In the wee hours of March 10, 2015, Deputy U.S. Marshal Josie Wells and his pregnant wife, Channing, talked on the phone like giddy teenagers.
He was on assignment in Baton Rouge, helping the Middle Louisiana Fugitive Task Force capture some of the state’s most wanted criminals. She was at home in Raymond.
“I can’t wait to find out if we’re having a boy or a girl,” he said. “I’ll bet it’s a boy.”
“You don’t know that,” she laughed.
“Wait and see. And we’re going to call him ‘Jojo,’ ” he said.
They talked a while longer.
Josie told her: “You know I love you, and I’m so proud of you. We’ve come such a long way.”
Then he repeated it: “I’m so proud of you.”
She never tired of hearing it, even though he told her every day.
“I’m proud of you, too,” she said.
Channing glanced at the clock.
“Now listen, I’m not gonna talk to you all night,” she said. “You guys have a big day ahead, and I don’t want you tired.”
Channing Wells had no way of knowing that would be the last time she would ever speak to the love of her life.
They were true lovebirds
They were different.
Josie was fun-loving, charming, slightly mischievous, and a country boy from a tiny community near the Gulf Coast town of Hurley. The fourth of eight children, he rode horses, wore cowboy boots and listened to country music. His favorite songs were Josh Turner’s “Your Man” and Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey.”
Channing was a city girl and a book nerd, all the way back to grade school when she wore yellow-framed glasses with a pink tint.
She did things on time and with a plan. After graduating in 2006 from Murrah High School in Jackson, she earned degrees from Tougaloo College and Illinois College of Optometry in Chicago — each in four years.
But, somehow, they clicked.
“They were true lovebirds,” says Sanica Matthews, a New Orleans resident who met Channing in optometry school and quickly became one of her closest friends. “When you have two people who are ambitious, sometimes that breathes like a fire within.”
They began dating in 2007. She grew to enjoy country music and learning to ride a horse. She taught him that even though Mississippi was home, there was plenty of world to see. He took his first flight, first train and first cruise with Channing.
“We didn’t rush things,” she says. “We really got to know each other as friends first — best friends.”
She quickly understood that law enforcement was ingrained in him. His dad retired from the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department, and the third son, Jason, works there now. The oldest brother, Obie Jr, is an investigator with the Jackson Police Department. And the youngest brother, Julian, is a trooper with the Mississippi State Highway Patrol.
Josie was named by his dad after Josey Wales, the movie character who wouldn’t rest until he served justice on the men who killed his wife and son.
“Josie told me one time, ‘Some people are sheep, and some people are wolves. And it’s my duty to protect the sheep,’ ” Channing recalls one afternoon in late August. “Yes, I was scared when he signed up for the marshals’ program. But I encouraged him to do it because I could see that’s what he wanted. And he always assured me, ‘I’ll be fine.’ ”
Josie also wanted the best for his wife.
He sold his motorcycle to buy her an engagement ring. And when he proposed April 23, 2011, he emphasized his sincerity.
“He said, ‘Little girl, this ain’t no promise ring.’ ” Channing says.
They married a year later.
After Channing graduated from optometry school in 2014, Josie gave her a deadline: “I want you to own your own clinic in five years. You’ve got the leadership skills to do that.”
“He always joked that when I opened my practice, he was going to sit at the front desk with his arms crossed, his boots propped up and telling customers, ‘Yes, my wife will be with you in just a minute,’ ” says Channing, who is 30.
She accepted the challenge. They even shook hands on the deal.
'Josie uplifted our entire office'
During his sophomore year at Jackson State, Josie did an internship at the U.S. Marshals’ Southern District Office in Jackson.
"He loved what the marshals do, what we stand for,” says Deputy U.S. Marshal Singleton Moore, 46. “He wanted in on all the action anytime we went out.”
After graduating from JSU and attending the marshals’ training academy in 2011, Josie was assigned to the agency in St. Louis. He received a transfer to Jackson in September 2014.
“Josie uplifted our entire office,” Moore says. “Maybe his youth contributed to that — he was the youngest guy we had. But he was so eager to learn."
The 27-year-old was confident, too. "He’d walk over to my desk, show me a picture of a criminal he had just been assigned to find and he’d point to the guy’s picture. He’d say, ‘This fellow is already in jail and doesn’t even know it.’ And he believed that," Moore says. “But he had his playful side, too.”
Josie gave Moore fits for wearing sneakers to work one day.
“He would say, ‘Man, your beard is not lined up this morning? You going through something?’ I had to assure him I was OK,” Moore says. “He would take the jar of soft peppermint candy off my desk and turn it upside down. And for goodness sakes don’t leave your car unlocked. When you got in, the windshield wipers would be on, the radio at full blast, the heater on if it was summer.”
Josie shocked Singleton one day by asking him to be his baby’s godfather.
“What does a godfather do?” Singleton asked.
“I’m not really sure,” Josie answered. “Just be a godfather.”
“OK, I”ll do it.”
Singleton still laughs about that conversation. “We sounded like the Three Stooges.”
'I really thought he would be okay'
Josie left for Louisiana on a Sunday.
“He called and said he had met some of the officials (with the task force) and really liked them,” Channing says. “I could tell he was excited. Going after the bad guys gave him a rush.
“And I really thought he would be OK. When he was in St. Louis, he worked in some really rough areas. So when he was in Louisiana, I was like ‘Call me when you’re done today.’ ”
Josie texted Channing around 4 p.m. Monday. “He wasn’t feeling well, said it was probably something he ate, and that he was going to sleep,” she says.
Shortly after midnight Tuesday, their dog started barking. Channing woke up.
“I saw a text from him,” she says. “It said, ‘I’m good now. If you’re up, give me a call. I want to hear from you.’ ”
That’s when they talked into the wee hours, laughing, planning, loving life as soulmates.
The task force’s target that day was convicted felon Jamie Croom, 31, who was wanted in connection with a double homicide of a brother and sister — Sinica and Lechelle Williams — outside a nightclub three weeks earlier in New Roads, Louisiana. The shootings were reportedly part of a feud between families and drug related.
Croom had informed relatives that he would not be taken alive.
'I want you to take me to my husband. What has happened?'
Channing texted Josie around 10 a.m.: “Hey, I set up the doctor’s appointment so we can find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s next Thursday at 11:30.”
He answered a few minutes later: “OK. Can’t wait to see you this weekend. I love you, and I’ll call you tonight when our work is done.”
Josie’s team had learned that Croom had checked into a small motel in the northern part of Baton Rouge.
Channing was at her job with Mississippi Vision, located in the Jackson Walmart off Mississippi 18. She was getting ready to go to lunch when a customer came in.
While performing an examination in a side room, Channing heard a familiar voice speak her name in the main area.
It was Singleton Moore.
Channing figured he had stopped by to get his eyes checked. She asked the patient to excuse her.
When Moore saw Channing, he said: “Mrs. Wells, I need you to come with me. There has been an incident, and we need to get you to Baton Rouge.”
“Stop it!” Channing told him. “Why are you calling me Mrs. Wells? You always call me Chan. What’s going on?”
He repeated himself.
The receptionist gently took Channing’s hand and said, “Whatever you are about to experience, God will see you through it.”
Channing grabbed her keys and purse and walked with Moore to his car, asking non-stop, “What is going on? Can you please just tell me?”
Knowing that Channing was pregnant, Moore asked if she would like to stop at a hospital.
“No, I want you to take me to my husband,” she demanded. “What has happened?”
It was raining as Moore drove Channing and Moore’s law partner, Miranda Holloway, down I-55. Sitting with Holloway on the backseat, Channing grew more emotional by the minute. Finally, after driving for about 20 minutes, Moore pulled over at the Crystal Springs exit, got out and opened the back door to face Channing.
“Chan,” Moore said, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Josie died at 12:01.”
She screamed.
“Can I take you to the hospital?” Moore asked.
“No,” Channing said. “Take me to my husband.”
All the way to Baton Rouge, Channing tried to contact family and friends.
Matthews was walking into her optometry clinic in New Orleans after lunch when she received a text from Channing: “Josie is dead.”
“I’d just been with both of them the week before at her mother’s 50th birthday party,” Matthews says. “I texted her back and asked what happened. When I got no response, I called her.”
Holloway answered. By protocol, she couldn’t allow Matthews to speak with Channing nor provide any details.
A few minutes later, Holloway texted Matthews and asked if she could drive to Baton Rouge and meet Channing at the morgue near the airport.
“The whole way there I wondered, ‘What can I possibly say to her?’ ” Matthews recalls.
'Pray with me'
Channing learned what had happened upon arrival in Baton Rouge. Josie was the third marshal to rush into Croom’s room at the Elm Grove Motel. Croom began firing. A bullet struck Josie in the neck — just below his helmet, just above his bullet-resistant vest.
Croom also was shot and died the next day.
Channing was told that Josie lost a lot of blood and spoke his final words to his fellow marshals on the way to the hospital: “Pray with me.”
She asked to view the body.
“I had to see him for myself,” she says. “He looked so at peace. He wasn’t frowning. He just looked like he was asleep, and I was no longer scared. I told the people there, ‘I put that wedding ring on his finger, and I’d like to be the one to take it off.’ They let me do that, and it was one of the greatest honors I’ve ever had. He had that ring on for three-and-a-half years. It had blood on it. I didn’t wash it for nearly a year.”
Channing was handed a yellow envelope containing his personal belongings. She looked at his cellphone and could see texts on the screen from colleagues. One read: “Hey, are you OK? Heard something happened and just wanted to make sure you are good.”
Then she spotted the chain and cross he always wore around his neck. She placed it around hers.
Matthews soon walked in.
“She was sitting at a table, crying and talking but kinda in this daze of disbelief,” Matthews says. “I gave her a hug — even though she’s not a hugger. I told her, ‘God will provide and I’m so sorry.’
“She said, ‘I can’t believe this.’ She started talking about all the things they were supposed to do — going on a cruise the following month. They were getting ready to build a house. She said, ‘I’m having a baby and he’s supposed to be here.’ ”
Channing looked at Matthews and said: “Josie and I decided we want you to be our child’s godmother.”
'I would love to have seen how far he went as a marshal'
Josie’s services were an emotional blur for Channing. A wake was held at Black’s Chapel Missionary Baptist Church in Jackson. His funeral took place at Wade Baptist Church, near his home in Jackson County. He was laid to rest beside his grandparents.
“I had Josie in life,” she says. “So I let him be with his family in death.”
Channing traveled to Washington in May 2015 to receive Josie’s purple heart from the U.S. attorney general’s office, then again in May 2016 when Josie’s name was added to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial.
Moore helped establish a $10,000 scholarship at Jackson State in Josie’s name that will go to criminal justice majors.
“I’ve had a really tough time,” Moore says. “He was more than a co-worker. He was like a brother. We fished together, hunted together. For the longest, I would tear off each month on his desk calendar, just like I expected him to walk in the next day.
“I would have loved to see how far he went as a marshal. With his ability to communicate and his ability to use a firearm, he would have been an inspector with our SOG (Special Ops Group) for sure. He was that elite.”
'When you lose your soulmate, you lose your best friend'
Forty-two months have passed, and Channing still misses his arms.
“When he wrapped them around me, I felt so protected,” she says.
When asked how she is doing, Channing doesn’t answer right away.
Finally, she says: “I don’t downplay any death. Each one is hard. But when you lose a spouse, when you lose your soulmate, you lose your security that you have built with that person. You lose the ability to have any more children together. You lose your best friend. Every ounce of your identity changes.
"But I never lost my faith, never blamed God. Instead, I got closer to him.I’m human. Some days I cry and say, ‘Why?’ I didn’t want to be a single mom. That’s why I got married first. There are still days I question my ability to be a good parent, but every day my baby still smiles in my face so I must be doing something right.”
Channing kept her promise to Josie. On Aug. 1, she became owner of a clinic, Wells Vision, inside the Walmart in Hazlehurst.
“Ahead of the five-year deadline he gave me,” Channing says with a soft smile.
And that baby she refers to? It was a boy just like Josie said all along. Jojo turned 3 on Aug. 27.
“I look at Jojo, and I can see both of them in him — but the older he gets, the more I see Josie,” Matthews says.
On a recent visit to Channing’s home in Raymond, Matthews was alone with Jojo in a room filled with pictures of Josie. She pointed to one of Channing and Josie taken shortly after they were married.
“Who is that?” Matthews asked her godson.
Jojo looked at the photo, then turned his eyes toward Matthews.
“Mom and Dad,” he said.
