John Grisham got it wrong of course. Grand Cayman is not a place where private aircraft land at night and men in dark glasses deliver bulging suitcases of banknotes to dummy banks sporting no more than brass nameplates.
No, this is an island of sun, sea and fun. Though the traffic jam from Seven-Mile Beach to George Town on a good day is a maximum of seven miles long. Those bankers, housewives, accountants, lawyers, hoteliers and diving instructors in their high-performance 4x4s can only rev their engines, turn up Superjam on Radio Cayman and empathize with their counterparts in the Brooklyn Tunnel or on the Hammersmith Flyover. No-one has yet found a way to reduce this senseless waste of executive time. It can take an hour to travel three miles to luncheon at the Grand Old House - nearly as bad as Istanbul or Bangkok. Bus lanes, road-pricing, allowing odd- and even-numbered cars out on alternate days, probably nothing would deter the persistent Caymanian from getting into that queue. Motorbikes are heavily taxed and pedal cyclists risk being injured by drivers whose average competence is truly appalling.