“You gonna tell us about what’s in your cell?” It’s 3 a.m. and the guard looks angry. He is dressed in full riot gear—helmet, goggles, Kevlar vest—and is pulling at the leash of a German shepherd barking furiously at the inmate standing in front of him. Mark Swartz is naked, holding a dirty mattress that he hastily rolled up and now clutches to his chest. He isn’t sure how to answer.

It’s his second night in jail, and he doesn’t want trouble—or rather, any more trouble than he’s already got. He is just 36 hours into a prison term that could last 25 years. He’s in the Tombs, the Manhattan jail that is the first stop for most convicts on their way upstate. The day before, a fight broke out during breakfast, and the violence, up close, shook him—the anger and panic in the room had been palpable. The guards had been furious, pulling the men off one another and shouting at the rest of the inmates to get back into their cells. This predawn raid almost seems like retaliation by the guards, their way of making sure everyone remembers who’s in charge.

Initially, Swartz wasn’t worried when he saw the dog sniffing around—he knew he didn’t have any drugs—but now the shepherd is going wild, pawing frantically at something in the corner of his cell. The place has a funky smell, and the walls and floor are crusty with layers of paint, dirt, and, apparently, something the dog has been trained to find.

Swartz is wondering how much time a drug charge would add to his sentence when another inmate steps forward. “Hey, did you guys find crack?” The guards turn. “Because I saw who was in that cell last night, and he was acting crazy.” The guards gaze hard at the inmate, then at Swartz. They talk quietly for a few moments; then, without another word, the search is over. Swartz silently, gratefully, returns to his cell and remakes his bed. The guards turn off the lights and order everyone to go back to sleep.

Alone in the dark, Swartz suddenly ­notices the view from his barred ­window: a clear shot of the Brooklyn Bridge, its white lights glowing on the dark ripples of the East River. This is the last time, for a long time, that he will see anything so beautiful.

Mark Swartz used to be a lucky man. He was rich and powerful. At his pinnacle, he was worth roughly $150 million. But he illegally pocketed $50 mil­lion and got caught. Swartz used to be the chief financial officer of Tyco International, and the day he went to prison, two years ago, he was big news. ­Paparazzi chased him; his picture was on the front pages of newspapers around the world; his conviction and sentencing were the subject of countless news articles, TV shows, and blog posts. What made him famous wasn’t just the amount of money he stole; it was whom he stole it with: He helped his ex-boss, former Tyco C.E.O. Dennis Kozlowski, filch $110 million more for himself. Together they became the poster boys of everything that’s gone wrong in corporate America. Their trials, coming on the heels of the blowups of ­Enron and WorldCom, fueled the public’s outrage over the greed and deceit of the business elite.

When it came time to sentence Swartz, there was no question that the punishment would be severe. The days of slaps on the wrist and country-club prisons were over. Swartz got 8¹⁄3 to 25 years in the state pen. His counterpart at Enron, Andrew Fastow, got six years in federal prison. Jeffrey Skilling, the former C.E.O. of Enron, got 24 years.

Swartz is now bunking next to child molesters, rapists, and murderers. His sentence should serve as a warning to those who are tempted to take advantage of their power and prestige: This could be you. But the public has a short memory. Barely two years into his term, Swartz has faded from the headlines. In a short time, few people will remember his name, the details of his case, or even why he’s in prison or how long he’ll be there.

He has a pending appeal, which will be heard this fall, but he knows his chances of winning are slim: It would be pretty hard for any judge to justify letting the Tyco crooks go free. Instead, Swartz must adjust to life as prisoner No. 05A4823—for this is who he will probably be for a very long time.