host panels, coordinate logistics, promote attendance, and lend legitimacy — yet the profession itself gains nothing in return.
The money doesn’t flow toward scholarships, student recruitment, or legislative advocacy.
It flows toward personal brand-building and profit.

That isn’t “unity.” It’s extraction.

And every hour a reporter spends advancing someone else’s business model is an hour not spent mentoring students, testifying at hearings, or strengthening the foundations of this profession. Every dollar that props up manufactured unity could have supported real reform, education, or outreach.

So when we refuse to be used in that way — when we draw a boundary and say no — we are not divided. We are defending.

Division vs. Distinction

It’s time to reclaim the vocabulary.
Division suggests weakness.
Distinction reflects strength.

Court reporters have always stood apart — by skill, by training, and by oath. That separation is not a flaw in our fabric; it’s the thread that holds the entire legal system together. Every certified reporter represents an unbroken lineage of accuracy and integrity. To erase that distinction under the banner of “unity” would be to flatten the profession into a shapeless, unaccountable gig economy.

So let’s retire the idea that disagreement equals division. Debate is healthy. Transparency is unity in its truest form. Our profession was built by individuals who dared to draw lines — between verbatim and approximation, between truth and convenience, between those who protect the record and those who merely profit from it.

The Psychology of the Outsider Narrative

The “division” trope survives because it flatters the outsider’s ego. It positions them as the enlightened bridge-builder above the “bickering masses.” But it’s an old psychological trick — the rescuer triangle. If you can convince people there’s conflict, you can insert yourself as the solution. If you can brand yourself as the healer, you gain authority without having earned it.

Meanwhile, licensed reporters — who spend decades honing their skill, sitting for state exams, and upholding confidentiality — become background characters in their own story. The very people holding the line on ethics are reframed as antagonists for refusing to blend professionalism with performance art.

That’s why it’s essential we keep our focus: this isn’t about personalities. It’s about protecting the oath of the record. You can’t be divided from something you’ve sworn to uphold. You can only be distracted.

What Real Unity Looks Like

Real unity isn’t a photo op or a hashtag. It’s the shared discipline of producing accurate records under oath. It’s mentorship, collaboration among licensed professionals, and collective advocacy for fair compensation, certification standards, and the preservation of the human element in justice.

True unity looks like reporters supporting students, mentoring new licensees, showing up at CRB board and association meetings, and standing firm when legislative language threatens to erase their role. It’s the invisible teamwork that happens in deposition rooms, courthouses, and late nights over scoping transcripts. That’s the unity worth fighting for — the kind that doesn’t need a slogan because it’s written in the margin of every certified transcript.

Dividing Zero

So let’s return to the math.
If someone outside the profession claims there’s “division,” remember: you can’t divide zero. If a person holds no license, no CSR number, no legal authority to produce or certify a record, then their inclusion in “the industry” is purely performative. And when the sum of their participation is zero, dividing it — no matter how loudly, emotionally, or publicly — still equals zero.

That’s not cynicism; that’s arithmetic.

We owe it to the next generation of reporters to stop letting outsiders dictate our vocabulary, our values, or our visibility. The future of stenography depends not on appeasing false narratives, but on reinforcing the one truth that defines us: the record must be real.

From Division to Definition

There is no division to fix, no feud to settle, no rift to heal. What exists is a line — clear, lawful, and earned — between those who hold the record and those who hold a microphone. Between those who answer to the Court and those who answer to clicks. Between those who swear the oath and those who sell the story.

Our task is not to reunite what was never whole. It’s to define — and defend — what is authentically ours.

Our profession isn’t divided — it’s discerning. Reporters are uniting around ethics, accuracy, and professional standards. Anyone outside that circle can’t divide it, because they were never within it.

Because the truth is simple: you can’t divide zero.

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 Secret Trick That Builds a Cult – How Charisma Can Capture an Entire Industry

I. The Illusion of the “Movement”

It often begins in moments of collective anxiety. An industry under siege — shrinking pay, corporate consolidation, AI displacement, public misunderstanding — starts yearning for a unifying voice.

Court reporters, like many skilled professionals, are passionate protectors of their craft. When someone rises up promising empowerment, visibility, and “reclaiming our worth,” it feels like a spark of hope. They speak our language. They quote our struggles. They call it a movement.

But somewhere between advocacy and adoration, something shifts. The mission becomes less about protecting the profession and more about protecting the messenger. Critics are labeled divisive. Dissent feels dangerous. The community’s focus slowly redirects — not toward solutions, but toward maintaining the mythology.

Psychologists call this identity fusion — when personal and professional identities merge with the group’s narrative and, eventually, its figurehead. Once that happens, disagreement feels like betrayal.

II. The Psychology of Charismatic Control

Behavioral expert Chase Hughes breaks down the method cults and manipulative leaders use to gain influence. The same structure often emerges — unintentionally or not — in industries facing disruption:

Emotional Triggering: Create urgency by framing the profession as endangered. “We’re being replaced. We’re not respected. They don’t see our value.”
Identity Anchoring: Speak as one of the tribe. “I’m one of you. I’m fighting for you.” Followers equate the leader’s success with their own.
Reciprocity Loop: Offer small rewards — public praise, exclusive access, spotlight opportunities — to reinforce loyalty. The dopamine hit of being “chosen” cements belonging.
Social Proof Engineering: Showcase applause, photos, and testimonials to simulate universal support. Those who question the narrative are made to feel like outliers.
Information Gatekeeping: Establish selective communication channels. Independent voices are reframed as “negative” or “anti-progress.”

Individually, these tactics seem benign. Together, they create behavioral conditioning — not through fear, but through belonging.

III. When Entire Industries Fall Under the Spell

This pattern isn’t unique to court reporting. History shows that charisma can hypnotize entire industries:

Elizabeth Holmes and Theranos turned biotech into a belief system, not a business. Employees stayed silent out of devotion, not deceit.
Adam Neumann’s WeWork blurred corporate culture with spiritual language, convincing employees they were “changing the world.”
NXIVM began as a personal-development company for executives and devolved into total psychological control.
Even Tony Hsieh’s Downtown Project in Las Vegas began as a noble experiment in community-building but collapsed under utopian insularity and groupthink.

Each started with good intentions — empowerment, progress, community. Each became a closed circuit of worship and silence.

IV. The Professional Vulnerability of Court Reporting

Court reporting is a deeply human profession now caught in an existential battle with automation and outsourcing.
That vulnerability — the collective ache for respect, recognition, and survival — makes it ripe for emotional capture.

When people feel unseen or undervalued, they seek connection.
When institutions fail to represent them, they seek movements.
And when movements become monopolized by one personality, the profession’s energy — donations, volunteerism, activism — begins orbiting charisma rather than purpose.

The result? A community that mistakes visibility for progress and personality for leadership.

V. The Anatomy of the Echo Chamber

Inside these professional cults, conversation narrows.

Flattery replaces feedback.
Visibility is conditional on loyalty.
Critics are recast as enemies.
Silence becomes self-defense.

You see this play out in conferences, online forums, and social media movements.
Dissenters withdraw to avoid public humiliation. Groupthink becomes policy. The illusion of unity hides the decay of diversity.

VI. The Breaking Point

Eventually, the movement consumes its own momentum.
Because when every initiative, event, or partnership must flow through one gatekeeper, innovation suffocates.
Volunteers burn out. Donors drift away. Newcomers sense something off.

By then, it’s not malice that holds people — it’s confusion, guilt, and fear of being ostracized.
The saddest part? Many who joined simply wanted to help the profession they love.

VII. The Exit Strategy: Reclaiming the Mission

Escaping collective capture doesn’t mean tearing down individuals — it means rebuilding systems.

Decentralize leadership. Rotate responsibility, share power, and make transparency non-negotiable.
Welcome dissent. Disagreement keeps ideas sharp and egos humble.
Audit influence. Ask: Who benefits from our labor, our loyalty, and our funding?
Refocus on the mission. Protect the record. Serve the justice system. Elevate skill over celebrity.

Court reporting doesn’t need saviors. It needs structure, solidarity, and truth.

VIII. Closing Reflection

Cults rarely look like cults at the start.
They look like movements. Like initiatives. Like hope.

They thrive not because people are gullible, but because they care. They want belonging, validation, and direction in a profession that often feels invisible to the world it serves.

But charisma is not leadership. Attention is not achievement.
And unity built on fear of dissent is not unity at all.

The profession will survive — not by rallying around personalities, but by returning to its principles: integrity, independence, and the timeless power of the human 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.

What Court Reporters Can (and Cannot) Talk About – Ethics, Boundaries, and Public Perception

We live online now. Stories, selfies, side hustles—it’s all out there. But when your day job involves people’s private testimony, how much of your work life belongs on your feed? For court reporters, though, that mix isn’t just tricky—it can cross serious ethical lines. Whether it’s a freelance reporter posting about an interesting deposition or an official reporter sharing courtroom experiences, the question remains: how much is too much?

The Duty of Confidentiality

Court reporters are not just recorders; we are officers of the court. That title carries a fiduciary responsibility to protect the integrity of the record and the privacy of the proceedings we document. Even when a deposition or trial is technically public, our commentary can cross ethical lines if it reveals identifiable information or undermines neutrality.

A simple benchmark: if what’s said could allow someone to identify the case, parties, or witnesses with minimal effort—or if the tone could be perceived as mocking, biased, or disrespectful—it’s safer left unsaid.

It’s Not Just About “Naming Names”

A common misconception is that confidentiality applies only when someone’s name or company is mentioned. But ethics hinge on identifiability and impartiality, not merely names. Sharing “a case today involving a celebrity divorce where the attorney said X” or “a deposition with a doctor from Beverly Hills who…” may seem vague, but Google makes even small details traceable.

Moreover, even if the facts are anonymized, tone and commentary matter. Sarcasm, ridicule, or personal opinion about participants can erode the profession’s reputation for neutrality and professionalism.

The Public vs. Private Record Distinction

Some reporters reason that because court proceedings (outside of sealed, juvenile, or confidential matters) are technically public, talking about them should be permissible. However, public access to a transcript is not the same as a reporter offering unsanctioned commentary about it. The reporter’s duty doesn’t end when the session is over; it extends to preserving the dignity and impartiality of the judicial process long after the record closes.

In depositions, the expectation of privacy is even higher. Though discovery is not open to the public, those transcripts can contain sensitive medical, financial, or personal details. Disseminating that information—or even implying familiarity with it—risks breaching professional obligations and, in some jurisdictions, could raise ethical or contractual violations.

Professional Standards and Public Perception

Organizations such as the National Court Reporters Association (NCRA) and various state boards emphasize confidentiality, impartiality, and decorum as pillars of ethical conduct.
NCRA’s Code of Professional Ethics specifically instructs members to “preserve the confidentiality and ensure the security of information, oral or written, entrusted to the Member by any of the parties in a proceeding.”

Even if a comment doesn’t violate a confidentiality clause outright, it can still undermine public trust. Once the audience begins to view court reporters as commentators rather than neutral officers of the record, our credibility suffers. Attorneys may question whether their cases are safe in our hands—or their witnesses safe from public ridicule.

A Modern Dilemma: Storytelling vs. Oversharing

There’s no denying that court reporters have fascinating stories. We witness raw human emotion, high-stakes litigation, and moments of profound truth. It’s natural to want to share insights, lessons, or humor about our work.

The safest approach is education over entertainment:

Share general experiences, not specific proceedings.
Speak in terms of professional insight (“How to handle fast talkers” or “Dealing with complex medical terminology”) rather than anecdotes about cases.
When in doubt, ask: Would I say this if the judge, counsel, or witness were in the room?

The Bottom Line

Court reporters operate at the intersection of law, language, and trust. In today’s content-driven culture, that trust must extend to the digital sphere.
Whether speaking on social media, at conferences, or in casual conversation, the rule of thumb remains timeless: protect the record, protect your reputation.

Because even one careless comment can turn an officer of the court into a commentator—and that’s a line no reporter should ever cross.

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 Ring, the Record, and the Reckoning – What Tolkien Can Teach the Court Reporting Profession About Power and Purpose

Opening: The Temptation of the Ring

Tolkien never wrote about steno machines or courtrooms, yet his warnings echo through every hearing room today. He wrote of what happens when people mistake convenience for progress, comfort for safety, and efficiency for evolution. The court reporting profession is living through its own Second Age — a slow, quiet corruption that doesn’t arrive with fire and armies but with software updates, sales decks, and words like “access,” “innovation,” and “cost-savings.”

The Ring was never destroyed because it was evil in isolation. It was dangerous because everyone believed they could wield it just this once for good. And that is how every shortcut begins.

The Palantír of “Progress”

The palantír did not lie outright. It simply showed fragments of truth. So do the dashboards of digital reporting firms and AI transcription engines. They flash “accuracy” percentages and “turnaround” times that seem convincing until you look closer — until you ask who trained the system, who verified the record, and who answers when it fails.

What they show is not clarity. It’s illusion. And the more we stare, the less we see the core truth: that verbatim human record-keeping is not an upgradeable feature; it is the backbone of justice.

The Ents of the Profession

Court reporters are the Ents of the legal world — ancient, rooted, deliberate. We’ve watched as “innovation” marched across the forest, promising efficiency but leaving silence in its wake. Like the Ents, we waited for proof that harm was being done. And by the time we saw the smoke — the empty transcripts, the lost testimony, the missing words — the forest was already burning.

We were told to evolve. We were told to adapt. But adaptation without integrity is surrender by another name.

Saruman’s Sales Pitch

Saruman did not begin as a villain. He began as the wisest among them. He believed he could shape the future — that to protect Middle-earth, he must learn from Sauron’s power. Likewise, those in our industry who sell “digital reporting” as progress often began with good intentions. They believed automation could supplement human skill, that it could “bridge the gap.”

But somewhere along the way, they began to believe that the means were the mission. That the power to mass-produce a transcript was the same as preserving the truth within it. That lie has never gone out of style.

Wormtongue’s Whisper

No one forced court reporters to the brink. We were talked there — softly, patiently, through phrases like “court access crisis,” “cost reduction,” and “hybrid modernization.” Wormtongue never seized power; he merely persuaded others to stop using theirs.

Every time a judge tells attorneys they don’t “need” a reporter, every time an agency substitutes digital recording without disclosure, every time a school closes its stenography program, that is Wormtongue’s whisper — not shouted, but spoken in the calm tone of reasonableness. And every time we stay silent, the whisper grows louder.

Denethor’s Despair

It is easy, after years of neglect, to believe that nothing can be saved. Many reporters feel like Denethor — watching the walls burn, convinced that the enemy has already won. But despair masquerading as realism is the final victory of corruption. The system survives only if we believe it’s too late to fight.

What saves Middle-earth isn’t foresight. It’s faith — the stubborn, irrational belief that truth is still worth the climb. Even when the mountain burns beneath your feet.

The Shire Was Never Safe

For decades, reporters believed we were protected by statutes and ethics — by CCP §269, §2025.320, §2093, by the sanctity of the record itself. But safety is not the same as immunity. The Shire was never truly safe; it was merely ignored. That illusion held until the rules changed — until contracts were rewritten, credentialing boards politicized, and private equity began buying the very firms that once hired us.

The smoke began to rise long before the fire was acknowledged.

Númenor’s Fall

Númenor didn’t sink because it was weak. It drowned under the weight of its own pride. The court reporting profession is older than most modern technologies, and that longevity breeds both wisdom and arrogance. We believed that the laws of evidence would always protect us. That because we were the gold standard, we would always be needed.

But like Númenor, our downfall will come not from enemies at the gate, but from our own refusal to believe we could ever be replaced.

Gollum and the Allure of Control

Gollum was not born corrupt. He was curious, ordinary — until he wanted something too badly for too long. Some in our field chase contracts the same way — hoarding clients, undercutting peers, selling rates below sustainability. They believe control ensures survival. It doesn’t. It isolates, weakens, and turns allies into competitors.

If the profession devours itself for short-term security, it will share Gollum’s fate: consumed by what it thought it could control.

Samwise the Reporter

Through it all, there remains a Samwise in every courtroom — the reporter who shows up, captures every word, and carries the weight of integrity without applause. Sam never sought power. He just kept going. He was the reason there was anything left to save.

That is who we must be now: the unseen custodians who remember what truth sounds like. The ones who carry the burden when everyone else is distracted by shortcuts and slogans.

The Long Road

Tolkien never promised Eagles. He promised effort. He promised that the long road — the slow, human, deliberate one — was the only road that truly preserved the world.

The same is true for the record. The shortcut is not salvation. It’s the start of decay.

To every court reporter still holding a machine, still training a student, still fighting for funding and ethics: you are not obsolete. You are the memory keepers of a system built on words, not waveforms.

The Ring was never the real danger. Believing we could use it “just this once” was.
The same temptation stands before us now — polished in chrome, branded as innovation.

The question isn’t whether the industry will survive.
It’s whether we’ll still recognize ourselves when it 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.

Making a Record – Why Attorneys Keep Losing Their Exhibits on Appeal

There’s a quiet epidemic happening in trial courts across the country—one that doesn’t make headlines, but can destroy a record on appeal faster than a mistrial.
It’s not misconduct. It’s not bias. It’s bad exhibit practice.

And lately, as a certified court reporter, I’ve seen more and more attorneys go “loosey-goosey” with exhibits—waving them around, calling them “marked,” and even publishing them to the jury without ever having them formally marked for identification or received into evidence by the court.

Then, when the day of trial is over and they receive their reporter’s transcript, I get the Saturday-night text:

“Hey, there’s no exhibit index. Where are the exhibits?”

My answer is always the same:

“You got the record you made.”

Who Actually Marks and Admits Exhibits

Let’s start with the basics—because this confusion isn’t just procedural; it’s structural.

The Judge controls what’s admitted into evidence.
Only the judge can say “marked for identification” or “received into evidence.”
The Clerk physically marks the exhibits and keeps the official exhibit list, noting whether each item is marked, identified, received, or refused.
The Reporter creates a written record of what is said and done—but not what should have been done. Reporters don’t mark or admit exhibits on their own initiative.
The Attorneys are responsible for offering the exhibits into evidence, securing a ruling from the court, and making sure the record reflects it.

It’s that simple. Yet in daily trial practice, this clarity often collapses into chaos.

The “Loosey-Goosey” Exhibit Routine

A typical exchange I’ve witnessed more times than I can count goes like this:

Attorney: “Your Honor, I’d like to show the witness Exhibit 5.”
Judge: “Go ahead.”
Attorney: “(shows document) … and I’ll publish this to the jury.”
Judge: “Okay.”

What just happened?
Nothing, legally speaking.

The exhibit wasn’t marked, wasn’t identified, and wasn’t received. It was shown—but not admitted. When I’m asked later for an exhibit index, I have to explain that unless the court said “marked” or “received,” it’s not an exhibit in the record.

Sometimes, to save time, attorneys will suggest a blanket shortcut:

“Your Honor, can we agree that any exhibit I publish to the jury is automatically deemed admitted?”

If the judge nods and says “Sure,” the damage is already done. Because what’s missing is the specific record—the verbal ruling that identifies what’s being admitted.

When the appeal comes, the Court of Appeal has no idea what Exhibit 5 even was, whether it was admitted, or whether opposing counsel objected.

What the Record Must Contain

A complete trial record has three elements regarding exhibits:

Identification — “Plaintiff’s Exhibit 5, marked for identification.”
Offer — “Plaintiff moves Exhibit 5 into evidence.”
Ruling — “Received into evidence.”

Those three steps must appear on the record.
Without them, the reporter can’t include an exhibit index.

When the transcript is prepared, we reporters review the proceedings and note only those exhibits that have been properly marked and received. We’re not being unhelpful—we’re being faithful to the record.

The record is a legal document. It’s sworn, certified, and relied upon by appellate justices who were not in the courtroom. Every “marking” or “receipt” matters.

“Either by Stipulation or by the Court” – The Line Between Pre-Numbered Exhibits and the Official Record

These rules aren’t theoretical—they’re codified in local procedure. For example, the Los Angeles County Superior Court’s Local Rule 3.52 outlines exactly how exhibits must be pre-numbered, exchanged, and admitted, clarifying that they become evidence “either by stipulation or by the Court.”

Under Los Angeles County Superior Court Local Rule 3.52, attorneys are required to pre-number, exchange, and tab their exhibits before trial—Plaintiffs beginning with Exhibit 1 and Defendants with Exhibit 101. The rule also allows exhibits to be “admitted into evidence, either by stipulation or by the Court,” after which they may be shown to the jury.

That phrase—“either by stipulation or by the Court”—is key. It means counsel can agree to admission or the judge can rule them admitted, but the admission doesn’t legally exist until the court expressly says so on the record. Only then does the court reporter enter the notation—“Received in evidence”—and the exhibit becomes part of the official transcript index.

Without that judicial acknowledgment, the exhibit remains in limbo: pre-numbered, exchanged, maybe even published to the jury, but not part of the appellate record. The reporter cannot and should not record it as admitted unless the judge (or the court, acting through the clerk) verbally acknowledges the admission. This safeguard ensures the evidentiary record matches the court’s rulings, not the parties’ assumptions.

Who Submits Exhibits on Appeal

Another widespread misconception: attorneys often think the court reporter submits the exhibits to the appellate court. Not so.

That’s the court clerk’s job. The clerk’s exhibit list—the one maintained in real time during trial—is the official ledger. The reporter’s index is a supplement that references what was spoken on the record.

If an exhibit was never properly marked or admitted, it won’t appear on either list—and it won’t make it up on appeal.

The Risk of “Helpful” Reporters

Now, let’s talk about something uncomfortable: yes, some court reporters try to “fill in the gaps.”

They hear an attorney say “Mark this,” even if the judge doesn’t confirm it, and they’ll insert a line in the transcript like:

(Plaintiff’s Exhibit 12 marked for identification.)

That might make the attorney happy in the short term—but it’s technically improper and creates a false judicial record.

Under the California Code of Regulations and NCRA standards, reporters must not assume judicial acts or alter the record. We report what’s said and done, period. If the judge doesn’t direct marking, it didn’t happen.

Are Other Reporters “Filling in the Gaps”?

Unfortunately, yes—some do, and it’s technically improper. Some reporters will make “helpful” indexes or mark exhibits on their own when attorneys say things like, “Mark this,” even if the judge doesn’t confirm. It feels accommodating, but it’s risky because it creates a false judicial record.

The CRB and NCRA both make clear that a reporter must not assume judicial acts (like marking exhibits) or alter the official record to make it appear as if a ruling occurred when it didn’t.

The court reporter’s role is to make a transcript that accurately reflects what happened—not what someone wishes had happened.

Why Attorneys Should Care Deeply About This

In appellate practice, missing exhibit records are fatal. If the record doesn’t show that an exhibit was received into evidence, the appellate court can’t consider it—no matter how important it was at trial.

That means your best impeachment photo, your key contract, your timeline, your video—if it wasn’t properly offered and received—it’s invisible on appeal.

A missing record equals a lost issue.

Real-World Example

Imagine this sequence:

Counsel shows a photograph to a witness.
The witness identifies it as “the scene of the accident.”
Counsel asks a few questions, then moves on.

No marking. No ruling.

Later, during closing argument, counsel projects the same photo to the jury and references it as “Exhibit 12.”

At appeal time, the transcript shows nothing called Exhibit 12, no ruling, no receipt. The appellate justices can’t even verify what photo was used. The entire visual context of the case disappears.

That’s how records unravel.

What Attorneys Should Do Differently

To prevent this, here’s a quick checklist every trial lawyer should memorize:

Ask the clerk to mark the exhibit before you show it. “Your Honor, may we have this marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 5 for identification?”
Identify the exhibit on the record. “I’m showing you Exhibit 5, previously marked for identification. Can you tell the jury what that is?”
Offer it into evidence. “Your Honor, Plaintiff moves Exhibit 5 into evidence.”
Wait for the ruling. “Received.” or “Denied.”
Don’t assume publication = admission.
Publishing an exhibit to the jury does not make it evidence unless the court says so.
Check the clerk’s list at the end of each day.
Make sure the exhibit numbers and status match your notes.

That’s how you preserve a clean record.

Why Court Reporters Care So Much

Reporters are not being pedantic; we’re being protective. We know that appellate justices rely entirely on what’s in the transcript.

If we mark something the judge never ruled on, we create a false record. If we fail to note what was admitted, the appeal becomes vulnerable.

We carry that responsibility seriously—it’s part of our oath and our professional ethics.

The Human Side of the Record

It’s easy to forget that a transcript is a living thing. It’s the heartbeat of the trial—every word, pause, and ruling preserved in time.

When attorneys skip procedural steps, they’re not just inconveniencing the reporter; they’re erasing parts of history. The record becomes a patchwork of assumptions, missing exhibits, and guesswork.

The appeal that follows is built on sand.

Time for a Reset – Teaching the Basics Again

Maybe it’s time we, as reporters, helped reeducate the bar.

Imagine a one-hour CLE called “Making a Record: How to Handle Exhibits at Trial.”
It could cover:

The difference between “marked,” “identified,” and “received.”
The roles of the judge, clerk, and reporter.
Real transcript examples of good and bad exhibit handling.
How to check the clerk’s exhibit list daily.
Why appellate courts reject unmarked exhibits.

Attorneys would walk away understanding that good record-making isn’t a bureaucratic burden—it’s trial insurance.

Because at the end of the day, when the appeal hits the clerk’s desk and the record goes up, there’s no “fixing” what never existed.

Final Thought

The record is sacred. It’s not just a script—it’s the foundation of appellate justice.

So next time you step into court, remember this simple mantra:

“If the judge didn’t say it, it didn’t happen.”

Your reporter is there to capture your words, not rescue them.
Make your record, and we’ll make it count.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

Editor’s Note: This article is based on public records, regulatory filings, and California statutes. The author’s commentary represents opinion on matters of public concern. No allegations of wrongdoing are made beyond the facts cited.

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 DRA Ignores Its Own Backyard – Why California’s Court Reporting Schools Deserve Defense, Not Displacement

California has a proud, century-long tradition of producing the fastest, most accurate, and most resilient court reporters in the nation. Yet today, the very schools that keep this legacy alive are under siege — not from AI or attrition, but from within our own professional ranks.

In recent months, the California Department of Education has subjected the state’s only NCRA-approved court reporting school to a series of audits and re-accreditations so extensive they would make a Fortune 500 compliance officer sweat. And while that school has continued to produce more Certified Shorthand Reporters (CSRs) than any other institution in the state — often against impossible odds — some of our own professional associations appear to have lent their platforms to outside voices whose messages, intentionally or not, may undermine that progress.

The DRA’s Role – Advocacy or Abandonment?

The Deposition Reporters Association (DRA) was founded on a promise: to protect and advance the professional interests of California’s freelance court reporters. Its legislative advocacy has, at times, been heroic. But lately, its speaker lineups and event agendas seem to reflect a drift from the lived realities of working reporters.

At a recent DRA-promoted event, an out-of-state speaker — herself a school owner — was invited to discuss theory and training approaches for students. On its face, that might sound like healthy educational exchange. In practice, however, many in the community perceived it differently: as the redirection of California students toward unaccredited, online programs that emphasize writing “shorter” rather than “better.”

The irony is hard to ignore. The DRA, an organization built to champion California’s reporters, gave its platform to individuals some view as marketing programs that compete with — and potentially draw students away from — the only NCRA-approved program in the state.

The Only NCRA-Approved School Standing Alone

For those outside the education loop, here’s the gravity: California has one — and only one — NCRA-approved program remaining. That school’s faculty bring decades of courtroom and legislative experience, teaching time-tested speed-building methods like RWG theory, grounded in precision, endurance, and accuracy.

They have long formed the backbone of our licensing pipeline, producing the majority of California’s CSR passers year after year. Their graduates consistently rank among the fastest, most reliable reporters entering the field. Yet instead of being championed, they’ve had to navigate wave after wave of bureaucratic review — extensive audits, re-accreditations, and compliance demands — all while watching students gravitate toward programs promising quick results that seldom deliver lasting mastery.

California’s court reporting shortage is not a failure of pedagogy; it’s a failure of support. The institution that continues to produce real results should be celebrated, not sidelined.

The “Write Shorter” Mirage

A new instructional trend has gained traction under the banner of “innovation”: the “write shorter” theory — a minimalist approach promising rapid progress through abbreviated dictionaries. It’s a tempting message: “Less writing equals faster speeds.”
But in practice, this shortcut often leads to incomplete transcripts, higher untranslates, and plateaus for students who never develop the endurance that true realtime proficiency requires.

Speed champions like Mark Kislingbury, Anissa Nierenberger, and countless NCRA legends didn’t reach the top by writing less; they did it by writing stronger and more consistently. Endurance and precision — not abbreviation — built the reputation of our profession.

And when students from “shortcut” programs struggle to pass the CSR or leave the field altogether, the impact is not limited to education providers. It ripples through California’s justice system — resulting in delayed cases and unmet demand for qualified stenographers.

The Audits Nobody Talks About

Meanwhile, California’s one remaining NCRA-approved school has faced an intense level of regulatory oversight, including repeated Department of Education reviews and audits — each demanding detailed compliance on everything from attendance logs to tuition accounting. To its credit, the school has consistently met those standards and earned re-approval, only to face the next round shortly thereafter.

It’s a level of scrutiny that would test any institution, particularly one operating in a niche profession with limited funding. Yet through it all, the program continues to graduate licensed CSRs and uphold rigorous academic and ethical standards.

Which raises an uncomfortable question: Where is the visible support from our professional associations?
Where are the public statements of solidarity, the letters of recognition, the speaking invitations for these educators who have kept California’s licensure pipeline alive?

Who Deserves the Microphone

If the DRA genuinely aims to lead, it can start by elevating the voices of those doing the If the DRA genuinely aims to lead, it can start by elevating the voices of those doing the work right here in California — not those marketing external programs with no stake in our licensure system.

There’s no shortage of talent at home:

Program directors who coach students through dictation exams
Veteran reporters who volunteer as test proctors and mentors
Administrators who have restructured curricula repeatedly to satisfy DOE requirements
Instructors whose teaching produces measurable, credentialed outcomes

These are the people DRA audiences deserve to hear from — professionals contributing directly to California’s sustainability and success.

The Ripple Effect of Neglect

Every student who leaves a California school for an unaccredited shortcut program is one less candidate taking the CSR. Every CSR license unfilled is one more case delayed, one more attorney forced into a digital recording nightmare, one more transcript with no certification, no chain of custody, and no accountability.

And every time our professional associations stay silent — or appear to endorse questionable alternatives — the message to Sacramento is clear: court reporters can’t even agree on what’s worth protecting.

That disunity becomes the pretext for legislative moves like AB 711, for the digital recording lobby’s arguments about “modernization,” and for policymakers who assume our schools are obsolete. They’re not. They’re just outnumbered, underfunded, and increasingly overlooked by the very people who should be defending them.

A Call for Accountability — and Inclusion

It’s time for the DRA to realign with its core mission.

Invite California’s NCRA-approved school leaders to your next event.
Showcase instructors producing licensed CSRs.
Advocate for fairer DOE oversight and funding for accredited programs.
Speak out against recruitment practices that divert California students from the licensure pipeline.

That’s what principled leadership looks like in a profession built on accuracy, ethics, and truth.

The DRA’s advocacy record deserves respect — but advocacy extends beyond legislation. It means loyalty to the very ecosystem that sustains us: students, schools, mentors, and institutions that still believe in the art of reporting.

Restoring Trust and Transparency

If concerns about external recruitment or conflicts of interest have circulated among members, DRA leadership can strengthen confidence through open dialogue. Transparency, not silence, builds trust. Addressing these perceptions head-on would reaffirm the association’s commitment to education and ethics alike.

The Final Word

The future of court reporting in California depends not on how many lobbyists we hire, but on how many students we inspire — and that inspiration begins in the classroom. The DRA now has an opportunity to prove it stands with the educators preserving our legacy, not the opportunists promoting shortcuts.

The question remains:
Will the DRA amplify the voices preserving our craft — or those dismantling it from the outside?

Steno Imperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

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 Transcripts Gone Wild – The Day a Transcription Company Asked a Court Reporter to “Certify” Their Robot

Just when we thought we’d seen it all.

This week, a transcription company actually called a certified court reporter in Arizona and said, “Hey, we made an AI recording of a deposition — we do this all over the country. Can you certify it for us?”

Let that sink in.
They wanted a licensed officer of the court to certify a machine-generated transcript — one that wasn’t taken down by a live reporter, wasn’t monitored, wasn’t even preserved properly. The company didn’t save the original audio file. There’s no record to salvage, no human verification, no chain of custody. Just a digital hallucination masquerading as a legal record.

And when the attorney (bless them) realized this “AI deposition” didn’t meet Arizona state code, they demanded that it be certified by a licensed reporter to be admissible.

That’s when the transcription company had the gall — the cojones — to ask if a reporter would just “sign off” on it.

Why This Is a Dangerous Precedent

In states like Arizona, California, Nevada, and Texas, deposition transcripts are legally recognized only when certified by a licensed court reporter.
Certification isn’t a rubber stamp — it’s a sworn oath that the record is true, complete, and impartial. It’s backed by years of training, licensure, continuing education, and a code of ethics enforced by state boards.

An AI transcript, no matter how “accurate” it claims to be, doesn’t have:

A live officer administering the oath.
A verified chain of custody for the record.
Any accountability for tampering, omissions, or bias.
The ability to certify compliance with procedural codes (like CCP 2025.330 in California or Rule 30 in Arizona).

Yet, here we are — facing companies so eager to cut corners that they’re literally asking reporters to launder the record by attaching their professional seal to an uncertified, machine-generated document.

When “Efficiency” Becomes Fraud

This isn’t innovation. It’s impersonation.

When a transcriptionist or notary signs a “certificate” page that looks like a reporter’s, it’s not just misleading — it’s potentially fraudulent.
A certification page using the wrong title (CSR vs. transcriptionist vs. notary) misrepresents the record’s origin and violates state deposition codes.
Worse yet, it misleads courts and litigants who assume the transcript carries the weight of a certified, verbatim record.

One commenter put it best:

“Only an idiot would certify that.”

Another shared:

“The witness literally said they didn’t consent to being recorded by AI — only by the reporter. The attorneys thanked me for catching it. Then they started whispering about what happened in the past.”

If that doesn’t make your skin crawl, it should.

The Slippery Slope of “Just This Once”

And yet, there will always be a handful of reporters who will rationalize it.

“It’s already done — I might as well get paid to fix it.”
“It’s not my job to police the industry.”
“They’ll find someone else if I say no.”

This is how the profession erodes — not from the outside, but from within. Every time a reporter agrees to certify someone else’s digital transcript, it undermines every certified reporter’s credibility. It tells attorneys, agencies, and AI companies that our licenses are for sale.

They’re not.

The Real Solution: Education and Enforcement

The attorneys in this case deserve credit — one of them had the legal literacy to demand a proper certification. That’s where our focus should be: educating the bar.

Attorneys need to know:

An uncertified AI transcript is not admissible in most jurisdictions.
State codes mandate a licensed court reporter for deposition certification.
“Cost savings” disappear when the transcript gets tossed for non-compliance.

Meanwhile, court reporting boards and associations should make examples of this behavior.
If a company is advertising “AI depositions” as equivalent to certified transcripts, that’s false advertising and unauthorized practice under most state laws. Period.

Final Word: Don’t Certify Garbage

This story isn’t just a funny “Can you believe it?” moment. It’s a flashing red warning light for our entire profession.

AI doesn’t take an oath.
AI doesn’t answer to the CR Board.
AI doesn’t have a conscience — or a license to lose.

So the next time someone calls asking you to certify an AI-generated transcript, you know exactly what to say:

#BiteMe

The Rise of the AI Impostors – How Fake Court Reporters Are Flooding the Legal System

October 2025

A year ago, legal professionals were just beginning to notice the quiet infiltration of AI notetakers and digital “reporters” into deposition rooms. Today, it’s a full-blown epidemic.
Across the country, videographers are doing double takes when a real stenographer walks in with a machine. “Wow,” they say, “we haven’t seen one of those in months.”

The substitution of certified stenographic reporters with unlicensed digital operators—and even AI “assistants” masquerading as neutral officers of the court—has accelerated at an alarming rate. What was once marketed as a “cost-saving innovation” has become one of the greatest threats to record integrity and due process our system has ever faced.

The Exponential Growth of a Dangerous Shortcut

In 2024, AI notetakers were mostly limited to tech startups and casual internal meetings. But as agencies scrambled to meet demand amid a perceived “stenographer shortage,” they began contracting with digital vendors and off-the-shelf AI transcription tools.
Today, those apps have evolved—and multiplied.

Some operate under friendly names like “Otter,” “Scribe,” or “Meeting Companion.” Others are embedded invisibly in Zoom or Teams calls under aliases such as User_1’s Assistant or Realtime Notes Bot. The deception is intentional: most attorneys don’t realize that when they see an unfamiliar participant listed in the deposition, it’s not a human at all—it’s a data-harvesting algorithm.

This unregulated trend has outpaced policy and ethics oversight. AI notetakers are being used in depositions, arbitrations, and mediations without disclosure, without consent, and without any guarantee that the data is secure—or even accurate.

“Who Are You?” The New Reality in the Deposition Room

Veteran videographers describe the shift vividly.

“When a real machine writer shows up, everyone’s surprised,” one videographer in Los Angeles said. “Half the time I’m the only one who realizes the ‘reporter’ is just pressing record on an iPad.”

Many digital “reporters” don’t identify themselves clearly, and some even wear professional-looking name tags with “Certified” in fine print referring not to a court reporting license, but to a corporate “training course.” Attorneys assume the record is being handled by a licensed officer, when in reality, their testimony is being recorded by someone with no certification, no oath of impartiality, and no control over where the audio or data will end up.

How to Recognize the Fakes

The simplest way to spot a non-stenographic imposter is to look—and listen.

No Steno Machine in Sight
A true stenographer writes on a specialized machine with 22 keys, connected to a laptop running CAT (computer-aided transcription) software. A digital recorder uses an iPad, laptop, or multiple microphones—no steno machine, no realtime feed.
No Realtime Display
Stenographers can provide an instantaneous text feed of testimony. If the “reporter” says they can’t do that, you’re not with a licensed professional.
Multiple Microphones or USB Interfaces
Watch for USB audio boxes, handheld recorders, or lapel mics spread across the table—those are hallmarks of digital recording, not stenography.
No CSR or RPR Number
Certified reporters always carry a license or certification ID and will gladly provide it. A digital operator may claim “company certification” or say “the transcript is done by AI later.”
Unfamiliar Terminology
If they refer to themselves as a “technician,” “recorder,” or “digital notetaker,” that’s your cue: this isn’t a court reporter, it’s an unregulated recorder.

The Hidden Dangers – What Lawyers Need to Know

1. Consent and Compliance Nightmares

Wiretap statutes differ by state. California, for example, is a two-party consent jurisdiction. When a third-party AI or digital operator records without explicit, informed consent from all participants, it’s a potential felony violation. Yet few agencies disclose that they are using such systems, and most participants never consent.

2. Data Leaks and Privacy Breaches

AI tools store audio and transcripts on remote servers—often outside the U.S.—where they may be used to “train” future models. That means your confidential client testimony, trade secrets, and personal medical data could be analyzed, mined, or even sold by a third-party vendor. Once uploaded, those words are no longer under your control.

3. Loss of Attorney-Client Privilege

Courts have held that privilege can be waived when confidential communications are shared with a third party. When an AI service records and stores that conversation, the “third party” is a machine owned by someone else—and you’ve just invited it into your privileged room.

4. Accuracy and Bias

Automatic Speech Recognition (ASR) still struggles with accents, crosstalk, and complex legal phrasing. It doesn’t distinguish between “affirmative” and “uh-huh,” nor does it know when someone is speaking off the record. AI also introduces bias—training data skews accuracy toward dominant dialects, meaning minority speakers are misquoted more often.

5. Security and Liability

When a data breach occurs—and it will—who’s responsible? The unlicensed recorder? The agency that subcontracted them? Or the law firm that allowed the AI to join the deposition? Under ABA Formal Opinion 512, lawyers are ultimately responsible for safeguarding client information, even when third-party vendors are used.

Real-World Consequences – When AI Gets It Wrong

Earlier this year, a corporate deposition in Texas went viral after an AI transcript quoted an executive saying “Yes, we inflated the numbers,” when he had actually said, “No, we never inflated the numbers.” The correction came days later, after the “digital reporter” uploaded the recording to an offshore transcription vendor—and the damage was done. The transcript had already been circulated internally, triggering a compliance investigation.

In another case, an off-the-record sidebar was captured and transcribed by an AI notetaker running in the background of a Zoom deposition. That transcript—unbeknownst to counsel—was automatically emailed to all participants, including opposing counsel. The result: a mistrial motion and sanctions hearing.

The Ethics of Silence

Even when lawyers sense something’s off, many hesitate to object. Agencies assure them that “digital is approved by the courts,” but in most jurisdictions, that’s simply false.
California, for instance, explicitly prohibits electronic recording in civil proceedings except under narrow circumstances. Yet hundreds of depositions each week are recorded by unlicensed operators in direct violation of state law.

The deeper ethical concern is one of disclosure. If you don’t know who is recording or where your client’s voice is stored, you can’t meet your duty of competence or confidentiality. Convenience is not a defense.

What You Can Do – Practical Safeguards for Attorneys and Firms

Ask Who the Reporter Is—by Name and License Number.
Request their CSR or RPR number before the deposition begins. If they can’t provide one, object on the record.
Prohibit Third-Party Apps or “Assistants.”
Before proceeding on Zoom or Teams, verify that no AI bots or notetakers are present. Disable “meeting companion” integrations in your settings.
Insist on a Certified Court Reporter.
Licensed stenographers are trained officers of the court bound by oath, ethics, and confidentiality statutes. They are responsible for the record—not an algorithm.
Update Your Engagement Letters.
Include language prohibiting unlicensed recording and requiring disclosure of any subcontracted transcription vendors.
Educate Your Team.
Many paralegals and associates assume all “reporters” are the same. Hold an internal CLE session to teach them the difference between stenographic, voice, and digital reporting.

Why the Real Ones Still Matter

A licensed court reporter isn’t just a typist—they are the last human safeguard between truth and distortion.
They understand off-the-record protocols, detect when a witness is misheard, and protect the sanctity of the record. They don’t upload your client’s deposition to a cloud server or let an algorithm learn from it. They are trained to maintain impartiality, verify accuracy, and certify the transcript as a true and correct record of proceedings.

When videographers say they “haven’t seen a real stenographer in a while,” that should alarm us all. It means the justice system is quietly surrendering its memory to machines that cannot swear an oath, cannot protect a record, and cannot be held accountable when it fails.

The Cost of Complacency

AI notetakers are no longer novelty gadgets—they’re uninvited participants in our most confidential legal proceedings. Their presence erodes privacy, jeopardizes privilege, and introduces risks that no informed attorney should accept.

The solution is simple: demand certified professionals.
If the deposition truly matters—if the testimony, your client’s reputation, or the outcome of the case depends on an accurate record—then convenience cannot come before credibility.

Because once we let the machines take over the record, there may be no one left who can say what really happened.

StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.

Disclaimer

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.